Rashomon by Akutagawa Ryunosuke (best book clubs .TXT) 📖

glance appeared to be huge piles of corded logs. Rubbing his sleepy eyes, he looked a second time, and with a sharp gasp he realized what they were. Yams! Yams! Yams! Tremendously large yams three inches wide and five feet long, enough to feed the whole town of Tsuruga. Set out in the broad yard, five or six caldrons were placed side by side on new spikes driven into the ground, and dozens of young maids in white-lined garments worked as busily as bees around them. Some of the servant girls were lighting fires, some were raking ashes, and others were pouring sweet arrow-root juice into the caldrons from wooden pails. Volumes of smoke rose from under the caldrons, and bursts of white vapor shot up from them to mix with the still lingering haze of dawn and form a gray pall which hung all over the large yard, obscuring everything but the red flames of the blazing fires. The wide yard was in such a state of confused excitement as is witnessed only on a battlefield or at the scene of a fire. These huge caldrons boiling yams into gruel filled Goi with blank amazement and dismay. They made him remember only too clearly that he had made the long journey to Tsuruga all the way from Kyoto for the express purpose of eating yam gruel. The more he thought, the more miserable he felt about everything. By this time he had already lost half of the appetite which had hitherto commanded our sympathy for him.

An hour later he sat at breakfast with Toshihito and his father-in-law, Arihito. In front of him was a huge vat filled to the brim with a tremendous sea of yam gruel. Earlier he had seen dozens of spirited young men deftly wield kitchen knives to slice up that pile of yams which reached high up to the eaves of the house. He had seen the maids run here and there past one another, scooping all the yam slices into the caldrons. When all the yams piled up on the large mats were gone, he had seen clouds of steam, reeking with the smell of yams and arrow-root, rise from the caldrons into the clear morning air. Naturally enough, when Goi, who had watched these things, was served yam gruel in a huge pitcher, he felt satiated even before tasting the delicacy. Sitting in front of the pitcher, he wiped his perspiring brow in embarrassment.

“I hear you haven’t had your fill of yam gruel,” said Arihito’s father-in-law, “please help yourself without reserve.” And he ordered the servant boys to bring several more large pitchers of yam gruel. Goi put about half of the yam gruel from the pitcher into a big earthen vessel, and closing his eyes, he reluctantly drank it off, his red nose becoming all the redder.

“As my father said, you needn’t be hesitant.” Grinning maliciously, Toshihito also pressed Goi to have another pitcherful of yam gruel. Goi was in a terrible plight. Frankly, he had not wanted to eat even one bowlful of yam gruel even at the beginning. With great endurance he managed to do justice to half a pitcherful of it. If he took any more, he thought he would throw it up before swallowing it. But to refuse to eat any more would be to spurn the kindness of Toshihito and Arihito. So closing his eyes again, he drained off a third of the remaining half. He could not take another mouthful.

“I’m more than obliged to you,” Goi mumbled incoherent thanks. He was in such pitiful embarrassment that drops of perspiration formed on his mustache and the tip of his nose, as if it were midsummer instead of winter.

“How sparingly you eat!” said Arihito. “Our guest seems to be reserved. Boys, don’t be idle.” At his words, the servants tried to pour more yam gruel from the new pitchers into the earthen vessel. Waving both his hands, as if to drive off flies, Goi expressed his earnest desire to be excused.

If at this time Toshihito had not unexpectedly said, “Look over there,” pointing to the eaves of the house opposite, Arihito would still have continued to press the yam gruel on Goi. But fortunately Toshihito’s voice drew everyone’s attention toward the eaves. The morning sun was shedding its light on the cypress-shingle roof. An animal sat quietly on the eaves, its sleek fur bathed in the bright sunshine. It was the fox of Sakamoto which Toshihito had caught with his hands in the withered fields two days before.

“The fox has also come from a desire for yam gruel. Men, give him his feed.” Toshihito’s orders were promptly executed. The fox jumped down from the eaves and immediately began to feast on yam gruel.

Watching the fox eat its meal, Goi looked back with fond longing on his past life before the time he had come to Tsuruga. What he remembered was that he had been made a fool of by many warriors, and reviled even by Kyoto boys with “What? You Red Nose!” and that he was a pitiful, lonely being, with faded silk robe and nondescript sword, who wandered about Sujaku Avenue like a homeless mongrel. But at the same time he had been happy, treasuring up his desire to gorge himself on yam gruel. With the reassurance that he need not eat any more of it, he felt the perspiration all over his face dry up gradually, beginning at the tip of his nose. The early morning in Tsuruga was fine but cold, and a biting wind was blowing. Hastily grasping his nose, Goi emitted a loud sneeze toward the silver pitcher.

THE MARTYR

Even if one liveth to be three hundred years of age in excess of pleasure, it is but as a dream compared with everlasting pleasure. Ñ Guide do Pecador.

He who walketh the path of goodness shall enjoy the mysterious sweetness which pervadeth the doctrine.

Ñ Imitatione Christi.

ONE CHRISTMAS night some years ago a young Japanese boy was found exhausted and starving at the entrance to the Church of Santa Lucia in Nagasaki. He was taken in and cared for by the Jesuit brothers who were coming into the church. He was given the name Lorenzo, and was thereafter brought up in the church under the wing of the Jesuit missionaries.

When the brothers asked him about his birth and parents, he never revealed his history, but gave such evasive answers as, “My home is paradise,” and “My father is the Father of all.” His disarming smile dispelled further questioning as to his past. It was, however, evident from the blue rosary on his wrist that his family had not been heathens. Perhaps that was the reason why the kindly fathers and brothers took Lorenzo to their heart.

The elders were so struck by this young boy’s piety that they came to think of him in time as the incarnation of a cherub, and to love him dearly, though they knew nothing of his past. Moreover, the perfection and purity of his face and form, and his sweet feminine voice made him the darling of everyone.

Of all the brothers, Simeon in particular loved him as if he were his own brother, and in entering and leaving the church they were seen hand in hand. Simeon, born in a military family, once served a certain feudal lord. He was a towering giant with Herculean strength and had more than once defended the Fathers against being stoned by heathens. His harmonious friendship with Lorenzo might have been compared to a fierce eagle taking loving care of a dove or a blooming vine twining around a cedar on Mt. Lebanon.

Meanwhile three years flew by, and the time came for Lorenzo to celebrate his coming to manhood. About this time the rumor spread that Lorenzo and the daughter of an umbrellamaker who lived not far from the Church of Santa Lucia were becoming intimate. Since the umbrellamaker was also a believer in the teachings of the Lord, it was customary for him to come to church with his daughter. Even during the time of prayers this girl never took her eyes from Lorenzo. Still more, in entering and leaving the church she was sure to turn her beautiful and loving eyes toward him. This naturally attracted the notice of the congregation, and some said that she had intentionally stepped on his foot, while others said that they had been seen exchanging love letters.

Since the gossip about the boy and girl had gotten quite out of hand, the Father Superior of the church decided it was time to question his young charge. One day he called Lorenzo to his side. “Lorenzo,” he asked gently, stroking his long gray hair, “I have heard unsavory rumors about you and the umbrellamaker’s daughter. But surely they can’t be true, can they?” Lorenzo, shaking his head sadly, only repeated in a tearful voice, “No, they’re not true. They are quite unfounded.” After the boy’s many tearful denials, the Father, considering his age and constant piety, was finally convinced that Lorenzo was speaking the truth, and dismissed him with a word about good behavior.

Yes, the Father’s suspicion was dispelled. But the rumors persisted among the people of Santa Lucia. This scandal particularly worried Lorenzo’s dear friend Simeon. At first he was too ashamed to make a searching inquiry into such a licentious affair, and he was unable not only to ask Lorenzo but even to look him in the eye.

However, once he happened to pick up in the back garden of Santa Lucia a love letter from the girl addressed to Lorenzo. Thrusting it into Lorenzo’s face, and threatening and coaxing, Simeon questioned him in many ways. But Lorenzo, his handsome face blushing, merely said, “I hear the girl has given her heart to me, but I only received letters from her, and I have never even talked with her.” Simeon, who felt the weight of the town’s opinion, pressed further questions on his brother. Lorenzo, gazing at the other with his sad, reproachful look, said, “Do I look like a liar even to you?” and left the room like a swallow leaving his nest. At these words, Simeon felt a great shame come over him for having been suspicious of his brother and was leaving, with his head bowed, when suddenly the boy Lorenzo rushed in, threw his arms around Simeon’s neck, and panted out in a whisper, “I was wrong. Forgive me.” Before Simeon could answer a word, he rushed out the way he had come, hurrying as if to conceal his tearstained face. Simeon did not know whether Lorenzo felt guilty for his intimacy with the girl or for his rude behavior.

Sometime later the people of the town were shocked at the news that the umbrellamaker’s daughter was soon to become a mother. She told her father that the child in her womb was that of Lorenzo. The old umbrellamaker in great rage immediately carried the accusation to the priests of Santa Lucia. Lorenzo, who was summoned before them, said “It’s not so,” but could make no excuse to justify himself against such evidence. The same day the fathers and all the brothers sat in conference and sentenced Lorenzo to excommunication. His excommunication, that is, his banishment from the church, would immediately deprive him of the means of livelihood. But it would invite disgrace on the glory of the Lord and the congregation to keep the sinner in Santa Lucia. Therefore, the brothers who held him dear are said to have driven him away with tears in their eyes.

The most pitiable of all was Simeon, who had been Lorenzo’s dearest friend. More vexed by being deceived than grieved at his being driven away, Simeon struck Lorenzo full in his handsome face as he went sadly out of the doorway into the cold winter blast.