Border Range peaks a path threaded its way through beautiful lakes and marshes, and in this watery belt Alpine plants grew in the wildest profusion. In the summer red dragonflies flew calmly about, lighting on a hat or a hand, or the rim of a pair of spectacles, as different from the persecuted city dragonfly as a cloud from a mud puddle.
But the dragonflies here before him seemed to be driven by something. It was as though they wanted desperately to avoid being pulled in with the cedar grove as it darkened before the sunset.
The western sun fell on distant mountains, and in the evening light he could see how the redleaves were working their way down from the summits.
“People are delicate, aren’t they?” Komako had said that morning. “Broken into a pulp, they say, skull and bones and all. And a bear could fall from a higher ledge and not be hurt in the least.” There had been another accident up among the rocks, and she had pointed out the mountain on which it had happened.
If man had a tough, hairy hide like a bear, his world would be different indeed, Shimamura thought. It was through a thin, smooth skin that man loved. Looking out at the evening mountains, Shimamura felt a sentimental longing for the human skin.
“The butterfly, the dragonfly, the cricket.” A geisha had been singing the song to a clumsy samisen accompaniment as he sat down to an early dinner.
The guidebook gave only the most essential information on routes, schedules, lodgings, costs, and left the rest to the imagination. Shimamura had come down from these mountains, as the new green was making its way through the last of the snow, to meet Komako for the first time; and now, in the autumn climbing season, he found himself drawn again to the mountains he had left histracks in. Though he was an idler who might as well spend his time in the mountains as anywhere, he looked upon mountain climbing as almost a model of wasted effort. For that very reason it pulled at him with the attraction of the unreal.
When he was far away, he thought incessantly of Komako; but now that he was near her, this sighing for the human skin took on a dreamy quality like the spell of the mountains. Perhaps he felt a certain security, perhaps he was at the moment too intimate, too familiar with her body. She had stayed with him the night before. Sitting alone in the quiet, he could only wait for her. He was sure she would come without his calling. As he listened to the noisy chatter of a group of schoolgirls out on the hiking trip, however, he began to feel a little sleepy. He went to bed early.
Rain fell during the night, one of those quick showers that come in the autumn.
When he awoke the next morning, Komako was sitting primly beside the table, a book open before her. She wore an everyday kimono and cloak.
“Are you awake?” Her voice was soft as she turned to him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Are you awake?”
Shimamura glanced around the room, wonderingif she had come in the night without his knowing it. He picked up the watch beside his pillow. It was only six-thirty.
“You’re early.”
“But the maid has already brought charcoal.”
A morninglike steam was rising from the teakettle.
“It’s time to get up.” She sat beside his pillow, the picture of the proper housewife. Shimamura stretched and yawned. He took the hand on her knee and caressed the small fingers, callused from playing the samisen.
“But it’s barely sunrise.”
“Did you sleep well by yourself?”
“Very well.”
“You didn’t grow a mustache after all.”
“You did tell me to grow a mustache, didn’t you?”
“It’s all right. I knew you wouldn’t. You always shave yourself nice and blue.”
“And you always look as if you’d just shaved when you wash away that powder.”
“Isn’t your face a little fatter, though? You were very funny asleep, all round and plump with your white skin and no mustache.”
“Sweet and gentle?”
“But
But the dragonflies here before him seemed to be driven by something. It was as though they wanted desperately to avoid being pulled in with the cedar grove as it darkened before the sunset.
The western sun fell on distant mountains, and in the evening light he could see how the redleaves were working their way down from the summits.
“People are delicate, aren’t they?” Komako had said that morning. “Broken into a pulp, they say, skull and bones and all. And a bear could fall from a higher ledge and not be hurt in the least.” There had been another accident up among the rocks, and she had pointed out the mountain on which it had happened.
If man had a tough, hairy hide like a bear, his world would be different indeed, Shimamura thought. It was through a thin, smooth skin that man loved. Looking out at the evening mountains, Shimamura felt a sentimental longing for the human skin.
“The butterfly, the dragonfly, the cricket.” A geisha had been singing the song to a clumsy samisen accompaniment as he sat down to an early dinner.
The guidebook gave only the most essential information on routes, schedules, lodgings, costs, and left the rest to the imagination. Shimamura had come down from these mountains, as the new green was making its way through the last of the snow, to meet Komako for the first time; and now, in the autumn climbing season, he found himself drawn again to the mountains he had left histracks in. Though he was an idler who might as well spend his time in the mountains as anywhere, he looked upon mountain climbing as almost a model of wasted effort. For that very reason it pulled at him with the attraction of the unreal.
When he was far away, he thought incessantly of Komako; but now that he was near her, this sighing for the human skin took on a dreamy quality like the spell of the mountains. Perhaps he felt a certain security, perhaps he was at the moment too intimate, too familiar with her body. She had stayed with him the night before. Sitting alone in the quiet, he could only wait for her. He was sure she would come without his calling. As he listened to the noisy chatter of a group of schoolgirls out on the hiking trip, however, he began to feel a little sleepy. He went to bed early.
Rain fell during the night, one of those quick showers that come in the autumn.
When he awoke the next morning, Komako was sitting primly beside the table, a book open before her. She wore an everyday kimono and cloak.
“Are you awake?” Her voice was soft as she turned to him.
“What are you doing here?”
“Are you awake?”
Shimamura glanced around the room, wonderingif she had come in the night without his knowing it. He picked up the watch beside his pillow. It was only six-thirty.
“You’re early.”
“But the maid has already brought charcoal.”
A morninglike steam was rising from the teakettle.
“It’s time to get up.” She sat beside his pillow, the picture of the proper housewife. Shimamura stretched and yawned. He took the hand on her knee and caressed the small fingers, callused from playing the samisen.
“But it’s barely sunrise.”
“Did you sleep well by yourself?”
“Very well.”
“You didn’t grow a mustache after all.”
“You did tell me to grow a mustache, didn’t you?”
“It’s all right. I knew you wouldn’t. You always shave yourself nice and blue.”
“And you always look as if you’d just shaved when you wash away that powder.”
“Isn’t your face a little fatter, though? You were very funny asleep, all round and plump with your white skin and no mustache.”
“Sweet and gentle?”
“But
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