Pennant in the Wind

By Martha Duffy

SPRING SNOW

by YUKIO MISHIMA;

translated by MICHAEL GALLAGHER

389 pages. Knopf. $7.95.

Whatever the critics may think, writers still have a touching faith in the old-fashioned novel, and it is fascinating to see just what products can emerge when a modern novelist sets about writing one. Spring Snow is the first installment of Yukio Mishima's latest fictional testament. Three more volumes will follow, the final one delivered to the publisher only a day before the author killed himself by ritual disembowelment (seppuku) after his bizarre attempt to foment an uprising in the Japanese army a year and a half ago.

It was a theatrical end to a grandly flamboyant life. Besides his many novels and stories, Mishima wrote a play a year, acted in and directed plays and films, and published scholarly treatises. He gave legendary dinner parties in his Tokyo mansion, which was furnished with exquisite antiques gathered with remarkably eclectic taste. His much publicized "private army" was really a little cadre of idolaters who tried to discipline mind and body according to traditional samurai precepts. Mishima was a protean figure to his countrymen, and a major literary figure around the world. He was one of a very few Asian writers to be heavily influenced by Western philosophy. Why he chose to die so pathetically is a sad mystery.

Partly for this reason, Spring Snow is hard to evaluate completely now. Word from Japan is that some of its sketchier aspects, notably those dealing with Buddhism and ideas of reincarnation, will be developed later on, changing the emphasis of the whole work. By itself, the book must be judged as an attempt at a grand-scale novel in the 19th century manner. Coming from Mishima, this is a surprise. The material is neither adventurous nor perverse--two qualities often found in his best fiction. The leisurely, well-upholstered prose is far from the impeccable, stripped-down modern style found in previous novels. Ultimately, this new direction is not particularly fruitful. But if Spring Snow is a failure, it is a fairly entertaining one.

The characters are members of the Japanese upper class and their retainers; most of the novel's events take place in 1912. The hero is a handsome, dreamy youth named Kiyoaki Matsugae, who belongs to a rich samurai family but has spent his boyhood in the household of some splendidly effete aristocrats named Ayakura. There he acquired "elegance" and the desire to live for emotion alone, "like a pennant, dependent on each gusting wind."

For years Kiyoaki has been secretly in love with the Ayakuras' beautiful daughter Satoko, but he can admit to his passion only after she has become betrothed to a royal prince. The inevitable desperate, destructive affair ensues. By the end of the book, Satoko has fled to a nunnery and Kiyoaki has died of--God help us all--consumption.

Obviously the trials of this Asian young Werther need to be told with exceptional vigor and skill, but Mishima was no Goethe. Digressions and flashbacks are often handled with surprising awkwardness. Kiyoaki is stupefyingly narcissistic, and unfortunately so is the author. He pauses so often to admire his hero and his school friends that at times the prose itself resembles a drowning pool. Some of this satiety may be chargeable to a wordy, flaccid translation. Occasionally, however, Mishima produces sensual writing of great delicacy. Looking at two Siamese princes, Kiyoaki reflects: "Such skin must surely seal within itself a cool darkness and constantly refreshes these young men, like a luxuriant shade tree."

Perhaps Spring Snow's most attractive quality is a strain of humor seldom found in Mishima. His Tokyo aristocrats are amusingly caught between East and West, lavishly mounting their ancient rituals and becoming expert billiard players. When Satoko becomes engaged, the palace discreetly passes the word that this flower of culture, versed in poetry and calligraphy, must learn to play mah-jongg because that is her future mother-in-law's favorite diversion. As for her fiance, the Imperial Highness, his only known opinions are on Western music. When his proud mother asks him to "play some thing for us," he rises promptly and--in a parody of any child who takes music lessons --marches over to the phonograph.

Martha Duffy

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