The path swung sharply round a protruding corner of rock. A blind man would have gone headlong over the edge, but I managed, at some risk, to get past and work my way round to the right. There below me, I could see the rape-blossoms spread out like a carpet over the valley. Would a lark, I wondered, go plummeting down there?— No. Perhaps, I thought, he might come soaring up from those golden fields. Then I imagined two larks, the one diving and the other climbing, crossing each other's path in flight. It finally occurred to me that, whether diving, climbing, or crossing in flight, the vitality of the song would, in all probability, continue unabated.
In spring everything becomes drowsy. The cat forgets to chase the mouse, and men forget that they have debts. Sometimes, they even forget how to locate their own souls, and fall into a stupor. When, however, I gazed far out over that sea of rape-blossoms, I came to my senses. And when I heard the song of the lark, the mist cleared, and I found my soul again. It is not just with his throat that the lark sings, but with his whole being. Of all the creatures who can give voice to the activity of their soul, there is none so vital, so alive, as the lark. Oh, this is real happiness. When you think thus, and reach such a pitch of happiness, that is poetry.
Suddenly, Shelley's song of the lark came into my head. I tried to recite it, but I could only remember two or three verses. These are a few of the lines from those verses:
We look before and after
And pine for what is not:
Our sincerest laughter
With some pain is fraught,
Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.
However happy the poet may be, he just cannot pour out his joys in song with the same carefree and wholehearted abandon as the lark. More obviously in Western poetry, but in Chinese poetry too, one often finds such phrases as 'countless bushels of sorrow'. It may well be that the poet's sorrow must be measured by the bushel, whereas that of the layman is not even great enough to be measured in pints. Perhaps, now I come to think about it, it is that since the poet is given to worrying more than the ordinary man, his senses have become much more acutely tuned. It is true that at times he experiences the most exquisite joy, but he also has far more than his fair share of immeasurable grief. Because of this, one should consider carefully before deciding to become a poet.
The path was level here for a short way. To the right lay a copse-covered hill, and to the left, as far as the eye could see, all was rape-blossom. Here and there I trod on dandelions, whose saw-toothed leaves stood up defiantly on all sides to defend the golden orb in the centre. I felt sorry that, being so engrossed in the sight of the rape-blossoms, I had stepped on the dandelions. However, looking back, I saw that the golden orbs were still nestling undisturbed among the protecting leaves. What a carefree existence! Once again I returned to my thoughts.
Perhaps sorrow is something which is inseparable from the poet, but when I listened to that lark singing, I felt not the slightest trace of pain or sadness; and looking at the rape-blossom I was only conscious of my heart leaping and dancing within me. The same was true with the dandelions, and the blossoming cherries, which had now passed out of sight. There in the mountains, close to the delights of Nature, everything you see and hear is a joy. It is a joy unspoiled by any real discomfort. Your legs may possibly ache, or you may feel the lack of something really good to eat, but that is all.
I wonder why this should be? I suppose the reason is that, looking at the landscape, it is as though you were looking at a picture unrolled before you, or reading a poem on a scroll. The whole area is yours, but since it is just like a painting or a poem, it never occurs to you to try and develop it, or make your fortune by running a railway line there from the city. You are free from any care or worry because you accept the fact that this scenery will help neither to fill your belly, nor add a penny to your salary, and are content to enjoy it just as scenery. This is the great charm of Nature, that it can in an instant, discipline men's hearts and minds, and removing all that is base, lead them into the pure unsullied world of poetry.
Objectively you may feel that the love of a man for his wife or his parents is beautiful, and that loyalty and patriotism are fine things. When, however, you yourself are actually involved with them, the violent flurry of pros and cons, advantages and disadvantages, will blind you to all beauty and splendour, and the poetry will be completely lost to you.
In order to appreciate the poetry, you must put yourself in the position of an onlooker, who being able to stand well back, can really see what is happening. It is only from this position that a play or novel can be enjoyed, for here you are free from personal interests. You are only a poet while you are watching or reading, and are not actually involved.
Having said this, however, I must admit that most plays and novels are so full of suffering, anger, quarrelling and crying, that even the onlooker cannot keep emotion at arm's length. He finds himself, at some point or other, drawn in, and in his turn suffers, gets annoyed, feels quarrelsome and cries. At such times, the only advantage of his position is that he is unaffected by any feeling of greed, or desire for personal gain. However, the very fact that he is disinterested means that his other emotions will be much more intense than usual. This is almost unbearable!
After thirty years of life in this world of ours, I have had more than enough of the suffering, anger, belligerence and sadness which are ever present; and I find it very trying to be subjected to repeated doses of stimulants designed to evoke these emotions when I go to the theatre, or read a novel. I want a poem which abandons the commonplace, and lifts me, at least for a short time, above the dust and grime of the workaday world; not one which rouses my passions to an even greater pitch than usual. There are no plays, however great, which are divorced from emotion, and few novels in which considerations of right and wrong play no part. The trade-mark of the majority of playwrights and novelists is their inability to take even one step out of this world. Western poets in particular take human nature as their corner stone, and so are oblivious to the existence of the realm of pure poetry. Consequently, when they reach its borders, they come to a halt, because they are unaware that anything lies beyond. They are content to deal merely in such commodities as sympathy, love, justice and freedom, all of which may be found in that transient bazaar which we call life. Even the most poetic of them is so busy dashing here and there about his daily business, that he can never even find time to forget about the next bill he will have to pay. No wonder Shelley heaved a sigh when he heard the song of the lark.
Happily, oriental poets have on occasion gained sufficient insight to enable them to enter the realm of pure poetry.
Beneath the Eastern hedge I choose a chrysanthemum,1
And my gaze wanders slowly to the Southern hills.
Only two lines, but reading them, one is sharply aware of how completely the poet has succeeded in breaking free from this stifling world. There is no girl next door peeping over the fence; nor is there a dear friend living far away across the hills. He is above such things. Having allowed all consideration of advantage and disadvantage, profit and loss to drain from him, he has attained a pure state of mind.
Seated alone, cloistered amidst bamboo2
I pluck the strings;
And from my harp
The lingering notes follow leisurely away.
Into the dim and unfrequented depths
Comes bright moonlight filtering through the leaves.
Within the space of these few short lines, a whole new world has been created. Entering this world is not at all like entering that of such popular novels as Hototogisu3 and Konjiki Yasha.4 It is like falling into a sound sleep, and escaping from the wearying round of steamers, trains, rights, duties, morals and etiquette.
This type of poetry, which is remote from the world and its cares, is as essential as sleep in helping us to stand the pace of twentieth-century life. Unfortunately, however, all the modern poets, and their readers too for that matter, are
so enamoured of Western writers, that they seem unable to take a boat and drift leisurely to the realm of pure poetry. I am not really a poet by profession, so it is not my intention to preach to modern society, in the hope of obtaining converts to the kind of life led by Wang Wei and Tao Yuan-ming. Suffice it to say that, in my opinion, the inspiration to be gained from their works is a far more effective antidote to the hustle and bustle of modern living than theatricals and dance-parties. Moreover, this type of poetry appears to me to be more palatable than Faust or Hamlet. This is the sole reason why in spring I trudge all alone along mountain tracks with my colour-box and tripod slung from my shoulder. I long to absorb straight from Nature some of the atmosphere of Yuan-ming's and Wang Wei's world; and, if only for a brief period, wander at will through a land which is completely detached from feelings and emotions. This is a peculiarity of mine.
Of course, I am only human. Therefore, however dear to me this sublime detachment from the world may be, there is a limit to how much of it I can stand at any one time. I do not suppose that even Tao Yuan-ming gazed continuously at the Southern hills year in and year out. Nor can I imagine Wang Wei sleeping in his beloved bamboo grove without a mosquito net. In all probability Tao sold any chrysanthemums he did not need to a florist, and Wang made money out of the government by selling bamboo shoots to the local greengrocer. That is the sort of person I am. However much I may be enthralled by the lark and the rape blossoms, I am still mortal enough to have no desire to camp out in the middle of the mountains.
One meets other people even in a place such as this; an old man with his kimono tucked up at the back, and a headscarf knotted under his chin; a young girl in a red skirt; sometimes one even comes across a horse with his longer than human face. Even up here several hundred feet above sea level, surrounded by thousands of cypress trees, the air is still tainted by the smell of humanity. No, tainted is not the right word, for I am crossing this mountain in the hope of being able to spend the night in an inn at the hot-spring resort of Nakoi.
The same object may appear entirely different, just depending upon where you stand. Leonardo da Vinci once said to a pupil: 'Listen to that bell ringing. There is only one bell, but it may be heard in an infinite number of ways.'
Since our judgment of people is purely subjective, opinions about the same person, man or woman, may differ vastly. Anyway, since my object on coming on this journey was to rise above emotions, and to view things dispassionately, I am sure that people appear different to me now than they did when I lived right on top of them, in a cramped back street of that unstable and wretched city— the world of men. Even if I cannot be completely objective, then at least my feelings should be no more intense than if I were watching a Noh1 play. At times even the Noh can be sentimental. Can anyone guarantee that he will not be moved to tears by Shichikiochi2 or Sumidagawa2? The Noh, however, is three-tenths real emotion, and seven-tenths technique. Its greatness and charm do not lie in a skilful representation of emotions and human relationships exactly as they actually are, but rather in the fact that it takes plain reality, and clothing it as it were with layer after layer of art, produces a leisurely, almost lethargic pattern of behaviour, which is to be found nowhere in real life.
I wonder how it would be if, while I am on this short journey, I were to regard events as though they were part of the action of a Noh play, and the people I meet merely as if they were actors. Since this trip is concerned fundamentally with poetry, I should like to take the opportunity of getting near to the Noh atmosphere, by curbing my emotions as much as possible, even though I know I cannot disregard them entirely. The 'Southern hills' and the 'bamboo grove', the skylark and the rape-blossom possess a character all their own, which is vastly different from that of humanity. Nevertheless, I should like, as nearly as possible, to view people from the same standpoint as I view the world of pure poetry. Bassho1 found even the sight of a horse urinating near his pillow elegant enough to write a Hokku2 about. I too from now on will regard everyone I meet, farmer, tradesman, village clerk, old man and old woman alike, as no more than a component feature of the overall canvas of Nature. I know they are different from figures in a painting, since each one I suppose will act and behave as he or she sees fit. However, I think it is just plain vulgar the way the average novelist probes the whys and wherefores of his characters' behaviour, tries to see into the workings of their minds, and pries into their daily troubles. Even if the people move it will not trouble me, for I shall just think of them as moving about in a picture; and figures in a picture, however much they may move, are confined within two dimensions. If of course you allow yourself to think that they are projected into the third dimension, then complications arise, for you will find them jostling you, and once again you will be forced to consider your clash of interests. It is clearly impossible for anyone in such a situation to view things aesthetically. From now on I am going to observe all those I meet objectively. In this way I shall avoid any undue emotional current being generated between us, and so, however animated the other person's actions may be, they will not easily affect me. In short, it will be just like standing in front of a picture, watching painted figures rush about excitedly. Three feet away from the canvas you can look at it calmly, for there is no danger of becoming involved. To put it another way, you are not robbed of your faculties by considerations of self interest, and are therefore able to devote all your energies to observing the movements of the figures from an artistic point of view. This means that you are able to give your undivided attention to judging what is, and what is not beautiful.
It was just as I had come to this conclusion, that I glanced up and saw that the sky looked threatening. I felt as though the uncertain clouds were weighing down right on top of me. Suddenly, however, almost without my noticing, they spread out, turning the whole sky as far as I could see into a rolling, awe-inspiring sea of cloud, from which there began to fall a steady drizzle of spring rain. I had long since left the rape-blossom behind, and was now walking between two mountains. However, I was unable to tell how far away they were, for the rain was so fine, that it might have almost been taken for a mist. From time to time a gust of wind would part the high curtain of cloud, revealing off to the right a dark-grey ridge of mountain. There seemed to be a range of mountains running along there just across the valley. Immediately to my left I could see the foot of another mountain, and at times within the filmy depths of haze, shadowy shapes of what might have been pine trees showed themselves, only to hide again in an instant. Whether it was the rain or the trees that was moving, or whether the whole thing was merely the unreal wavering of a dream, I did not know. Whatever it was, it struck me as most unusual and wonderful.
The road here grew unexpectedly wide, and since it was also quite level, walking was not the back-breaking business it had been before. This was just as well, for not having come prepared for rain, I should have to hurry. The rain was just beginning to fall in drops from my hat, when, about ten or twelve yards ahead, I heard the jingling of small bells, and from out of the blackness the shape of a pack-horse driver materialized.
T suppose you don't happen to know anywhere to stay around here, do you?'
'There's a tea-house just over a mile up the road. You've got pretty wet, haven't you?'
Still another mile to go! I looked back, watching the pack-horse driver, like some figure on a flickering magic lantern screen, melting gradually away into the rain, until finally he disappeared completely.
The raindrops, which had before been like chaff flying in the wind, were now getting larger and longer, and I was able to see each separate shaft clearly. My haori1 of course was saturated, and the rainwater, which had soaked right through to my underclothes, had become tepid with the heat of my body. I felt really wretched, and so pulling my hat resolutely down over one eye, I set off at a brisk pace.
When I think of it as happening to somebody else, it seems that the idea of me soaked to the skin, surrounded by countless driving streaks o
f silver, and moving through a vast grey expanse, would make an admirable poem. Only when I completely forget my material existence, and view myself from a purely objective standpoint, can I, as a figure in a painting, blend into the beautiful harmony of my natural surroundings. The moment, however, I feel annoyed because of the rain, or miserable because my legs are weary with walking, then I have already ceased to be a character in a poem, or a figure in a painting, and I revert to the uncomprehending, insensitive man in the street I was before. I am then even blind to the elegance of the fleeting clouds; unable even to feel any bond of sympathy with a falling petal or the cry of a bird, much less appreciate the great beauty in the image of myself, completely alone, walking through the mountains in spring.
At first I had pulled my hat down over one eye and walked briskly. Later I gazed down fixedly at my feet Finally, very subdued, I hunched my shoulders and took one dejected step after another. On all sides the wind shook the tree-tops, hurrying a solitary figure on his way. I felt that I had been carried rather too far in the direction of detachment from humanity!
Footnotes
1 By the Chinese poet Tao Yuan-ming.
2 By the Chinese poet Wang Wei.
3 & 4 Popular novels written by two of Sōseki's contemporaries. Hototogisu was written by Tokutomi Roka, and Konjiki Yasha by Ozaki Kōyō. Both novels deal with emotions and human relationships.
1 The Noh is very elegant classical Japanese drama, incorporating both music and dancing.
2 Two Noh plays.
1 Bassho Matsuo (1644-1694) is one of Japan's greatest writers. He is particularly famous for his Hokku (Haiku) poems.