Labyrinth [prologue, as first published]
Takeo Arishima
14 August of a certain year.
I cannot help repeating, "Autumn has come," even though it is a bit ridiculous. I walked into the dining room to check on the table, and found that the morning breeze, like water, was quietly filling the entire hall, making my body tense to the point that I could not even contemplate the heat of the day. "Thinking about impermanence.'' Even the crumbs of bread scattered on the floor were just like that.
I went out onto the lawn with a bitter heart. The early autumn sun was more painful to the eyes than a summer's day. It was probably because the air was drier than usual. Even in the strong light, patients stood or sat silently like sheep, with faint shadows on the grass. From the cells of the rabid patients, the cries of men and women, bothered by the fever, sometimes echoed through my frightened heart as if they were warning me of a terrible fate. Even though I saw the pitiful, emaciated image of a patient in my eyes, and heard the terrifying roar of an animal in my ears, my soul still refuses to open its eyes to the truth. I want to pray. But I cannot. I cannot pray, because I have been sentenced to death, and the gravity of the matter is so great that I cannot bring myself to do so.
Like a prisoner unable to fathom his terrible fate, I paced back and forth across the lawn, dawdling and pondering. There was a burning need in my heart to do something, but I knew what I must do. But what could be done?
I have never felt more foxed than when I realised that once I believed in God, I was walking along with the guidance of my pure heart, and then somehow I became separated from God and realised that I did not really know Him at all. I have never revealed this contradiction in my heart to anyone, keeping it firmly hidden. I watched silently, feeling the whirlpool swirling in the depths of my heart gradually come to the surface. Even now, I receive all kinds of letters from people I never thought I would hear from, who are so moved by my story that they have repented of their sins. "When I was in the depths of misery, you showed me compassion in the name of God..." "I long, my child of faith, for the time when your faith and deeds will become the light of the world..." "Come back to our country, where the fields are ripe with yellow and the harvest is few..." These words became a plea, an accusation, remonstrance, and a threat, and they attacked me. I have advanced to this point by inflicting considerable sacrifices on others. Because I did not renounce my faith, my grandmother became deathly ill and passed away, saying she had no choice but to make me a disciple of Buddha in the next life. I will always remember her in my heart. Am I making my grandmother cry in the other world, or making her happy? I cannot stand still when I think of this.
No, I could not allow myself to remain in such a state. I had to think calmly. I knelt on the bench as if to bind my shivering heart and legs, chiding myself.
I opened Dante's 'Inferno' and read the continuation from yesterday. The endless ice field of the ninth hell opened up before my eyes, cold and wide. The image of Alberigo, suffering and in agony in the third world of Ptolemaic hell, was clearly visible. The spirit of the man who had betrayed his fellow friars, and who had ordered sweet fruit to be placed on the table, and then summoned assassins to carry out a terrible slaughter, had fallen into the ghostly world without waiting for the scissors of Atropos. He now wandered the streets of Genoa as a monk, his body a virtual abode of the devil. ---No matter how many times he confessed, the voice of repentance from which there would be no salvation for eternity was heard in my heart.
My body has not changed a bit from last year. Just looking at my appearance, how could anyone possibly understand the pain and sorrow of the terrible rebellion that took place in the depths of my heart, like a turning over of a sword? In the freezing cold of hell, even the hot tears of regret turn to ice. The tears wrenched out in an attempt to release the grief of the injustice are soon frozen on the eyelashes, and like a thick crust, they rob them of their ability to see. Alberigo, who has lost the freedom of his arms and legs due to being trapped in eternal ice, begs Dante to take the ice of tears away and make it a boundary where he can weep once again. I join Alberigo in asking for this. But Dante said, "Disrespect is the highest form of grace to him."
Dante said the only thing he wanted to say as though spitting it out, and without so much as a cold look, he and Virgil headed away into the fourth realm. The ice field, devoid of heat, devoid of colour, and devoid of light, was once again chained in eternal silence, and the small shadows of the two of them moved away.
At thas moment, I was suddenly roused from this dreadful meditation by a deep voice with an underlying strength that I had heard before, "Takeo." I stood up unexpectedly, but still unable to make up my mind, and in front of me stood Dr Radlamb, the deputy director, and a stranger, a gentleman past middle age. The amber light coming straight from the sun shone brightly on the beautifully trimmed lawn. I wondered which was a dream, that terrible ice field or this refreshing sunlight.
From today onwards, the deputy director ordered me to become this gentleman's personal nurse. There was something about the contours of this gentleman's face that reminded me of the great explorer Livingstone, which made me feel a certain familiarity with him, but the unpleasant pallor and slackness of his skin betrayed lack of decisiveness. But from the brow to the eyes, a clear conscience and sharp nerves combined to create a throne for the face. I was glad to be assigned to this man, as it would give me more opportunities to negotiate with other lowly nurses. But from now on, unlike before, I would not be able to read and write as much as I would like.
When I went to Dr Radlamb's office in the evening to return Barkley's 'Theory of Mental Illness,' he sat alone in a corner of the deserted library.
The first time I saw him, he was reading a large medical book with a Moroccan leather cover. There was such a quietness that one was afraid to even listen, and a quietness prevailed around me. He told me that my patient, who was admitted today, was Dr Scott, a brilliant doctor who had been an assistant professor at P Medical University for a while, but had then gone into private practice and worked too hard, which had caused him to suffer from depression. He gave me the book. "As the book says, there is no inherited disease more terrifying than madness. Dr Scott's younger brother has also committed suicide. Please take good care of him,'' the doctor said in a low voice. I quietly closed the door and climbed the stairs. The silence of the night suddenly shook me. I felt hot tears welling up in my eyes.
17 August of a certain year.
Clear skies. It was another clear and beautiful day. The patients were in good humour, laughing with each other and saying it was a fine Saturday. The leaves on the walnut trees had turned yellow, and even though there was no wind, I could see them falling faintly against the blue sky. I was also surprised to see the leaves of the English kudzu vine on the walls of the hospital cell, which had developed a purple tinge reminiscent of grape leaves in the autumn. I went out into the garden with Dr Scott. He was afraid to approach the patients outside, perhaps out of pride or perhaps out of discretion, and sat down on a bench under the shade of a large elm tree that stood like a hermit in a corner of the lawn. A steel bowl hung from the lower branches of an elm was overflowing with fresh nasturtiums. The red colour of the nasturtiums reminded me more of autumn than of summer.
Looking at it, it seemed that this flower was the only one that bloomed in the fall. I was at his side, occasionally plucking a seed from one of the leaves and toying with the pungent berries on my tongue, and only when he spoke did I try to reply as elegantly and as nonchalantly as I could.
Regardless of the content of the matter, Dr Scott seemed to demonstrate the solidity of a fixed thought. He seemed to see and think in terms of light radiating from a certain central point. In the depths of his eyes, which were at first glance frightening, lurked something strangely solid and firm. But what about me? Everything flows. A dazzling stream of light filled my heart until now. I could see things in that light. There was also a kind of love that was stronger and clearer than a tender passion. There were times when I wept and regretted what I thought were my sins, but at the same time there were moments when I was so immersed in ecstasy that I wanted to dance nakedly in the streets with David. But where is this divine purity left in me now? All the sounds and colours are only a chaotic assault on the palace of my mind. Like a beehive that has lost its queen, the moderation that had been so firmly in place until now has been shattered in the blink of an eye, more fragile than the Tower of Babel. Even the movement of dust has its laws, but the wings of my thoughts carried me to places I never thought possible. I have nothing except a sense of pride and self-assurance that I am not deceiving myself. Since the moment I realised that I had left God, I knew that there was no other way but to stand on my own. But I cannot say that it was a natural and pure conscience. I couldn't help but feel that it was a recklessly difficult task, and I couldn't help but feel a sense of guilt. A blind man who has been separated from the guidance of a cane would not feel any more confusion in his mind than I did. Like a small child thrown into the unknown world, I was at my wit's end and about to burst into tears. In the past, when I cried, a helping hand appeared. Now, even if I cry, there is nothing to save me. I try to cry, and without thinking I swallow my bitter tears.
Fulfilment or death? Nothing else lies before me.
The only solace I have in this lonely life is Lily. Roberts told me that her name was Edith, not Lily, but I thought she was the Lily I had started with. Lily, in her snow-white gown, reading and writing in a hammock between two maple trees of good shape, shaded from the summer sun by soft lines, had disappeared from our sight for the past three days. Where has she gone? Who stole the cup of fresh water from the lips of the desert traveller? Mr and Mrs Hall, who are both members of the hospital's board of trustees, were here yesterday.
I am also busy working today. Has Lily fallen ill? The sight of twelve patients forming an irregular queue to go back to their cells as the sun is setting always leaves a deep impression on me. They hang their heads down as if the sun is hanging down. They look alone, pensive, but none of them are thinking of anything. There is only emptiness in the expression of their serious posture.
18 August of a certain year.
Clear skies. Today, as if to soothe the lonely branches of the trees, the sun generously cast its dazzling light from morning until night. The sunset was so heart-wrenching that it brought tears to the eyes of those who saw it. Autumn is coming.
At lunchtime, a patient called Müller, who was born in Germany, spoke to me. "Takeo," he said, "why don't you help out in the canteen these days?" Müller was a factory foreman, a very diligent man, but he suddenly felt the temptation to commit suicide, and whenever he came to a railroad track or a high cliff, he would naturally be drawn to death. Because of the fear of being arrested, he voluntarily went to the hospital. It was miserable to see him working so hard with a red face, as if he didn't want to waste even a minute. Although he was a patient, he also helped in the canteen. "Without the leader worker (as the patients call me), the canteen work is not interesting. But you shouldn't work too hard and end up like me," he said. I was horrified. My father had twice fallen into a condition in which he had to be treated as a lunatic. Dr Scott and I seemed to be probing each other yesterday and today, but in the evening he took a letter out of his pocket and asked me to post it without informing anyone else. I could see that he was gradually gaining trust in me. The doctor, who was sitting with his head bowed as he spoke little, turned his head and listened. Then, after listening for a while, he whispered something with a bitter expression on his face. I was displeased when I confirmed that his words were meant as a scolding, as if to say, "Move aside." However, when he saw me getting up, he panicked and stopped me. He then came toward me as if he was clinging to me.
"Takeo, are you a Christian?"
As I was about to go back to my cell, he happened to say this as if by chance.
I happened to be a Christian. Coincidentally, I must have had some kind of desire to give the sick man some respite, so I answered, "Yes.'' Then, both of us looked at each other, as if unable to contain our inner anxiety. As it was my night off, I took care of the patient and we had dinner together, then retired immediately to the nurses' room on the third floor to relax and read an essay by Professor C, entitled 'Goethe and Internal Life.' It is a very detailed study of the negotiations between the poet and Christian thought. In the mirror of the poet's mind, which was quietly looking down on everything from a high place, how would a faith that stares only upward be reflected? It is the mind of a wandering person. My mind, which at times is as delusional as a starving demon, and at other times it directs its instinctive and natural longing toward the God within it, like a dead person wandering through the three worlds. I am a wretched figure, am I not?
21 August of a certain year.
Clear sky. The beautiful early autumn days have continued for exactly ten days. Autumn is the best time to look at all the memories of the past quietly, and to cry or laugh. It is the time when the disorder of things is settled. Even an unyielding girl can use a needle during the long autumn nights. If she were to open the needlework box, she would feel as if she were unwrapping the threads that she had earlier discarded. As I stand in the midst of the loneliness that somehow approaches me and gaze deeply into my own heart, countless thoughts become a lonely road, reflected in my mind's eye as if beauty and ugliness are being grasped in my hands. The beauty of the world is in my mind's eye. Autumn is the season of loneliness.
The moon was beautiful this night. Roberts and I took a walk in the back garden. It was so deep and lonely that the nurses and others were afraid to go there at night. The damp scent of the deep mountains came to us from the overgrown forest trees. As I walked along the winding paths singing, the moonlight passed through the trees like silver and fell to the ground. I had made Roberts' acquaintance during a visit to a theological school, and it was by chance that we met again at this hospital. He is an unrepentant glutton. I regretted coming for a walk with him on such a night, but on the way home, when we were near a lady's ward and I saw the lilies blooming in a cold pale blue, bathed in the moonlight, he said to me, "You will probably never forget the fragrance and colour of these flowers until the day you die." These are the only words that have survived from all his dead words, and they remain in my heart. I picked three blossoms. After leaving Roberts, I went to Lily's house and placed a flower on the stairs. I placed a single flower in a cup beside my pillow. One of the flowers is pressed on this page. Tomorrow morning, Lily will come out to the balcony, as lively as ever. And then it will be on the stairs. But who knows what she will think? Probably.
A single lily flower placed on the floor will surely catch her eye. She will not give any thought to the flower. Then the lily will wither like lamplight eclipsed by the light of the rising sun. Such a fate is the most likely outcome of anything I do.
It was after twelve o'clock at night when the night watchman came and woke me up. "Dr Scott." He told me that he had fallen into a state of madness. I dashed out of bed and went to his hospital room. He was standing in the corner of the room in a white nightgown, his hair clenched in his hands, gazing over at something and trembling. The words, "Get away, get out of there," were lowly spoken at first, but eventually they rose to a rasping cry, as if he could no longer bear it anymore, and the doctor put his head in his arms and put his face in the corner of the wall. When I quietly approached him and asked him what was going on, he said in a low, hesitant voice, "Look at that, Takeo," pointing to the sky. Of course, I did not see anything. I asked the night watchman to help me give him a bath, which gradually calmed him down, and he fell asleep. His facial muscles had loosened from the tension he had been feeling, and his skin looked like yellow wax. When I stared at it, I felt a fear worse than death.
The doctor has a wife. And then there are his three lovely daughters. Yesterday all of them came to visit him. He was conversing with them in a calm and friendly manner. When I asked him who had come today, he looked a little surprised and retorted, "Did someone come?" I'm writing this diary before going to bed after returning from caring for the doctor.
But will this quiet night lure his wife and daughters into a quiet sleep? The moonlight is bright in the tray. The moon is so bright that the electric light in the room is even darker. It's the kind of light one would not want a thoughtful person to see. Let them sleep through this night, you poor souls. I lay down my pen at two o'clock.
23 August of a certain year.
Rain. A patient has escaped from his cell in the heavy rain that has been falling since last night. He is a wealthy man from New York who had fallen ill as a result of drinking and women. The floor from the paving stone to the second floor window is quite high. There was an old rope hanging from the window, which he must have found somewhere, soaking wet from the rain and rustling in the wind.
All the patients went to the billiard room for exercise. Dr Scott was buried in a leather-covered divan in the corner of the auxiliary room, contemplating. I stood by his side and read Dante, relying on the dim light coming in through the window. The sound of ivory balls clashing with each other from the billiard room could sometimes be heard coming up to me, as if they were striking the head of a phrase for each passing moment.
I was born with greater talent than most people. I treated my gifts as if they were something to be discarded. My family had the resources and position to propel me into the glamorous world of high society. Even though my relatives were willing to offer such a life to me, I ignored it. I was born with a disposition that greatly endeared me to my friends. However, I preferred to isolate myself. I tried to cast away all my internal and external burdens so that I would not lose the pride of being able to commune with the truth of my own self.
And finally, I rebelled against God. However, when I quietly look at the darkness of my own life now, I am surprised at how lonely and chaotic I am, cut off from all my relationships. Like the liquefied air that has been stripped of its external strength, my self is about to lose its shape and turn into vapour. But I am not afraid. I will thoroughly carry out this disintegration of myself. Either I dig deeper and deeper and finally lose my individuality, or I find in it a loveless heart. That must be my life's work. I will surely realise myself. I will realise my existence as existence. Until I reach that point, I will never rest. There is a power lurking deep within my heart that cannot be ignored. I cannot deceive that power.
Dr Scott had been silent since this morning. His suspicious meditations seemed to be quietly seeping deep into the earth's depths along with the falling rain. Just as the late afternoon sky was darkening with gloomy clouds, and the shadows of dusk were already starting to wander around the corners of the room, the doctor was staring blankly at me while I was immersed in reading Dante. Dante asked him why he had sent Judas Iscariot and Brutus, who had stabbed Caesar, to the depths of hell. I replied, "Because he betrayed someone who he should have loved the most intimately of all." His eyes widened and his lips opened loosely, as if he had just heard something he should not have heard. His face, which was painted with extreme fear, was so sombre that I could not even look at him. After a few moments, he moaned like an ox. Then there was a deathly silence in its wake.
In the evening, on my way back to my cell with the doctor, I passed Lily. How long had she been back? She was wrapped in a short cloak around her shoulders, as if she were the only thing that had bloomed in the abandoned garden, looking at the rain on the toes of her shoes as she walked past me, her eyes smiling tenderly at me. My icy heart warmed instantly, but soon became colder and harder than ice.
As night fell, the rain turned into a storm with the wind. The temperature, which had been so hot that I was sweating, suddenly cooled down sharply, and as I looked out through the darkness at the rear garden, I saw trees dancing like sea grass in the raging storm. Outside the window, a twill of lightning and darkness was woven together. As soon as the lights went out, there was a thunderstorm, as if the dark sky and earth were about to collide violently. I put my burning cheek against the windowpane. The rain continued to fall so heavily that I could feel it on my cheeks. I fell asleep before I knew it. ......
24 August of a certain year.
Clear sky. By dawn, the storm had finally moved north. I fell asleep to the sound of thunder, and when I awoke, it was morning light. The clouds in the sky were torn and the wind on the ground was still howling, but the quietness of this splendid autumn morning was so intense that it brought tears to my eyes. The nurses were still asleep. I immediately got up from the window and walked endlessly around the rear garden. The sand washed away by the rain had collected in the hollows of the ground like white cloth. Dead leaves and branches were blown over here and there and stuck to the ground. At the base of the grass, which was bent down in the direction of the wind, there were silent insects chirping in the desolation. As I entered into the forest, raindrops fell like hail. When I came to the flower garden, the white lilies I picked for Lily were lying on the ground in all directions.
In the afternoon, Dr Scott and I discussed various issues of the soul. He, too, had such conflicts regarding this. Just like tangled strands of various colours, if you try to unravel one thing, the others will come undone, and if you try to unravel the others, the others will come undone even more. Thus, his reasoning is endlessly going round and round in an endless circle. Listening to his discussions, it became frightening to me that it alluded to the concept of reincarnation.
The doctor revealed the secret to me today. "I had a younger brother who used to run a farm in the state of T, but I haven't seen him for twenty-three years because he is so far away. He was kind enough to share his joy with me whenever there was a good harvest. About three months ago, I received a letter from a friend of my younger brother's, telling me that due to the damage caused by hailstorms, there was no harvest in the state. According to the letter, he was in a meeting where my brother was involved. He informed me that his company had gone bankrupt and my younger brother was in a dire situation. No matter what I wrote at that time, I had to save him urgently. It took me a long time to hear from my younger brother. Even though I had written it down, I felt uneasy, but one morning, I was so relaxed that I neglected to write further to console him, when suddenly I received the notice that my brother had committed suicide. Please understand my surprise and pain.
"I was cursed by God from then on. I became so frightened that I could no longer perform even the simplest surgery or administer the safest medicines. I was originally of the Spencerian school of philosophy, so I rarely listened to sermons, but one day I was in so much anguish that I couldn't stand it and decided to attend a church meeting. That church was the Episcopal church. The pastor, who was still young and had sharp eyes, preached doctrine in a low voice with a strange, penetrating passion, reminiscent of Calvin's. The first time I heard him speak, I was so calm that I laughed at the excitement in the audience, but when I passed under a cherry tree on my way home, I heard the sound of the devil crying. "You are a spirit that has been with Cain forever." From that moment on, the voice of the devil frightened me, and I became aware of the existence of the righteous God in my heart. Are you saying, as much as anyone else, that God must be love? God is love. That is the terrible thing. Because He is love, He is righteous. Because He is righteous, He will not bend even an inch to the path of destiny that has been set before Him from the beginning of the world to the end of the world. What can my tears do to destiny? Science and faith both imply a change in cause and effect. Takeo, do you think you can change your destiny by your own strength? Perhaps you think so. There is a look of grim rebellion on your face. The pain of trying to overturn doctrines about the great truth of heaven and earth is written on your face. But this is nothing but the pathetic delusion of a poor child of man." I listened attentively to his confession with a deep sigh.
Before my eyes, endless darkness stretches out like a mountain wall. A bottomless abyss lies silently behind me. I am trying with all my might to drive away the darkness from my surroundings. I must push it back with my own strength, alone. However, the darkness approaches and threatens to swallow me up. I read the words written in large letters in the darkness. "Raphel bai ameth, sabí almi,'' eternally unknowable. A mysterious series of magical words.
Today I was sitting on a bench at the base of a large elm tree thinking about this when Roberts came over and took a picture of me. As he was about to open the lid, a large black butterfly came and flapped its wings at my chest. I tried to brush it off, but Roberts blocked my attempts and took the picture as it was. I remember being told when I was a child that people who would die in the house where black butterflies danced. I am truly frightened.
The moon has begun to wane. It is a quiet night. Outside the window, there are only the sounds of insects.
August 29th of a certain year.
Cloudy. The voice "Get out of there, you devil!" never ceases to come to Dr Scott's lips. When I saw the doctor jump up from his seat, waving his hands close to his ear, as if he couldn't bear to listen, I was so frightened that I lost my composure with him. "Takeo, it's terrible, terrible. I still have a wife and children. Rather than thinking about me going to eternal hell, please think about the misery of losing me and the fate of my wife and children...''
Who in the world is the clergyman who expounded on determinism to Dr Scott? Your theology - the theology you pulled out of the library - is trying to lure a man into madness and lead him to death. Compare you, who kill people with cold words, and Francesca, who fell into hell on her own because of passionate love. "Nothing is more pitiable than remembering a past pleasure on a day one is confronted by misery." Do you understand these words, or at least understand that there are people who must say such words from the heart?
Today I have discussed things like freedom of the will and guilt with Dr Scott. I was impatient to get him out of the vicious cycle of logic. But the result was unexpected. His preconceptions have only deepened over the past four or five days. His condition became more and more severe. His appearance became more and more grim, and he spoke of his displeasure. His mouth began to emit an unpleasant odour - the halitosis characteristic of a seriously ill patient.
A young man who came to work here about twenty days ago had weak health but he was strangely afraid of things and was unable to stay up all night, so I decided to take his place from today. All of the nurses here are strong young men in their prime working years, but when you look at them getting paid a mere four dollars a week and not doing their jobs well, they are all worthless bastards. They cruelly refer to the hospital as a "nest of bugs" and the patients a "bugs." They never forget to greet the patients in the morning and evening, but they will even go so far as to slap the patients on the cheek without attracting the attention of the head nurse, if they feel like it.
It was a consolation for me to find this young man among them. His father died when he was two years old, and in addition to his ailing mother, he had an older sister who was sent to an insane asylum. He wanted to become a young actor, but he was so moved by his sister's love that he decided to become a nurse for the insane to give her some indirect sympathy for a while. The womanly tenderness at the core of his heart made me sympathise with him. But his will was weak. After only twenty days in the hospital, his nerves became too sensitive and he said he could no longer work the night shift.
Today I looked in the mirror for the first time in a while. I had stayed away from the mirror as much as possible to avoid embarrassment at my own ugly appearance, but when I looked at my face for the first time in a long time, I was astonished to see how thin I had become. However, the two eyes, which were strangely glaring, were not functioning as eyes. My eyes were thinking instead of seeing.
I received a letter from my brother. After much thought and worry, he decided to become a painter and joined Mr ____'s disciples. He was like a maiden about to be married. I will offer a cup to him with my tears.
On the 31st of August of a certain year.
Morning clear and cloudy. Night rain. Liberalism and determinism are not mere intellectual games for me. It is a serious problem that arises from the root of my personality. When I look into my mind, there is absolute freedom of will. In other words, the infinite self.
I am responsible for my own actions. When we look at the various aspects of the phenomenon, we see that there is the irony of destiny everywhere. In other words, there is a solemn trend of destiny. Feel your destiny, know your destiny, and run on the waves of destiny. This is where the freedom of mind and body will open up, they say. But what a painful antithesis this is. Who can truly feel destiny, who can truly know destiny? All who feel and know destiny are doomed. The beam has fallen from my eyes. I can no longer run blindly towards such a mirage. Having said that, I am not so brazen as to let fate determine my actions and thoughts. How can I say that I am purer and braver and then blame myself for all the sins, evils, and falsehoods of the world? I am too generous and fair to do so. Why do people pass by unaware of this contradiction? I am neither hot nor cold. Am I "a useless person who can neither command nor obey?" I am in a panic. I want a unified and pure life. It is painful to bring bread to my mouth, being at the mercy of this conflict. I am strongly opposed to Dr Scott's theory of predestination. Of course, this is just a little trick of my own. It is not because I have faith in my heart. Even though I am verbally opposed to it, in my heart I am clasping my hands together in agreement. I am a charlatan. O blind man who slaps the blind man's hand!
Light and shadow intersect in the peaceful garden where the little hare and the tree shrew play, and in the sight of one hundred and seventy plus madmen who are suffocating in death and tears.
In a corner of the sky that looked as though it was going to rain, the sun's rays suddenly fell, adorning it with gold dust. It was like seeing the breath of fate come to life. Dr Scott's depression had reached an extreme. Avoiding even my approach, he walked aimlessly in the shadow of the elm, with his hands folded behind his back and his head down. His back view portrayed a refined and cultured gentleman, but when I looked at him from the front, a distraught expression of obscurity loomed over him like a ghost. I was so horrified that I called Dr Radlamb. When Dr Scott saw the deputy director approaching, he looked at me with a steely gaze.
"Young doctor, there is no need for you to spy on me for such a long time. You still have no idea what eternal hell is like. Hell? Look at me. Hell is God's spy."
However, they made no attempt to exchange words. The sleepless night allowed me to sleep freely in the afternoons, so I went to P-City for the first time in a long while because I was leaving the hospital on the third of September to prepare to go to the University of H. On my way back, I had some time to spare, so I went into the library of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry and met a beggar at the entrance. I was angered by the look on his face. When I was visiting the library during the Nativity holidays last year, there was a man who would occasionally come in and talk to me and interrupt my reading. He mockingly dismissed my claim that I was studying history, and asked what benefit there is in the study of history to a newly emerging country like yours.
He insisted that history is something that should be studied only when the people of an old country are rich enough to boast of their ancestors. In general, there is nothing in academic research that can help you in real life. He was also one of those who quit the academy midway through, and was now engaged in carpet manufacturing with his brother. He told me that he would open his factory to me, and that I should do some research. I hated this man from the start to the point of bugs running through my veins, so one day I rather violently refused his companionship and left the museum in a twilight daze. It was just about midnight and the streets were crowded with people, and we parted with strangely different feelings. I stopped going to the library the next day. Therefore, I thought I would never see that man again in this world.
And then, lo and behold, I met him again. In just eight months he had become a completely different person. He must have been drinking heavily afterwards, because his powerless eyes became increasingly dull, like those of a rainy sky, and his half-open lips, which had been open all the time, became thicker. He walked with a slow gait, and his hands, which had long since given up labouring, hung down by his sides like sticks. My eyes immediately recognised him, but his eyes had already forgotten me. At the same time, it was raining. Urged by an instinctive hatred, I ran away from the place and came about a block away, when suddenly an indescribable melancholy welled up from the ruins and I could not bear it. I turned back again. And then I put a silver coin in his hand. This is a terrible world. That's how he ends his path. He will travel. The steps he treads on his land will be gradual. While his steps on the ground grow faltering, his steps, unseen by the eye of the flesh, will be as swift and sharp as the wind, and he will run away from time to time and from place to place, aiming at his final defeat. The world of the real. What a dreadful world we live in!
Roberts had a silly fight with a patient and left the hospital today. Next June he will graduate from seminary and become an associate pastor of some church. He said, "Little by little, pull back the fragments of yourself that were thrown into the world outside your mind and build yourself up. There is no other way now. Do not be deceived by the parable of the Lord Jesus, who said, "Blessed are the weak in spirit." It is not for the weak to falsify the weakness of the heart to the point of faith. He must be strong. He must be strong, and in a sense, a strong, admirable man."
August has passed. I will now go to the sickbed for the night shift.
2nd September of a certain year.
Rain. My last day at this hospital has arrived. I have not been content with my life for the past two months. Of course, what good is it to be so impatient? Establishment of self has not yet come together with the truth. I lived for two months as if I had never existed. Fulfilment or death? I will continue to repeat these words over and over again. Dr Scott looked as if he was regretting his last moments with me.
Dr Bergman added one more depressive. Then he was walking around in the pouring rain without a cloak. I couldn't bear to stare at him.
Before I awoke this morning, I had the most beautiful dream. I was in a large bathhouse, just like the ones that existed in ancient Rome. In the men's changing room to the right of the entrance, I was taken off my sweat-soaked clothes and given a light-green yukata, which looked like a toga. Holding a new change of clothes in my left hand, I walked barefoot on the beautiful mosaic marble floor towards the front staircase. My feet made no sound as I stepped on the cold stone, and the only sound I heard was the rustling of my yukata. An indescribably beautiful scent, perhaps from the yukata or the flower pot in the corner of the hallway, wafted through my nose. The corridor, which was about fourteen or fifteen metres wide, was gloriously illuminated by the light like a falling onyx from above, and led up to a staircase made of pure white marble of the same width. The staircase was fourteen or fifteen steps long and was made of square stone flooring. At the end of the stone flooring, a palimpsest of tropical plants could be seen growing thickly across the gorgeous coloured marble balustrade. To the left and right of the tatami mats, there were also several floors of electrified stairs leading down to a low bathing pond. I approached the staircases with my face turned to the front, feeling as if I were a royal prince. Two girls in snow-white gowns were sitting on the top step and the second step. One of them was looking up to see the light falling from the heavens, while the other was lying on her back resting her cheek on her hand. I thought to myself, "I should have stepped on the stairs."
She tilted her head, smiled, and said, "You are tired."
The girl, who I thought was Lily, shifted her eyes from the light in the sky and quietly looked down at me. We smiled warmly at each other, and when my foot approached the stone square, she stood up gracefully and gave a light bow. I asked her name as gently as I could. "I'm Hippolyta," she replied politely, placing her hand on her breast. The girl on the other side of the room remained motionless, her hand propped on her cheekbones. I asked her name again. When Hippolyta answered on her behalf, "Beatrice," the girl turned her head towards the voice for the first time. Those pretty eyes were pitifully blind. From that time on, my eyes began to glaze over at the pathos that chastity evokes. Eventually, Hippolyta moved lightly and began to lead me down the stairs on the right toward the bathing pool. Beatrice was still propping her hand on her cheekbones, looking sad and lonely. The staircase leading to the bathing pool was thickly overgrown with fragrant plants, giving off a rich scent, and my eyes were drenched with tears as I followed in Hippolyta's path down the staircase, descending one low step at a time. One or two turns up the stairs, a bead-shaped spring gushed out from the corner of the stairs. When she reached it, Hippolyta dipped her beautiful bare legs into the spring, and while rubbing them, probed the bottom of the spring with her right hand. Hippolyta, seeing my disbelief, turned her slightly raised face towards me and told me that she was going to adjust the water temperature. I stood there admiring her as if she were a nymph at the fountain. Hippolyta then picked up something from the water and stood up, looking at me.
She tilted her head, smiled demurely, and said, "Do you remember this?" She handed me a white lily. "You must eat this" - she said, startling me so that I looked again at what was in my hand and saw a small, fresh, crimson heart. Hippolyta was staring at me. "This is the poor heart of that blind Beatrice. Love, clothed in scarlet, has come." "I remember Dante's 'Gita Nuova.'" I thought this in my dream, but in spite of this, tears of repentance welled up in my heart. My dream had come to an end. But I did not think I had woken up from the dream at all, and for a while I kept on looking to God and to others.
I kept crying tears of repentance, which I did not know whether to God or to man. All I could hear outside the window was the sound of the falling autumn rain. Just then, the night turned leaden white.
Because of this dream, I lived in a strangely purified consciousness for the rest of the day. I was also saddened by the disintegration of my real life, which had come to rely on a dream. Even my childish heart, which had high expectations for my new life at the university that was to await me in September, was now pitied. A new wilderness is about to open up before me. I am the only passenger on this journey. In the evening I must sleep cold, with a stone as my pillow. In the morning, I must walk lonely with a long shadow behind me. However, I must never again rely on anyone who is not worthy of my trust. The self that I am going to build up from now on is as strong as death.
I have no other choice but to continue with my obsession. During the afternoon break, I went to Dr Radlamb and begged for time off. I sincerely apologised to him and he sincerely helped me. We parted with a warm, strong handshake. Then I went to Hall's to say goodbye. His wife, who was in the bakery, and Lily, who was in the main building, both came back and treated me to tea. The simpleness, simplicity, and cleanliness common to the Friend Sect pervaded every corner of the house. During my stay in hospital, I tried to give him a copy of Dante's sacred plays, which I had read over and over again, as a memento of my stay. But Mr Hall respectfully declined. "In my school days, reading Shakespeare was as bad as drinking," he said. "I don't think this book would be suitable for my library, either." I thought these words were funny, but Mr Hall seemed to think that it was not respectful for him to dismiss a traveller so bluntly. "But," he said, smiling, "this young lady is not of our time. She seems to know more than just the tales of Ruth. I would be happy to follow your taste, young lady." Lily smiled and extended her hand. With tears in my eyes, I placed a small red leather volume in her hand. In the footnotes of the volume are a series of poems by Guido Cavalcanti.
"As she passes in her nobility, gentility,
The proud will be silent, the ill healed;
Those whose faith has been shaken will have their faith restored,
Nothing by her will ever be defiled.
To speak further of her abundant virtue,
Not a soul will harbour evil at the sight of her."
From twelve o'clock at night I took up my chair in the night-watch. A weak electric lamp was placed on a rough desk in the corner of a long, key-shaped hallway, and it seemed to be quietly interacting with the lights that were lit here and there in the hallway, but this did not give me a single impression of life. Thirteen patients were lying in bed without breathing. As I was writing today's diary and reciting a poem by Cavalcanti, I suddenly felt the presence of someone behind me on my left. I was startled out of my wits and felt a chill run down my spine. For a while I hesitated to turn around and stopped writing, but after a while I turned my head and saw Dr Scott standing there in a long white nightgown, bare-legged and forlorn. Extreme depression pervaded his entire appearance, and his eyes were shining brightly as he stared at me. I looked at him and was so terrified that I nearly screamed out loud. Just then, he broke the unbearably deep silence with a quiet tone. He realised that my nursing had been thorough and was sad that I was leaving him for good. Finally, he said, "Takeo, you once said you were a Christian. As a believer, I have one thing to say to you. You must not consciously commit even the slightest evil. Young man. If you do so, your peace will never return. Do not forget this." After saying this, the doctor quietly left my side and walked into the hospital ward. I am now writing about this very thing. Right now, my entire body is trembling with movements that I do not understand, whether it is fear, emotion, or creativity.
September 5th of a certain year. (above omitted)
As the night began to lighten, the train passed through Rhode Island, passing through a grove of young birch trees with the connecting hills of Connecticut. When I awoke from my dreamy sleep and looked out the window, I saw the pale moon hanging low in the western sky. From the window in the east, the faintest glimpse of daylight could be seen. The sky was an endless, transparent deep indigo mixed with a hint of yellow, and the clouds were resting in a faint reddish hue. On the ground, purple shadows of the night still lingered in the shadows of trees and grass. Young, white-skinned birch trees stood quietly, their leaves spreading like tiny hearts. The pale yellow, pale red, and pale green autumn leaves were covered with too much dew. Where is there anything more beautiful than the ferociousness of nature's changes? There is no nature that is not beautiful. In my lifetime, I have seen the beauty of nature. It seems that it is quite easy to overlook this. However, I am afraid that in my lifetime I will never be able to see nature at its most harmonious, whether it is laughing or crying. The nature I saw this morning was such nature. The beautiful harmonies, as if listening to a master's composition, escaped from colour and shape.
It came and touched my heart. I looked out the window in a daze, feeling a kind of urgency. It did not last more than five minutes. While I was looking out, a bank of turbid clouds appeared in the northwest, and the harmony, which I thought was perfect, was broken unceremoniously and nature returned to an ordinary nature in front of my eyes.
I turned away from the window and was about to put my hand into my cloak when I felt the evening paper I had bought at P City. There was no need to do so, but I took it out and stretched out the crumpled paper as I read it. When I suddenly arrived at a certain place, my eyes stopped moving. The words "suicide by hanging of a medical doctor" followed by the words "Doctor," "D.D.E.," "B.B.," and "Scott." I was startled. The letters danced before my eyes.
"That well-known Dr. J. B. Scott, 48 years old, of
Gettysburg, committed suicide, by hanging himself with a handkerchief in the F's asylum, at F. He was received at the institution sometime ago, to be treated for melancholia, as his health had been seriously injured by the over-conscientious attention towards his patients. During the absence of his nurse he ended his life.'' etc. etc.
I stood up from my chair without thinking. Why in my heart did I develop such a self-indulgent, debaucherous eye? How could my fingertips not burn when they were catalyzed by the newspaper? I sat down in my chair again. I wiped away the tears that came to my eyes several times because of the doctor's words.
My departure was cursed by a blood offering. Or else it has been blessed. Every time I thought of this, my heart felt revitalised.
I must become more stern, more true to the sword. Will I be able to endure it? I want to pray. I want to pray, but I cannot. I want to pray, but only silently... silently... silently.
(Omitted)
(End)