Part 5

Strange to say, one of them not only was lying naked on his back on the ground, but, for some reason or other, had his hands and his feet bound up in a long cord. However, he seemed not to be greatly troubled about it. He was a short and sanguine man, fat as a pig, who somehow gave an impression of dullness. An unglazed jar of moderate size stood by his head, but it was impossible to say what was in it.

The second was a man in a yellow robe with little rings of bronze in his ears, who at a glance was recognizable as an eccentric Buddhist priest. From his exceptionally dark skin and his frizzled hair and beard, he seemed certainly to be from west of T’sung-ling. He had for some time been moving a whip of long white hairs with a red handle patiently back and forth to drive away the horse-flies and common house-flies that swarmed about the naked man, but now seeming naturally to have grown a little tired, he had come to the unglazed jar and was squatting solemnly beside it like a turkey cock.

The remaining man was standing under the eaves of a thatched house in a corner of the flailing floor far from the other two. He had on the tip of his chin a mere excuse for a beard like a rat’s tail and was dressed in a long black gown reaching to the ground, tied with an untidily knotted brown sash. Since he now and then fanned himself importantly with a fan of white feathers, he was, of course, a Confucian scholar or something of the kind.

All three held their tongues as if by agreement. Moreover they did not even move freely, and it seemed as if, deeply interested in something that was about to happen, they were all holding their breath.

It seemed to be just noon. Not a dog’s bark was to be heard, doubtless because the dogs were all taking their midday naps. The hemp and millet plants around the flailing floor stood still and motionless, with their green leaves shining in the sunlight. In all the sky beyond them, a sultry mist floated stiflingly hot, and it seemed that even the cloud masses were gasping for breath in this drought. As far as eye could see, the only things that seemed to be alive were these three men. And they kept silent like the clay figures in the shrines of Kwanti.

Of course this is not a Japanese story. It is an account of what happened one summer’s day on the flailing floor of a man named Liu at Changshan in China.

II

The man who lay naked under the blazing sun was the owner of the flailing floor, Liu Tai-cheng, one of the prominent rich men of Changshan. His only pleasure was drinking, and all day long he and his cup were practically inseparable. And since “he drank up a jar of wine every time he helped himself,” he was no ordinary drinker. But as has already been intimated, he owned “three hundred acres of rich suburban fields, of which one half was planted to millet,” there was no fear whatever of his drinking playing havoc with his fortune.

And the reason he was lying naked in the hot sun was this: That day as Liu leaned on a Dutch wife of bamboo in an airy room playing checkers with Master Sun, one of his fellow tipplers (the Confucian scholar with the white fan), a little girl servant had come to him and said,

“A priest who says he’s from Pao Chang S’su or some such temple has just come and says he must see you. What shall I do?”

“What? Pao Chang S’su?” said Liu, and he blinked his little eyes as if dazzled; then raising his hot-looking fat body, he said, “Well, then, show him in here.” Then glancing at Master Sun, he added, “It’s probably that priest.”

The priest of Pao Chang S’su was a mountain priest from Hsisu. He was famous in the neighborhood for his healing ability and the administering of aphrodisiacs. For instance, there were afloat many all but miraculous rumors of the sudden change for the better of this man’s amaurosis or of the immediate recovery of that man from sterility. Both Liu and Sun had heard these rumors. On what errand could this mountain priest have deliberately called at Liu’s? Of course Liu himself had not the least recollection of ever having sent for him.

You should know that Liu was not at all such a man as to be pleased at the arrival of a caller. But if, when he had one guest, another came, he usually received him quite gladly. This was because he had a childish vanity that we may even say made him proud to have one visitor in the presence of another. Moreover, this mountain priest was highly spoken of everywhere at that time. He was by no means a visitor to be ashamed of. The motives that moved Liu to say he would see him lay for the greater part in such considerations.

“I wonder what he wants.”

“Well, he’s a beggar. He’ll probably ask for alms.”

The visitor who was shown in by the little girl servant while the two were talking was a grotesque Buddhist priest, tall and with eyes like amethysts. He was in a yellow robe, and his frizzly hair hung down over his shoulders troublesomely. With his red-handled fly-whisk in his hand, he stood ungainly in the center of the room. He neither made any sign of greeting nor opened his mouth.

Liu waited for a little, but meanwhile somehow becoming uneasy, he asked,

“Is there something you want with me?”

Then the mountain priest said, “You’re the man, aren’t you? The one that’s fond of wine?”

“Uh,” said Liu vaguely, the question being so sudden, and he looked at Master Sun as if asking help. That worthy was coolly placing men on the checker board all by himself. He showed no signs of taking any notice.

“You’re suffering from a strange disease. Do you know that?” said the mountain priest emphatically.

At the word “disease,” Liu looked dubious and, stroking his Dutch wife of bamboo, said,

“Disease, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“No, not since my infancy--,” Liu began, when the bonze interrupted him.

“You never get drunk when you drink, do you?”

Staring at the priest’s face, Liu closed his mouth. In truth, however much he drank, this man had never been drunk.

“That proves it’s a disease,” said the mountain priest, and then, smiling a little, he added, “There’s a wine worm in your belly. Unless you get rid of it, you’ll never get well. I’ve come to cure you.”

“Can you?” asked Liu involuntarily in an uncertain voice. Then he was ashamed of it himself.

“That’s just why I’ve come.”

Then Sun, who up till now had sat silently listening to the dialogue, put in a word.

“Will you use some sort of medicine?”

“No, there’s no need to use medicine,” answered the mountain priest curtly.

Master Sun had always despised both Buddhism and Taoism almost beyond reason. So when he was with Taoist or Buddhist priests he seldom talked. The reason he now suddenly spoke was that his interest was aroused by the name, “wine worm,” for when he heard it, being fond of wine himself, he grew a little uneasy lest there might be such a worm in his own belly. But when he heard the mountain priest’s grudging answer, he felt as if he had been made a fool of and, frowning, began to place the men silently on the board again. And at the same time, he began to feel in his own mind that his host Liu was a fool ever to have seen such an arrogant priest.

Of course Liu payed no attention.

“Then will you use a needle?”

“No, it’s easier than that.”

“Then is it magic?”

“No, it’s not magic either.”

After this little colloquy, the mountain priest briefly explained the treatment. According to his explanation, the only thing necessary was to strip naked and remain motionless in the sunshine. This seemed to Liu very easy. If he could be cured that easily, nothing could be better than to have himself cured. Moreover, though unconsciously, he had a little curiosity to see how it would feel to be cured by this mountain priest.

So at last, making a little bow with his head, he said,

“Then please just cure me once.”

Thus Liu came to be lying naked in the broiling sun on the flailing floor.

And as the mountain priest said that he must not move, he was all wound round with a cord. Then one of Liu’s servants was ordered to bring an unglazed jar with wine in it and put it near Liu’s head. Of course, since he happened to be present, it was decided that Master Sun, his good drinking companion, should remain in attendance at this curious cure.

No one except the mountain priest knew what a wine worm was, or what would happen when it was no longer in the stomach, or what the jar by Liu’s head was for. Then you may think that Liu lying out in the burning heat naked without knowing what he was doing was a stupid fellow, but ordinary people receiving a school education are really doing very much the same sort of thing.

III

It was hot. Sweat came out on his forehead little by little, and no sooner would it form into beads than they would suddenly run warmly into his eyes. Unfortunately, being tied up with the cord, he of course could not wipe them away with his hands. Then he tried to change their course by moving his head, but the effort made him feel as if he was going to be violently dizzy, so he regretfully gave up this plan, too. Meanwhile the sweat, without the least ceremony, wet his eyelids, and going around his nose and mouth, ran down under his chin. It was extremely disagreeable.

Until then, he had kept his eyes open blinking at the scorching white sky and the field of hemp with its drooping leaves, but after the sweat began to run profusely, he was obliged to give up even that. Then Liu became aware for the first time that when sweat gets into the eyes, it smarts. So closing his eyes meekly with the expression of a sheep about to be slaughtered, he steadfastly let himself be burned by the sun, and now all over his face and body, every inch of skin on the side that was up began little by little to pain. Over the whole surface of his skin, a force was at work trying to move in every direction, but the skin itself had not an iota of elasticity. So to say that he was one big smart probably best describes his pain. The sweat was nothing compared to this pain. Liu regretted a little that he had submitted himself to the mountain priest’s treatment.

But considered afterwards, this was still one of the less painful parts. While it was going on, he began to feel thirsty. He knew that Tsao Mêng-tê or somebody had once quenched his soldiers’ thirst by telling them that there was a plum orchard ahead of them. But no matter how hard he thought of the sweet sourness of plums, he felt just as thirsty as ever. He tried moving his chin and biting his tongue, but his mouth remained as feverish as ever. And it would certainly have been somewhat easier for him to bear had the unglazed jar not been sitting by his head. But from the mouth of the jar, the sweet fragrance of the wine assaulted his nose incessantly. Moreover, perhaps because of his state of mind, he even felt the fragrance of the wine growing stronger and stronger every minute. Thinking that at least he would have a look at the jar, he raised his eyes. Rolling them up, he saw the mouth of the jar and the upper half of its generously bulging side. This was all he saw with his eyes, but at the same time there floated into his imagination the brimming golden wine in its shadowy interior. Unconsciously he licked his chapped lips once around with his parched tongue, but there was not the least indication of any saliva. Even the sweat, dried up by the sun, now ceased to flow.

Then followed in succession two or three severe attacks of dizziness. His head had ached incessantly for some time. In his heart, he gradually came to hate the mountain priest. He wondered why he, in his position, had ever allowed himself to be taken in by such a man’s fair speeches and made to suffer such fool’s pain. Meanwhile his throat became drier and drier. His chest became strangely queasy. He could bear to lie still no longer. So at last he boldly determined to ask the priest to stop operations and, panting, opened his mouth.

Then the thing happened. Liu began to feel an indescribable mass creeping up little by little from his breast into his throat. Sometimes it seemed to be wriggling like an earthworm and sometimes to be crawling step by step like a gecko. Anyhow some soft thing, in all its softness, was slowly making its way up along his gullet. At last, just as he felt that it had forced its way past his Adam’s apple, something like a loach suddenly slipped out of the dark interior and sprang energetically into the outer world.

At that instant from the jar was heard a sound like something dropping with a flop into the wine.

Then the mountain priest suddenly got up from where he had been calmly squatting and began to untie the cord wound round Liu’s body. Now that the wine worm was out, they might feel easy.

“Did it come out?” said Liu in a voice like a groan, and raising his dizzy head and in the greatness of his curiosity forgetting even his thirst, he crawled naked as he was to the jar. When Master Sun saw this, he hurried to the others protecting himself against the sun with his fan of white feathers. There, when the three peeped into the jar together, they saw something like a small salamander, flesh-colored like cinnabar, swimming about in the wine. It was some three inches long. It had both mouth and eyes. As it swam, it seemed to be drinking the wine. When Liu saw this, he suddenly felt sick.

IV

The effect of the mountain priest’s treatment was immediately evident. From that day, Liu Tai-cheng never drank another drop of wine. Now he hates even the smell of it. But, strange to say, his health has declined little by little ever since. This is the third year since he vomited the wine worm, and there is left no shadow of his former plump round form. His sallow greasy skin is stretched over his bony face and only a little grizzled hair remains above his temples, and it is said that he takes to his bed innumerable times during the year.

But it is not only Liu’s health that has declined ever since that time. His fortune also has declined rapidly, and his three hundred acres of rich suburban fields have almost all passed into other hands. He himself has been compelled to take the spade in his own unaccustomed hands and lead a miserable day-to-day existence.

Why has Liu’s health declined ever since he vomited the wine worm? Why has his fortune declined? Such questions are likely to occur to any one who considers his ruin in the light of cause and effect. In truth these questions are considered and reconsidered by people in all sorts of occupations in Changshan and are given all sorts of answers by them. The three answers I now give here are only those I have chosen as the most representative among them.

First. The wine worm was Liu’s blessing and not his affliction. Because he chanced to meet the idiotic mountain priest, he had deliberately lost this heaven-sent blessing.

Second. The wine worm was Liu’s affliction and not his blessing. For it is quite beyond the understanding of any ordinary man that Liu should be able to drink a jar of wine at a time. If, therefore, he had not got rid of the wine worm, he would certainly have died before long. Consequently that he fell into poverty and illness one after the other should be called his good fortune.

Third. The wine worm was neither Liu’s affliction nor his good fortune. He had always been a heavy drinker. When wine was taken from his life, there was nothing left. So Liu was himself the wine worm, and the wine worm was Liu. Therefore, getting rid of the wine worm was quite the same as killing himself. In short, the day Liu stopped drinking wine, he was Liu without being Liu. If Liu himself was already dead, it was most natural that the health and fortune of the Liu of other days should have been lost.

Which of these answers is most nearly right, I do not know. I have only set down such moral judgments at the end of this story in imitation of the didacticism of Chinese novelists.

THE BADGER

According to the “Shoki,” it was in the second month of the thirty-fifth year of the Emperor Suiko in Michinoku that a badger first assumed the shape of a man. True, according to one copyist’s version, the badger was mistaken for a man instead of taking a man’s shape, but since it is written in both copies afterwards that it sang, it seems that, whether it took a man’s shape or was mistaken for a man, it is a fact that it sang songs like an ordinary man.

Earlier than this, it was written in the “Suininki” under date of the eighty-seventh year, that after the dog of a man named Mikaso in the province of Tamba had eaten a badger, there was found in its belly the curved Yasakani jewel. The story of this curved jewel was later made use of by Bakin in “Hakkenden” where he introduced Yao Bikuni Myōchin. But the badger of the time of the Emperor Suinin only had a brilliant gem in its belly and could not change itself at will into other shapes, as could the badgers of later days. Then after all, it was probably in the second month of the thirty-fifth year of Suiko that the badger first assumed the form of man.

Of course the badger had lived in the fields and mountains of Japan ever since the eastern expedition of the Emperor Jimmu. And it began to bewitch people for the first time in the year 1288 of the Japanese calendar. At this, you may at first be surprised. But it probably began in some such way as the following:

In those days a Michinoku girl who carried water up from the sea was in love with a salt maker of the same village. But she lived alone with her mother. And since they tried to meet nightly without her mother knowing it, there was no slight worry.

Every night the man crossed over a hill by the sea and came near the girl’s house. And she, her mind on the time appointed, would slip stealthily out. But out of regard for her mother’s feelings, she was likely to be late. Sometimes she would finally come as the moon was beginning to decline. Sometimes she had not yet come even when it was time for the first cock to lift his voice far and near.

It was one night after things had gone on thus for some time. The man, squatting under a high rock like a folding screen, sang a song to beguile his loneliness as he waited. He gathered up his impatience in his salty throat and sang with all his might against the surging waves.

The mother, hearing the song, asked her daughter lying beside her what it was. The girl shammed sleep at first, but after she had been asked a second and third time, she could not but answer. “It doesn’t seem to be a man’s voice, does it?” she said deceitfully, frightened out of her wits.

Then the mother came back with the question what could sing save a man. And through sheer quickness of wit, the girl replied that it might be a badger. Through the ages, time and again, has love taught such wit to women.

When morning came, the mother spoke of having heard the song to an old woman of the neighborhood who wove straw mats. And the old woman was one of those who had heard the song. She expressed her doubt that a badger could sing but handed the story on to a man who gathered reeds.

When, after passing from mouth to mouth, the story came to the ears of a mendicant priest who had come to the village, he explained with reason how a badger could sing a song. In Buddhist teaching there is a thing called metempsychosis. So the soul of the badger might originally have been the soul of a man. In which case, what the man could do, the badger could do. Such a thing as singing a song on a moonlight night was not greatly to be wondered at.

After that in this village any number of people came to say that they had heard the song of the badger. And then at last appeared even a man who said he had seen the badger. He said that one night, while on his way home along the beach from gathering seagulls’ eggs, he had seen distinctly by the light of some remaining patches of snow a badger hulking along singing a song at the foot of a seaside hill.

Already even its form had been seen. It was natural that after that practically everybody in the village, young and old, male and female, should have heard the song. Sometimes it came from the hills. Sometimes it came from the sea. And sometimes, besides, it came from over the roofs of the rush-thatched huts scattered about between the hills and the sea. And that was not all. At last one night the girl who drew sea-water was herself suddenly startled by the song.

She, of course, thought it was the man singing. She listened to her mother’s breathing and thought that she was fast asleep. Then she stole from her bed, and opening the door the least bit, peeped out. But outside there was only a dim moon and the sound of the waves, and no man’s form anywhere. Involuntarily, in the chilly spring-night wind, she pressed her hand to her cheek and stood transfixed. There in the sand before the door were dimly visible the scattered footprints of a badger.

This story was immediately carried across hundreds of miles of mountain and river to the district of the capital. Then the badgers of Yamashiro changed their shapes. The badgers of Omi changed theirs. Finally the related racoon dog began to assume human form, and in Tokugawa days, a fellow called Sado-no-Danzaburō, who was neither a racoon dog nor a badger, began to bewitch even the people of Echizen Province across the sea.

He did not begin to bewitch them, but it came to be thought that he did, you may say. But how much difference is there after all between being bewitched and believing that one is bewitched?

This is true not only in the case of badgers. Is it not a fact that all things that exist for us are in the end but things in the existence of which we believe?

It is written in “The Celtic Twilight,” by Yeats, that some children on Lake Gill believed without a doubt that a little Protestant girl in blue and white garments was the Holy Mother Mary herself. When we think of them as both living in the human mind just the same, there is no difference between Mary on the lake and the badger in the wilds.

Should we not believe in that which lives within us just as our forefathers believed that the badger bewitched men? And should we not live as bidden by that in which we believe?

Herein lies reason why we should not despise the badger.

THE BALL

I

It was the night of the third day of the eleventh month of the nineteenth year of Meiji (1886). Akiko, the seventeen-year-old daughter of the distinguished family of ----, accompanied by her bald-headed father, climbed the stairs of the Rokumeikan, where the ball that night was to be held. Great chrysanthemum blossoms, which seemed almost to be artificial, formed threefold hedges up the sides of the broad, brightly gas-lighted stairs. The petals of the chrysanthemums, those at the back pink, those in the middle deep yellow, and those in front pure white, were all tousled like flag tassels. And near where the banks of chrysanthemums came to an end, already floated out incessantly from the ball-room at the top of the stairs lively orchestra music like an irrepressible sigh of happiness.

Akiko had early been taught to speak French and dance. But to-night she was going to attend a formal ball for the first time in her life. Wherefore in the carriage, when her father spoke to her from time to time, she returned only absent-minded answers. Thus deeply had an unsettled feeling that may well be defined as a glad uneasiness taken root in her breast. Till the carriage finally came to a stop in front of the Rokumeikan, time and again she lifted impatient eyes and gazed out of the window at the scanty lights of the Tōkyō streets drifting by outside.