Natsume Soseki - Kusamakura

“Fact is,†Mr. Shioda breaks in on his nephew’s behalf, “with this war, you know . . . He enlisted as a volunteer, so he got cal ed up to go.†And so from him I learn the fate of this young man, who is destined to leave for the Manchurian front in a matter of days. I’ve been mistaken to assume that in this little vil age in the spring, so like a dream or a poem, life is a matter only of the singing birds, the fal ing blossoms, and the bubbling springs. The real world has crossed mountains and seas and is bearing down even on this isolated vil age, whose inhabitants have doubtless lived here in peace down the long stretch of years ever since they fled as defeated warriors from the great clan wars of the twelfth century. Perhaps a mil ionth part of the blood that wil dye the wide Manchurian plains wil gush from this young man’s arteries, or seethe forth at the point of the long sword that hangs at his waist. Yet here this young man sits, beside an artist for whom the sole value of human life lies in dreaming. If I listen careful y, I can even hear the beating of his heart, so close are we. And perhaps even now, within that beat reverberates the beating of the great tide that is sweeping across the hundreds of miles of that far battlefield. Fate has for a brief and unexpected moment brought us together in this room, but beyond that it speaks no more.

CHAPTER 9

“Are you studying?†she inquires. I’ve returned to my room and am reading one of the books I brought along, strapped to my tripod on the journey over the mountain.

“Do come in. I don’t mind in the least.â€​

She steps boldly in, with no hint of hesitation. A wel -formed neck emerges above the kimono col ar, vivid against its somber hue. This contrast first strikes my eye as she seats herself before me.

“Is that a Western book? It must be about something very difficult.â€​

“Oh, hardly.â€​

“Wel , what’s it about, then?â€​

“Yes, wel , actual y, I don’t real y understand it myself.â€​

She laughs. “That’s why you’re studying, is it?â€​

“I’m not studying. Al I’ve done is open it in front of me on the desk and start dipping into it.â€​

“Is it interesting to read like that?â€​

“Yes, it is.â€​

“Why?â€​

“Because with novels and suchlike, this is the most entertaining way to read.â€​

“You’re rather strange, aren’t you?â€​

“Yes, I suppose I am a little.â€​

“What’s wrong with reading from the beginning?â€​

“If you say you have to start at the beginning, that means you have to read to the end.â€​

“What a funny reason! Why shouldn’t you read to the end?â€​

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it, of course. I do it too, if I want to know about the story.â€​

“What do you read if it isn’t the story? Is there anything else to read?â€​

There speaks a woman, I think to myself. I decide to test her a little.

“Do you like novels?â€​

“Me?â€​ she says abruptly. Then she adds rather evasively, “Yes, wel . . .â€​ Not very much, it seems.

“You’re not clear whether you like them or not, then?â€​

“Whether I read a novel or not is neither here nor there to me.†She gives the distinct impression that she takes no account of their existence.

“In that case, why should it matter whether you read it from the beginning, or from the end, or just dip into it in a desultory way? I don’t see why you should consider my way of reading so strange.â€​

“But you and I are different.â€​

“In what way?â€​ I ask, gazing into her eyes. This is the moment for the test, I think, but her gaze doesn’t so much as falter.

She gives a quick laugh. “Don’t you understand?â€​

“But you must have read quite a lot when you were young,â€​ I say, abandoning my single line of attack and attempting a rearguard action.

“I like to believe I’m stil young, you know. Real y, you are pathetic.†My arrow has gone wide again. There’s no relaxing in this game.

Final y pul ing myself together, I manage to retort, “It shows you’re already past your youth, to be able to say that in front of a man.â€​

“Wel , you’re far from young yourself, to be able to make that remark. Is it stil so fascinating, for a man of your age, al this talk of being head over heels and heels over head, and having pimples, and such adolescent stuff?â€​

“It is, yes, and it always wil be.â€​

“My, my! So that’s how you come to be an artist, then.â€​

“Absolutely. It’s because I’m an artist that I don’t need to read a novel from cover to cover. On the other hand, wherever I choose to dip in is interesting for me. Talking to you is interesting too. In fact, it’s so interesting that I’d like to talk to you every day while I’m staying here. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind fal ing in love with you. That would make it even more interesting. But we wouldn’t need to marry, no matter how in love with you I was. A world where fal ing in love requires marrying is a world where novels require reading from beginning to end.â€​

“That means that an artist is someone who fal s in love unemotional y.â€​

“No, it’s not un -emotional. My way of fal ing in love is non -emotional. The way I read novels is nonemotional too, which is why the story doesn’t matter. I find it interesting just to open up the book at random, like this, like pul ing one of those paper oracles out of the box at a shrine, see, and read whatever meets my eye.â€​

“Yes, that does look like an interesting thing to do. Wel then, tel me a little about the place you’re reading now. I’d like to know what intriguing things emerge.â€​

“It’s not something one should talk about. Same with a painting—the worth of the thing disappears completely if you talk about it, doesn’t it?â€​

She laughs. “Wel then, read it to me.â€​

“In English?â€​

“No, in Japanese.â€​

“It’s tough to have to read English in Japanese.â€​

“What’s the problem? It’s a fine nonemotional thing to do, after al .â€​

This could be fun, I decide, and proceed to do as she asks, falteringly translating aloud the words on the page. If there were ever a “nonemotionalâ€​ way of reading, this is it, and she too, of course, wil be hearing it with a “nonemotionalâ€​ ear.

“‘The woman emanated tenderness. It flowed from her voice, her eyes, her skin. Did she accept this man’s help to lead her to the boat’s stern in order that she might view Venice in the dusk, or was it to send this electricity coursing through his veins?’ This is just a rough translation, you understand, because I’m reading nonemotional y. I may skip a bit here and there.â€​1

“That’s perfectly al right. I won’t even mind if you add something wherever you feel inclined.â€​

“‘The woman leaned beside the man at the railing of the boat. The space between the two was narrower than that of a ribbon fluttering in the breeze. Together they bade farewel to Venice. The palace of the Doges glowed a soft red, like a second sunset, and faded from view.’â€​