On the occasion of this scolding the Superior summoned me to his private room, which in itself was a rare event. I stood there silently with my head bowed. In my heart I was waiting for his words to move onto a certain subject; but he made not the slightest reference to the incident of the photograph, nor did he go back and mention the prostitute and her blackmail.
It was from this time that the Superior's attitude toward me become noticeably cold. This was, so to say, the very upshot that I had desired, the very evidence that I had longed to see; and it represented a sort of victory for me. Yet the only thing that had been necessary to achievc it had been idleness on my part. In the first term of my third year I had been absent for sixty hours-about five times as much as my total absences for the entire first year. During all those hours I did not read any book, nor did I have money to spend on amusements. Sometimes I would talk to Kashiwagi, but most of the time I stayed by myself doing nothing. Yes, l stayed silently by myself doing nothing, and my memories of Otani University are intimately mixed with memories or inactivity. This sort or inactivity was perhaps my own special form of Zen practice and, while I was engaged in it, I was never for a single moment conscious of any boredom.
Once I sat for hours on the grass watching a colony of ants engaged in transporting minute particles of red earth. It wasn't a matter of the ants having aroused my interest. On another occasion I stood for ages outside the university, staring like a dolt at the thin wisp of smoke that rose from a factory chimney at the back. It wasn't that the smoke had caught my fancy. At such times I felt as though I was drenched up to my neck in the existence that was myself. The world outside me had cooled down in parts and had then been reheated. How shall I put it? I felt that the outside world was spotted and again that it was striped. My inner being and the outer world slowly and irregularly changed places. The meaningless scene that surrounded me shone before my eyes; as it shone, it forced its way into me and only those parts of the scene that had not entered continued to glitter vividly in a place beyond. Those glittering parts could be either the flag on a factory, or an insignificant spot on the wall, or an old, discarded clog that lay on the grass. Moment by moment they sprang to life within me—these and every other sort of thing—and then they died away. Or should I say, every other sort of shapeless thought, Important things joined hands with the most trivial things, and the political development in Europe about which I had read in the morning paper became inextricably connected with the old clog that lay at my feet.
I spent a long time thinking about the acute angle formed by the tip of a certain blade of grass. Perhaps the word “thinking” is not quite appropriate. That strange, trifling conception of mine was no continuing process, but reappeared persistently, like some refrain. Why did that acute angle have to be so acute, If instead it were obtuse, would the classification “grass” be lost and would nature inevitably be destroyed from that one corner of its totality? When a single tiny cog is removed from nature, is not nature itself being entirely overthrown? Then my mind would aimlessly examine the problem from one point of view after another.
The Superior's reprimand soon became known among the people in the temple and their attitude towards me became visibly more hostile. My fellow apprentice who had been so envious of my having been recommended for the university course now gave a triumphant chuckle whenever he saw me.
I continued my life in the temple during the summer and the autumn, and hardly spoke to anyone. On the morning of the day before my flight the Superior had the deacon summon me to his room. It was the ninth of November. Since I was about to leave for the university, I was wearing my student uniform.
The Superior's plump face was normally cheerful, but in the anticipation of having to tell me something unpleasant, it had become strangely congealed. So far as I was concerned, however, it was quite agreeable to see the Superior looking at me as though he were observing a leper. This was precisely the expression that I had wanted to see in him-a look of human feeling.
The Superior turned away from me. As he spoke, he rubbed his hands together over the brazier. The soft flesh of his palms made only a slight sound, yet it was jarring to my ears and seemed to destroy the clarity of the winter-morning air. The contact of the priest's flesh against his flesh produced an unnecessarily intimate feeling.
"How sad your late father would be to know about this!" he said. "Look at this letter! They've written again from the university in the strongest terms. You'd better start thinking about what will happen if things go on like this.” And then he passed directly to those other words of his: "There was a time when I planned to make you my successor here. But I can now tell you quite plainly that I have no such intention.”
I remained quiet for a long time. Then I said: "So you aren't going to back me up any longer?"
"Did you really expect that I'd go on backing you up after this?" asked the Superior after a pause.
I did not answer his question, but presently I heard myself stuttering out something on quite a different subject: “You know me down to the last detail, Father. I think I know about you, too.”
"And what if you do know?” said the Superior, a gloomy look coming into his eyes. "It amounts to nothing. It's all quite useless."
Never before had I seen a human being's face that had so utterly deserted the present world. Never had I seen a man who, though he sullied his hands with money and women and every other detail of material life, so thoroughly despise the present world. I was filled with hatred, as if I were in the presence of a corpse that was still warm and of healthy complexion.
At that moment a violent desire came over me to get away from all my surroundings, even if only for a short time. After I had withdrawn from the Superior's room, the desire became still stronger and I could think of nothing else.
I took my furoshiki wrapper and made a bundle of my Buddhist dictionary and the flute that Kashiwagi had given me. As I set out for the university, carrying this bundle and my satchel, my mind was absorbed with the idea of departure.
On entering the university gate, I was pleased to sec Kashiwagi walking ahead of me. I pulled him by the arm and took him to the side of the road. I asked him to lend me three thousand yen, and to take the dictionary and the flute to use in any way that he saw fit. There was no sign now on his face of that usual expression which he showed when he made his paradoxical remarks-that expression wnich one might describe as a look of philosophic exhilaration. He glanced at me with narrowed, hazy eyes.
"Do you remember the advice that Laertes gives his son in Hamlet? ‘Neither a borrower nor a lender be. For a loan oft loses both itself and friend.'”
"I don't have a father any more,” I replied. "But if you can't do it, it doesn't matter."
"I didn't say I couldn't," said Kashiwagi. "Let's talk it over. I' m not sure whether I can scrape three thousand yen together or not.”
I wanted to charge Kashiwagi with what I had heard about him from the woman who taught flower arrangement—with his way of squeezing money out of women-but I managed to restrain myself.
"First we'd better think about how to dispose of this dictionary and flute."
So saying, Kashiwagi turned round abruptly and walked back to the gate. I also turned round and accompanied him, slowing my pace down to his. tie began talking about our fellow student who was president of a credit society known as the Hikari Club, and who had been arrested on suspicion of dealing in some financial black-market activities. He had been released in September, and thereafter he had evidently been in difficulties, since his reputation had suffered a serious blow. Since about April, Kashiwagi had been extremely interested in this president of the Hikari Club and we often used to talk about him. We had both firmly believed that he was still socially influential and we had certainly not expected that only a fortnight later he would kill himself.
‘‘What do you want this money for?” said Kashiwagi abruptly. It seemed an odd question for him to ask.
“I want to go off som
ewhere. I have no particular object in mind.”
"Will you be coming back?"
“Probably.”
"What are you running away from?”
“I want to get away from all my surroundings. From the smell of powerlessness that everyone round me gives off so strongly. The Superior is powerless. Terribly powerless. I've understood that, too.”
"You want to get away from the Golden Temple also?"
"Yes indeed! From the Golden Temple also."
"Is even the Golden Temple powerless?"
"No, the Goiden Temple certainly isn't powerless! lt' the root of everyone else's powerlessness."
“Yes, that's the sort of thing you would think,” said Kashiwagi and, as he walked along with his exaggerated dancing gait, he clickcd his tongue chccrfully. I followed him into a chilly little antique shop, where he sold the flute. He could only get four hundred yen for it. Next We stopped at a secondhand bookshop and managed to sell the dictionary for one hundred yen. For the remaining twenty-five hundred yen Kashiwagi took me to his lodging-house. Having lent me the money, he made a peculiar suggestion. The flute, he explained, was a borrowed object that I had returned to him and the dictionary could be regarded as a gift. Accordingly I had done nothing but hand over to him what he actually owned, and the five hundred yen realized from the sale belonged to him. When one added the twenty-five hundred yen, the amount of the loan naturally become three thousand. On this three thousand yen Kashiwagi wished to receive monthly interest of ten per cent until the debt was repaid. Compared to the thirty-four per cent charged by the Hikari Club, this was such a low rate of interest, according to Kashiwagi, that the entire transaction was virtually a favor on his part. He took out a piece of thick Japanese paper and an inkstone and solemnly inscribed the terms of the loan. Then he had me make my thumbprint on the document. Since I disliked thinking about the future, I instantly put my thumb on the ink pad and pressed it onto the bond of debt.
My heart was pounding with impatience. On leaving Kashiwagi's lodging-house with the three thousand yen in my pocket, I took a streetcar as far as Funaoka Park. I ran up the stone steps that led round to the Kenkun Shrine. I planned to draw a sacred mikuji lot in order to obtain some suggestion about my journey. At the foot of the stairs one could sec the main building of the Yoshiteru Inari Shrine painted gaudily in vermilion, and also a pair of stone foxes surrounded by wire netting. Each fox had a scroll in its mouth and even the insides of their sharp, raised ears were painted in vermilion.
It was a chilly day. Occasionally the wind fluttered between the thin rays of the sun. The weak sun broke through the trees and made the steps look as if fine ash had been scattered over them. Dirty ash, it looked like, because the light was so weak.
I ran up the steps without pausing for breath and, when I reached the large open courtyard in front of the Kenkun Shrine, I was covered with perspiration. Ahead of me was another flight of steps leading to the shrine itself. The even-tiled roof reached towards the steps. On both sides of the approach to the shrine small pines stretched out tortuously under the winter sky. The old wooden building of the shrine office stood to the right and on the door hung a sign with the words: "Researeh Institute for the Study of Human Fate" Between the shrine office and the main hall of worship was a white godown, and beyond it some sparse cedars grew under the cold, opalescent clouds which were scattered above me full of a mournful light. From here one could get a view of the mountains to the west of Kyoto.
The principal deity worshipped at the Kenkun Shrine was the great feudal warrior, Nobunaga. His eldest son, Nobutada, was also enshrined as an associate deity. It was a simple shrine and the only touch of color was the vermilion of the railing that surrounded the main hall of worship.
I climbed the steps and paid my respects to the gods. Then I picked up the old hexagonal box that stood on a shelf next to the offertory chest. I shook the box. A finely carved bamboo stick emerged from the hole on top of the box. On it was written in India ink the figure “14.” I turned round.
"Fourteen, fourteen," I muttered to myself as I walked down the steps. The sound of the syllables seemed to coagulate on my tongue and gradually to assume some meaning.
I went to the entrance of the shrine office and announced my presence. A middle-aged woman appeared. She had evidently been doing some washing and she was busily wiping her hands on her apron. Without the slightest expression on her face, she accepted the standard ten-yen fee that I handed to her.
“What's your number?" she asked.
"Number fourteen"
“Wait over there, please."
I sat down on the open veranda and waited. It occurred to me how meaningless it was that my fate should be determined by the wet, chapped hands of this woman. Yet it did not matter, since I had come to the shrine precisely with the intention of risking such meaninglessness. On the other side of the paper sliding-door I could hear the clinging sound of the metal ring on an old drawer as the woman evidently tried to pull it open with considerable difficulty. Then I heard a picec of paper being torn off and a moment later the sliding-door was pulled ajar.
"Here you are," said the woman, holding out a thin sheet of paper, and then once again she closed the door. The woman's wet finger had left a damp mark on one corner.
I read the paper. "Number Fourteen-unlucky,” it said. "If thou beest here, the Myriad Gods will utterly destroy thee.
“Prince Okuni, having undergone the burning stones, the plunging arrows, and other tortures, departed this Province according to the instructions of his Ancestral Gods. Herein lies a portent for thee of secret flight.”
The interpretation printed underneath dealt with all manner of hardships and with the uncertainty that lay ahead. It did not frighten me. I looked among the various points that were listed on the lower half of the paper and found the item on travel.
"Travel-unlucky. Especially avoid traveling in a northwestern direction.”
On reading this, I decided to make my journey to the northwest.
The train for Tsuruga left Kyoto Station at five to seven in the morning. The time for getting up at the temple was half past five. On the morning of the tenth when I got up and changed directly into my student uniform, no one showed any suspicion. They were all in the habit of pretending not to see me.
Things were always a bit confused during the period of morning twilight in the temple. Some people were busy with sweeping, others with mopping. The hour until half past six was devoted to cleaning-activities. I went out and began sweeping the front courtyard. I planned to set out on my journey directly from the temple without taking anything along, as if I had suddenly been spirited away. My broom and I moved along over the pebbled path, which shone faintly in the early dawn light. Suddenly the broom would fall down, I would disappear and nothing would remain in the dim light but the white pebbles on the path. That is how I imagined that my departure must be.
It was for this reason that I did not bid the Golden Temple farewell. It was essential that I should be abruptly snatched away from my entire environment-and this environment included the Golden Temple. Gradually I directed my sweeping towards the main gate. Through the branches of the pines I could sec the morning stars.
My heart was pounding. Now I must leave. The word almost seemed to be fluttering in the air. Whatever happened, I must leave-leave my surroundings, leave my conception of beauty which so shackled me, leave the isolated obscurity in which I lived, leave my stuttering and all the other conditions of my existence.
My broom fell from my hands into the darkness of the grass like a ripe fruit falling from a tree. I made my way stealthily towards the main gate, concealing myself behind the trees. As soon as I had passed the gate, I started running as fast as my legs would carry me. The first streetcar of the morning rattled along. I stepped aboard. There were only a few people in the streetcar; they looked like workers. I let the electric light pour over me with full force. I felt as if I had never been in such a bright place.
I vividly recall the details of my journey. I had not left without a destination. I had decided on a district that I had once visited on a school excursion in my middle-school days. Yet as I gradually approached the place, my feelings of departure and of release were so strong that I felt as if I were moving toward an unknown destination.
I was traveling on the familiar railway line that led to my home town, but never before had this sooty old carriage looked so strange to me as it did now and never had it appeared in such fresh colors. The station, the whistle, even the grating voice on the loudspeaker that echoed in the early dawn air, all reiterated a single feeling, reinforced it, and spread a dazzling, lyrical prospect before my eyes. The morning sun cut the great platform into sections. The sound of shoes running along the platform, the persistent, monotonous ringing of the station bell, the sound of a wooden clog splitting, the color of a tangerine that one of the platform venders picked out of his basket and held up-everything appeared to me as suggestions or portents of that vast thing to which I had now entrusted myself.
Every single fragment of the station, however minute it might be, was focused on my dominant feeling of separation and departure. Courteously and with the utmost serenity, the platform began to move away from me. I could feel it. Yes, I could feel how that expressionless concrete surface was illumined by the object that moved away from it, that separated, that left.
I relied on the train. This is a strange manner of expressing it, but there is no other way to secure the incredible thought that my position was gradually moving and drifting away from Kyoto Station. Night after night as I had lain in the temple I had heard the whistle of the goods trains as they passed near the temple grounds, and I could not help finding it strange that I should now myself be seated in one of those trains that day and night without fail had rushed past in the distance.
Now we were speeding along next to the Hozu River, which I had seen long ago when I had been on this train with my ailing father. The area between here and Sonobe, to the west of the Atago mountain range and of Arashiyama, had a completely different climate from the city of Kyoto. This was probably a result of air currents. During the last three months of the year a mist would invariably arise from the Hozu River at about eleven o'clock at night and cover the entire area until about ten o'clock the following morning. There would hardly ever be a break in the mist as it floated away from the river.