Next I walked over to the left hand side of the room, and opened the window. At some time or other water had collected in a natural hollow about six feet by six, and now its calm surface held the reflection of a wild cherry tree. Two or three small bushes of variegated bamboo growing around the corner of the rock added further colour to the scene. Some way off, I could see a hedge of what looked like box-thorn. Occasionally I heard the sound of voices coming from the other side, where there appeared to be a track running up the steep hillside from the beach. Beyond this track orange trees grew on the gentle southern slope which ran down to a large bamboo grove gleaming whitely in the sunlight. I had never realised before that bamboo leaves have this silvery sheen when seen from a distance. Across the valley, the hillside above the bamboo grove was covered with pine trees, and between the red trunks five or six stone steps were clearly visible. Probably, I thought, they led up to a temple.
Pulling back the shōji, I stepped out on to the verandah which, I found, ran all the way round an inner court. Opposite me on the first floor of the front part of the house, was a room from which I thought, if my sense of direction were right, the sea ought to be visible. It amused me to realise that although technically on the ground floor, judging by the rail of the verandah, the room in which I was living, and that room across there were at the same height. In fact from the point of view of anyone taking a bath, I was on the dizzy heights of the second floor, since the bathhouse was below ground level.
The house was very large, but except for the room opposite, one room on the same floor as mine in the right wing of the house, and possibly also the family's rooms and the kitchen, everywhere was shut up. This seemed to suggest that, apart from myself, there were scarcely any guests. Even though it was broad daylight, nearly all the shutters were still closed, and should anybody ever go so far as to open them, I doubted very much if they would close them again at night. I was not even sure whether or not they locked the front door. This was an ideal place for someone like myself who was trying to get away from the world.
It was almost twelve o'clock by my watch, but there was still no sign of anything to eat. It gradually dawned on me just how hungry I was. Suddenly, however, a line from a Chinese poem came into my head. Totally alone upon the barren mountainside', and imagining myself to be in just such a situation I forgot all about food. Indeed it seemed that it might not be a bad thing to miss a meal. It was too much trouble to paint, and it seemed ludicrous to write a Hokku, when there I was immersed in that blissful state of self-forgetfulness which is itself poetry. I thought that perhaps I might read, but I could not bring myself to fetch the two or three books which were tied to my tripod. It seemed to me, lying there leisurely among the shadows of blossoms on the verandah, and feeling the warmth of the spring sunshine on my back, that I was sampling the greatest delights that this world has to offer, i knew that if I were to think, I would be dragged off along some side track. It was dangerous to move. Had it been possible I would have even stopped breathing. I just wanted to stay there quietly for about a fortnight, as though I were a plant which had pushed its way up through the matted floor.
At last I heard someone walking up the stairs and along the passageways. As they came nearer, I thought that I could make out the steps of two people. No sooner had they stopped outside my door than one person walked away again without a word. I waited, expecting to see once more the woman I had met that morning in the bathroom. When the door slid back, however, it was not she that was standing there, but the young girl who had shown me to my room the night before. I felt somehow as though I had been cheated.
'Sorry to have kept you waiting.' So saying she placed a small portable dinner table in front of me. She made no excuse, however, for not having brought me any breakfast. On the table was a wooden bowl, and a plate of broiled fish garnished with parsley. Removing the lid, I saw that the bowl contained clear soup at the bottom of which I could see the pink and white of shrimps lying among some young ferns. I thought the colours so lovely that for a while I just sat there staring into the bowl.
'Don't you like it?' the girl asked.
'Oh yes, I like it. I'll eat it in a moment,' I replied; but to tell the truth I thought it a great pity to eat something which was so delightful to look at. I remember reading a story about Turner in an art book once. It seemed that one evening at a dinner he gazed for a long time at the salad on his plate, and then remarked to the person sitting next to him that he found its colour cool and refreshing, and that it was one which he often used. I just wished that I could have let Turner see the colour of those shrimps and ferns. There is not a single Western dish, with perhaps the possible exception of salad and radishes, which could be said to have an attractive colour. What the nutritional value is I am unable to say, but from the artistic point of view their food is extremly uncivilized. Japanese food on the other hand, whether it be soup, hors d'oeuvres or raw fish is always beautiful. It is so pleasant to see that it is worth going to a tea-house just to look at the dishes laid out before you, even if you come away without eating a single mouthful.
'There's a young lady living here, isn't there?' I asked replacing the bowl on the table.
'Yes, sir.'
'Who is she?'
'The young mistress, sir.'
'Is there another older mistress then?'
'There was, but she died last year.'
'And the master?'
'Oh yes sir, he's still alive. The mistress is his daughter.'
'The young lady, you mean?'
'Yes, sir.'
'Are there any other guests?'
'No, sir.'
'Just me then?'
'Yes, sir.'
'What does the young mistress do with herself every day?'
'Well, she sews. . .'
'And?'
'She plays the samisen.'1
This was both unexpected and interesting.
'What else does she do?' I asked.
'She goes up to the temple.'
Another unexpected answer. I found this samisen playing and going to the temple rather strange.
'Does she go there to pray?'
'No sir, she goes to see the priest.'
'Is he learning to play the samisen then?'
'No, sir.'
'Well then, why does she go there?'
'She goes to see Daitetsu, sir.'
Now I began to understand. This must be the same Daitetsu who wrote the poem which was hanging on the wall. I thought when I first saw it that it had been written by a Zen priest. That book of Haku-un's in the cupboard must have been borrowed from him too.
'Does somebody normally use this room?'
'Yes sir, the mistress.'
'Then she must have been in here until I arrived last night?'
'Yes.'
'Oh, I'm sorry to have turned her out of her own room. By the way, why does she go to see Daitetsu?'
'I'm afraid I don't know.'
'What else?'
'I beg your pardon?'
'I mean, what other things does she do?'
'Many other things.'
'Such as?'
'I don't know.'
This brought the conversation to an abrupt end. At length I finished my meal, and the girl took the table away. As she slid open the door, I caught sight of the woman with the 'butterfly' hairstyle across the top of the shrubbery in the inner court. She was standing on the first-floor verandah with her elbows resting on the rail, and her face cupped in her hands. This pose, added to the fact that she was gazing intently at something below, made her look for all the world like a statue of Kwannon the omniscient goddess of mercy. Her present air of serenity was in complete contrast to her appearance that morning. Since she was looking downwards, it was impossible from where I was sitting to see the expression in her eyes. I wondered whether, if I could have seen them, she would have presented a different picture. Someone long ago once said apparently, that nothing speaks for a man better than his pupils. This
is quite true, for the eye is the most expressive and vital organ in the human body, and will mirror your feelings however much you may try to conceal them. From beneath the rail on which the 'butterfly' was leisurely leaning, two real butterflies came dancing erratically upward, now drawing together, now fluttering apart again. This then was the scene that confronted me as the door slid back. The noise of the door, however, disturbed her, and looking up sharply from the butterflies, she turned her attention towards me. Her unwavering gaze shot through the air like a poisoned arrow, and struck me between the eyes. Before I could recover from my surprise, the young girl slid the screen across again. Immediately the complete lassitude of spring returned.
Once again I sprawled out full length on the floor, and very soon the following lines came drifting into my mind.
Sadder than the moon's lost light,
Lost ere the kindling of dawn,
To travellers journeying on,
The shutting of thy fair face from my sight.
Suppose for a moment that I had been in love with 'the butterfly', and been dying to meet her. Then I too would have written just such a poem to express the mingled feelings of joy and regret which, before I had time to be surprised, such a brief glimpse of her as I had just had would undoubtedly have aroused in me. I might also have added:
Might I look on thee in death,
With bliss I would yield my breath.1
Fortunately I had already left the triteness of falling in love far behind me, and could not have felt such pangs even if I had wanted to. Nevertheless, I thought that those few lines captured the poetry of the situation admirably. It was both amusing and pleasant to think of the poem as applying to 'the butterfly' and myself, and to pretend that it described our relationship, even though I knew that such a state of affairs was impossible. We were, it is true, joined together by a thin thread, because fate had decreed that I should see her in circumstances similar to those in which the poem had been written, thus making it partly real. Fate or no fate, however, so slender a tie could not prove painful. Moreover, this was no ordinary thread. It was as delicate as the rainbow spanning the sky, and as flimsy as mist trailing across the moors, or gossamer sparkling with dew; and as such it was exceedingly beautiful to look at,but could be broken at will. Ah, but supposing that while I were looking at it, it should become as thick and strong as a hawser, what then? No, there is no fear of that happening. I am an artist, and she is not like the normal run of women.
Suddenly the door opened, and turning over on to my side I saw her standing there: 'the butterfly*, the other end of the thread. She was carrying a tray on which was a green celadon porcelain bowl.
'Lying down again? It must have been very annoying for you to have been disturbed so many times last night. I'm afraid I was a terrible nuisance,' she said with a mischievous laugh. There was nothing at all timid or bashful about her, and of course no trace of embarrassment either. I felt that she was definitely ahead in the game.
'Thank you for what you did this morning.' When I came to think about it, I realised that this was the third time I had referred to her helping me on with the kimono that morning. Not only that, but each time all I had been able to get out was 'Thank you'.
While I was still trying to get up into a sitting position, she came over quickly and squatted down next to me.
'Oh, don't bother to sit up. We can talk perfectly well while you are lying down,' she said in an apparently friendly voice. I thought that this was perfectly true, so I just rolled over on to my stomach, and leaning on my elbows, rested my chin on my hands.
'I thought you might be bored, so I've come to make you some tea.'
'Thank you.'—There it was again.
Looking into the cake bowl which she had brought I saw that it contained some green 'yokan' made from bean jelly. I think that if all cakes, yokan are my favourite. It is not that I especially enjoy eating them, but I consider that their smooth fine texture, and the way in which they become semi-transparent when the light falls on them, makes them indisputably an objet dart. These yokan were particularly pleasant to look at, for their green-tinged lustre made them look as though they were precious stones, or as though they had been fashioned from alabaster. They so matched the bowl in colour and in glaze, that it seemed as though the very porcelain itself had just given birth to them. As I looked at them, I had an overwhelming desire to stretch out my hand, and gently run my fingers over the glistening surfaces. There is not a single Western cake which can give one so much pleasure. Cream, I admit, has a soft colour, but for all that there is something rather heavy about it. Jelly looks like a jewel, but its trembling and shaking deprive it of the solidity of a yokan; while that intricately shaped heap of sugar and milk which they call blancmange is an absurdity which is beyond the power of words to describe.
'Hm—beautiful,' I said.
'Gembei brought them back with him just now. I hope you like them.'
Apparently then Gembei must have stayed overnight down in the town. I made no reply, but just continued to look at the yokan. I was not interested in where, or by whom they had been bought. It was enough for me merely to know that they were beautiful.
'I like the shape of this bowl very much. It has a lovely colour too. It's almost as beautiful as the yokan.'
The woman gave a short low laugh, and a vague flicker of contempt played about her mouth. I wondered if she had thought I was trying to be funny. Taken as a joke it certainly deserved scorn, for as such it was just the sort of remark that fools make when they are attempting to be clever.
'Is it Chinese?' I asked.
'Pardon?' She was not the least concerned with the bowl.
'Somehow it looks Chinese to me,' I went on, holding it up and examining the underside.
'Are you interested in that sort of thing? Would you like to see some more?'
'Yes, I would please.'
'Father is very fond of curios, and has all sorts of things. I'll tell him about you, and ask him to invite you to have a cup of tea sometime.'
When I heard the word 'tea', my enthusiasm waned a litte. There is nobody as ostentatious, or as persuaded of his own refinement of taste as the man who performs the tea-ceremony.1 He deliberately reduces the wide world of poetry to the most cramped and limiting proportions. He is self-opinionated, over-deliberate in his actions, and a fussy old woman about trifling niceties. Moreover he approaches the ceremony with unnecessary awe and respect, and goes into ecstasies as he drinks the frothy tea. If such a jumble of petty rules and regulations can be said to constitute elegance and good taste, then the boys in the regimental barracks at Azabu must be fairly wallowing in it. Oh yes, if this is true, then every mother's son of the 'right turn' and 'eyes front' brigade would make an exceptionally fine teaman. Those who take part in the tea-ceremony are really only tradesmen, merchants and the like who have not the first idea of what the words 'artistic taste' mean. They have swallowed whole the teachings of the great tea-ceremony master Rikyu, and without any sense of elegance, or indeed of purpose, merely go mechanicaly through the motions. By so doing, they convince themselves that they are men of refinement, but this is nonsense. All they are really doing is making fools of those who truly do have the ability to appreciate elegance.
When you say 'tea', do you mean the tea-ceremony?' I asked.
'Oh no, this is tea without any ceremony. You need not even drink it if you do not want to.'
'Well in that case, I'd be delighted.'
'Father loves to show off his nick-nacks, so. . .'
'You mean I ought to say how nice I think they are?'
'Well, he's growing old, and it pleases him to receive compliments.'
'All right, I'll praise them a little then.'
'You might even force yourself to praise them a lot.'
'Ha, ha, ha.—By the way, from your language I would say you were not a country girl.'
'Meaning that from my character you would say I was?'
'As far as character i
s concerned it's better to be a country girl.'
'Then I have something to be proud of.'
'You've lived in Tokyo though, haven't you?'
'Oh yes, in Kyoto too. I'm rather a vagabond. I've been all over the place.'
'Which do you like best, here or Tokyo?'
'There's no difference.'
'But surely life must be more comfortable in a quiet place like this?'
'Whether you are comfortable or not depends entirely upon your frame of mind. Life is whatever you think it is. What is the use of running away to the land of mosquitoes, because you are uncomfortable in the land of fleas?'
'But why not go to a land where there are neither mosquitoes nor fleas?'
'Is there such a country?' she said edging closer. 'If there is, show it to me. Go on, show it to me.'
'All right, I will if you like.' So saying, I took out my sketchbook, and drew a woman on horseback, looking at a mountainside covered with wild cherry trees. I finished it in a moment, so it could hardly be called a picture, just a rough impression.
'There you are, get into this picture. There are no mosquitoes or fleas here,' I said, and pushed the book right under her nose. I was sure that the situation would cause her neither surprise, embarrassment nor discomfort. I watched her for a moment. At length she passed it off by saying:
'What a cramped and uncomfortable world. It is all width and no depth. Do you like a place like this where the only way to move is sideways? You must be a regular crab.' This made me burst out laughing.
A nightingale came near the eaves and began to sing. Then breaking off in mid-song, he flew away and perched on the branch off a tree some distance away. We both stopped talking, and sat there for a while waiting to hear if the bird would sing again. It seemed, however, that he had lost his voice for good.