[You may want to check the warning on this blog's translations.]
I had meant to make inaccessible Japanese works available, when I started. But in this case, after finishing my draft, I did an internet search and found that there is at least one book with a translation of the short story translated here. In addition, there is a translation online by Takumi KASHIMA and Loretta LORENZ in The journal of Nagasaki University of Foreign Studies here.
有島武郎 (ARISHIMA Takeo, 1878-1923) is a major writer of the Taishou period. 一房の葡萄 ('A Bunch of Grapes') is his best known children's story, first published in 1920. There is a page on the story, showing Arishima's illustration, here. You can read it online at Aozora Bunko, here.
Translation after the break.
Translation after the break.
A BUNCH OF GRAPES
ARISHIMA Takeo
1
When I was small I loved
drawing. The school I went to was in the Yamate area of Yokohama. As only
westerners were living around there, the teachers in my school too were all
westerners. As I went to and from school I always walked along a seaside street
lined with western hotels and westernersʼ businesses
and so on. If you stood on the bay side of the street and looked out, on the
pure blue sea there were lines of battleships and merchant ships, smoke was
rising from their chimneys, flags of all countries were stretched from mast to
mast. It was so beautiful it hurt the eyes. I often stood on the bank looking
over that scene. Then when I got home I would try painting as much as I could
remember as beautifully as I could. But that translucent seeming seaʼs indigo, the white sailing vesselsʼ crimson paint near the water line – I just could not bring
these out right with the colours I had. I would paint and paint, but I could
never get colours like I saw in the real scene.
I thought of the western
paints that a school friend had. That friend was (yet again) a westerner, and
since he was also two years older than me, he was so tall I had to look up at
him. The paints that this boy, Jim, had were high quality imports. Inside a
light wooden box, twelve paint colours, hardened into rectangles like little
ink blocks, were lined up in two rows. All the colours were beautiful, but the beauty of the
indigo and crimson was amazing. Although Jim was much bigger than
me, his pictures were really clumsy. Even so, painting with those colours, even
a poor drawing was transformed and looked beautiful. I was always envious of
that. If only I had those colours, I could paint the sea scene so that it
really looked like the sea, I thought, grumbling at my own bad colours. Once
that thought had occurred to me, from that day on I wanted and wanted Jim’s
paints unbearably. But I could not work up the courage to ask papa or mama to
please buy them for me. So for several days I just went on thinking about them
in my heart day after day.
I cannot remember now when it was, but it would have been some time in
autumn. The grapes were just ripening. As often before the onset of winter the
sky was clear through to its furthest depths. We were eating our packed
lunches together with the teacher; but even in the middle of that lively lunch
my heart could not calm down, filled with a darkness that contrasted with the
bright sky. I was sunk in my own thoughts. If anyone had noticed, I am sure
that my face looked pale. I wanted Jim’s paints so desperately that I could not
bear it. Thinking that Jim must surely know what I was thinking in my heart, I
secretly looked at his face and found that he looked quite unaware, laughing
and talking excitedly to the boy next to him. But that laughter seemed like the
laughter of someone who knew what I was thinking, and what he was saying could
be, ‘Look now! That Japanese boy is going to take my paints, I’m sure.’ I felt
horrible. But the more Jim seemed to suspect me, the more I desperately wanted
his paints.
2
I was perhaps a nice looking child, but I was weak in both body and
spirit. On top of that out of cowardice I was the sort who would never say what
I wanted to say. So people did not make much of me and I had no friends. When
lunch was over the other children rushed out of the yard and began chasing
round. Only I, on that day more than ever strangely downcast, went into the
classroom alone. For eyes accustomed to the brightness outside, the classroom now seemed dark, like the feeling in my heart. As I sat in my place my eyes would sometimes turn to Jim’s
desk. If you lifted the lid, carved with various jokes and quite black with
grime, inside along with books and exercise books and writing slates, was the
box of paints, its wood the colour of butterscotch. And inside that, little ink
block shaped indigo and crimson colours .... I felt my face grow red and looked
outside. But I could not help but turn my eyes back to Jim’s desk. My heart was
beating in my breast so hard that it hurt. I sat unmoving in my chair, but the
restlessness in me felt like being chased by a monster in a dream.
The bell for class clang out. Without thinking I stood up in panic. Through the window I
could see the other schoolchildren laughing and shouting as they ran to wash
their hands in the washroom. Suddenly, with a terrible icy feeling in my head, I
tottered to Jim’s place. Almost in a dream, I lifted the lid. Inside as I had
thought, mixed in with notebooks and pencil case, there was the paintbox I
remembered. I do not know why, but after looking round left and right and
deciding that no-one was looking, I hurriedly opened the lid, took out the
indigo and scarlet colours, and shoved them in my pocket. Then I raced to join the others waiting in line for the teacher as always.
Accompanied by the young woman teacher, we went into the classroom and
sat at our desks. I desperately wanted to know what kind of face Jim was
making, but there was no way I could turn round towards him. Still as no-one
seemed to have noticed what I had done, I was half on edge, half relieved. The
young woman teacher was my favourite; but what she was saying then passed
through my ears without my taking in a word. The teacher too sometimes seemed
to look my way with surprise.
But, that day only, I did not want to look in the teacher’s eyes. The
hour passed like that. Thinking all the time that the others were all
whispering something to each other, I felt the hour go by.
The bell to leave class rang, and I gave a sigh of relief. But as soon
as the teacher had gone, one of the largest, and also best, students in my
class said, ‘Come here a moment,’ grasping my elbow. In shocked reaction I felt
a trembling in my heart, like when I was called out by the teacher for not
doing my homework. But thinking that I had to behave as unknowing as I could, I
put on an unconcerned face and let myself be led into a corner of the
playground.
‘You’ve got Jim’s paints, I take it. Hand them over!’ With those words
the boy pushed an open hand in front of me.
Paradoxically, my heart grew calmer at the accusation. ‘As if! I haven’t
got them,’ I blurted out.
Then Jim came up to me along with three or four of his friends, and
answered me, his voice a little shaky, ‘I looked in my paintbox before lunch
break. There wasn’t one missing. And then when lunch break was over, two of
them were gone. And you were the only one in the classroom during break,
weren’t you?’
I saw it was no good. Blood came suddenly rushing up into my head and my
face became bright red. At that one of the boys standing there suddenly stuck
his hands in my pockets. I did my best not to let him, but I could not fight
against all of them. From out of my pockets, one after another, along with
marbles (what they call bee-dama now)
and lead fighting cards and so on, they grasped and pulled out the two paint
blocks. With hostile faces that said, ‘Look at that!’ they glared at me coldly.
My body started to shiver and my eyes grew dark. Although it was good weather,
although everyone was running around playing, enjoying the break, I alone was
sunk in misery. Why had I done it? It had come to a point where things could
never be made good. There was no hope left for me. With those thoughts,
weakling that I was, I became so lonely and so sad that I burst out crying.
‘You won’t get anywhere crying at us,’ the able child said, mocking and
angry. Everyone closed in on me, surrounding me, and set to dragging me up to
the second floor. I did what I could not to go; but in the end they dragged me
along by force and made me climb the stairs. That was where the teacher in
charge of us –
my favourite teacher – had her room.
Jim
knocked on the teacher’s door. Knocking was how we asked if
we could come in, tapping on the door. From inside we heard the teacher’s gentle ‘Come
in.ʼ I never went into that room more unhappily than then.
The teacher was working on some papers. As we
all came tumbling in, she looked surpised. But, smoothing her hair with her
right hand –
although she was a woman, it was cut off short at her neck, like a man’s – she
turned her face, as gentle as ever, towards us, and with a slight tilt of her
head seemed to ask was there something we wanted. The able tall child came
forward and told the teacher all about how I had stolen Jim’s paints. The teacher’s expression became a little concerned and she looked
earnestly at the faces of the others and at me, half crying. Then she asked me,
‘Is this true?’
It was bitter to tell the teacher I was so fond
of that I was such a horrible person. So instead of answering I burst into
tears for real.
The teacher looked at me for a while, then
turned to the other children and said calmly, ‘You can go now,’ and sent them
back out. The children, a little unsatisfied, crowded back out and down the
stairs.
For a while the teacher said nothing. She
didn’t look towards me, but stared at her own nails. Finally she got up calmly
and coming over she bent down and embracing my shoulder she said quietly, ‘Have
you given the paints back?’
I really wanted the teacher to know that they had
been returned. I nodded emphatically.
‘You recognize that what you did was a horrible thing?’
the teacher spoke calmly again, and I could not bear it. My body was shaking,
and though I tried to bite my lips shut, a wailing came out, and tears poured
from my eyes without stopping. Right now, hugged by the teacher like that, I
wanted to die.
‘Won’t you stop crying? If you understand,
that’s enough. So let’s stop crying, hmm? For the next hour I won’t make
you come to the classroom. So stay in my room. Just stay here calmly. Stay here
till I get back from the classroom. Yes?’
With those words she made me sit on the sofa.
At that point the bell rang for study. So she picked up her books from the desk.
Looking my way, she plucked a bunch of western grapes from the vine that
climbed the side of the building as far as the second floor window. She put it
in my lap, where I was still crying like a baby, and calmly left the room.
3
The shouts and laughter of the children outside suddenly grew quiet as
they all came in for class. I was so terribly lonely that I could not help but
be sad. Thinking how I had made the teacher I was so fond of miserable, it
seemed that I had done a very bad thing. I had no energy to eat grapes or
anything. I just sat there still crying.
I suddenly felt a hand shaking my shoulder and opened my eyes. At some
point I had cried myself to sleep in the teacher’s room, it seemed. The rather
thin, tall teacher was looking down at me and smiling. Sleep had improved my
mood, and I had forgotten what had just happened. I smiled back a little
embarrassed. The grapes started to slide off my knees and with a hasty catch I
got them back. At that moment I remembered the miserable truth, and the smile
and all expression faded from my face.
‘Please don’t make such a sad face! Everyone has gone home. So you go
home too! Then tomorrow, whatever happens, you have to come to school. If I
don’t see your face, I’ll be sad. I really will.’
Saying this the teacher quietly put the bunch of grapes in my satchel. I
walked home along the sea promenade as always, looking at the sea and the boats
without interest. Then I ate the grapes, tasting their sweetness.
But when the next day came, I just could not face going to school. I
wished I had a stomach ache or a headache, but just that day I did not have
any pain, not even a bad tooth. I hated it, but I had no choice but to leave
the house. I walked dragging my feet and sunk in thought. But remembering what
the teacher had said when we parted, whatever else, I could not help but want
to see her face at least. If I did not go, the teacher would definitely be
unhappy. I wanted her gentle eyes to see me one more time. For that one thing
alone, I walked through the school gates.
To my surprise, as soon as I did so, Jim came racing over, as if he had
been waiting for me, and grasped my hand. Then, as if he had quite forgotten
yesterday’s business, with a friendly grip on my hand he dragged me along quite
bewildered and led me to the teacher’s room. I had no idea what was going on. I
had expected that when I came to school that everyone would be looking at me
from a distance and talking about me, ‘Look! There’s the Japanese boy who
steals and lies.’ To be treated like this instead was unsettling.
The teacher – perhaps she had heard our footsteps – opened the door before Jim
knocked. The two of us went into the room.
‘Jim, you’re a good boy. You really understood what I said, didn’t you?
Jim says he doesn’t need you to apologize. If the two of you will be good
friends from now on, then we can say it's settled.
Shake hands properly.’ The teacher smilingly made us face each other. I was
confused at getting off too easily and held back. Jim enthusiastically lifted
my dangling hand and shook it firmly. I did not know what to say to express my
pleasure, and did no more than give and embarrassed smile. Jim’s face was full
of cheerfulness. The teacher asked me brightly, ‘Did you like the grapes
yesterday?’
My face grew red and I could only admit that, yes, I had liked them.
‘In that case I’ll give you some more,’ she said. She stretched out of
the window in her bright white linen dress and plucked a bunch of grapes. The dusty
purple grapes rested in the whiteness of her left hand. With long silver
coloured scissors she cut them, snip, in two and gave them to me and Jim. I can
still clearly remember the loveliness of those purple grapes piled up on her
white palm.
After that I became a slightly better child than before, and a little
less awkward and self conscious.
Even so, I wonder what became of that kind teacher I liked so much. I
know we will never meet again, but even now I sometimes think, ‘Ah, if only
that teacher were here.’ When autumn comes the bunches of grapes become a
beautiful dusty purple, but the marble white hand that held them is nowhere to
be seen.
Thank you for the translation. I just knew the novel from the TV show 早子先生、結婚するって本当ですか
ReplyDeleteThanks a lot for your eforts.
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