The Temple of Dawn (The Sea of Fertility 3) by Yukio Mishima

Author:Yukio Mishima [Mishima, Yukio]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi, azw3
Tags: Classic, Fiction, Japan
ISBN: 9780099282792
Publisher: Vintage
Published: 1973-01-01T11:00:00+00:00

26

FORMER BARON SHINKAWA was seated in a chair by the fireside from which point he coldly observed the other guests.

He was now seventy-two. Grumbling and complaining without fail whenever he left home, he could not forego the joy of going out; at even his age his love for parties had not diminished. He had been very bored during the period of the postwar purges and had fallen into the habit of accepting all invitations. This had continued on into the postpurge years.

But now everyone considered him and his garrulous wife to be the most boring of guests. His sarcasm had lost its bite, and his epigrammatic expressions had become longwinded and shallow. He was never able to recall people’s names.

“That . . . what was he called? . . . remember . . . he was often depicted in political cartoons . . . don’t you remember? . . . a small, fat man, round as a butterball . . . what was his name? . . . a very common one . . .”

His listener could not help but recognize Shinkawa’s losing battle with the invisible monster of forgetfulness. This quiet, but tenacious animal would occasionally withdraw only to reappear at once, clinging to Shinkawa, brushing his forehead with its shaggy tail.

At last, he would give up and continue his story.

“. . . anyway, this politician’s wife was a remarkable woman.” But the episode in which the most important name was missing no longer held any flavor. Each time he would stamp his foot in sheer vexation, so anxious was he to impart to others the flavor of the tale he alone could savor. It was then that Shinkawa would be aware of a mendicant-like emotion, one he had previously never experienced. In his struggle to find someone to appreciate his simple punning jokes, as though begging for understanding, he had unconsciously become obsequious.

He was pathetically compelled to tear down the refined pride he had so long possessed, and gradually his prime concern became the assumption of an attitude of contemptuousness—something that he had exhibited most casually on the tip of his nose like cigar smoke in former days. But at the same time, he took great pains to avoid revealing this hidden contempt to anyone. He was fearful that he might not receive other invitations.

In the midst of a party, he would occasionally pull at his wife’s sleeve and whisper in her ear:

“What a despicable pack. They don’t know the first thing about how to speak of the indelicate in a refined way. Japanese ugliness is so complete it’s almost impressive. But you mustn’t let them suspect how we think.”

Shinkawa’s eyes suddenly became glazed before the flames in the fireplace; he recalled the garden party at the Marquis Matsugae’s some forty years ago, proudly remembering that there too he had felt nothing but contempt for his host.

But only one thing had changed. In former times, the object of his contempt could do him no harm; but now just being there profoundly wounded him.

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