Natsume Soseki - Kusamakura

“What’s a Doge?â€​

“It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s the name of the people who used to rule Venice long ago. They ruled for generations; I’m not sure how many. Their palace stil stands there.â€​

“So who are this man and woman?â€​

“I’ve no more idea than you do. That’s why it’s interesting. It doesn’t matter what relationship they’ve had til now. The interest lies in the scene before us at this moment, their being here together—just like you and me.â€​

“You think so? They seem to be in a boat, don’t they?â€​

“In a boat, on a hil , what does it matter? You just take it as it’s written. Once you start asking why, it al turns into detective work.â€​

She gives a laugh. “Al right then, I won’t ask.â€​

“The usual novels are al invented by detectives. There’s nothing nonemotional about them—they’re utterly boring.â€​

“Wel then, let’s hear the next bit of your nonemotional story. What happens now?â€​

“‘Venice continued to sink from sight, until it became nothing more than a faint smudge of line against the sky. The line broke now into a series of points. Here and there, round pil ars stood out against the opal sky. At last, the topmost bel tower sank from sight. It is gone, said the woman. The heart of this woman bidding farewel to Venice was free as the wind. Yet the now hidden city stil held her heart in a painful grip, and she knew she must return there. The man and the woman fixed their gaze on the dark bay. The stars multiplied above them. The gently rocking sea was flecked with foam. The man took the woman’s hand, and it felt to him as if he held a singing bowstring.’â€​

“This doesn’t sound very nonemotional.â€​

“Oh no, you can hear it as nonemotional if you care to. But if you don’t like it, we can skip a bit.â€​

“No, I’m quite happy.â€​

“I’m even happier than you are. Now where was I? Er . . . this part is somewhat trickier. I’m not sure I can . . . no, this is too difficult.â€​

“Leave it out if it’s hard to read.â€​

“Yes, I won’t bother too much. ‘This one night, the woman said. One night? he cried. Heartless to speak of a single night. There must be many.’â€​

“Does the woman say this, or the man?â€​

“The man does. She doesn’t want to go back to Venice, see, so he’s comforting her. ‘The man lay there on the midnight deck, his head pil owed on a coil of rigging rope; that moment in his memory, the instant like a single drop of hot blood when he had grasped her hand, now swayed in him like a vast wave. Gazing up into the black sky, he determined that come what may he must save her from the abyss of a forced marriage. With this decision, he closed his eyes.’â€​

“What about the woman?â€​

“‘The woman seemed as one lost and oblivious to where she strayed. Like one stolen and borne up into thin air, only a strange infinity . .

.’ The rest is a bit difficult. I can’t make sense of the phrasing. ‘A strange infinity’ . . . surely there’s a verb here somewhere?â€​

“Why should you need a verb? That’s enough on its own, isn’t it?â€​

“Eh?â€​

There is a sudden deep rumble, and al the trees on the nearby mountain moan and rustle. Our eyes turn to each other instinctively, and at this moment the camel ia in the little vase on the desk trembles. “An earthquake!†she cries softly, shifting from her knees and leaning forward against the desk where I sit. Our bodies brush each other as they shake. With a high-pitched clatter of wings, a pheasant bursts out of the thicket close by.

“Wasn’t that a pheasant?â€​ I say, looking out of the window.

“Where?†she inquires, leaning her pliant body against mine. Our faces are almost close enough to touch. The soft breath that emerges from her delicate nostrils brushes my mustache.

“Nonemotional, remember!â€​ she says sternly as she swiftly straightens herself.

“Of course,â€​ I promptly reply.

In the aftermath of the little earthquake, the startled water in the hol ow of the garden rock continues to sway gently to and fro; the shock has risen up through the water in a swel ing wave that does not break the surface, creating instead a fine lacework pattern of tiny ripples in irregular curves.

Were it to exist, the expression “tranquil motion†would describe this perfectly. The wild cherry tree that steeps its calm reflection there wavers in the rocking water, stretching and shrinking, curving and twisting; yet I am fascinated to observe that however its shape changes, it stil preserves the unmistakable form of a cherry tree.

What an enchanting sight—so beautiful and shifting. This is how motion should be.

“If we humans could only move in that way, we could move al we liked, couldn’t we?â€​ she says.

“You have to be nonemotional to move like that, you know.â€​

She gives a laugh. “You’re certainly fond of this ‘nonemotional, ’ aren’t you!â€​

“I wouldn’t say you were exactly averse to it either. That performance with the wedding kimono yesterday, for instance.â€​

But here she suddenly breaks in coquettishly. “Give me a little reward!â€​

“What for?â€​

“You said you wanted to see me in my wedding kimono, didn’t you? So I went out of my way to show you.â€​

“I did?â€​

“I gather that the artist who came over the mountains put in a special request to the old lady up at the teahouse.â€​

I can produce no appropriate response, and she goes on unhesitatingly, “What’s the point of throwing my al into trying to please someone so hopelessly forgetful?†She speaks in a mocking, bitter tone. This is the second barb that has struck home, hitting me fair in the face, and the tide of battle is turning increasingly against me. She’s somehow managed to ral y, and now that she holds the upper hand, her armor seems to have become impregnable.

“So that scene in the bathhouse last night was purely kindness too, was it?†I try, scrambling to save myself from the perilous situation. She is silent.

“I do apologize,†I go on, seizing the moment to advance when I can. “What should I give you as reward, then?†However, my sal y has no effect. She is gazing with an innocent air at the piece of cal igraphy by Daitetsu that hangs over the door.

After a pause she murmurs softly, “‘Bamboo shadow sweeps the stair, but no dust moves.’†Then she turns back to me and, as if suddenly recol ecting, studiedly raises her voice. “What was that you said?â€​ I’m not going to be trapped again, however.

I try taking my cue from the tranquil motion of the water after the earthquake. “I met that abbot just a while ago, you know.â€​

“The abbot from Kankaiji? He’s fat, isn’t he?â€​

“He asked me to do him a Western painting for his sliding door. These Zen priests say the most peculiar things, don’t they?â€​

“That’s how come he can get so fat.â€​

“I also met someone else there, a young man.â€​

“That would be KyÅ«ichi.â€​

“That’s right, yes,â€​ I say.