Several years ago, I decided to try translating a short work from Japanese literature as a summer project. I chose the first section of Natsume Sōseki’s “Ten Nights of Dreams,” (夢十夜, Yume Jūya), which had been serialized in July and August of 1908 by the Asahi Shimbun. After finishing it, I didn’t know if my translation was good or not, but I had gained a greater appreciation of the difficult choices translators of literary fiction face.

Mark Willis

The First Night

by Natsume Sōseki

This is the dream I had.

I was sitting with my arms folded at the head of a pallet where a woman, lying on her back, was saying in a quiet voice, “I am dying.”

The woman’s long hair was spread over her pillow, framing the outline of her delicate, oval face. From the depths of her snow-white cheeks, warm blood welled up, coloring her skin, and her lips, of course, were red. She didn’t look like someone who was dying at all. But again the woman said clearly in a quiet voice, “I am dying.”

I thought, Surely, she will not die. “Is it true?” I asked her, peering into her face from the head of the pallet, “Are you dying?”

“Yes, I am dying,” the woman replied, but her eyes were opened wide, as large and round as twin suns. The long lashes bordering her liquid eyes hid everything but her jet-black pupils. Floating deep in the blackness my image could be seen clearly. I gazed into her lustrous eyes until my shape, floating deep in her black pupils, grew transparent, and I thought, Won’t I die as well?

Then, bringing my face gently near her pillow, I asked her again and again, “You won’t die, will you? You’re fine, aren’t you?”

Even as I said this, the woman, her eyes sleepy yet alert, insisted in a quiet voice, “But I am dying. It’s inevitable.”

“Well, then, can you see my face?” I asked intently.

And the woman gave me a gentle smile before answering, “See your face? Look, isn’t it reflected here in my eyes?”

I was silent and drew away from her pillow. Sitting with my arms folded, I wondered if in the end she might indeed die. After a short time the woman spoke again.

“When I die, please bury me. Dig my grave with a large pearl oyster shell. And with a fragment of a star fallen from the heavens, set up a gravestone. Then please wait by the side of my grave because I will return to meet you.”

“When will you come back?” I asked. “When will we meet?”

“The sun rises and then sets, doesn’t it? And yet again and again the sun rises and sets, doesn’t it? The red sun travels from east to west, from east to west, and goes down—and you, will you be able to wait?”

I said nothing but nodded my head yes.

Keeping her quiet manner, the woman raised her voice a pitch and said boldly, “Wait for me please, wait for a hundred years. A hundred years please sit and wait by the side of my grave. Without fail, we will meet again.”

I replied simply, “I will wait.” Even as I spoke, my image which had been reflected so clearly in the depths of her black pupils dissolved, becoming dim and indistinct. As when a pool of still water, rippled by a sudden wind, disturbs a shadow falling on its surface, I thought, and at that instant the woman’s eyes closed. From between her long lashes a tear trickled down her cheek. She had died.

Then I stepped down into the garden and with a pearl oyster shell dug a grave. The shell was large and smooth inside with a sharp edge. As I scooped up the dirt, moonlight shone on the shell’s smooth inner surface, sparkling brilliantly. In the air the smell of moist earth. After a short time I finished digging the grave.

I laid the woman to rest inside. Then, gently I spread soft dirt over her. As I covered her, moonlight sparkled brightly on the shell’s smooth inner surface. Next, I went and collected a piece of a fallen star and set it lightly on top of the grave. The star fragment was round. I imagined the star falling for centuries through the heavens, its edges gradually being worn smooth. As I lifted and set the fragment on top of the grave, I felt the heat generated by the star’s long journey.

I sat down to wait on top of the garden moss. While considering that hereafter for a hundred years I would wait in this manner, I folded my arms and gazed upon the round gravestone.

In the meantime, and just as the woman had said, from the east rose the sun, gigantic and red. Soon after, again just as the woman had said, the sun set in the west. Soaking the sky crimson, slowly it went down.

“One,” I said, counting aloud.

A short time passed, and once more as a Chinese vermilion dyed the heavens, the sun crawled sluggishly above the horizon. Then, in silence it disappeared in the west.

“Two,” I said, again counting aloud.

One, two. While trying to count the passing days in this fashion, I lost track of how many suns I saw. No matter how I counted or calculated, though, I could not lessen the number of times the crimson sun crossed the sky over my head. Even so, a hundred years had not yet passed.

In the end, gazing at the round gravestone now covered with moss, I wondered if the woman hadn’t deceived me. The instant that doubt entered my mind, from beneath the gravestone there sprouted a green stalk which grew upwards towards me.

As I watched fascinated, the stalk snaked closer and closer until it stopped growing only inches from my heart. The stalk’s head began to sway gracefully, its neck bent slightly, and from a long, slender bud a single lily unfolded its plump petals. The snow-white flower scented the air with a fragrance that permeated me from the tip of my nose to deep in my bones.

A dewdrop falling from high in the heavens splashed on the lily, causing it to bob heavily as though the flower suddenly weighed as much as I did. Bowing my head, I kissed the white petals, cold and dripping with dew. I drew back my face from the lily and glanced up unintentionally at the far sky where a solitary star was twinkling in the dawn’s light.

A hundred years have already passed, I thought, and at that moment, for the first time, I realized it was true.