Read Online The Sound of the Mountain by Yasunari Kawabata, Edward G. Seidensticker - Free Book Online
Authors: Yasunari Kawabata, Edward G. Seidensticker
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persecuted.
Toriyama was being taken to the grave, not knowing. For the wife, left behind, it was all in the past. Without Toriyama, it had gone into the past. Probably she too would go to the grave unknowing.
The man who, at the gathering of classmates, had mentioned Toriyama, had as family heirlooms four or five old No masks. Toriyama had come calling, he said, and had stayed on and on when the masks were brought out. Since they could hardly have been of such great interest to someone seeing them for the first time, the man went on, he had probably been killing time until his wife would be safely in bed.
But it seemed to Shingo today that a man in his fifties, the head of a household, walking the streets each night, would be sunk in thoughts so deep they could not be shared.
The photograph at the funeral had evidently been taken on New Year’s Day or some other holiday before Toriyama left the government. He was in formal dress, his face round and tranquil. The photographer had touched away the shadows.
The quiet face in the picture was too young for the widow by the coffin. One was made to think that she was the persecuted one, old before her time.
She was a short woman, and Shingo looked down at her hair and the white at its roots. One shoulder drooped a little, giving an impression of weariness and emaciation.
The sons and daughters and people who seemed to be their spouses were ranged beside the widow, but Shingo did not really look at them.
‘And how are things with you?’ he meant to ask if he met an old acquaintance. He waited at the temple gate.
He thought he would reply, if asked the same question, ‘I’ve managed somehow to come through; but there’s been trouble in my son’s family and my daughter’s.’ And it seemed to him that he meant to tell of his problems.
To make such revelations would be of no help to either of them, nor would there be any thought of intercession. They would but walk to the street-car stop and say good-bye.
That much Shingo wanted to do.
‘Now that Toriyama is dead, nothing is left of his torment.’
‘Are Toriyama and his wife to be called successes if their children’s families are happy?’
‘How much responsibility must a parent take these days for his children’s marriages?’
Such mutterings came to Shingo one after another as the sort of things he would like to say were he to meet an old friend.
Sparrows were chirping away on the roof of the temple gate.
They cut arcs along the eaves, and then cut the same arcs again.
5
Two callers were awaiting him when he got back to his office. He had whiskey brought from the cabinet behind him and poured it into black tea. It was a small help to his memory.
As he received the callers, he remembered the sparrows he had seen in the garden the morning before.
At the foot of the mountain, they were pecking at plumes of pampas grass. Were they after the seeds, or after insects? Then he saw that in what he had taken to be a flock of sparrows there were also buntings. He looked more carefully.
Six or seven birds jumped from plume to plume. The plumes waved violently.
There were three buntings, quieter than the sparrows. They did not have the nervous energy of the sparrows, and they were less given to jumping.
The glow of their wings and the fresh color of their breasts made them seem like birds new this year. The sparrows seemed coated with dust.
Shingo of course preferred the buntings. Their call was unlike that of the sparrows, and there was a similar difference in their motions.
He gazed on for a time, wondering whether the sparrows and buntings would quarrel.
But sparrows called to and flew with sparrows, and buntings flocked together.
When occasionally they mingled, there was no sign of a quarrel.
At his morning ablutions, Shingo looked on with admiration.
It was probably because of the sparrows on the temple gate that the scene had come back to him.
When he had seen the callers out, he turned and said
Toriyama was being taken to the grave, not knowing. For the wife, left behind, it was all in the past. Without Toriyama, it had gone into the past. Probably she too would go to the grave unknowing.
The man who, at the gathering of classmates, had mentioned Toriyama, had as family heirlooms four or five old No masks. Toriyama had come calling, he said, and had stayed on and on when the masks were brought out. Since they could hardly have been of such great interest to someone seeing them for the first time, the man went on, he had probably been killing time until his wife would be safely in bed.
But it seemed to Shingo today that a man in his fifties, the head of a household, walking the streets each night, would be sunk in thoughts so deep they could not be shared.
The photograph at the funeral had evidently been taken on New Year’s Day or some other holiday before Toriyama left the government. He was in formal dress, his face round and tranquil. The photographer had touched away the shadows.
The quiet face in the picture was too young for the widow by the coffin. One was made to think that she was the persecuted one, old before her time.
She was a short woman, and Shingo looked down at her hair and the white at its roots. One shoulder drooped a little, giving an impression of weariness and emaciation.
The sons and daughters and people who seemed to be their spouses were ranged beside the widow, but Shingo did not really look at them.
‘And how are things with you?’ he meant to ask if he met an old acquaintance. He waited at the temple gate.
He thought he would reply, if asked the same question, ‘I’ve managed somehow to come through; but there’s been trouble in my son’s family and my daughter’s.’ And it seemed to him that he meant to tell of his problems.
To make such revelations would be of no help to either of them, nor would there be any thought of intercession. They would but walk to the street-car stop and say good-bye.
That much Shingo wanted to do.
‘Now that Toriyama is dead, nothing is left of his torment.’
‘Are Toriyama and his wife to be called successes if their children’s families are happy?’
‘How much responsibility must a parent take these days for his children’s marriages?’
Such mutterings came to Shingo one after another as the sort of things he would like to say were he to meet an old friend.
Sparrows were chirping away on the roof of the temple gate.
They cut arcs along the eaves, and then cut the same arcs again.
5
Two callers were awaiting him when he got back to his office. He had whiskey brought from the cabinet behind him and poured it into black tea. It was a small help to his memory.
As he received the callers, he remembered the sparrows he had seen in the garden the morning before.
At the foot of the mountain, they were pecking at plumes of pampas grass. Were they after the seeds, or after insects? Then he saw that in what he had taken to be a flock of sparrows there were also buntings. He looked more carefully.
Six or seven birds jumped from plume to plume. The plumes waved violently.
There were three buntings, quieter than the sparrows. They did not have the nervous energy of the sparrows, and they were less given to jumping.
The glow of their wings and the fresh color of their breasts made them seem like birds new this year. The sparrows seemed coated with dust.
Shingo of course preferred the buntings. Their call was unlike that of the sparrows, and there was a similar difference in their motions.
He gazed on for a time, wondering whether the sparrows and buntings would quarrel.
But sparrows called to and flew with sparrows, and buntings flocked together.
When occasionally they mingled, there was no sign of a quarrel.
At his morning ablutions, Shingo looked on with admiration.
It was probably because of the sparrows on the temple gate that the scene had come back to him.
When he had seen the callers out, he turned and said
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