Silence by Shusaku Endo

  (‘Alright! Alright! I am not angry now. Our Lord is not angry.’) The priest nodded toward Kichijirō as if to give him the consolation given to the penitent after confession.

  According to the records, it is said that on this day the crowd escorted the priest from Hakata to Katsuyama and then passed on through Goto. When missionaries were captured, on the day before their punishment it was customary for the magistrate to have them dragged around Nagasaki in this way as show-pieces. The place through which the procession went was always the old marketplace of Nagasaki where houses are close together and people throng in crowds. On the day after their being dragged around, it was customary for them to be brought to the place of execution.

  In the time of Omura Sumitada when the port of Nagasaki was first opened, Goto-machi was the territory where the immigrants from the Goto Islands lived, and from here the bay of Nagasaki could be seen glittering in the afternoon sun. The crowds that came jostling after the procession pushed one another aside just as they did at a festival, trying to get a view of the queer foreign barbarian bound astride a bare-backed horse. When the priest would try to straighten his tortured body, the cry of derision was raised with even greater glee.

  At first he had tried to force a smile; but now his face had hardened and it was no longer possible. The only thing he could do was to close his eyes and try not to see the faces that jibed at him, the faces with those protruding teeth. He wondered if that man had smiled gently when the multitude surrounded Pilate’s mansion with shrieks and howls of anger. Even that man was incapable of such a thing, he reflected. ‘Hoc passionis tempore … ’ The words of the prayer fell from his lips like pebbles and as he continued they came only with great difficulty. He was distracted by the tormenting pain of the rope which bit into his wrists whenever he moved his body, but what grieved him most was his inability to love these people as Christ had loved them.

  ‘Well, father. How is it? Does no one come to help you?’ It was the interpreter who, coming up beside him, quite suddenly shouted up. ‘To your right and left are there nothing but voices of derision? And to think that you came to this country for them; and yet not a single one feels that he needs you. You’re a useless fellow—useless.’

  ‘And yet … ’ For the first time the priest shouted in a loud voice, as from the horse’s back he glared at the interpreter with blood-shot eyes. ‘And yet in that crowd there may be some who are praying in the silence of their hearts.’

  ‘Now I’m going to tell you something. Alright? Long ago, here in Nagasaki there were eleven churches and two hundred thousand Christians. And where is it all now? Where are they hiding now? There are people in this crowd who were once Christians; but now they ridicule you with all their might and main to prove to those around that they are not Christians.’

  ‘Insult me as much as you like. You only give me more courage.’

  ‘Tonight … ’ The interpreter laughed as he slapped the belly of the horse with the palm of his hand. ‘Alright? Tonight, you will apostatize. Inoue said so very clearly. Until now, when Inoue has said that one of the fathers will apostatize he has never been wrong. He was right in the case of Sawano … he will be right in your case, too.’

  The interpreter rubbed his hands in a gesture of supreme confidence and then withdrew from his position beside the priest.

  ‘In the case of Sawano … ’ It was these last words that remained in the priest’s ears. From the bare back of the horse he trembled and strove to drive the words from his mind.

  Beyond the bay an enormous column of clouds, glistened gold-edged in the afternoon light. For some reason he could not understand, these clouds looked like some gigantic castle in the sky in their great billowing whiteness. Many times before he had seen columns of white cloud; but never before had they stirred such emotion in his breast. He began to understand the beauty of the hymn of the Christians which he had heard when first he came to Japan: ‘We’re on our way. We’re on our way. We’re on our way to the temple of Paradise … Far away is the temple of Paradise.’ His only solace and support was in the thought of that other man who had also tasted fear and trembling. And then there was joy in the though that he was not alone. In this very sea those two Japanese peasants, bound to stakes, had endured the same suffering for a whole day before passing on to the far temple of Paradise. Suddenly his breast was filled with a wild joy in the thought that he was united with these two Japanese, united with Garrpe, united with that man nailed to the cross. And that man’s face pursued him like a living, vivid image. The suffering Christ! The patient Christ! From the depths of his heart he prayed that his own face might draw near to that face.

  Raising their whips, the officials drove the crowd aside and the people scattered like flies—meekly, without resistance, terror in their eyes; and making way for the procession they watched it depart.

  At last the afternoon was over. The evening sun fell glistening on the red roof of a temple at the left of the road. Just beyond the town a mountain seemed to be floating in the sky. Now again stones and pieces of manure came flying through the air striking the priest on the cheek.

  Walking beside the horse, the interpreter kept up the same line of argument. ‘Come now! I’m not urging you to something bad. Apostatize! Just say one word. Please! If you do this, your horse will never bring you back to prison.’

  ‘Where are you bringing me now?’

  ‘To the magistrate’s office. I don’t want to make you suffer. Please! I’m not saying anything wrong. Just say the word: “I apostatize.” ’

  Biting his lip, the priest sat silently on the horse. The blood from his cheek flowed down on to his chin. The interpreter looked at him, and with one hand on the belly of the horse kept on walking, a sad expression on his face.

  Bending down, the priest made his way into the room in the thick darkness. Suddenly he was halted by a foul stench. It was the smell of urine. The floor was completely covered with it; and for a moment he stood still, trying to keep himself from vomiting. After some time, through the darkness he was at last able to distinguish the walls from the floor; and with his fingers against the wall groping his way around the room, he suddenly hit against another wall. Stretching out his arms he realized that the tips of his fingers could touch both walls at the same time. This gave him some idea of the size of the room he was in.

  He strained his ears, but could hear no voice. It was impossible to know what part of the magistrate’s building he was in. But the deathly silence assured him that there was no one anywhere near. The walls were made of wood, and as he touched the upper part his fingers discovered a large, deep crack. At first he thought that this was one of the cracks between the boards, but somehow he also had the feeling that it could not be so. As he kept on feeling it with his hands, he gradually realized that it was the letter ‘L’. The next letter was ‘A’. Like a blind man his fingers felt their way around the ensuing letters and found ‘Laudate Eum’. Beyond this his fingers felt nothing more. Probably some missionary, cast into this prison, had cut out these words in Latin for the benefit of the next person who might be here. While in this place, this missionary had not apostatized; he had been burning with faith. And here, all alone in the dark, the priest was filled with emotion to the point of tears at the thought of what had happened. He felt that to the end he himself was being protected in some way.

  He did not know what time of night it was. In the long journey through the streets to the magistrate’s office, the interpreter and the officials whom he did not know had kept repeating the same questions. Where had he come from; what society did he belong to; how many missionaries were in Macao. But they had not urged him to renounce his faith. Even the interpreter seemed to change his tune completely; for with expressionless face he had simply performed his duty of translating the words of the officials. When this absurd examination was finished, they had brought him back to his cell.

  ‘Laudate Eum’. Leaning his head against the wall, the priest followed his usual
custom of thinking about that man whom he loved. Just as a young man might envisage the face of his intimate friend who is far away, the priest from long ago had the habit of imagining the face of Christ in his moments of solitude. And yet since he had been captured—especially during the nights of imprisonment in that copse when he had listened to the rustling of the leaves—a different sensation filled his breast when the face of that man rose behind his closed eye-lids. Now in the darkness, that face seemed close beside him. At first it was silent, but pierced him with a glance that was filled with sorrow. And then it seemed to speak to him: ‘When you suffer, I suffer with you. To the end I am close to you.’

  While thinking of this face, the priest thought also of Garrpe. Soon he would be with Garrpe again. In his dreams at night he had sometimes seen that black head chasing after the boat and sinking in the sea; and then he was intolerably ashamed to think about himself who had abandoned the Christians. So intolerable was the thought that sometimes he would try not to think about Garrpe at all.

  Far in the distance he heard a voice. It was like that of a couple of dogs yelping and fighting. He strained his ears, but the sound had already ceased and then for a long time it continued. Unconsciously the priest laughed to himself in a low voice. He had realized that it was the sound of someone snoring. One of the guards was sound asleep, drunk with sake.

  For some time the snoring continued intermittently. Now it was high, now low like the sound of a badly played flute. Here he was in this dark cell overwhelmed with the emotion of a man who faces death, while another man snored in this carefree way—the thought struck him as utterly ludicrous. Why is human life so full of grotesque irony, he muttered quietly to himself.

  The interpreter had confidently asserted that tonight he would apostatize. (If only he knew my true feelings … ) As these thoughts crossed his mind, the priest withdrew his head from against the wall and laughed gently. Before his eyes there floated the untroubled face of that guard snoring in his deep sleep. If he’s snoring like that, he doesn’t fear that I’ll try to escape, he reflected. Yet he no longer had the slightest intention of trying to escape; but just to give himself some distraction he pushed the door with both hands; but the bolt was shot from outside and he could not move it.

  Theoretically, he knew that death was near; but, strangely enough, emotion did not seem to keep pace with reason.

  Yes, death was drawing near. When the snoring ceased, the tremendous stillness of the night surrounded the priest. It was not that the stillness of the night was completely without sound. Just as the darkness floats over the trees, the awfulness of death suddenly descended upon him, filling him with terror. Wringing his hands he yelled in a loud voice. And then the terror receded like the tide. But once again, like the tide, it came surging on. He tried earnestly to pray to Our Lord; and intermittently there came into his mind the words: ‘his sweat became like drops of blood’. As he saw the emaciated face of that man, there was no consolation in the thought that he, too, had tasted this same terror in the face of death. Wiping his brow with his hand, the priest got up and began to walk around his narrow cell to give himself some distraction. He could not stay still; he had to move.

  At last, far in the distance, he heard a voice. Even if this was the executioner come to put him to the torture, this was better than the cold darkness that was cutting him more deeply than any sword. The priest put his ear to the door to get something of what the voice was saying.

  Someone seemed to be upbraiding someone else. There was a voice of derision mingled with a voice of entreaty. The wrangling would stop far away; then again it seemed to come near to where he was. As the priest listened to the voices, his thoughts suddenly turned in a completely different direction. The reason why darkness is terrifying for us, he reflected, is that there remains in us the instinctive fear the primitive man had when there was as yet no light. Such was the crazy thought that came into his mind.

  ‘Didn’t I tell you to go away immediately?’ A man was scolding someone.

  Then the fellow who had been scolded would cry out in a tearful voice. ‘I’m a Christian,’ he was shouting. ‘Let me meet the father.’ The voice was somehow familiar. Yes, it was the voice of Kichijirō. ‘Let me meet the father! Let me meet the father!’

  ‘Keep quiet! If you keep shouting like that, I’ll thrash you.’

  ‘Thrash me! Thrash me.’ The voice was mingled all the time with that of another.

  ‘Who is he?’ said yet another voice.

  ‘He seems to be crazy. He’s like a beggar; but since yesterday he keeps saying that he’s a Christian.’

  Then suddenly the voice of Kichijirō echoed out loudly: ‘Father, forgive me! I’ve come to make my confession and receive absolution. Forgive me!’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ Then there was a sound like that of a falling tree as Kichijirō was struck by the gaoler.

  ‘Father, forgive me!’

  The priest closed his eyes and silently uttered the words of absolution. A bitter taste lay on his tongue.

  ‘I was born weak. One who is weak at heart cannot die a martyr. What am I to do? Ah, why was I born into the world at all?’ The voice broke off like the fading of the breeze, and then it could be heard far in the distance. Suddenly before the priest’s eyes there floated the vision of Kichijirō as he had been when he returned to Goto—the popular man among his fellow Christians.

  If there had been no persecution, this fellow would undoubtedly have lived out his life as a happy, good-humored Christian man. ‘Why was I born into the world! Why?. … Why … ?’ The priest thrust his fingers into his ears to shut out that voice that was like the whining of a dog.

  Yes, he had whispered the words of absolution for Kichijirō; but this prayer had not come from the depths of his heart. He had simply recited the words out of a sense of priestly duty. That was why they still lay heavy on his tongue like the residue of some bitter food. His resentment against Kichijirō, it was true, had now vanished; but yet deep down in his memory was still engraved the memory of his betrayal—the smell of the dried fish that this fellow had made him eat, the burning thirst that had followed. Even though he no longer entertained emotions of hatred and anger, he could not erase from his memory the feeling of contempt. Again he bit at those words of warning that Christ had addressed to Judas.

  These were words that from of old he had never understood when he read the Bible. And not only these words, but the whole role of Judas in that man’s life was something he had never been able to grasp. Why had that man included among his disciples the man who would eventually betray him? Even though he knew the real intention of Judas, why had he made as if he knew nothing for such a long time? Wasn’t Judas no more than a puppet made use of for that man’s crucifixion?

  And yet … and yet … if that man was love itself, why had he rejected Judas in the end? Judas had hanged himself at the field of blood; had he been cast aside to sink down into eternal darkness?

  Even as a seminarian and a priest, such doubts had arisen in his mind like dirty bubbles that rise to the surface of water in a swamp. And in such moments he tried to think of these bubbles as things that soiled the purity of his faith. But now they came upon him with a persistence that was irresistible.

  Shaking his head, he heaved a sigh. The Last Judgment would come. It was not given to man to understand all the mysteries of the Scriptures. Yet he wanted to know; he wanted to find out. ‘Tonight you will certainly apostatize,’ the interpreter had said confidently. How like the words that man had addressed to Peter: ‘Tonight, before the cock crows you will deny me thrice.’ The dawn was still far away; it was not time for the cock to crow.

  Ah! That snoring again! It was like the sound of a windmill turned around in the breeze. The priest sat down on the floor soaked with urine, and like an idiot he laughed. What a queer thing man was! Here was the stupid groaning snore, now high, now low, of some ignorant fellow who felt no fear of death. There, fast asleep like a pig, ope
ning his big mouth he could snore just like that. He felt that he could see the guard’s face with his own eyes. It was a fat face, heavy with sake and bloated, health itself—but for the victims the face was terribly cruel. Moreover this guard did not possess any aristocratic cruelty; rather was it the cruelty of a low-class fellow toward beasts and animals weaker than himself. He had seen such fellows in the countryside in Portugal, and he knew them well. This fellow had not the slightest idea of the suffering that would be inflicted on others because of his conduct. It was this kind of fellow who had killed that man whose face was the best and the most beautiful that ever one could dream of.

  Yes, and that on this, the most important night of his whole life, he should be disturbed by such a vile and discordant noise—this realization suddenly filled him with rage. He felt that his life was simply being trifled with; and when the groaning ceased for a moment, he began to beat on the wall. But the guards, like those disciples who in Gethsemane slept in utter indifference to the torment of that man, did not get up. Again he began to beat wildly on the wall. Then there came the noise of the door being opened, and from the distance the sound of feet hastening rapidly toward the place where he was.

  ‘Father, what is wrong? What is wrong?’ It was the interpreter who spoke; and his voice was that of the cat playing with its prey, it’s terrible, terrible! Isn’t it better for you not to be so stubborn? If you simply say, “I apostatize,” all will be well. Then you will be able to let your strained mind relax and be at ease.’

  ‘It’s only that snoring,’ answered the priest through the darkness.

  Suddenly the interpreter became silent as if in astonishment.

  ‘You think that is snoring … that is … Sawano, did you hear what he said? He thought that sound was snoring!’