This story in the original Japanese can be found here.
***
The Smile of the Gods
One spring evening, Padre Organtino, tugging at the cuff of his priestly vestments, was walking in the garden of the Occidental temple*.
In the garden were planted Western plants, such as rose, olive, and laurel, among the pines and cypresses. The roses in particular had begun to bloom, and in the dim light of dusk through the trees the faintly sweet scent of silvergrass hung in the air. It was as if in the stillness of the garden there was a mysterious charm that one did not think of as occurring in Japan.
As he walked the red sandy path, Organtino became engrossed in a faint recollection. The Holy See of Rome, the port of Lisbon, the sound of the strings of the rabeca, the taste of plums, the song “Lord, You are the Mirror to my Soul”—before he knew it, the heart of this red-haired priest was made heavy with memories of home. He chanted the name of God to wipe away the sadness, but not only did the sadness not vanish, its all the more oppressive atmosphere spread throughout his chest.
“This is a beautiful country,” Organtino reflected. “This is a beautiful country. The climate is fairly gentle. The natives—well, perhaps Negroes would be better than these short Orientals. But they’re generally of a friendly disposition. Besides, recently the congregation has been increasing greatly. Now even in this middle of this great city there towers this sort of temple. Seeing that, even if living here is not happy surely that does not make it unhappy? There is the chance that I may sink into the pits of despair. I have thought, I want to return to Lisbon, I want to depart this country. Is that just a yearning for home? No, I could go anywhere, even if it is not Lisbon, if I could so much as leave this country. China, Siam, India… So it seems that homesickness is not the whole of my depression. I just want to escape from this country one day sooner. But… but this is a beautiful country. The climate is fairly gentle…”
Organtino heaved a lengthy sigh. Then, by chance his eyes were captured by a pale white cherry blossom which had fallen on moss growing in the dappled shadow of a tree. Cherry blossoms! Organtino stared in astonishment among the dim grove. There, in the middle of four or five palm trees, was a weeping cherry blossom tree, the flowers on its drooping branches hazy.
“God save me!” In that instant Organtino tried to make the cross sign that warded devils. But the blossoms of the weeping cherry at dusk appeared so eerie to his eyes. Eerie—not eerie but rather, these blossoms, for some reason, were the very essence of the Japan which unnerved him. But after that moment, upon discovering that they were not at all mysterious, but normal flowers, he gave a forced, embarrassed laugh and again came to the path, returning at a limp pace.
***
Thirty minutes later, inside the Occidental temple, Organtino offered up a prayer to Deus. All that was in the inner shrine was a lamp hanging down from the circular ceiling. In the light of the lamp could be seen a fresco on the walls surrounding the inner shrine. Saint Michael battled with Hell’s demons over the body of Moses. But the brave archangel’s raging at the devil certainly appeared even more elegant than normal, strangely, perhaps due to the night’s dim light. Or it might also have been the scent of the vibrant, consecrated roses and yellow broom blossoms before the altar. Organtino, his head bowed, stood for a long time behind the altar, deep in fervent prayer.
“Amen, Enlightened God, light of our life, of great compassion and great mercy! When Thine humble servant departed from Lisbon, I offered my life to Thee. Because of this, no matter what hardships have befallen me, the light of Thine Sign of the Cross has allowed me to progress without faltering. Naturally, this is not my work alone. All on earth and in Heaven exists due to Thine glory. But while I have lived in Japan, I have come to wonder just how difficult my mission will be. Some mysterious power lurks in every mountain, every forest, and in every house of every block of this country. That power, in the darkness, hinders my mission. If it were not so, there would be no reason for my sinking in the pits of despair. What that power is, I do not understand. But somehow it is spread all throughout this country, like the waters of an underground spring. If this power is not first defeated, O Enlightened God, light of our life, of great compassion and great mercy, these heathen Japanese may never find their way to Heaven. For many days I have been worrying and worrying about this. I beg that Thee could somehow find it to grant to your lowly servant Organtino bravery and endurance—“
It was then that Organtino though that he heard the clucking of a chicken. Paying it no heed, he continued his prayer.
“In order to accomplish my mission, I must struggle with the heretofore unknown power of this country’s mountains and rivers—and probably spirits hitherto unknown to man. Long ago Thee drowned the armies of Egypt beneath the Red Sea. I believe this country’s powerful spirits may be stronger than Pharaoh’s army. Like the Prophet of old, in my battle with the spirits…”
The prayer vanished from Organtino’s lips before he realized it. Suddenly from the side of the altar, a cock’s piercing cry signaled dawn. Suspicious, Organtino took inventory of his surroundings. Then, right behind him, was there not a single chicken, its white tail feathers drooping, standing proudly on the altar, letting out its war cry as if it were not night?
As soon as Organtino leapt to his feet, he spread the arms of his robe wide and hurriedly tried to expel the bird. But as soon as he had taken two or three steps, he froze dumbfounded in his tracks, occasionally shouting, “God in Heaven!” In the dim light, the inner shrine of the church was packed with countless chickens—Organtino had no idea when or from where they had come in. Some were flapping in the air, some of them were strutting around, but for the most part it was a sea of red combs as far as he could see.
“God save me!” He tried to cross himself again. But it was as if his hands were caught in a vise. He could not move them an inch. Soon, red light like flames of kindling from an unknown source began to stream out more and more into the inner shrine. As the light began to spread, Organtino, breathing heavily, discovered human figures faintly floating up next to him.
Before his eyes the figures became distinct. It was a simple crowd of men and women, none of whom he recognized. All of them were adorned with a cord around their necks attached to a sphere, and they were mingling pleasantly. The countless number of chickens in the inner shrine, their figures clear, seemed to have increased to even more than before. So many of them were letting loose with war cries. At the same time the walls of the inner shrine—the walls which depicted Saint Michael vanished into the night like mist. All that remained was—
A Japanese bacchanalia wavered in the air like a mirage in from of the dumbfounded Organtino. In the light of the torches, he saw Japanese clad in ancient dress, sitting in a circle and pouring each other alcohol. In the center he saw a woman—a woman the likes of who he had not seen in Japan, with a great physique—dancing in ecstasy atop a large overturned bucket. And he also saw a burly man setting up an uprooted evergreen upon which had been hung baubles and mirrors. All around them he saw hundreds of chickens, comparing tail feathers and combs and crowing happily without end. And then after that, in front of him—even after all this Organtino could not help but think that his eyes were deceiving him—in front of him, in the night mist, was a large, door-like stone slab looming imperiously.
The woman on the bucket did not stop her unceasing dance. The vine which bound her hair fluttered in the air. The sphere around her neck resounded like hail. The small branch of bamboo she held in her hand she struck every which way. But beyond that was her bare chest! Her breasts, appearing brightly in the red light of the torches, were all that Organtino could think about. His eyes were almost completely filled with lust. Offering up a prayer to the Lord, he tried with all his strength to turn his face aside. But unsurprisingly, perhaps due to the power of some mysterious curse, he could not easily move.
Then a sudden wave of silence fell over the phantom men and women. The woman on the bucket, as though her sanity had returned, finally ceased her mad dance. Even the competing chickens, their necks still stretched out, fell silent all at once in that moment. Then, in the silence, an eternally beautiful woman’s voice came down majestically.
“If I am sequestered in here, should the world not be covered in darkness? It seems as if the gods are making merry.”
Once the voice had vanished from the night sky, the woman on the bucket took a quick survey of her surroundings and then gave a surprisingly graceful response.
“This is a new god, standing above even you, so we are rejoicing.”
By new god, she might have been referring to the Lord. For a little while Organtino was comforted by this feeling, and he observed this suspicious phantom with half-interested eyes.
For a time the silence was unbroken. But as soon as the chickens let out their war cries all as one, the stone door in front of him that had stemmed the tide of fog abruptly opened to the left and right. From the crack that had been created poured out like a flood every which way an unspeakable quantity of misty light.
Organtino tried to scream, but his tongue would not move. Organtino tried to run, but his feet would not move. From the great rapturous light all he felt was a great dizziness. Unable to see, he heard in the light a great many delighted voices surging up into the heavens.
“Amaterasu! Light of our life! Amaterasu! Light of our life! Amaterasu! Light of our life!”
“There are no new gods. There are no new gods.”
“Those who trespass against you shall be destroyed.”
“Look. The darkness has vanished.”
“Your mountains, your forests, your rivers, your towns, your seas, as far as I can see.”
“There are no new gods. All are your servants.”
“Amaterasu! Light of our life! Amaterasu! Light of our life! Amaterasu! Light of our life!”
In the middle of the fray, after the haggard-sounding voices had ceased, Organtino, in a cold sweat, collapsed…
As midnight passed Organtino recovered from the depths of his trance. It was as if the voices of the gods were still echoing in his ears. But when he looked around, as before, there was just the silent mural illuminated by the light of the lamp hanging from the ceiling. There were no voices in the inner shrine. Organtino groaned and moved away from the altar. Whatever the meaning of those phantoms had been it was lost on him. And yet it was clear that the phantoms he had seen were not the Lord in the slightest.
“Struggling with this country’s spirits…”
The words slipped out involuntarily while Organtino was walking.
“Struggling with this country’s spirits is more difficult than I had thought. Whether I will win or lose—“
Then, at that moment, a whisper arrived in his ear.
“You will lose!”
Unnerved, Organtino looked towards the source of the sound. But as ever, there was nothing that looked human, just the gloomy roses and broom blossoms.
***
The next night, Organtino was again walking in the garden of the Occidental temple. But there was a somehow happy color to his blue eyes. This was because all day today there had been a procession of three or four Christian samurai
The olives and laurel in the garden stood silently in the dusk. But it seemed that the silence had been broken by the return of the temple’s pigeons to their roost. There was nothing but the beating of their wings against the air. The scent of the roses, the damp sand… it was all peaceful, like the dusk of days long gone, when winged angels, “seeing the beauty of the daughters of man,” had sought after wives.
“It seems difficult, naturally, for the power of the foul Japanese spirits to succeed before the power of the cross. But the phantoms I saw last night? No, they were nothing more than phantoms. Did not the devil show these sort of phantoms to Saint Anthony? The proof of that is in all the believers that have come today. Before long temples to the Lord will be built all throughout this country.”
Organtino was walking along the red sand path as he thought. Then, somebody tapped softly on his shoulder from behind. He whirled around, but behind him was just the dying light filtered through the green leaves of the trees lining the path.
“God save me!” he muttered, and turned his head forward. Then, beside him (for who knows how long) was a phantom like the ones he had seen last night. It was the haze form of an old man with a sphere wrapped around his neck, walking silently.
“Who are you?” Organtino blurted out, freezing in surprise.
“I—it doesn’t matter. I am one of the spirits of this country,” the old man replied kindly, a smile on his face. “Shall we take a walk together? I have come to talk with you for a short while.”
Organtino crossed himself, but the old man showed not the slightest bit of fear at this.
“I am not a devil. Look at this sphere, and this sword. If I were one who had been scalded by the flames of hell, I would not appear so pure. Come, let us put an end to your magic spells.”
Organtino reluctantly folded his arms in discontent and set off with the old man.
“You have come to spread Catholicism,” the old man began quietly. “There may be nothing wrong with that. But if God comes with it, He will surely lose in the end.”
“The Lord is all-powerful. Over Him nothing—” After Organtino had spoken, he was inspired to try out the polite tone of voice he always used on the believers in this country. “There will be nothing which can triumph over the Lord.”
“And yet there is. Take a listen to me. The Lord is not the only one who has made the long journey to our country. Confucius, Mencius, Zhuangzi—and so many philosophers from China besides them have come here. And furthermore today this country is a newborn. Besides their philosophy, the sages brought many items. Silk from the kingdom of Wu, jewelry from Qin. And, even more valuable than those treasures, they brought a miraculous way of writing. So, does mean that we were conquered by China? Instead of those Chinese characters overcoming us, they were conquered for our sake. Among the natives I knew long ago there was a poet named Hitomaru. Listen to “Star Festival,” a piece the man wrote that remains even to this day. There is nothing in it about Altair or Vega, the centerpieces of the whole celebration. What he sings about is the pair of star-crossed lovers the farmhand and the seamstress. The babbling of the pure Milky Way, like the rivers of our country, echoes from the beginning. It is not like the sound waves of China’s Yellow River or the Yangtze. But more than the song, you must look at the letters. In order to write that song, Hitomaru used Chinese letters. But they were not used for the meaning, but for the pronunciation. Since ‘boat’ entered as the Chinese shu, it has always been the Japanese fune. Otherwise, we would probably be speaking Chinese. That, naturally, was not Hitomaru, but rather the power of thizzs country’s gods which Hitomaru believes in. Furthermore, the Chinese wise men also brought calligraphy here. Kobo Daishi, Michikaze, Sukemasa, Yukinari… I always went where they were, in secret. They used Chinese strokes for their models. But from the tips of their brushes, gradually, a new beauty was born. Unknowingly the Japanese letters appeared, not the ones of Wang Xizhi or Chu Suiliang. But we did not just win over characters. Our breath, like the salt breeze, softened the teachings of the old Confucians. Ask the natives of this land. They believe that in the writings of Mencius, he says that we are quick to anger, and if there is a vessel in which that anger builds, it will capsize. Shinatsuhiko, the god of wind, does not do that sort of thing. But the power of we who live in this land, even in that sort of faith, can be felt, albeit faintly. Do you not agree?”
Organtino stared dumbfounded at the old man. Ignorant of the country’s history, half of the old man’s hard-fought soliloquy had totally passed him by.
“After the Chinese philosophers there was the Buddha from India…“ As he continued his speech the old man plucked a rose from besides the path and joyfully took in its scent. But in the space from which the flower had been plucked a flower remained. It looked exactly the same in shape and color as the old man’s but it shimmered like mist.
“And it was the same with the Buddha. But by telling these individual stories, I may only be boring you. But what you must take heed of is the teaching that this land’s spirits are just one manifestation of Indian Buddhas. This teaching leaves the natives of this land to believe that Amaterasu and Buddha are one in the same. Is that a victory for Amaterasu? Or is it a victory for Buddha? Let’s say for the sake of argument that now even though the people of this country did not know of Amaterasu, many of them knew of the Buddha. Even then, in the Buddha they saw in their dream there would be more of Amaterasu shining through than an Indian Buddha, right? I have walked in the shadow of the flowers of the sal tree with the great Japanese monks. The Buddha that they adored was not a black man with a halo. He was a man of quiet dignity who could have been a brother of a noble like Prince Shotoku—but as I promised, I will cease with the long stories. Basically what I want to tell you is that even if your Lord comes to our country, he will not win.”
“Well, thank you for that. You have said as much, but…” Organtino interjected, “…today all at once two or three samurai have converted to the Scripture!”
“Many men will convert. But speaking of conversion, the people of this land have largely converted to the teachings of Buddhism. But our power is not that of destruction. It is that of change.
The old man tossed away the rose. As soon as it left his hand the last light of evening flickered out.
“The power of change, you say? But that is not something limited to your people. Any country—Greece, for instance has a demon called—“
“The great Pan is dead. No, Pan may return from Hades in due course. And yet we, as you can see, are still alive.”
Unusually, Organtino glanced at the old man’s face.
“You know of Pan?”
“What? It was in a Western book the son of a lord from Kyushu brought back from abroad.—As I was saying, even though that power of change is not limited to us, we are, of course, not unprepared. On the contrary, I just want to say that you should be prepared. We are old gods. Like the gods of Greece we have seen the dawn of the world.
“But the Lord will win,” Organtino repeated again, stubbornly. But the old man continued slowly as if he had not heard.
“Just four or five days ago I arrived in Kyushu. I met a sailor from Greece. He was not a god. He was nothing more than a man. Sitting with that sailor on a rock under the moon, we talked of many tales. Being caught by a one-eyed god, a goddess who turned men into pigs, sirens with beautiful voices… Do you know this man’s name? When he met me, he became a native of this country. I hear that now he calls himself Yuriwaka.** So you should be careful as well. Do not say that your Lord shall surely triumph. No matter how far Catholicism spreads, it will certainly not triumph.
The old man’s voice gradually became a whisper.
“Depending on what happens, your Lord could also very well become a native of this land. China and India did. The West must change. We are in the many trees. In a slight trickle of water. In the wind through the roses. In the evening light lingering on the temple’s walls. Anytime, anywhere. Be careful. Be careful…”
As soon as his voice finally petered out the old man’s form vanished like a shadow into the dusk. At the same time the bells of “Ave Maria” echoed down to the frowning Organtino from the temple’s tower.
***
Father Organtino of the Occidental Temple—no, this was not limited to Organtino. Quietly tugging on their sleeves, the proud Westerners returned from among the roses and the hanging laurels hanging in the twilight to their folding screens. The three hundred year-old screens which depicted foreign ships entering the harbor.
Farewell, Father Organtino. Now he, and his compatriots, are walking along the shores of Japan, gazing at the Western ships, their flags in the golden mist. Even not it is not an easy decision to make—will the Lord win, or will Amaterasu? But it is a question that before long our deeds must answer. Look at us silently from that forgone shore! Even when you sink into forgetful sleep with the captain walking a dog or the Negro child holding an umbrella on the screens, there will come a time when the sound of our Japanese cannons on our Western ships that again appear on the horizon will crush your old-fashioned dreams. Until then… farewell, Father Organtino! Or in Japanese, farewell, Urugan-bateran of the Occidental Temple!***
(December 1922)
***
A short note for any people who may be familiar with Jay Rubin’s excellent translation, Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories. Two of his stories, I believe, dealt with Christianity and he maintained many of the older terms used. Specifically, I remember that he translated 伴天連 (see note 2 below) as “bateran with an explanatory note. I like to avoid footnotes that are required to understand the story, and, as such, I have largely translated any Japanese words transliterated from Portuguese into English. For example, he leaves 波羅葦増, “Paraiso,” as is. For my part, I think it is close enough to “heaven” to translate it as that.
*南蛮寺, literally “Southern Barbarian Temple,” or “Dutch Temple.” This is most likely THE Nanban-ji in Kyoto, but I wanted to convey the meaning of the name here. I think Occidental Temple is a good way of conveying both the object of worship and its alienation from Japanese society at the time.
**Yuriwaka Daijin, is, appropriately enough, a Japanese adaptation of the Odyssey that somehow made it to Japan, Yuriwaka being a pretty poor translation of Ulysses.
***Well, that ending was difficult to translate. Basically, throughout the story, Organtino is referred two in three different ways. On his first appearance, he is introduced in Roman characters as “Padre Organtino.” The second of these is パアドレ・オルガンティノ, or basically, Padre Organtino in katakana. This is used in every occasion except the first and the last. The final way Akutagawa writes his name is as ウルガン伴天連、which is a much rougher and outdated transliteration of the same name. 伴天連, specifically, is a transliteration of Padre that shows its age and refers specifically to Portuguese missionaries in the Tokugawa period. The point, anyway, is that Organtino is becoming more and more Japanese (I really think so).