The Sound of the Mountain by Yasunari Kawabata, Edward G. Seidensticker Page A
Authors: Yasunari Kawabata, Edward G. Seidensticker
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be apricots.
Attracted to the cherry blossoms as they were reflected by the pond, he went over to stand on the bank. He had not yet been shown to his room.
He crossed the bridge to the opposite bank, there to look at a plum tree shaped like an umbrella and covered with red blossoms.
Several ducks came running out from under the tree. In their yellow bills and the slightly deeper yellow of their feet he again felt spring.
Tomorrow the firm would be entertaining guests, and Shingo had come to make the arrangements. His business was over once he had conferred with the innkeeper.
He sat on the veranda and looked out at the garden.
There were also white azaleas.
Heavy rain clouds were bearing down from Jikkoku Pass, however, and he went inside.
On the desk were a pocket watch and a wristwatch. The wristwatch was two minutes the faster.
It was seldom that the two were exactly together, which fact sometimes bothered him.
‘But if they worry you so, why don’t you just carry one?’ said Yasuko.
She had a point, to be sure. But the habit had formed over the years.
Already before dinner there were heavy rains and strong winds.
The lights failed and he went to bed early.
He awoke to the howling of a dog in the garden, and the sound of wind and rain, like a raging sea.
There were drops of perspiration on his forehead. The room had a heaviness about it, like the beginning of a spring storm beside the sea. The air was tepid, and seemed to press down upon his chest.
Taking a deep breath, he felt a surge of disquiet, as if he were about to spit blood.
‘It’s not in my chest,’ he muttered to himself. He was only having an attack of nausea.
An unpleasant tightness in his ears moved through his temples to gather at his forehead. He rubbed his forehead and throat.
The sound like a raging sea was a mountain downpour and above it the sharp rasp of the wind came nearer.
In the depths of the storm there was a roaring.
A train was passing through the Tanna Tunnel, he thought. Such was no doubt the case. A whistle blew as the train emerged.
Shingo was suddenly afraid; he was now wide awake.
The roaring had gone on and on. The tunnel being some five miles long, the train would have taken perhaps seven or eight minutes to pass through. His impression was that he had heard it entering the far mouth, beyond Kannami. But was it possible that, a half mile from the Atami exit, he could have heard it at such a distance?
He had somehow felt the presence of the train in the tunnel as if it were inside his head. He had felt it all the way to the near mouth, and heaved a sigh of relief as it came out.
But he was perplexed. He would make inquiries of the inn people the next morning, he decided, and he would telephone the station.
For a time he was unable to sleep.
‘Shingo-o-oh! Shingo-o-oh!’ Half asleep and half awake, he heard someone calling him.
The only person who called with that particular lilt was Yasuko’s sister.
For Shingo it was a piercingly sweet awakening.
‘Shingo-o-oh! Shingo-o-oh! Shingo-o-oh!’
The voice had stolen into the back garden and was calling from under the window.
Shingo was awake. The sound of the brook behind the inn had become a roar. There were children’s voices.
He got up and opened the back shutters.
The morning sun was bright. It had the warm brightness of a winter sun that was damp with the rain of spring.
On the path beyond the brook seven or eight children had gathered, on their way to grammar school.
Had he then heard them calling one another?
But Shingo leaned out of the window and searched through the bamboo thickets on the near side of the stream.
Water in the Morning
1
Told by his son on New Year’s Day that his hair was getting white, Shingo had replied that at his age a person had more white hairs every day, indeed that he could see hairs growing white before his eyes. He had remembered Kitamoto.
His schoolmates were now in their sixties. Among them were
Attracted to the cherry blossoms as they were reflected by the pond, he went over to stand on the bank. He had not yet been shown to his room.
He crossed the bridge to the opposite bank, there to look at a plum tree shaped like an umbrella and covered with red blossoms.
Several ducks came running out from under the tree. In their yellow bills and the slightly deeper yellow of their feet he again felt spring.
Tomorrow the firm would be entertaining guests, and Shingo had come to make the arrangements. His business was over once he had conferred with the innkeeper.
He sat on the veranda and looked out at the garden.
There were also white azaleas.
Heavy rain clouds were bearing down from Jikkoku Pass, however, and he went inside.
On the desk were a pocket watch and a wristwatch. The wristwatch was two minutes the faster.
It was seldom that the two were exactly together, which fact sometimes bothered him.
‘But if they worry you so, why don’t you just carry one?’ said Yasuko.
She had a point, to be sure. But the habit had formed over the years.
Already before dinner there were heavy rains and strong winds.
The lights failed and he went to bed early.
He awoke to the howling of a dog in the garden, and the sound of wind and rain, like a raging sea.
There were drops of perspiration on his forehead. The room had a heaviness about it, like the beginning of a spring storm beside the sea. The air was tepid, and seemed to press down upon his chest.
Taking a deep breath, he felt a surge of disquiet, as if he were about to spit blood.
‘It’s not in my chest,’ he muttered to himself. He was only having an attack of nausea.
An unpleasant tightness in his ears moved through his temples to gather at his forehead. He rubbed his forehead and throat.
The sound like a raging sea was a mountain downpour and above it the sharp rasp of the wind came nearer.
In the depths of the storm there was a roaring.
A train was passing through the Tanna Tunnel, he thought. Such was no doubt the case. A whistle blew as the train emerged.
Shingo was suddenly afraid; he was now wide awake.
The roaring had gone on and on. The tunnel being some five miles long, the train would have taken perhaps seven or eight minutes to pass through. His impression was that he had heard it entering the far mouth, beyond Kannami. But was it possible that, a half mile from the Atami exit, he could have heard it at such a distance?
He had somehow felt the presence of the train in the tunnel as if it were inside his head. He had felt it all the way to the near mouth, and heaved a sigh of relief as it came out.
But he was perplexed. He would make inquiries of the inn people the next morning, he decided, and he would telephone the station.
For a time he was unable to sleep.
‘Shingo-o-oh! Shingo-o-oh!’ Half asleep and half awake, he heard someone calling him.
The only person who called with that particular lilt was Yasuko’s sister.
For Shingo it was a piercingly sweet awakening.
‘Shingo-o-oh! Shingo-o-oh! Shingo-o-oh!’
The voice had stolen into the back garden and was calling from under the window.
Shingo was awake. The sound of the brook behind the inn had become a roar. There were children’s voices.
He got up and opened the back shutters.
The morning sun was bright. It had the warm brightness of a winter sun that was damp with the rain of spring.
On the path beyond the brook seven or eight children had gathered, on their way to grammar school.
Had he then heard them calling one another?
But Shingo leaned out of the window and searched through the bamboo thickets on the near side of the stream.
Water in the Morning
1
Told by his son on New Year’s Day that his hair was getting white, Shingo had replied that at his age a person had more white hairs every day, indeed that he could see hairs growing white before his eyes. He had remembered Kitamoto.
His schoolmates were now in their sixties. Among them were
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