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Kawabata Yasunari - Mother
Background: Per Wikipedia,
Born in Osaka, Japan, into a well-established doctor's family,[2] Yasunari was orphaned when he was four, after which he lived with his grandparents. He had an older sister who was taken in by an aunt, and whom he met only once thereafter, at the age of ten (July 1909) (she died when he was 11). Kawabata's grandmother died when he was seven (September 1906), and his grandfather when he was fifteen (May 1914).
Kawabata Yasunari was the first Japanese writer to be awarded the Nobel Prize. He was once asked in an interview about which piece of his was his favorite. He answered, "Mother."
This is my translation. I finished it haphazardly in about two hours tonight and there were a few verb tenses I didn't understand, but hopefully I've retained enough of its appeal.
Mother
Kawabata Yasunari
One – The Husband's Diary
tonight I wedded my wife
to hold her is to know a woman's tenderness
my mother was a woman too—
with tears overflowing, I said to my new wife—
please be a good mother
please be a good mother
for I don't know mine
Two – The Husband's Illness
It was warm enough that the swallows had already come. From the neighbor's garden, petals unfurled from the Mulan tree like white sails. Behind the glass door, the wife wiped her husband's body with alcohol. The husband was so thin that the grime of his night sweats gathered between his ribs.
“Darling, it seems—yes, it seems you want to kill yourself together with this disease.”
“Perhaps it may be. It is a sickness of the chest, after all. The bug feeds from near my heart, after all.”
“Yes, that's right. The germs are closer to your heart than I am. Since you have fallen ill, you have become incredibly selfish. You have wickedly closed the door to within you so that I am not free to enter. If you could walk, you would surely cast me out and drive me from our home.”
“Though you put it like that, I only wish that the three of us do not die together. Me, you, and the disease, the three of us together.”
“If the three of us were to die together that would be fine. I can't stand idly watching as you and the disease kill yourselves together. Even if your father had spread his disease to your mother, your disease hasn't spread to me. What befalls the parent does not always befall the child.”
“That's true. Even though the same illness appeared in me, I did not know if I would become afflicted. But I have come down with the same disease.”
“Fine! I would rather it spread to me. Then you would not forbid me from drawing near to your side.”
“Think of the child.”
“The child, the child you say...”
“You don't understand how I feel. You had a mother, your mother was alive; you don't understand how I feel.”
“That's jealousy. Jealousy! When you talk like that, it irritates me so much I'd like to kill your mother. —I want to drink up those germs. I'll drink them up, I'll drink them up!”
Crying this, the wife flung herself toward his lips. The husband grabbed her by the collar. “I won't let you drink. I won't let you drink”—pinning his struggling wife down with the strength of his bones alone. Her fertile white chest was bared. Upon those white round breasts, the husband suddenly spat blood and collapsed.
“D... d-don't let the child drink that milk...”
Three – The Wife's Illness
“Momma, momma, momma.”
“Mother's here. She's alive.”
“Momma.”
The child rammed her body again into the sliding door to the sickroom. Then she burst into tears.
“Just like her, I wasn't allowed into my mother's sickroom. I cried outside the door.”
“It's the same fate, isn't it.”
“Fate? Even if you die, I don't want you to say the word 'fate'. I hate it.”
The child continued to cry in the corner of the house. The night watch passed by, sounding their clappers. A sound could be heard, like that of an icicle hanging from a pipe being struck by a metal rod.
“You couldn't remember your mother, could you.”
“That's right.”
“You were three, weren't you, when your mother died.”
“I was three.”
“And our child is also three.”
“But I always think that as the years pass, I might happen to remember her face.”
“If you saw her face in death, I would think you'd surely remember.”
“No, I only remember ramming myself into the sliding door. If I had been able to see my sick mother as I pleased, then I'm certain I wouldn't remember a thing about her.”
The wife closed her eyes for a time. Then she spoke.
“Aren't we unlucky, for having been born in a faithless era. For being born in an era where we do not think of life after death.”
“What, now? Now is the most unlucky era for the dead. An era in which even the dead are blessed, an era of wisdom—one of these days, it will certainly come.”
“Yes, I think so.”
The wife suddenly recalled something that happened when her husband had traveled far away. And so, feeling like many beautiful illusions continued before her, she took her husband's hand in order to open her eyes, and said quietly, “You see, I...
“I think happily upon our wedding. I don't think back on it with any resentment about contracting this illness. Please believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“So when our child grows up, please let her get married.”
“I understand.”
“You must have suffered tremendously before you married me. You thought you would become ill just like your parents, and pass it on to your wife, and once more create a child who will become ill. But this marriage has been my happiness. That's enough, isn't it? So for our child—please don't let her taste the same futile sorrow as you did, when you worried that you should not wed. Please let her joyfully be wed. That is my will.”
Four – The Husband's Diary
tonight my child does not sleep
to hold her is to know a woman's tenderness
my mother was a woman too—
with tears overflowing, I said to my baby—
please be a good mother
please be a good mother
for I too don't know mine
Born in Osaka, Japan, into a well-established doctor's family,[2] Yasunari was orphaned when he was four, after which he lived with his grandparents. He had an older sister who was taken in by an aunt, and whom he met only once thereafter, at the age of ten (July 1909) (she died when he was 11). Kawabata's grandmother died when he was seven (September 1906), and his grandfather when he was fifteen (May 1914).
Kawabata Yasunari was the first Japanese writer to be awarded the Nobel Prize. He was once asked in an interview about which piece of his was his favorite. He answered, "Mother."
This is my translation. I finished it haphazardly in about two hours tonight and there were a few verb tenses I didn't understand, but hopefully I've retained enough of its appeal.
Kawabata Yasunari
One – The Husband's Diary
tonight I wedded my wife
to hold her is to know a woman's tenderness
my mother was a woman too—
with tears overflowing, I said to my new wife—
please be a good mother
please be a good mother
for I don't know mine
It was warm enough that the swallows had already come. From the neighbor's garden, petals unfurled from the Mulan tree like white sails. Behind the glass door, the wife wiped her husband's body with alcohol. The husband was so thin that the grime of his night sweats gathered between his ribs.
“Darling, it seems—yes, it seems you want to kill yourself together with this disease.”
“Perhaps it may be. It is a sickness of the chest, after all. The bug feeds from near my heart, after all.”
“Yes, that's right. The germs are closer to your heart than I am. Since you have fallen ill, you have become incredibly selfish. You have wickedly closed the door to within you so that I am not free to enter. If you could walk, you would surely cast me out and drive me from our home.”
“Though you put it like that, I only wish that the three of us do not die together. Me, you, and the disease, the three of us together.”
“If the three of us were to die together that would be fine. I can't stand idly watching as you and the disease kill yourselves together. Even if your father had spread his disease to your mother, your disease hasn't spread to me. What befalls the parent does not always befall the child.”
“That's true. Even though the same illness appeared in me, I did not know if I would become afflicted. But I have come down with the same disease.”
“Fine! I would rather it spread to me. Then you would not forbid me from drawing near to your side.”
“Think of the child.”
“The child, the child you say...”
“You don't understand how I feel. You had a mother, your mother was alive; you don't understand how I feel.”
“That's jealousy. Jealousy! When you talk like that, it irritates me so much I'd like to kill your mother. —I want to drink up those germs. I'll drink them up, I'll drink them up!”
Crying this, the wife flung herself toward his lips. The husband grabbed her by the collar. “I won't let you drink. I won't let you drink”—pinning his struggling wife down with the strength of his bones alone. Her fertile white chest was bared. Upon those white round breasts, the husband suddenly spat blood and collapsed.
“D... d-don't let the child drink that milk...”
“Momma, momma, momma.”
“Mother's here. She's alive.”
“Momma.”
The child rammed her body again into the sliding door to the sickroom. Then she burst into tears.
“Just like her, I wasn't allowed into my mother's sickroom. I cried outside the door.”
“It's the same fate, isn't it.”
“Fate? Even if you die, I don't want you to say the word 'fate'. I hate it.”
The child continued to cry in the corner of the house. The night watch passed by, sounding their clappers. A sound could be heard, like that of an icicle hanging from a pipe being struck by a metal rod.
“You couldn't remember your mother, could you.”
“That's right.”
“You were three, weren't you, when your mother died.”
“I was three.”
“And our child is also three.”
“But I always think that as the years pass, I might happen to remember her face.”
“If you saw her face in death, I would think you'd surely remember.”
“No, I only remember ramming myself into the sliding door. If I had been able to see my sick mother as I pleased, then I'm certain I wouldn't remember a thing about her.”
The wife closed her eyes for a time. Then she spoke.
“Aren't we unlucky, for having been born in a faithless era. For being born in an era where we do not think of life after death.”
“What, now? Now is the most unlucky era for the dead. An era in which even the dead are blessed, an era of wisdom—one of these days, it will certainly come.”
“Yes, I think so.”
The wife suddenly recalled something that happened when her husband had traveled far away. And so, feeling like many beautiful illusions continued before her, she took her husband's hand in order to open her eyes, and said quietly, “You see, I...
“I think happily upon our wedding. I don't think back on it with any resentment about contracting this illness. Please believe me.”
“I believe you.”
“So when our child grows up, please let her get married.”
“I understand.”
“You must have suffered tremendously before you married me. You thought you would become ill just like your parents, and pass it on to your wife, and once more create a child who will become ill. But this marriage has been my happiness. That's enough, isn't it? So for our child—please don't let her taste the same futile sorrow as you did, when you worried that you should not wed. Please let her joyfully be wed. That is my will.”
tonight my child does not sleep
to hold her is to know a woman's tenderness
my mother was a woman too—
with tears overflowing, I said to my baby—
please be a good mother
please be a good mother
for I too don't know mine