House of the Sleeping Beauties Read online

  YASUNARI KAWABATA

  HOUSE OF THE

  SLEEPING BEAUTIES

  AND OTHER STORIES

  Yasunari Kawabata, winner of the 1968 Nobel Prize in Literature, was one of Japan’s most distinguished novelists. Born in Osaka in 1899, he published his first stories while he was still in high school. He graduated from Tokyo Imperial University in 1924. His story “The Izu Dancer,” first published in 1926, appeared in The Atlantic Monthly in 1955. Among his major novels published in the United States are Snow Country (1956), Thousand Cranes (1958), The Sound of the Mountain (1970), The Master of Go (1972), and Beauty and Sadness (1975). Kawabata was found dead, by his own hand, in 1972.

  ALSO BY YASUNARI KAWABATA

  Snow Country

  Thousand Cranes

  The Sound of the Mountain

  The Master of Go

  Beauty and Sadness

  FIRST VINTAGE INTERNATIONAL EDITION, NOVEMBER 2017

  English translation copyright © 1969 by Kodansha International Ltd.

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York, and distributed in Canada by Random House of Canada, a division of Penguin Random House Canada Limited, Toronto.

  This translation originally published in hardcover in the United States by Kodansha International Ltd., New York, in 1969.

  Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage International and colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The stories in this collection originally published in Japan as the following: “House of the Sleeping Beauties” originally published as “Nemureru bijo” by Kodansha International Ltd., Tokyo, in 1961. Copyright © 1961 by Yasunari Kawabata. “One Arm” originally published as “Kataude” by Kodansha International Ltd., Tokyo, in 1964. Copyright © 1964 by Yasunari Kawabata. “Of Birds and Beasts” originally published as “Kinjū” by Kodansha International Ltd., Tokyo, in 1933. Copyright © 1933 by Yasunari Kawabata.

  The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress.

  Vintage International Trade Paperback ISBN 9780525434139

  Ebook ISBN 9780525434146

  Cover design by John Gall

  www.vintagebooks.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  About the Author

  Also by Yasunari Kawabata

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Introduction

  House of the Sleeping Beauties

  One Arm

  Of Birds and Beasts

  Notes

  Introduction

  There would seem to be, among the works of great writers, those that might be called of the obverse or the exterior, their meaning on the surface, and those of the reverse or interior, the meaning hidden behind; or we might liken them to exoteric and esoteric Buddhism. In the case of Mr. Kawabata, Snow Country falls in the former category, while “House of the Sleeping Beauties” is most certainly an esoteric masterpiece.

  In an esoteric masterpiece, a writer’s most secret, deeply hidden themes make their appearance. Such a work is dominated not by openness and clarity but by a strangling tightness. In place of limpidness and purity we have density; rather than the broad, open world we have a closed room. The spirit of the author, flinging away all inhibitions, shows itself in its boldest form. I have elsewhere likened “House of the Sleeping Beauties” to a submarine in which people are trapped and the air is gradually disappearing. While in the grip of this story, the reader sweats and grows dizzy, and knows with the greatest immediacy the terror of lust urged on by the approach of death. Or, given a certain reading, the work might be likened to a film negative. A print made from it would no doubt show the whole of the daylight world in which we live, reveal the last detail of its bright, plastic hypocrisy.

  “House of the Sleeping Beauties” is unusual among Mr. Kawabata’s works for its formal perfection. At the end the dark girl dies, and “the woman of the house” says: “There is the other girl.” With this last cruel remark, she brings down the house of lust, until then so carefully and minutely fabricated, in a collapse inhuman beyond description. It may appear to be accidental, but it is not. At a stroke it reveals the inhuman essence in a structure apparently built with solidity and care—an essence shared by “the woman of the house” with old Eguchi himself.

  And that is why old Eguchi “had never been more sharply struck by a remark.”

  Eroticism has not, for Mr. Kawabata, pointed to totality, for eroticism as totality carries within itself humanity. Lust inevitably attaches itself to fragments, and, quite without subjectivity, the sleeping beauties themselves are fragments of human beings, urging lust to its highest intensity. And, paradoxically, a beautiful corpse, from which the last traces of spirit have gone, gives rise to the strongest feelings of life. From the reflection of these violent feelings of the one who loves, the corpse sends forth the strongest radiance of life.

  At a deeper level, this theme is related to another of importance in Mr. Kawabata’s writing, his worship of virgins. This is the source of his clean lyricism, but below the surface it has something in common with the themes of death and impossibility. Because a virgin ceases to be a virgin once she is assaulted, impossibility of attainment is a necessary premise for putting virginity beyond agnosticism. And does not impossibility of attainment put eroticism and death forever at that same point? And if we novelists do not belong on the side of “life” (if we are confined to an abstraction of a kind of perpetual neutrality), then the “radiance of life” can only appear in the realm where death and eroticism are together.

  “House of the Sleeping Beauties” begins with old Eguchi’s visit to a secret house ruled over by “a small woman in her mid-forties.” Since the reason for her presence is to make that extremely important remark at the conclusion, she is drawn with ominous detail, down to the large bird on her obi and the fact that she is left-handed.

  One is struck with admiration at the precision, the extraordinary fineness of detail, with which Mr. Kawabata describes the first of the “sleeping beauties” the sixty-seven-year-old Eguchi spends the night with—as if she were being caressed by words alone. Of course it hints at a certain inhuman objectivity in the visual quality of male lust.

  “Her right hand and wrist were at the edge of the quilt. Her left arm seemed to stretch diagonally under the quilt. Her right thumb was half hidden under her cheek. The fingers on the pillow beside her face were slightly curved in the softness of sleep, though not enough to erase the delicate hollows where they joined the hand. The warm redness was gradually richer from the palm to the fingertips. It was a smooth, glowing white hand.”

  “Her knee was slightly forward, leaving his legs in an awkward position. It took no inspection to tell him that she was not on the defensive, that she did not have her right knee resting on her left. The right knee was pulled back, the leg stretched out.”

  Thus the girl who has become a “living doll” is for the old man “life that can be touched with confidence.”

  And what a splendidly erotic technique we have when old Kiga sees the aoki berries in the garden. “Numbers of them lay on the ground. Kiga picked one up. Toying with it, he told Eguchi of the secret house.” From this passage or near it, the feeling of confinement and suffocation begins to come over the reader. The usual techniques of dialogue and character description are of no use
in “House of the Sleeping Beauties,” for the girls are asleep. It must be very rare for literature to give so vividly a sense of individual life through descriptions of sleeping figures.

  YUKIO MISHIMA

  House of the Sleeping Beauties

  1

  He was not to do anything in bad taste, the woman of the inn warned old Eguchi. He was not to put his finger into the mouth of the sleeping girl, or try anything else of that sort.

  There were this room, some four yards square, and the one next to it, but apparently no other rooms upstairs; and, since the downstairs seemed too restricted for guest rooms, the place could scarcely be called an inn at all. Probably because its secret allowed none, there was no sign at the gate. All was silence. Admitted through the locked gate, old Eguchi had seen only the woman to whom he was now talking. It was his first visit. He did not know whether she was the proprietress or a maid. It seemed best not to ask.

  A small woman perhaps in her mid-forties, she had a youthful voice, and it was as if she had especially cultivated a calm, steady manner. The thin lips scarcely parted as she spoke. She did not often look at Eguchi. There was something in the dark eyes that lowered his defenses, and she seemed quite at ease herself. She made tea from the iron kettle on the bronze brazier. The tea leaves and the quality of the brewing were astonishingly good, for the place and the occasion—to put old Eguchi more at ease. In the alcove hung a painting by Kawai Gyokudō, probably a reproduction, of a mountain village warm with autumn leaves. Nothing suggested that the room had unusual secrets.

  “And please don’t try to wake her. Not that you could, whatever you did. She’s sound asleep and knows nothing.” The woman said it again: “She’ll sleep on and on and know nothing at all, from start to finish. Not even who’s been with her. You needn’t worry.”

  Eguchi said nothing of the doubts that were coming over him.

  “She’s a very pretty girl. I only take guests I know I can trust.”

  As Eguchi looked away his eye fell to his wrist watch.

  “What time is it?”

  “A quarter to eleven.”

  “I should think so. Old gentlemen like to go to bed early and get up early. So whenever you’re ready.”

  The woman got up and unlocked the door to the next room. She used her left hand. There was nothing remarkable about the act, but Eguchi held his breath as he watched her. She looked into the other room. She was no doubt used to looking through doorways, and there was nothing unusual about the back turned toward Eguchi. Yet it seemed strange. There was a large, strange bird on the knot of her obi. He did not know what species it might be. Why should such realistic eyes and feet have been put on a stylized bird? It was not that the bird was disquieting in itself, only that the design was bad; but if disquiet was to be tied to the woman’s back, it was there in the bird. The ground was a pale yellow, almost white.

  The next room seemed to be dimly lighted. The woman closed the door without locking it, and put the key on the table before Eguchi. There was nothing in her manner to suggest that she had inspected a secret room, nor was there in the tone of her voice.

  “Here is the key. I hope you sleep well. If you have trouble getting to sleep, you will find some sleeping medicine by the pillow.”

  “Have you anything to drink?”

  “I don’t keep spirits.”

  “I can’t even have a drink to put myself to sleep?”

  “No.”

  “She’s in the next room?”

  “She’s asleep, waiting for you.”

  “Oh?” Eguchi was a little surprised. When had the girl come into the next room? How long had she been asleep? Had the woman opened the door to make sure that she was asleep? Eguchi had heard from an old acquaintance who frequented the place that a girl would be waiting, asleep, and that she would not awaken; but now that he was here he seemed unable to believe it.

  “Where will you undress?” She seemed ready to help him. He was silent. “Listen to the waves. And the wind.”

  “Waves?”

  “Good night.” She left him.

  Alone, old Eguchi looked around the room, bare and without contrivance. His eye came to rest on the door to the next room. It was of cedar, some three feet wide. It seemed to have been put in after the house was finished. The wall too, upon examination, seemed once to have been a sliding partition, now sealed over to make the secret chamber of the sleeping beauties. The color matched that of the other walls but seemed fresher.

  Eguchi picked up the key. Having done so, he should have gone into the next room; but he remained seated. It was as the woman had said: the sound of the waves was violent. It was as if they were beating against a high cliff, and as if this little house were at its very edge. The wind carried the sound of approaching winter, perhaps because of the house itself, perhaps because of something in old Eguchi. Yet it was quite warm enough with only the single brazier. The district was a warm one. The wind did not seem to be driving leaves before it. Having arrived late, Eguchi had not seen what sort of country the house lay in; but there had been the smell of the sea. The garden was large for the size of the house, with a considerable number of large pines and maples. The needles of the pines lay strong against the sky. The house had probably been a country villa.

  The key still in his hand, Eguchi lighted a cigarette. He took a puff or two and put it out; but a second one he smoked to the end. It was less that he was ridiculing himself for the faint apprehension than that he was aware of an unpleasant emptiness. He usually had a little whisky before going to bed. He was a light sleeper, given to bad dreams. A poetess who had died young of cancer had said in one of her poems that for her, on sleepless nights, “the night offers toads and black dogs and corpses of the drowned.” It was a line Eguchi could not forget. Remembering it now, he wondered whether the girl asleep—no, put to sleep—in the next room might be like a corpse from a drowning; and he felt some hesitation about going in to her. He had not heard how the girl had been put to sleep. She would in any case be in an unnatural stupor, not conscious of events around her, and so she might have the muddy, leaden skin of one racked by drugs. There might be dark circles under her eyes, her ribs might show through a dry, shriveled skin. Or she might be cold, bloated, puffy. She might be snoring lightly, her lips parted to show purplish gums. In his sixty-seven years, old Eguchi had passed ugly nights with women. Indeed the ugly nights were the hardest ones to forget. The ugliness had had to do not with the appearance of the women but with their tragedies, their warped lives. He did not want to add another such episode, at his age, to the record. So ran his thoughts, on the edge of the adventure. But could there be anything uglier than an old man lying the night through beside a girl put to sleep, unwaking? Had he not come to this house seeking the ultimate in the ugliness of old age?

  The woman had spoken of guests she could trust. It seemed that everyone who came here could be trusted. The man who had told Eguchi of the house was so old that he was no longer a man. He seemed to think that Eguchi had reached the same stage of senility. Probably because the woman of the house was accustomed only to making arrangements for such old men, she had turned upon Eguchi a look neither of pity nor of inquiry. Still able to enjoy himself, he was not yet a guest to be trusted; but it was possible to make himself one, because of his feelings at that moment, because of the place, because of his companion. The ugliness of old age pressed down upon him. For him too, he thought, the dreary circumstances of the other guests were not far off. The fact that he was here surely indicated as much. And so he had no intention of breaking the ugly restrictions, the sad restrictions imposed upon the old men. He did not intend to break them, and he would not. Though it might be called a secret club, the number of old men who were members seemed to be few. Eguchi had come neither to expose its sins nor to pry into its secret practices. His curiosity was less than strong, because the dreariness of old age lay already upon him too.

  “Some gentlemen say they have good dreams when they come h
ere,” the woman had said. “Some say they remember how it was when they were young.”

  Not even then did a wry smile come over his face. He put his hands to the table and stood up. He went to the cedar door.

  “Ah!”

  It was the crimson velvet curtains. The crimson was yet deeper in the dim light. It was as if a thin layer of light hovered before the curtains, as if he were stepping into a phantasm. There were curtains over the four walls. The door was curtained too, but the edge had been tied back. He locked the door, drew the curtain, and looked down at the girl. She was not pretending. Her breathing was of the deepest sleep. He caught his breath. She was more beautiful than he had expected. And her beauty was not the only surprise. She was young too. She lay on her left side, her face toward him. He could not see her body—but she would not yet be twenty. It was as if another heart beat its wings in old Eguchi’s chest.

  Her right hand and wrist were at the edge of the quilt. Her left arm seemed to stretch diagonally under the quilt. Her right thumb was half hidden under her cheek. The fingers on the pillow beside her face were slightly curved in the softness of sleep, though not enough to erase the delicate hollows where they joined the hand. The warm redness was gradually richer from the palm to the fingertips. It was a smooth, glowing white hand.

  “Are you asleep? Are you going to wake up?” It was as if he were asking so that he might touch her hand. He took it in his, and shook it. He knew that she would not open her eyes. Her hand still in his, he looked into her face. What kind of girl might she be? The eyebrows were untouched by cosmetics, the closed eyelashes were even. He caught the scent of maidenly hair. After a time the sound of the waves was higher, for his heart had been taken captive. Resolutely he undressed. Noting that the light was from above, he looked up. Electric light came through Japanese paper at two skylights. As if with more composure than was his to muster, he asked himself whether it was a light that set off to advantage the crimson of the velvet, and whether the light from the velvet set off the girl’s skin like a beautiful phantom; but the color was not strong enough to show against her skin. He had become accustomed to the light. It was too bright for him, used to sleeping in the dark, but apparently it could not be turned off. He saw that the quilt was a good one.