Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Hori Tatsuo

It was a jet-black automobile. When the automobile arrived at Karuizawa Station's front entrance and came to a stop, a German-looking girl stepped out from within. He thought that since it was such a beautiful car, it couldn't be a taxi, but having seen the girl pass something to the chauffeur as she alighted, he walked toward the automobile while passing by the girl in the yellow hat. “Take me into town.”

He got into that automobile. Upon entering, the interior was pure white. And though faint, a scent of roses was drifting. He recalled the girl with the yellow hat whom he had carelessly passed by earlier. The automobile turned sharply. He suddenly looked around the inside of the car with curiosity. Then he discovered fresh traces of saliva scattered across the lightly swaying floor. It was a trivial thing, but a strangely rough pleasure rubbed against him. To him, who had closed his eyes, it appeared like scattered flower petals.

After a while, he opened his eyes again. The chauffeur's back came into view. Then he pressed his face against the transparent windowpane. Outside the window was already a field of silver grass fully in ear. Just then, an automobile passed by. They already seemed to be people departing this plateau.

At the approach to the town stood a large chestnut tree. When he reached that point, he had the automobile stopped.

⁂

The automobile, carrying only his trunk, drove off toward the hotel slightly removed from town. Watching the dust it had stirred up gradually disappear, he slowly walked into the main street. The main street was more hushed than he had imagined. He had nearly mistaken it for something else entirely. This was because he had only ever come to this summer resort during its peak season every year.

However, he immediately found a post office he recognized. In front of the post office, Western women in colorful dresses were gathered. To him, observing from afar as he walked, they appeared like a rainbow. When he saw that, last year's various memories finally revived within him. Soon their chatter became audible to him as if he could grasp it in his hands. He passed by them with the emotion of one walking beneath a tree where small birds were singing.

At that moment, he caught sight of a girl turning the corner ahead. Oh, could that be her?

With that thought, he walked straight to the corner in one go. There was a single path leading to the hill that Westerners called "Giant's Chair," and along that path, the girl from earlier was now walking. She hadn't gone as far as he had expected.

And it was undoubtedly her. He too turned onto that path in the direction opposite the hotel. On that path, only she was walking. He tried to call out to her but for some reason hesitated. Then he was suddenly overcome by a strange sensation. He perceived all things in the air as if in water. It was terribly hard to walk. He inadvertently stepped on something like a fish. There were also small fish that grazed past his seashell-like ears. There were also things like bicycles. The barking of dogs and crowing of chickens sounded as if coming from the distant surface of water. And whether it was leaves brushing against each other or water licking at something, such faint sounds kept occurring overhead.

He thought he had to call out to her now. But merely thinking this made him feel as if his mouth were corked. Gradually, the rustling overhead grew more intense. Suddenly, he spotted a familiar vermilion bungalow ahead.

Around the bungalow was a green thicket, and into it her figure disappeared... When he saw that, his mind suddenly cleared. He thought it would be somewhat awkward to visit her house right after following her. Resignedly, he paced back and forth along the path. Fortunately, no one passed by. When he finally heard footsteps approaching from the base of Giant's Chair, he hid himself in the grass beside the path without understanding his own motives. From his hiding place, he watched a Westerner stride past with vigorous steps.

She was still in the garden. She had seen him following her when she looked back earlier. However, she did not stop to wait for him. For some reason, she felt a sense of bashfulness at doing that. And she felt an uncomfortably ticklish sensation from his eyes being constantly directed at her back from afar. She imagined how on her back, the shade of leaves and sunlight were beautifully intermingling and ceaselessly changing.

She was waiting for him in the garden. However, he did not readily enter. She felt she understood what he was dawdling about. A few minutes later, she finally saw him coming through the gate. He removed his hat with absurd cheerfulness. So thoroughly was she drawn into this that even she formed a lovely, playful smile. And no sooner had she begun speaking with him than she noticed he possessed that oddly fresh sensibility characteristic of all who have regained their physical health.

“Are you better now?” “Yes, I’m completely better now.” He answered while squinting as if dazzled by her face. Her face possessed classical beauty. That rose-like skin seemed slightly heavy. When she laughed like that, it was as if only laughter floated there. He had always secretly called her “Rubens’ forgery.” When he stared at her as if dazzled, he felt it remarkably fresh. He sensed something beginning to emerge that he’d never experienced before. And then he looked only at her teeth. He looked only at her waist. In the meantime, he made no attempt to speak of his illness. He thought recalling such bothersome realities held no value whatsoever. Instead, he preferred talking about how beautiful it was—the girl in the yellow hat riding in that black automobile with snow-white cushions—like something from a Western novel. And he cheerfully said he’d come in that beautiful automobile where the girl’s scent still lingered.

However, he ended up not mentioning the saliva that had remained in the automobile. He had thought it better that way. But by not mentioning it, he felt that the pleasure from when that saliva had felt like flower petals would remain uncannily vivid within him forever. This won’t do, he thought. From that moment on, he gradually began to appear to stutter. And now he could only speak clumsily. Meanwhile, she found him difficult to handle. So, having no other choice, she said.

“Shall we go inside?”

“Yes.”

But they wanted to stay longer in the garden. Yet as their conversation threatened to turn awkward, they finally began to enter the house.

At that moment, the two of them noticed her mother looking down at them from the terrace as though she were an angel. Blushing involuntarily, they looked up at her, squinting as if dazzled.

⁂

The next day, they invited him on a drive.

The automobile ran through the lonely plateau nearing summer's end, emitting a pleasant sound.

The three of them hardly spoke inside the automobile. However, as all three felt nearly the same comfort in the changing scenery, it was a comfortable silence. Occasionally, faint voices broke that silence. But they were immediately swallowed back into the profound silence, so much so that one might think no one had spoken at all. "Oh, that little cloud..." (Following Madam's finger with his gaze, he saw a shell-shaped cloud floating above a single red roof) "Isn't it rather charming?"

From then on until they reached Green Hotel at the foot of Mount Asama, he spent the entire time alternately gazing at Madam's taut fingers and her plump ones. The silence permitted him that.

The hotel was empty.

Boi said that since all the guests had already left, he was thinking of closing up around today.

Having gone out onto the balcony, they could not help but feel the indescribable ugliness left behind by the departed season in the scenery spread before their eyes. Only the base of Mount Asama traced a smooth, glossy slope.

Below the balcony was a flat roof; stepping over the low railing seemed to allow immediate access to that roof. When she saw how flat the roof was and how low the railing was, she said. “I think I’d like to take a little walk up there.” Madam responded to her, “Why don’t you have him go down with you?” Hearing this, he casually stepped out onto the roof. She followed him, laughing as well. And when the two had walked to the edge of the roof, he began to feel slightly anxious. It wasn’t solely due to the slight incline of the roof that a subtle physical instability could be felt.

At the edge of that roof, he abruptly noticed her hand and the ring on it. And he imagined that she might pretend to slip for no reason at all and grab his hand so tightly that the ring would painfully dig into his fingers. Then he grew strangely anxious. And suddenly he became acutely aware of the roof's slight incline.

“Let’s go now.” When she said that, he involuntarily felt relieved. She had already gone up to the balcony alone first. He also tried to go up after her and heard Madam and her talking on the balcony. “Did you see something?” “Yes, I saw our chauffeur on the swing down there.” “Was that all?”

The sound of dishes and spoons could be heard. He went up to the balcony alone, his face flushing. He kept recalling Madam's "Was that all?" while drinking tea and during the return trip in the automobile. In that voice there seemed to linger Madam's innocent laughter. There also seemed to dwell gentle irony. And then again, it all seemed like nothing at all....

⁂

The next day, when he visited their house, both had gone out, having been invited to tea at another household. He tried climbing the "Giant's Chair" alone. But finding this too dull almost immediately, he turned back toward town. And he wandered along Main Street. Then he noticed a familiar young lady walking ahead of him. She was a certain famous baron's daughter who came to this summer resort every year.

Last year too, he often encountered this young lady riding horses through mountain passes and forests. At such times, five or six mixed-race-looking youths would always be gathered around her, riding horses and bicycles alongside her. He too had thought this young lady as beautiful as a tattooed-butterfly. However, for that reason alone, he had of course not paid particular attention to this young lady either. But those mixed-race youths surrounding her were somehow unpleasant. It might have been something akin to mild jealousy, but it could be said he held at least that much interest in this young lady.

So he followed after the young lady without any particular thought, but before long, among the people coming sporadically from the opposite direction, he suddenly recognized a certain youth. That was a mixed-race youth who had stayed by her side throughout last summer, serving as her partner for tennis and dances. When he saw that, he frowned slightly and thought to leave this place as soon as possible. At that moment, he discovered something truly unexpected. For the young lady and the youth, while pretending not to notice each other at all, had simply passed by like that. However, at the very moment they were about to pass each other, the youth's face twisted as though viewed through flawed glass. Then he secretly glanced back toward the young lady. His face bore an expression of bitter resentment.

This episode peculiarly stirred him. He even sensed something like an extraordinary allure in that seemingly spiteful young lady. Of course, he couldn't muster even a shred of sympathy for that mixed-race youth. That night, even after lying down in bed, her figure kept appearing and disappearing behind his closed eyelids like a moth returning obsessively to the same spot—persistent to the point of irritation. To banish it, he tried summoning his "Rubens' forgery." Yet seeing it now only as a discolored old reproduction compared to its former vividness tormented him all the more.

⁂

However, when morning came, that strange charm had already vanished somewhere like a night moth. And he somehow felt refreshed. In the morning, he took a long walk. And then, while drinking cold milk in a certain lodge, he decided to rest for a while. He had even reached the point of thinking that in such a refreshed state of mind, he probably wouldn't hesitate at all to confess yesterday's episode to Madam and her companions.

It was located in a small larch grove slightly removed from town.

Propping his cheek on the wooden table, above his head a parrot was imitating human voices.

However, he did not try to listen to the parrot's words. He was earnestly sketching his "Rubens' forgery" in the void. That it was taking on more vivid colors than ever before pleased him.… At that moment, from his position obscured by tree branches where he couldn't see the path, he heard two bicycles come racing along it and stop in front of the lodge. Then, though their figures remained unseen, the characteristically clear voice of a young girl reached his ears.

“How about getting something to drink before we go?” Hearing that voice, he started.

“Again? This makes the third time.” A young man’s voice responded thus. He stared uneasily at the two entering the lodge. To his surprise, it was the young lady from yesterday. Then there was a youth with refined features he was seeing for the first time. The youth glanced at him and tried to sit at the table farthest from him. Then the young lady said. “It’s better near the parrot.” And the two sat down at his immediate neighboring table.

The young lady sat with her back to him, but to him it somehow seemed deliberate on her part. The parrot grew even noisier in its human imitations. She occasionally twisted her back to look at the parrot. Each time she did this, he averted his eyes from her back.

The young lady chattered incessantly, alternating between keeping company with the youth and the parrot. At times, her voice became exactly like that of "Rubens' forgery." The reason he had been startled earlier upon hearing this young lady's voice was precisely that. Not only in facial features but in his entire refined demeanor, the youth accompanying the young lady differed remarkably from last year's mixed-race youths. Everything about him was unhurriedly refined and aristocratic. In the contrast between the two, he even felt something reminiscent of Turgenev's novels. It might be that around this time, this young lady had finally begun to become aware of her circumstances. ...As he indulged in such self-satisfied fantasies, he grew anxious that he himself might carelessly be dragged into that novel.

He hesitated for a while, wondering whether to stay there longer or leave altogether. The parrot kept imitating human voices as before. However much he listened to them, not a single word became clear to him. This somehow seemed to suggest the very congestion within his mind.

He suddenly stood up and left the lodge with an awkward gait.

When he stepped outside the lodge, he saw two bicycles lying there on the grass in a peculiar manner, their handlebars intertwined like arms. At that moment, the young lady's ringing laughter reached his ears from behind. As he listened to this, he felt something like bad music suddenly surging up inside his body. Bad music. Indeed it was. It must be that the slightly dimwitted angel in charge of him sometimes plucked discordant guitar strings.

He had always been exasperated by his guardian angel's dimwittedness. His angel had never once properly dealt him the karuta cards.

It happened one evening.

He was making his way back along the pitch-dark path from her house to his hotel, overwhelmed by some inexplicable hollow feeling he couldn't quite grasp. At that moment he noticed a pair of young Westerners approaching from the darkness ahead. The man was illuminating the ground at his feet with a flashlight. And occasionally directed its beam onto the woman's face. Then within that glittering small circle of light, the young woman's face appeared squinting against the glare.

To see it properly - since the woman stood considerably taller than he did - he had to crane his neck upward. When viewed from that angle, the young woman's face appeared truly divine.

After an instant, the man once again lowered the flashlight to the pitch-dark ground. As he passed by them, he discovered their arms intertwined like monograms. Then, left alone in that darkness, he began to feel an excitement so peculiar it unsettled him. He even grew desirous of death. Such feelings bore an uncanny resemblance to the aftermath of hearing wretched music. Trying to cast off that bizarre musical agitation, he wandered recklessly about that morning too. Before long, he came upon an unfamiliar path.

Perhaps because he had never been to this area before, it felt as though he had strayed impossibly far from town.

At that moment, he suddenly felt as though his name had been called. He looked around but saw nothing of the sort. While he was thinking how strange it was, again there came something calling his name. This time he heard it somewhat more clearly, so when he turned toward where the voice had come from, there was a thicket elevated some three feet above the path where he stood, and beyond it he could see a man facing a canvas. When he saw the man's face, he remembered a friend.

He finally managed to clamber up onto it and approached his friend. But his friend made no attempt to speak to him at all, remaining earnestly focused on his canvas. He thought it was probably better not to speak either. And so he sat down there and kept silently watching the half-finished painting. He occasionally searched the surroundings for the landscape that served as the painting's motif. However, try as he might, he couldn't find any landscapes that resembled it. After all, upon that canvas there were only things resembling fish of various colors, small bird-like forms, and flower-shaped figures all jumbled together.

For a while he remained absorbed in gazing at the strange painting, but eventually he quietly stood up. Then, while looking up at him as he was rising to his feet, the friend said. “Oh, it’s fine. I’m returning to Tokyo today.” “You’re leaving today? But that painting isn’t finished yet, is it?” “It’s not finished. But I have to go back now.”

“Why?” Instead of answering that, the friend once again lowered his eyes to his own painting. For a while, his eyes seemed strongly drawn to that part of it.

⁂

He had returned to the hotel alone first and was waiting in the parlor for the arrival of the friend who had just promised to have lunch together. He stuck his face out from the parlor window and gazed blankly at the sunflowers blooming in the courtyard. They grew taller than Westerners. From the tennis court behind the hotel came the merry sound of rackets, like corks popping from champagne bottles.

He suddenly stood up. And reseated himself before the window-side table. Then he picked up the pen. But unfortunately there wasn't a single sheet of paper atop it, so he blotted several clumsy characters across the large attached blotting paper.

The hotel was a parrot. Juliet’s face emerged from the parrot’s ear. But Romeo was not there.

Romeo was probably playing tennis. If the parrot opened its mouth, the black child would come fully into view. He tried to read through it again, but the ink had bled so thoroughly that he couldn't make out anything he'd written. Still, when his friend arrived slightly late for their appointment and casually peered at it, he flipped it over.

“There’s no need to hide it, is there?” “This is nothing at all.” “I know exactly what it is.” “What do you mean?” “Because I caught an interesting glimpse the day before yesterday.” “The day before yesterday? Oh, that?” “That’s precisely why you’re treating me today.” “That wasn’t anything like what you’re imagining, I tell you.”

That had merely been accompanying them by automobile to the foot of Mount Asama. "It was just that much." —He recalled the Madam's words from that time once more. And then he blushed by himself. Then they entered the dining room. Using that as an opportunity, he tried to change the subject.

“By the way, what do you want to do with your painting?” “My painting? “That one stays as it is.” “What a waste, don’t you think?” “There’s just no helping it. “The scenery here is first-rate, but it’s so hard to capture. “Last year I came to paint too, but it was no good. “The air’s too clear. “Even the most distant leaves—each one—become perfectly visible. “And then it becomes impossible to do anything about it.”

“Hmm, so that’s how it is…”

He was scooping soup with his spoon when he involuntarily stopped his hand and began thinking about himself. Perhaps the reason my relationship with her hasn't been progressing at all as I'd hoped might partly be because the air here is too good, making even the smallest psychological nuances clearly visible to each other. He even tried to believe it.

And he thought. Just as this friend preparing to return to Tokyo with his unfinished landscape painting, must I too in a few days' time have no choice but to leave here again, carrying my own "Rubens' forgery" that will likely remain equally incomplete?

In the afternoon, after seeing his friend off to the edge of town, he visited her house alone.

They were just having tea together. When she saw him, the Madam suddenly said to her as if she had just remembered, “Aren’t you going to show him the photograph from that baby carriage?” She went into the next room laughing to fetch the photograph. During that time, in the depths of his eyes, the old mushroom-like hue of her childhood photograph seemed to gather of its own accord. The girl who had returned from the next room handed him two photographs. But both were such freshly taken photographs that they nearly bewildered his eyes. It appeared to be one taken this summer in the villa garden where she had posed sitting on a rattan chair.

“Which one came out better?” she asked.

He grew slightly flustered and, narrowing his eyes like a nearsighted person, compared the two photographs. He inadvertently pointed to one of them. At that moment, the tip of his finger gently touched the photograph's cheek. He felt as though he had touched a rose petal. Then Madam picked up the other photograph and said. "But don't you think this one resembles her better?"

When told this, he too felt that one bore greater resemblance to her real self. And he thought how perfectly the other matched the her of his imagination—to "Rubens' forgery." Some time later, he recalled that vanished vision tinged with old mushroom hues he'd imagined before seeing the actual photograph. "Which one shows the baby carriage?"

“Baby carriage?” The Madam made a somewhat uncomprehending expression. But that expression vanished immediately. And then it transformed into her usual distinctive smile—that peculiar blend of kindness and irony. “It’s about the rattan chair, you see.”

And in that manner, the same harmonious atmosphere remained suspended over the entire span of that afternoon.

Was this the blissful time he had been waiting for with such unbearable anticipation? The entire time he was apart from them, he had desperately wanted to see them. So much so that he ended up arbitrarily constructing his "Rubens' forgery" all by himself. Then this time, he began wanting to know whether that mental image closely resembled the real her. And that increasingly made him want to meet them all the more.

However, in moments like now when he found himself before them, he became utterly satisfied with that alone. And all his concerns up until that moment about whether that mental image closely resembled the real her had slipped from his mind without conscious effort. This was because, wanting to feel as vividly as possible that he was there before them, throughout that time he ended up sacrificing all other matters—even the lingering question from yesterday about whether that mental image truly resembled the real her.

However vague it may be, he couldn't help feeling that the girl before him and the girl of his mental image were two entirely distinct entities. It might be that the rose-like skin possessed by the heroine of his unfinished "Rubens' forgery" was precisely what was lacking in the girl now before him. The episode with the two photographs had somewhat clarified those thoughts of his.

As evening fell, he made his way back alone along the dim path to the hotel.

At that moment he noticed something unidentifiable climbing up a large chestnut tree's branch deep within the grove lining the path, vigorously shaking it. As he gazed upward with anxious eyes—suddenly recalling his slightly dimwitted guardian angel—a dark-colored animal abruptly leaped down from the tree. It was a squirrel. "What a foolish squirrel," he muttered involuntarily, staring at the panicked creature fleeing through the dim grove with its tail arched over its back until it vanished from sight.

Muttering such thoughts to himself, he watched the squirrel—its tail arched over its back as it scurried away in panic through the dim grove—until it vanished from sight.