Kusamakura

“Could I come for a visit sometime?â€​

“Of course, of course. I’m always there. Mr. Shioda’s daughter cal s in quite a lot. Speaking of which,†he says, turning to the old gentleman, “there’s no sign of your Nami today. She’s al right, I hope?â€​

“She must have gone out somewhere. Did she go to your place by any chance, KyÅ«ichi?â€​

“No, she wasn’t there.â€​

“Probably off on a walk by herself again,†says the abbot with a laugh. “She’s got strong legs, has Nami. When I was out at Tonami the other day for a ceremony, I thought to myself, ‘Good heavens, that looks like Nami there on Sugatami Bridge,’ and sure enough it was.

She was wearing straw sandals and had her skirts tucked up behind. ‘What are you doing loitering around here, Your Reverence?’ she says to me, quite out of the blue. ‘Where are you off to?’ Gave me quite a surprise, ha ha. ‘Where in heaven’s name have you been, dressed like that?’ I ask. ‘I’m just back from picking wild parsley,’ says she. ‘Here, I’l give you a bit.’ And she suddenly shoves a muddy bunch of it into my sleeve, ha ha.â€​

“Dear me . . .†says old Mr. Shioda, with a pained smile. Then he abruptly rises to his feet and turns the subject hastily back to curios. “I rather wanted to show you this.â€​

He reverently takes down from the sandalwood bookcase a little bag made of fine old patterned damask. It seems to contain some heavy object.

“Have you ever seen this, Your Reverence?â€​

“What on earth is it?â€​

“An ink stone.â€​

“That so? What sort of ink stone?â€​

“It was a favorite piece in Sanyo’s col ection.â€​3

“No, I haven’t seen that one.â€​

“It has a spare lid done by Shunsui.â€​

“No, haven’t seen it. Show me, show me.â€​

The old man tenderly undoes the bag, revealing a corner of the russet stone within.

“That’s a lovely color. Tankei, would it be?â€​4

“Yes, and there are nine ‘shrike spots.’â€​

“Nine?â€​ repeats the abbot incredulously, evidently deeply impressed.

“This is the Shunsui lid,†says Mr. Shioda, displaying a thin lid in a figured satin wrapping. A Chinese poem of seven characters is written on it in Shunsui’s cal igraphic hand.

“Ah, yes. He had a fine hand, a fine hand—though, mind you, Kyohei wrote a better one.â€​5

“You think so, do you?â€​

“I’d say Sanyo was the worst of them. That tendency to cleverness made him vulgar. Nothing interesting in him at al .â€​

The old gentleman chuckles. “I know you’re no fan of Sanyo, so I changed his scrol for a different one today.â€​

“That so?†The abbot turns to look over his shoulder. The alcove is a simple recess in the wal . On its polished board stands an old Chinese copperware vase, its surface elegantly tarnished, with a two-foot-high branch of magnolia blossom arranged in it. The scrol hanging behind it is a large work by Sorai,6 on a backing of subtly glowing figured silk. The cal igraphy is on paper rather than the more usual silk, but the scrol ’s beauty lies not only in the indisputable skil of the writing itself but also in the delightful harmony between the backing and the paper, which has aged with the passage of time. The figured silk itself is not particularly wonderful, but it seems to me to achieve its fine quality through a combination of faded color and a softening of the effect of the gold thread, so that any original gaudiness has dimmed, al owing a certain austerity to assert itself.

The two little ivory scrol ends protrude starkly white against the tea-brown background of the earth wal , while before the scrol softly floats the pale magnolia blossoms, yet the overal effect of the alcove is so calm as to be almost gloomy.

“Sorai, is it?â€​ says the abbot, his head stil turned to look.

“You mightn’t care much for Sorai either, but I thought you’d prefer it to the SanyÅ​.â€​

“Yes, Sorai’s certainly far better. Cal igraphers from this particular period always have a certain refinement, even if the writing’s poor.â€​

“Was it Sorai who said ‘Kotaku is a great Japanese cal igrapher, while I’m just a poor imitator of the Chinese’?â€​7

“No idea. My own cal igraphy certainly wouldn’t be worthy of such a boast,â€​ says the abbot with a laugh.

“Speaking of which, Your Reverence, who did you learn from?â€​

“Me? We Zen priests don’t read textbooks or do copying practice and suchlike, you know.â€​

“Stil , someone must have taught you.â€​

“When I was young, I did study Kosen’s cal igraphy for a while. That’s al , though. But I’l do a piece anytime someone asks me.â€​ The abbot laughs again. “Now, could you let us have a look at that Tankei?â€​

At last the damask bag is removed. Al eyes go to the ink stone that emerges. It’s roughly twice as thick as a normal stone, about two and a half inches. The five-inch width and eight-and-a-half-inch length are fairly standard. The lid is polished pine bark that stil retains its scaly texture, and on it in red lacquer are written two characters in an unknown hand.

“Now, this lid,†the old gentleman begins, “this lid is no ordinary lid. As you can observe, there’s no question that it’s pine bark.

Nevertheless . . .â€​

His eyes are on me as he speaks. As an artist, I’m unable to summon much admiration for a pine bark lid, no matter what its provenance and story, so I say, “A pine lid is a little inelegant, surely?â€​

The old gentleman holds up his hands in horrified remonstrance. “Wel , if it’s merely a common pine lid, I do agree, but this one—this one was made with Sanyo’s own hands, from pine stripped from the tree in his very own garden while he was in Hiroshima.â€​

Wel then, I think to myself, Sanyo was a vulgar fel ow, it seems. Rather daringly, I remark, “If he made it himself, he could get away with making it look a bit clumsier, I think. It seems to me he needn’t have gone to the trouble of polishing up the rough patches to make them shine like that.â€​

The abbot laughs heartily in instant agreement. “True enough,†he says. “It’s a cheap-looking lid.†The young man turns his eyes pityingly to the old gentleman, who rather crossly takes the lid off and puts it aside. Now at last the ink stone itself is revealed.

If there is one thing particularly striking to the eye about this ink stone, it is the craftsman’s carving on its surface. In the center a round area of stone about the size of a pocket watch has been left standing flush with the height of the edges, and it is carved into the shape of a spider’s back. Eight legs go curving out in al directions, the foot of each consisting of one of the stone’s characteristic “shrike spots.†The ninth spot is visible in the center of the spider’s back, a yel ow stain like a trickle of juice. The remaining area around the spider’s body and legs is carved back to a hol ow about an inch deep. Surely this deep trench is not where the ink is intended to be ground? Two whole quarts of water would not fil it. I imagine one must dip a little silver ladle into an elegant water pot, trickle a drop onto the spider’s back, and apply the ink stick there to create a precious pool of ink. Otherwise, though it is an ink stone in name, the object would be nothing more than a simple ornament for the desk.

“Just look at the texture of it, look at those spots!â€​ The old gentleman almost drools with delight as he speaks.

Indeed, the color’s beauty increases the more you gaze. If you breathed on that cold, lustrous surface, your warm breath might instantly freeze there, leaving a puff of cloudiness. The most astonishing thing is the color of the shrike spots. They are not so much spots as subtle shifts in color where the spot emerges from the surrounding stone, a transition so gradual that the eye finds it almost impossible to locate the point at which the deceptive moment of change occurs. Metaphorical y, it’s like gazing into a translucent plum-colored bean cake, at a bean that lies embedded deep within. These shrike spots are so precious that the presence even of one or two is highly prized. There would be almost no examples of a stone with nine. What’s more, the nine are distributed equidistantly over the surface, so apparently systematical y that the effect could wel be mistaken for a human artifact—a masterpiece of nature indeed.

“It’s certainly a splendid thing,†I say, passing it to the young man beside me. “It’s not just pleasing to the eye, it’s delightful to touch as wel .â€​

“Would you understand such matters, KyÅ«ichi?â€​ the old man inquires with a smile.

“I’ve no idea,†Kyuichi blurts out, ducking the question with a rather desperate air. He puts the ink stone down in front of him and gazes at it, then picks it up and hands it back to me, perhaps acknowledging that it’s too fine for his ignorant eyes. I run my hands over it careful y one more time before returning it reverently to the abbot. He rests it delicately on the palm of his hand til he’s finished examining it; then, apparently not yet sated, he picks up the edge of his gray cotton sleeve, rubs it fiercely over the spider’s back, and gazes in admiration at the resultant luster.

“The color real y is marvelous, isn’t it? Have you ever used this?â€​ asks the abbot.

“No, I scarcely ever get the urge to actual y use it. It’s just as I bought it.â€​

“Yes, I can understand that. This would be considered rare even over in China, I should think, wouldn’t it?â€​

“Quite so.â€​

“I’d like one of these myself, I must say,†the abbot remarks. “Maybe I’l ask Kyuichi for one. How about it, Kyuichi, could you buy me one?â€​

Kyuichi gives a chuckle. “I could wel be dead before I get a chance to find you your ink stone.â€​

“Yes, indeed. An ink stone wil be the last thing you have on your mind, eh? Speaking of which, when do you set off?â€​

“I’m going in two or three days.â€​

“See him off as far as Yoshida, won’t you, Mr. Shioda?â€​ says the abbot.

“Wel , I’m an old man, and normal y I wouldn’t bother these days, but it may be the last time we meet, who knows, so I’m planning to go along and say farewel , in fact.â€​

“There’s no need to do that, Uncle.â€​

So he’s the old gentleman’s nephew. Yes, I can see the resemblance between them now.

“Oh, go on,†urges the abbot. “Do let him see you off. It would be quite simple if you went down the river by boat. Isn’t that so, Mr.

Shioda?â€​

“Yes, it’s not easy over the mountains, but if we went around the long way by boat . . .â€​

The young man no longer objects to the offer; he simply remains silent.

“Are you going over to China?â€​ I venture.

“Yes.â€​

This monosyl able isn’t an entirely satisfactory response, but there seems no need to delve further, so I hold my tongue. Glancing at the papered window, I register that the shadow of the aspidistra has shifted.

“Fact is,†Mr. Shioda breaks in on his nephew’s behalf, “with this war, you know . . . He enlisted as a volunteer, so he got cal ed up to go.†And so from him I learn the fate of this young man, who is destined to leave for the Manchurian front in a matter of days. I’ve been mistaken to assume that in this little vil age in the spring, so like a dream or a poem, life is a matter only of the singing birds, the fal ing blossoms, and the bubbling springs. The real world has crossed mountains and seas and is bearing down even on this isolated vil age, whose inhabitants have doubtless lived here in peace down the long stretch of years ever since they fled as defeated warriors from the great clan wars of the twelfth century. Perhaps a mil ionth part of the blood that wil dye the wide Manchurian plains wil gush from this young man’s arteries, or seethe forth at the point of the long sword that hangs at his waist. Yet here this young man sits, beside an artist for whom the sole value of human life lies in dreaming. If I listen careful y, I can even hear the beating of his heart, so close are we. And perhaps even now, within that beat reverberates the beating of the great tide that is sweeping across the hundreds of miles of that far battlefield. Fate has for a brief and unexpected moment brought us together in this room, but beyond that it speaks no more.

CHAPTER 9

“Are you studying?†she inquires. I’ve returned to my room and am reading one of the books I brought along, strapped to my tripod on the journey over the mountain.

“Do come in. I don’t mind in the least.â€​

She steps boldly in, with no hint of hesitation. A wel -formed neck emerges above the kimono col ar, vivid against its somber hue. This contrast first strikes my eye as she seats herself before me.

“Is that a Western book? It must be about something very difficult.â€​

“Oh, hardly.â€​

“Wel , what’s it about, then?â€​

“Yes, wel , actual y, I don’t real y understand it myself.â€​

She laughs. “That’s why you’re studying, is it?â€​

“I’m not studying. Al I’ve done is open it in front of me on the desk and start dipping into it.â€​

“Is it interesting to read like that?â€​

“Yes, it is.â€​

“Why?â€​

“Because with novels and suchlike, this is the most entertaining way to read.â€​

“You’re rather strange, aren’t you?â€​

“Yes, I suppose I am a little.â€​

“What’s wrong with reading from the beginning?â€​

“If you say you have to start at the beginning, that means you have to read to the end.â€​

“What a funny reason! Why shouldn’t you read to the end?â€​

“Oh, there’s nothing wrong with it, of course. I do it too, if I want to know about the story.â€​

“What do you read if it isn’t the story? Is there anything else to read?â€​

There speaks a woman, I think to myself. I decide to test her a little.

“Do you like novels?â€​

“Me?â€​ she says abruptly. Then she adds rather evasively, “Yes, wel . . .â€​ Not very much, it seems.

“You’re not clear whether you like them or not, then?â€​

“Whether I read a novel or not is neither here nor there to me.†She gives the distinct impression that she takes no account of their existence.

“In that case, why should it matter whether you read it from the beginning, or from the end, or just dip into it in a desultory way? I don’t see why you should consider my way of reading so strange.â€​

“But you and I are different.â€​

“In what way?â€​ I ask, gazing into her eyes. This is the moment for the test, I think, but her gaze doesn’t so much as falter.

She gives a quick laugh. “Don’t you understand?â€​

“But you must have read quite a lot when you were young,â€​ I say, abandoning my single line of attack and attempting a rearguard action.

“I like to believe I’m stil young, you know. Real y, you are pathetic.†My arrow has gone wide again. There’s no relaxing in this game.

Final y pul ing myself together, I manage to retort, “It shows you’re already past your youth, to be able to say that in front of a man.â€​

“Wel , you’re far from young yourself, to be able to make that remark. Is it stil so fascinating, for a man of your age, al this talk of being head over heels and heels over head, and having pimples, and such adolescent stuff?â€​

“It is, yes, and it always wil be.â€​

“My, my! So that’s how you come to be an artist, then.â€​

“Absolutely. It’s because I’m an artist that I don’t need to read a novel from cover to cover. On the other hand, wherever I choose to dip in is interesting for me. Talking to you is interesting too. In fact, it’s so interesting that I’d like to talk to you every day while I’m staying here. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind fal ing in love with you. That would make it even more interesting. But we wouldn’t need to marry, no matter how in love with you I was. A world where fal ing in love requires marrying is a world where novels require reading from beginning to end.â€​

“That means that an artist is someone who fal s in love unemotional y.â€​

“No, it’s not un-emotional. My way of fal ing in love is non-emotional. The way I read novels is nonemotional too, which is why the story doesn’t matter. I find it interesting just to open up the book at random, like this, like pul ing one of those paper oracles out of the box at a shrine, see, and read whatever meets my eye.â€​

“Yes, that does look like an interesting thing to do. Wel then, tel me a little about the place you’re reading now. I’d like to know what intriguing things emerge.â€​

“It’s not something one should talk about. Same with a painting—the worth of the thing disappears completely if you talk about it, doesn’t it?â€​

She laughs. “Wel then, read it to me.â€​

“In English?â€​

“No, in Japanese.â€​

“It’s tough to have to read English in Japanese.â€​

“What’s the problem? It’s a fine nonemotional thing to do, after al .â€​

This could be fun, I decide, and proceed to do as she asks, falteringly translating aloud the words on the page. If there were ever a “nonemotionalâ€​ way of reading, this is it, and she too, of course, wil be hearing it with a “nonemotionalâ€​ ear.

“‘The woman emanated tenderness. It flowed from her voice, her eyes, her skin. Did she accept this man’s help to lead her to the boat’s stern in order that she might view Venice in the dusk, or was it to send this electricity coursing through his veins?’ This is just a rough translation, you understand, because I’m reading nonemotional y. I may skip a bit here and there.â€​1

“That’s perfectly al right. I won’t even mind if you add something wherever you feel inclined.â€​

“‘The woman leaned beside the man at the railing of the boat. The space between the two was narrower than that of a ribbon fluttering in the breeze. Together they bade farewel to Venice. The palace of the Doges glowed a soft red, like a second sunset, and faded from view.’â€​

“What’s a Doge?â€​

“It doesn’t matter what it is. It’s the name of the people who used to rule Venice long ago. They ruled for generations; I’m not sure how many. Their palace stil stands there.â€​

“So who are this man and woman?â€​

“I’ve no more idea than you do. That’s why it’s interesting. It doesn’t matter what relationship they’ve had til now. The interest lies in the scene before us at this moment, their being here together—just like you and me.â€​

“You think so? They seem to be in a boat, don’t they?â€​

“In a boat, on a hil , what does it matter? You just take it as it’s written. Once you start asking why, it al turns into detective work.â€​

She gives a laugh. “Al right then, I won’t ask.â€​

“The usual novels are al invented by detectives. There’s nothing nonemotional about them—they’re utterly boring.â€​

“Wel then, let’s hear the next bit of your nonemotional story. What happens now?â€​

“‘Venice continued to sink from sight, until it became nothing more than a faint smudge of line against the sky. The line broke now into a series of points. Here and there, round pil ars stood out against the opal sky. At last, the topmost bel tower sank from sight. It is gone, said the woman. The heart of this woman bidding farewel to Venice was free as the wind. Yet the now hidden city stil held her heart in a painful grip, and she knew she must return there. The man and the woman fixed their gaze on the dark bay. The stars multiplied above them. The gently rocking sea was flecked with foam. The man took the woman’s hand, and it felt to him as if he held a singing bowstring.’â€​

“This doesn’t sound very nonemotional.â€​

“Oh no, you can hear it as nonemotional if you care to. But if you don’t like it, we can skip a bit.â€​

“No, I’m quite happy.â€​

“I’m even happier than you are. Now where was I? Er . . . this part is somewhat trickier. I’m not sure I can . . . no, this is too difficult.â€​

“Leave it out if it’s hard to read.â€​

“Yes, I won’t bother too much. ‘This one night, the woman said. One night? he cried. Heartless to speak of a single night. There must be many.’â€​

“Does the woman say this, or the man?â€​

“The man does. She doesn’t want to go back to Venice, see, so he’s comforting her. ‘The man lay there on the midnight deck, his head pil owed on a coil of rigging rope; that moment in his memory, the instant like a single drop of hot blood when he had grasped her hand, now swayed in him like a vast wave. Gazing up into the black sky, he determined that come what may he must save her from the abyss of a forced marriage. With this decision, he closed his eyes.’â€​

“What about the woman?â€​

“‘The woman seemed as one lost and oblivious to where she strayed. Like one stolen and borne up into thin air, only a strange infinity . .

.’ The rest is a bit difficult. I can’t make sense of the phrasing. ‘A strange infinity’ . . . surely there’s a verb here somewhere?â€​

“Why should you need a verb? That’s enough on its own, isn’t it?â€​

“Eh?â€​

There is a sudden deep rumble, and al the trees on the nearby mountain moan and rustle. Our eyes turn to each other instinctively, and at this moment the camel ia in the little vase on the desk trembles. “An earthquake!†she cries softly, shifting from her knees and leaning forward against the desk where I sit. Our bodies brush each other as they shake. With a high-pitched clatter of wings, a pheasant bursts out of the thicket close by.

“Wasn’t that a pheasant?â€​ I say, looking out of the window.

“Where?†she inquires, leaning her pliant body against mine. Our faces are almost close enough to touch. The soft breath that emerges from her delicate nostrils brushes my mustache.

“Nonemotional, remember!â€​ she says sternly as she swiftly straightens herself.

“Of course,â€​ I promptly reply.

In the aftermath of the little earthquake, the startled water in the hol ow of the garden rock continues to sway gently to and fro; the shock has risen up through the water in a swel ing wave that does not break the surface, creating instead a fine lacework pattern of tiny ripples in irregular curves.

Were it to exist, the expression “tranquil motion†would describe this perfectly. The wild cherry tree that steeps its calm reflection there wavers in the rocking water, stretching and shrinking, curving and twisting; yet I am fascinated to observe that however its shape changes, it stil preserves the unmistakable form of a cherry tree.

What an enchanting sight—so beautiful and shifting. This is how motion should be.

“If we humans could only move in that way, we could move al we liked, couldn’t we?â€​ she says.

“You have to be nonemotional to move like that, you know.â€​

She gives a laugh. “You’re certainly fond of this ‘nonemotional, ’ aren’t you!â€​

“I wouldn’t say you were exactly averse to it either. That performance with the wedding kimono yesterday, for instance.â€​

But here she suddenly breaks in coquettishly. “Give me a little reward!â€​

“What for?â€​

“You said you wanted to see me in my wedding kimono, didn’t you? So I went out of my way to show you.â€​

“I did?â€​

“I gather that the artist who came over the mountains put in a special request to the old lady up at the teahouse.â€​

I can produce no appropriate response, and she goes on unhesitatingly, “What’s the point of throwing my al into trying to please someone so hopelessly forgetful?†She speaks in a mocking, bitter tone. This is the second barb that has struck home, hitting me fair in the face, and the tide of battle is turning increasingly against me. She’s somehow managed to ral y, and now that she holds the upper hand, her armor seems to have become impregnable.

“So that scene in the bathhouse last night was purely kindness too, was it?†I try, scrambling to save myself from the perilous situation. She is silent.

“I do apologize,†I go on, seizing the moment to advance when I can. “What should I give you as reward, then?†However, my sal y has no effect. She is gazing with an innocent air at the piece of cal igraphy by Daitetsu that hangs over the door.

After a pause she murmurs softly, “‘Bamboo shadow sweeps the stair, but no dust moves.’†Then she turns back to me and, as if suddenly recol ecting, studiedly raises her voice. “What was that you said?â€​ I’m not going to be trapped again, however.

I try taking my cue from the tranquil motion of the water after the earthquake. “I met that abbot just a while ago, you know.â€​

“The abbot from Kankaiji? He’s fat, isn’t he?â€​

“He asked me to do him a Western painting for his sliding door. These Zen priests say the most peculiar things, don’t they?â€​

“That’s how come he can get so fat.â€​

“I also met someone else there, a young man.â€​

“That would be KyÅ«ichi.â€​

“That’s right, yes,â€​ I say.

“How much you know!â€​

“Hardly. I only know Kyuichi. I’m quite ignorant otherwise. He doesn’t like talking, does he?â€​

“He’s just being polite. He’s stil a child.â€​

“A child? He’s about the same age as you, surely.â€​

She laughs. “You think so? He’s my cousin, and he’s off to the war, so he’s come to take his leave of the family.â€​

“He’s staying here, is he?â€​

“No, he’s in my older brother’s house.â€​

“So he came here special y to take tea, then.â€​

“He likes plain hot water better than tea, actual y. I do wish Father wouldn’t invite people to tea like that, but he wil do it. I bet his legs went numb from al that formal sitting. If I’d been there, I would have sent him home early.â€​

“Where were you, in fact? The abbot was asking about it, guessing you must have gone off for a walk again.â€​

“Yes, I walked down to Mirror Pool and back.â€​

“I’d like to go there sometime. . . .â€​

“Please do.â€​

“Is it a good place to paint?â€​

“It’s a good place to drown yourself.â€​

“I don’t have any intention of doing that just yet.â€​

“I may do it quite soon.â€​

This joke is uncomfortably close to the bone for mere feminine banter, and I glance quickly at her face. She looks disconcertingly determined.

“Please paint a beautiful picture of me floating there—not lying there suffering, but drifting peaceful y off to the other world.â€​

“Eh?â€​

“Aha, that surprised you, didn’t it! I’ve surprised you, I’ve surprised you!â€​

She rises smoothly to her feet. Three paces take her across to the door, where she turns and beams at me. I just sit there, lost in astonishment.

CHAPTER 10

I have come to take a look at Mirror Pool.

The path behind Kankaiji temple drops down out of the cedar forest into a val ey, forking before it begins to climb the mountain beyond, and there, enclosed by the two ways, lies Mirror Pool. Dwarf bamboo crowds its edges. In some places the leaves press in so densely on either side that you can barely avoid setting up a rustling as you pass. The water is visible from among the trees, but unless you actual y go around it, you have no way of guessing where the pool begins and ends. A walk around its perimeter reveals that it’s surprisingly smal , probably no more than three hundred fifty yards. However, the shape is highly irregular; large rocks jut out here and there into the water. What’s more, the exact point of the shoreline is as difficult to judge as the pool’s shape, for the lapping waves create a constant, irregular undulation along its edge.

The area around the pool is largely broadleaf woods, containing countless hundreds of trees, some not yet flush with spring leaf bud. Where the branches are relatively sparse there is even a carpet of young grass, sprouting in the warmth of the bright spring sunlight that filters through, and the tender forms of little wild violets peep out here and there.

Japanese violets seem asleep. No one would be tempted to describe them, as one Western poet has done, in the grandiose terms of “a divine conception†. . . but just as this thought crosses my mind, my feet come to a sudden halt. Now once your feet have stopped moving, you can find yourself standing in one place for an inordinate length of time—and lucky is the man who can do so. If your feet suddenly halt on a Tokyo street, you wil very soon be kil ed by a passing tram, or moved on by a policeman. Peaceful folk are treated like beggars in the city, while fine wages are paid to detectives, who are no better than petty criminals.

I lower my peaceful rump onto the cushion of grass. No one wil raise an objection even if I should choose simply to stay sitting here for the next five or six days. That is the wonderful thing about the natural world; while on the one hand it has neither pity nor remorse, on the other, it is neither fickle nor arbitrary in its dealings with people—it treats al indifferently alike. Many are prepared to turn their noses up at the rich and powerful, the Iwasakis and Mitsuis of this world.1 But who besides Nature can cool y turn his back on the ancient authority of emperors? The virtues of Nature far and away transcend our pitiful human world; there absolute equality holds eternal sway. Rather than associate with the vulgar and thus induce in yourself the kind of misanthropic fury felt by Timon of Athens, 2 far better to fol ow the way of the sages of old, to cultivate flowers and herbs in your little plot and spend your days in peaceful coexistence with Nature. People like to speak loftily of “fairness†and “disinterest.†Wel , if this means so much to them, surely we would do best to kil a thousand petty criminals a day and use their corpses to fertilize a world of gardens. . . .

But my thoughts have degenerated into mere tiresome quibbles. I haven’t come to Mirror Pool to engage in these schoolboy ramblings! I take a cigarette from the packet of Shikishima tucked in my sleeve and strike a match. Though my hand registers the rasp, no flame is visible. I apply it to the tip of the cigarette and draw, and only now, as smoke issues from my nose, can I be certain I am smoking a lit cigarette. In the short grass the discarded match sends up a little dragon curl of smoke, then expires. I now shift my seat slowly down to the shore. My grassy cushion slopes smoothly right on into the pool; I pause just at the edge, where any farther advance must bring the tepid water over my feet, and peer in.

The pool seems quite shal ow for as far out as my gaze can reach. Long, delicate stems of waterweed lie sunk there, in a deathly trance—I can think of no other way to put it. The grasses on the hil wil bend with the breeze; stems of seaweed await the wave’s tender, enticing touch. This sunken waterweed, immobile for a century and more, holds itself in constant readiness for motion; through the endless recurrence of days and nights, it waits, the tips of those long stems fraught with whole lifetimes of yearning, for that moment when it wil find itself tousled at last into action.

Yet in al this time it has never moved. Thus it lives on, unable stil to die.

I stand and pick up from the grass two handy stones. I’ve decided to perform an act of charity for this waterweed. I toss one stone into the pool directly in front of me and watch as two large bubbles come gurgling up, to vanish in an instant. Vanish in an instant, vanish in an instant, my mind repeats. Gazing into the water, I can see three long stems of waterweed like strands of hair begin to sway languidly about, but in the next instant a swirl of muddy water wel s up from the bottom to hide them from sight. I murmur a quick prayer.

The next stone I hurl with al my strength, right into the middle of the pool. There is a faint plop, but the tranquil pool refuses to be disturbed. At this, I lose the urge to throw any more stones; instead, I set off walking to the right, leaving my painting box and hat lying where they are.

The first few yards are an uphil climb. Large trees branch thickly overhead, and a sudden chil strikes me. A wild camel ia bush is blooming in deep shade on the far bank. The green of camel ia leaves seems to me altogether too dark, and there’s no cheerfulness in them even when bathed in the midday sunshine or lit by a patch of sunlight. And this particular camel ia is growing quite deep within a crevice in the rocks, huddled there in quiet seclusion, so that if it weren’t for the flowers, one would never notice it. Those flowers! They are so many that a day’s counting could not number them—though now that I’ve noticed those bril iant blooms, I feel almost tempted to try. Bright though they are, they have nothing sunny in them. They seize your attention like little sudden flares, but as you continue to gaze, you feel for some reason an uncanny shudder.

No flower is more deceptive. Every time I see a wild camel ia in flower, I think of witchery—a bewitching woman who draws people in with her black eyes, then quickly slips a smiling poison into their unsuspecting veins. By the time they realize the trap, it is too late.

When my eye fal s on the camel ia blooms on the far shore, I think to myself, Yes, better if you had not seen. The color of that flower is no mere red. In the far recesses of its dazzling gaudiness lies some inexpressible sunken darkness. The sight of a pear blossom sodden and despondent in the rain wil provoke a simple pity; a cool y enchanting aronia blossom in moonlight cal s forth only delighted affection. But the sunken darkness of the camel ia is of a different order. It has a terrifying taste of blackness, of venom. And yet, with such darkness down there at its core, it decks out its surface in most flamboyant bright display. What’s more, it does not set out to entice or even to attract the human eye. Flowers open and drop, drop and open, over the passage of how many hundred springs, while the camel ia dwel s on in tranquil ity deep in the mountain shadow, unseen by mortal eyes. A single glance, and al is over! He who once lays eyes upon her wil in no way escape this lady’s bewitchment. No, the color of that flower is no mere red. It is like the red of a slaughtered criminal’s blood, drawing the unwil ing eye and fil ing the heart with unease.

As I watch, one of these red creatures plops onto the water. In al the quietness of that spring moment, only this flower has motion. A little while later another drops. These flowers never scatter their petals when they fal . They part from the branch whole and unbroken. The parting is so clean that they may strike us as admirably resolute and unclinging, yet there’s something malignant in the sight of them lying whole where they have fal en. Another drops. If this continues, I think, the pool’s water wil grow red with them; indeed, the area surrounding these quietly floating flowers seems already tinged with crimson. There goes another. It floats there so stil that one can scarcely guess whether it has landed on solid earth or on water. Another fal s. Do they ever sink? I wonder. Perhaps the mil ion camel ia blooms that fal through the years lie steeped in water til the color leaches from them, til they rot, and final y disintegrate to mud on the bottom. Perhaps thousands of years hence and unbeknownst to men, al the fal en camel ias wil eventual y fil this ancient pool til it reverts to the flat plain it once was. And now yet another tumbles to bloody the water, like a human soul in death. And another. A little shower of them plops to the water. Endlessly, they fal .

I wander back and have another cigarette, thinking idly as I puff that this might be a scene for my painting of the beautiful floating woman.

Nami’s joking words at the inn yesterday come snaking insidiously back into my memory. My heart rocks like a plank on a high sea. I wil use that face, float it on the water beneath that camel ia bush, and have the red flowers fal on it. I want to give a sense of the flowers fal ing eternal y over the eternal y floating woman—but can I achieve this in a picture? In Lessing’s Laocoön—but no, who cares what Lessing said? It doesn’t matter whether I choose to fol ow principles, what I’m after is the feeling. Stil , remaining within the human realm, while seeking to express a sense of eternity that transcends the human, is no easy matter.

The face is the first problem. Even if I borrow her face, that expression of hers won’t do. Suffering would dominate, and that would ruin everything. On the other hand, too great a sense of ease would also destroy the effect. Perhaps I should choose a different face altogether. I count off various possibilities, but none are suitable. Yes, Nami’s face does seem to be the right one. Yet something about it isn’t quite satisfactory. This much I know, but just where the problem lies is unclear to me, and consequently I can’t simply change that face on some fanciful whim.

What would happen if I added a touch of jealousy to it? I wonder. No, jealousy has too much anxiety in it. What about hatred, then? No, too fierce.

Rage? But that would wreck the harmony completely. Bitterness? No, too vulgar, unless it had a poetic air of romance to it. After pondering this and that possibility, I final y light on the answer: the one emotion that I’ve forgotten to include in my list is pity. Pity is an emotion unknown to the gods, yet of al the human emotions it is closest to them. In Nami’s expression there is not one jot of pity. This is its great lack. When on an instant’s impulse that emotion registers on her face, that wil be the moment when my picture is complete. But when might I ever see this happen? The usual expression to be seen on that face is a hovering smile of derision and the intently furrowed brow of someone with a frantic desire to win. This is quite useless for my purpose.

A rustling crunch of approaching footsteps shatters my ideas for the painting wel before they have arrived at a final form. Looking up, I see a man in tight-sleeved workman’s clothing tramping along through the dwarf bamboo with a load of firewood on his back, making toward Kankaiji temple. He must have come down from the nearby mountain.

“Lovely weather,†he says, taking off the little towel wrapped around his head and greeting me. As he bows, light flashes along the blade of the hatchet thrust into his belt. He’s a strapping fel ow, whom I guess to be in his forties. I feel I’ve seen him before somewhere, and he too behaves with the familiarity of an old acquaintance.

“You paint pictures too, do you, sir?â€​ he asks. My painting box is open beside me.

“Yes, I came along hoping to paint the pool. It’s a lonely sort of place, isn’t it? No one passes this way.â€​

“That’s true. It’s certainly deep in the hil s here. But tel me, sir—you’d have had a good soaking coming over the pass after we met the other day, I should think.â€​

“Eh? Ah yes, you’re the packhorse driver I met, aren’t you?â€​

“Yes. This is what I do, cut firewood like this and take it down to the town,†says Genbei. He proceeds to lower his bundle to the ground and sit on it. A tobacco pouch comes out—an old one, whether paper or leather I can’t tel . I offer him a match.

“So you cross that pass every day, eh? That’s hard work.â€​

“No, I’m quite used to it, real y. And anyway, I don’t go over every day. It’s once every three days, sometimes even four.â€​

“I wouldn’t want to do it even once every four days, I must say.â€​

He laughs. “Wel , I’m sorry for the horse, so I try to keep it down to about every four days.â€​

“That’s good of you. So the horse is more important than you are, eh?â€​ I remark with a laugh.

“Wel , I wouldn’t go that far. . . .â€​

“By the way, this pool strikes me as very old. How long can it have been here?â€​

“It’s been here a long while.â€​

“A long while? How long?â€​

“A very long while, believe me.â€​

“A very long while? I see.â€​

“I’l tel you this, it’s been here since the Shioda girl threw herself in a long while ago.â€​

“You mean the Shiodas who run the hot spring inn?â€​

“That’s right, yes.â€​

“You say the girl threw herself in? But she’s alive and wel , is she not?â€​

“No, not that girl. This one lived a long while ago.â€​

“A long while ago? When would that have been?â€​

“Oh, a very long while ago, believe me.â€​

“And why did that girl from a long while ago throw herself in here?â€​

“Wel , she was a beauty, you know, like the present girl is, sir. . . .â€​

“Ah?â€​

“And one day, one of them bonzes came along . . .â€​

“You mean a begging monk?â€​

“Yes, one of them bonzes that plays the bamboo flute and goes about begging. Wel , when he was staying over at Shioda’s place—he was the vil age headman at the time—that beautiful young girl fel head over heels for him. Cal it karma if you wil , but at al events she wept and declared she simply had to marry him.â€​

“Wept, did she? Hmm.â€​

“But headman Shioda wouldn’t hear of it. He said no bonze would be marrying his daughter. And in the end he cried, ‘Be off with you!’â€​

“To the monk?â€​

“That’s right. So then the young girl, she takes off after him and comes as far as the pool here—and throws herself in, right over there, where you can see that pine tree. And it al caused quite a stir, I can tel you. They say she was carrying a mirror on her, and that’s how this pool got its name.â€​

“Wel , wel , so someone’s thrown themselves in here before, eh?â€​

“A dreadful business, sir.â€​

“How many generations back would it be, do you think?â€​

“Al I can say is it’s a good long while ago. And I’l tel you another thing—wel , this is just between you and me, sir.â€​

“What’s that?â€​

“There’s been crazies in the Shiodas since generations back.â€​

“Fancy that.â€​

“It’s a curse, that’s what it is. And the present young lady too, everyone’s been looking askance lately and muttering about how she’s gone a bit peculiar.â€​

“Surely that’s not so!â€​ I exclaim with a laugh.

“You think not? But her mom was a bit peculiar, you know.â€​

“Is she at home there?â€​

“No, died last year.â€​

“Hmm,†I say, and make no further comment, but simply watch the thin curl of smoke rising from the end of my cigarette. Heaving the bundle of firewood onto his back again, Genbei goes on his way.

I’ve come here to paint, but at this rate, with my head ful of such musings and my ear ful of such talk, days wil pass without me producing a single picture. Wel , I’ve set everything up, so at least I must go through the motions and make a preliminary sketch or two. The scenery of the opposite shore wil more or less do for what I want. I’l try my hand at it, just for form’s sake.

A blue-black rock towers ten feet or more into the air, straight up from the bottom of the pool; to the right of its sheer face, where the dark water lies in a curve at the jutting corner, dwarf bamboo crowds densely al the way down the steep mountainside to the very water’s edge. Above the rock a large pine tree at least three arm-spans thick thrusts its twisted, vine-clad trunk out at an angle that leans precariously half over the water.

Perhaps it was from this rock that the girl leaped, the mirror tucked in her bosom.

I settle myself before the easel and survey the elements of the scene—pine, dwarf bamboo, rock, and water. I can’t decide how much of the water to include. The rock and its shadow each measure about ten feet. One could almost believe that the luxuriance of dwarf bamboo extends beyond the water’s edge on down into the water, so vividly does its reflection seem to penetrate right to the bottom. As for the pine, it appears to soar as high as the eye can see, while the reflection it casts is likewise extremely long and thin. Reproducing the actual dimensions of what lies before me wouldn’t work as a composition. Perhaps it would be interesting to give up al thought of depicting the objects themselves and simply show their reflections. People would no doubt be startled to be shown a picture consisting only of water and the reflections in it. But it’s pointless simply to surprise the viewer; what must surprise them is the realization that this is successful as a picture. What to do ? I wonder, gazing intently at the surface of the water.

These weird shapes alone, however, simply don’t resolve into a composition. Perhaps I could plan my composition around a comparison of the real objects with their reflections, so I let my gaze move slowly and smoothly upward, from the tip of the rock’s reflection to the point where it meets the water’s edge, then slowly on up; my eyes savor that glistening shape and climb attentively on over each curve and crevice. When final y they have completed their ascent and have arrived at the perilous summit, I freeze in astonishment, like a frog suddenly caught in the glaring sights of a snake. The brush fal s from my hand.

There, vividly etched against the blue-black rock lit by the late spring sunlight, and framed from behind by the setting sun through green branches, is a woman’s face—the same one that first startled me beneath fal ing blossoms, then as a ghostly form entering my room, then as a figure in flowing wedding robes, and yet again through the steam of the bathhouse.

My eyes are pinned there, unable to move from that pale face; she too remains perfectly motionless, stretched to her ful supple height on the peak of the towering rock. What a moment it is!

Then without thinking, I spring to my feet. The woman twists swiftly about, and the next instant she is leaping away down the far side, with just a flash of what must be a red camel ia tucked at her waist. The light from the setting sun brushes the treetops, softly tingeing the pine tree’s trunk; the green of the dwarf bamboo intensifies.

She has astonished me yet again.

CHAPTER 11

I set off for a strol , to savor the soft dusk of this mountain vil age. Climbing up the stone steps of Kankaiji temple, my mind produces the fol owing lines for a poem in Chinese:

Counting the stars of spring

I gaze up—one, two, three . . .

I have no particular business with the abbot, nor any inclination to indulge in idle conversation with him. I’ve simply stepped out of the inn on impulse, letting my straying feet carry me where they wil , and found myself at the base of these stairs. I pause here awhile, to run my hand over the stone pil ar on which is carved the prohibition found at the entrance to every Zen monastery: “No alcohol or pungent vegetables permitted beyond this gate.â€​ But then a sudden flood of happiness sets me climbing the stairs.

In Sterne’s novel Tristram Shandy the author claims that this book was written in the highest accordance with the wil of God. The first sentence was created by himself, he says; the rest simply came to him, written while his thoughts were fixed on the Lord. He had no plan of what to write: though it was he who wrote the words, the words themselves were the Lord’s, and therefore he holds no responsibility for them. Wel , my strol is of precisely this nature, though the irresponsibility is compounded in my case by the fact that I do not pray to God. Sterne managed very neatly to avoid responsibility by blaming it al on the Lord, while I, who have no God to take the blame on my behalf, simply cast mine into a passing ditch.

Nor do I exert myself in climbing the temple steps; indeed, if I found that the climb caused me any real effort, I would immediately give up. Pausing after I take the first step, I register a certain pleasure and so take a second. With the second step, the urge to compose a poem comes upon me. I stare in silent contemplation at my shadow, noting how strange it looks, blocked and cut short by the angle of the next stone riser, and this strangeness leads me to climb a further step. Here I look up at the sky. Tiny stars twinkle in its drowsy depths. There’s a poem here, I think, and so to the next step—and in this manner I eventual y reach the top.

Once I arrive I recal how, years ago, I visited Kamakura and spent some time cal ing on the big Zen temples there. I think it was at a subtemple in the Engakuji temple complex that I was plodding, just as now, up the long stone staircase that led to the temple gate, when a priest in saffron robes with a flat, bald head appeared above me. I climbed, and the priest descended. As he passed me, he demanded sharply, “Where are you going?†My feet paused as I responded simply, “To see the grounds.†“There’s nothing to see,†he instantly shot back as he swept on. Somewhat disconcerted by his extreme curtness, I continued to stand there on the step, gazing at his receding figure, watching the flat head bob to and fro, to and fro, until he was lost among the cedar trees below. He never once turned to look back. Wel , wel , I thought, as I made my way through the temple gate, Zen monks are certainly intriguing. They have a fine brisk way about them. I looked around. There was no sign of life either in the main hal or in the spacious living quarters. Joy fil ed my heart at that moment. How deeply refreshing to know that someone so plainspoken existed, to be dealt with so wonderful y bluntly! My joy had nothing to do with any understanding of the truths of Zen Buddhist teaching; indeed, I had not the faintest idea of its meaning at that time. It sprang from the simple fact that this flat-headed priest delighted me.

The world is chock-ful of unpleasant people—the pestering and spiteful, the pushy types, the fussers and nigglers. Some make you feel they’re simply a waste of precious space on this earth. And it’s always this sort who real y throw their weight around. This fel ow wil consider the space he takes up to be a matter for tremendous pride. He feels his great purpose in life is to set a detective to work peering at your backside for years on end, counting your farts, and then he’l step out and stand there in front of you and make a song and dance about how many times you farted in the last five or ten years. If he says al this to your face, you can at least take note of what he’s saying, but you’l find him insinuating things behind your back. Complaining just makes him more insistent. If you tel him to drop it, he nags al the harder. “Okay, I understand!â€​ you cry, but, no, he just goes on and on about the number of farts. And this he claims to be his highest ambition in life. Wel , everyone has their ambitions, and al I can say is, this fel ow would do far better to drop his harping on about farts and fix on some goal that wil shut him up.

It’s only common courtesy to put a hold on your ambition if it’s going to cause problems for others. And if you say that your goal can’t be fulfil ed without bothering others, then I wil say that mine requires me to fart—and there goes al hope for Japan.

To go strol ing like this through a beautiful spring evening without the slightest goal in mind is the essence of cultured refinement. My sole aim is to let pleasure and amusement arise where they wil —and if they don’t, so be it. If a poem occurs to me, that poem wil become my aim. If it doesn’t, then that can be the aim. What’s more, I am bothering no one; this must surely be the nature of a truly legitimate goal. That of fart counting is one of personal attack, while that of farting is justifiable self-defense. My present goal in climbing this flight of stairs to Kankaiji temple is to open myself, in the best Zen tradition, to the karmic moment.

When I reach the top, having gained the beginnings of a poem along the way, the faintly shimmering spring sea lies spread below me like an unrol ed sash. I enter the temple gate. I’ve lost interest in finishing off my poem, so my new aim promptly becomes to abandon it.

The stone path that leads to the abbot’s quarters is bordered on the right by an azalea hedge, and beyond this probably lies the graveyard.

To the left stands the main worship hal . The top of its tiled roof glimmers faintly, and gazing up, I have a sense that a mil ion moons have cast themselves over a mil ion roof tiles there. From nearby there comes a pigeon’s insistent cooing—it seems they live somewhere under the roof. I may be wrong, but the ground beneath the eaves appears to be scattered with smal white dots—pigeon droppings, perhaps.

Standing directly below the eaves’ drip-line is a row of weird, shadowy shapes. They’re certainly not smal plants of any sort; nor do they look like trees. They make me think of those little demons depicted praying to the Buddha in the painting of Iwasa Matabei,1 who have now left off their nembutsu prayer and are waving their arms in the dance that accompanies it.2 They dance ceremoniously, forming a line that stretches from one end of the worship hal to the other, while their shadows dance ceremoniously in a line beside them, in exact replica. The hazy moonlit spring night must have seduced them to abandon the accustomed bel and book with which the nembutsu worshippers traveled the land, gathering together on the moment’s impulse to come to this little mountain temple and dance.

When I approach, I realize they are in fact large cactuses, seven or eight feet high. They look like green cucumbers the size of gourds that have been crushed, molded into the shape of flat spatulate rice paddles, and strung together vertical y, reaching skyward, their handles pointing down.

How many paddles would it take before their ful height is reached? They look as if they might this very night force their way up through the eaves and climb to the tiled roof. Each new paddle shape, it seems to me, must appear quite suddenly, leaping into place on the plant in the space of an instant; it seems inconceivable that an old one would bear a tiny new one, which would grow slowly larger with the passing years. Those strings of paddle shapes are utterly fantastical. How can such an extraordinary plant exist? And so nonchalantly, what’s more. When asked “What is the nature of the Bodhidharma’s coming from the West?†a monk is said to have replied, “The oak tree in the courtyardâ€; if asked this question myself, I would reply without a moment’s hesitation, “A cactus in the moonlight.â€​

In my youth, I read a travel journal by one Chao Buzhi,3 and I can stil recite some of it: It was in the ninth month—sky deep, dew pure and limpid, mountains empty, and the moon bright. When I looked up, al the stars were shining hugely, as if poised directly overhead. Outside the window a dozen bamboo stems, ceaselessly rustling as they brushed together.

Beyond the bamboo, plum trees and palms crowded thick, like wild-haired witches. I and my companions looked at each other; we were al unnerved, and could not sleep. We departed as dawn was breaking.

Here I pause in my mumbled recitation and suddenly laugh. With a smal adjustment in time and place, these cactuses might have unnerved me in just such a way and sent me fleeing down the mountain at the sight of them. I touch a spine with my finger and feel its irritable stab.

I turn left at the end of the paved path and arrive at the priests’ quarters. Before it stands a large magnolia tree, whose trunk must be virtual y an arm span in width. It stands tal er than the roof of the building beside it. I look up into branches, and beyond them more branches, and there beyond this tangle is the moon. In another tree the sky would not be visible through such an interlacing, and the presence of flowers would obscure it stil further; but between al these multilayered branches is empty space. The magnolia doesn’t try to confuse the eyes of the upward-gazing beholder with a jumble of twigs. Even its flowers are clearly visible; though I stare up from far below, each flower is a single, distinct form. I couldn’t count how many of these single flowers throng the whole tree, in what state of bloom, yet each remains a separate entity apart, and between them the faint blue of the night sky is clearly visible. The flowers are not a pure white—such stark whiteness would be too cold. In absolute whiteness we can discern a ploy to arrest and dazzle the eyes of the viewer, but magnolia flowers are not of this order; these blooms modestly and self-deprecatingly avoid any extremity of whiteness with their warm creamy tinge. I stand awhile on the stone paving, lost in wonder, gazing up at this towering proliferation of tender flowers that plumb the very depths of heaven. My eyes hold nothing but blossoms. Not a leaf is to be seen.

The fol owing haiku occurs to me:

My eyes lift to see

A sky that is entirely

magnolia blooms.

Somewhere the pigeons are cooing softly together.

I step into the priests’ quarters. The door has been left unlocked. This world seems to know no thieves; no dog has barked either.

“Anybody here?â€​ I cry. Silence is the only reply.

“Excuse me?â€​ I then try. The pigeons continue their soft coo coo.

I raise my voice and cal again, and now from far away comes an answering cry: “Ye-e-e-e-s!†I have never before received this sort of response when I cal ed at someone’s house! Final y, footsteps are heard along the corridor, and a taper casts its light beyond the wooden partition. A smal monk pops suddenly into view. It’s Ryonen.

“Is the abbot in?â€​

“He is. What brings you here?â€​

“Could you let him know that the painter from the hot spring inn is here?â€​

“The painter? Come on in.â€​

“Are you sure you shouldn’t ask him first?â€​

“No, it’l be fine.â€​

I slip off my shoes and enter.

“You’re not very wel mannered, are you?â€​ he says.

“Why?â€​

“You should put your shoes neatly together. Here, look at this.†He points with his taper. Pasted onto the middle of the black pil ar, about five feet above the earth floor of the entrance area, is a quartered piece of cal igraphy paper on which some words are written.

“There. Read that. ‘Look to your own feet,’ it says, doesn’t it?â€​

“I see,â€​ I say, and I bend down and arrange my shoes neatly.

The abbot’s room is beyond a right-angle bend in the corridor, beside the main worship hal . At the entrance Ryonen reverently slides open one of the paper doors and makes a low obeisance on his knees.

“Excuse me, but the painter from Shioda’s is here,â€​ he announces, in a tone of deep deference that strikes me as rather funny.

“Is that so? Let him come in.â€​

I replace Ryonen at the entrance. The room is tiny. There’s a sunken hearth in the middle, with an iron kettle singing quietly on the coals. The abbot is seated beyond it, a book in his hands.

“Come on in,â€​ he says, removing his glasses and laying the book aside.

“Ryonen. Ryoooonen!â€​

“Ye-e-e-s!â€​

“A cushion for the guest, please.â€​

“Ye-e-e-e-s!â€​ Ryonen’s drawn-out cry floats back from somewhere in the distance.

“I’m glad you’ve come. You must be quite bored here.â€​

“The moonlight was so lovely, I just wandered over.â€​

“It’s a fine moon,â€​ he says, opening the paper screens at the window.

Nothing is visible outside except two stepping-stones and a single pine tree. The flat garden ends at what appears to be a precipice, with the hazy moonlit sea directly below. Looking out produces the sensation of a sudden expansion of the spirit. The lights of fishing boats twinkle here and there out at sea, seeming at the far horizon to lift into the sky and imitate the stars.

“What a lovely view! It’s a waste to keep the shutters closed, Your Reverence.â€​

“That’s true. But then, I see it every night.â€​

“This view would stil be lovely however many nights you saw it. If it were me, I’d stay up al night just to gaze.â€​

The abbot laughs. “Of course you’re an artist, so we’re bound to be a bit different.â€​

“You too are an artist, Your Reverence, when you find such a view beautiful.â€​

“Yes, that’s true enough, I suppose. Even I can do the odd Bodhidharma painting. Look at this one hanging here. This scrol painting was done by a predecessor. It’s very good, isn’t it?â€​

I look at the Bodhidharma painting on the scrol in the little alcove. As a painting, it’s dreadful. Al you can say for it is that it’s not vulgarly ambitious. The painter has made not the slightest attempt to conceal its clumsiness. It is a naïve work. This predecessor must have been a similar type, someone who cared nothing for pretension.

“It’s an unsophisticated painting, isn’t it?â€​

“That’s al our sort of painting requires. It only needs to reveal the painter’s nature.â€​

“It’s better than the sort that’s skil ful but worldly.â€​

The abbot laughs. “Wel , wel , that’s a good enough compliment, I suppose. Now tel me, are there such things as doctors of painting these days?â€​

“No, there aren’t.â€​

“Ah, I see. Because I met a doctor the other day.â€​

“Real y?â€​

“I suppose a doctor is a fine thing to be, eh?â€​

“Yes, I imagine so.â€​

“You’d think there’d be doctorates for painters too. I wonder why there aren’t.â€​

“In that case, there ought to be doctorates for abbots as wel , oughtn’t there?â€​

He laughs again. “Yes, wel , maybe so. . . . Now what was his name, the fel ow I met the other day? I must have his name card here somewhere.â€​

“Where did you meet him? In Tokyo?â€​

“No, here. I haven’t been to Tokyo for twenty years or more. I hear those things they cal ‘trains’ are running these days. I wouldn’t mind taking a ride on one to see what it’s like.â€​

“There’s nothing very interesting about them. They’re noisy things.â€​

“Wel , you know the saying—‘The dogs in a misty country wil bark at the sun, the cows in a hot country wil pant at the moon.’ I’m a country fel ow, so I’d probably have a hard time coping with trains, in fact.â€​

“Oh, I’m sure you’d cope perfectly wel . They real y are very boring things.â€​

“Is that so?â€​

Steam is pouring from the iron kettle. The abbot takes a pot and cups from the nearby tea chest and proceeds to make us tea.

“Have a cup of coarse-leaf tea. It’s not the delicious tea that Mr. Shioda makes, mind you.â€​

“I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.â€​

“You look as if you wander about a lot. Now, is that in order to paint?â€​

“Yes. I take along the equipment when I go walking, but I don’t mind if I don’t actual y paint any picture.â€​

“Ah, so it’s only half-serious, then?â€​

“Yes, you could say that. I hate submitting myself to al that fart counting, you see.â€​

Even a Zen practitioner such as the abbot is apparently at a loss to comprehend this expression. “What do you mean by ‘fart counting’?â€​

“If you live in Tokyo for a long time, you get your farts counted.â€​

“How so?â€​

I laugh. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just counting, but then they go on to analyze your farts, and measure your ass-hole to see if it’s square or triangular, and so on.â€​

“Ah, you’re talking about hygiene, are you?â€​

“Not hygiene, no. I’m talking about detectives.â€​

“Detectives? So it’s the police, is it? Now, what’s the purpose of policemen, eh? Do we real y have to have them?â€​

“No, artists certainly have no need of them.â€​

“Nor do I. I’ve never had any cause to bother one.â€​

“I’m sure not.â€​

“Stil , I don’t care if the police want to go counting farts. So what? They can’t do a thing to you, after al , unless you’ve done something wrong.â€​

“It’s dreadful just to think something might be done to you on account of a simple fart, though.â€​

“When I was a young monk, you know, my superiors always told me people never get anywhere with their training unless they can throw themselves into it with the same abandon it would take to expose your guts on the street in the heart of Tokyo. You should do the same sort of rigorous training, you know. Then you wouldn’t need to go traveling.â€​

“If I were a real painter, I could achieve that sort of state whenever I wanted.â€​

“Wel then, you should do so.â€​

“I can’t if people are counting my farts al the time.â€​

The abbot laughs. “Wel , there you are, you see. Now, that lass of Shioda’s, where you’re staying, young Nami, after she came back from the marriage, al sorts of things used to plague her mind, til in the end she decided to come to me for some Buddhist instruction. And now look at her, she’s come a long way with it. These days she’s got a fine head on her shoulders.â€​

“Wel , wel , I did get the impression she was no ordinary woman.â€​

“No, she’s very sharp. A young monk studying under me by the name of Taian was led to a moment of great crisis in life on account of her, you know. It’s proved to be an excel ent aid to enlightenment for him, I understand.â€​

The pine casts its shadow across the quiet garden. The distant sea glimmers faintly, with a shifting light that seems to answer and yet not answer the lights that fil the sky. The fishing boats’ far lamps wink on and off.

“Look at the shadow of that pine.â€​

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?â€​

“Is that al ?â€​

“Yes.â€​

“It’s not simply beautiful. It cares not if the wind blows.â€​

I drink off the last of my tea, place the cup upside down on the tea tray, and rise to my feet.

“We’l see you as far as the gate. Ryoooneeeen! The guest is leaving!â€​

When we step out of the priests’ quarters, the pigeons are cooing.

“There’s nothing more enchanting than pigeons, you know. I have only to clap, and they al come flying over. Here, I’l show you.â€​

The moonlight has grown brighter stil . In the deep silence, the magnolia tree proffers its tangled branches of cloudy blossoms to the vault of the sky. Suddenly the abbot startles the very center of the clear spring night with a loud clap. The sound dies on the breeze, and not a single pigeon appears.

“Not coming, eh? Funny, I thought they would.â€​

Ryonen looks at me with a hint of a smile. The abbot appears to think pigeons can see in the dark. What a happy innocence.

At the gate we part. I turn to watch their two rounded shadows, one large and one smal , fol ow each other back down the stone path and disappear.

CHAPTER 12

I believe it was Oscar Wilde who remarked that Christ’s approach to life was supremely artistic. I don’t know about Christ, but I certainly believe this statement could justly be applied to the abbot of Kankaiji. Not in the sense of tastes, or of being in accord with the times—after al , this is a man who hangs in his alcove a Bodhidharma scrol painting so execrable it scarcely deserves the name of art, and boasts about how fine it is; a man who believes that there are doctorates for painters, and who thinks that pigeons can see in the dark. But I would claim that, despite al this, he is a real artist. His heart is a bottomless wel . Everything passes straight through it without hindrance. He moves freely through al places, creates at wil , and moves on, and there’s not the least hint of any sul ying particle of experience remaining lodged within him. If just a touch of discernment and taste could be added to his brain, he would become the perfect artist, at one with whatever situation he found himself in, maintaining the artist’s essential state of mind even in the most trivial everyday moments of life.

I, on the other hand, wil never be an artist in the true sense as long as the detectives are stil at work counting my farts. I can turn to the easel, I can take up the palette, but I cannot be a painter. Only by bringing myself to this unknown mountain vil age and steeping myself deep in its late spring world have I at last found within me the attitude of the pure artist. Once I have crossed this frontier, al the beauties of the earth become mine.

Though no drop of paint nor jot of brushstroke ever meets the pure white canvas before me, I am nevertheless an artist of the highest order. I grant I do not equal Michelangelo in artistry, nor Raphael in skil , but my artist’s soul can take its place alongside those of the great men of antiquity, proud and equal. I have not made a single painting since arriving, indeed I almost feel that to have brought the painting box along at al was a mere whim. And you cal yourself a painter? you may say with a sneer. But sneer though you may, I am for the present a true artist, a magnificent artist.

Those who have attained this state don’t necessarily produce great works—but al who produce great works must first attain it.

These are my meditations as I savor a cigarette after breakfast. The sun has risen high above the trailing mists. I slide open the screen doors to gaze out onto the mountainside beyond. The spring green of the trees seems almost transparent in the sunlight and glows with an astonishing richness.

I’ve always felt that the relationship between air, form, and color is the most fascinating study that the world affords. Do you focus on color to evoke air, or on form? Or do you focus on air, and weave color and form through it? The slightest shift in approach can alter the feel of a painting in any number of ways. It wil also differ, of course, depending on the tastes of the painter himself, and be limited by the strictures of time and place.

The landscape paintings of the English contain no hint of brightness. Perhaps they dislike bright works, but even if this weren’t the case, nothing bright could be produced in that dismal air of theirs. The paintings of the Englishman Goodal , however, are a completely different matter, and justly so.1 Though he was English, he never painted a single English landscape. His subject was not his native land but exclusively the landscapes of Egypt and Persia, whose air is by contrast marvelously pure. Anyone seeing his paintings for the first time wil be astonished at their clarity and wonder that an Englishman could produce such bril iance of color.

Nothing can be done about individual tastes, of course, but if our aim is to paint the Japanese landscape, we must depict the air and colors peculiar to it. No matter how fine you think the colors of French paintings, you cannot simply borrow them wholesale and claim that your painting depicts a Japanese landscape. You must immerse yourself in the natural world, study its multifarious forms, the shifting ways of cloud and mist, morning and evening, and only then, when you have at last lit on the very color you need, should you seize your tripod and rush outside to paint.

Colors change from moment to moment. If you once lose the opportunity, you must wait a long time before your eyes fal on precisely this color again.

The mountainside to which I now lift my gaze is flush with a marvelous hue rarely seen in these parts. It’s a great shame to have come al this way to be confronted by this moment, and to let it slip. Let me just try to paint it. . . .

I open the door to leave, and there at the second-floor window, leaning against the sliding paper door, stands Nami. Her chin is buried in the col ar of her kimono, and only her profile is visible. Just as I am on the point of greeting her, her right hand rises as if lifted on a breeze, while the left hand continues to hang at her side. Something—is it lightning?—flashes swiftly up and down at her breast, there is a sharp click, and the flash is gone again. In her left hand I now see she’s holding the unvarnished wooden scabbard of a dagger. The next instant she has hidden herself behind the screen door. I leave the inn with the il usion that I have stopped in briefly on a morning performance at the Kabuki theater.

Turning left directly outside the gate, I’m soon confronted with a steep path that sets off almost perpendicularly straight up the mountainside.

Cries of bush warblers echo here and there among the trees. On my left the gentle slope that descends to the val ey is planted with mandarin trees; two low hil s stand to my right, apparently also devoted entirely to mandarin orchards. How many years ago was it that I visited here? I can’t be bothered counting. I remember it was a cold December, and it was the first time I’d come across a landscape of hil s swathed everywhere with mandarin trees like this. I asked one of the mandarin pickers perched in a tree if I could purchase a branch of them, and he replied cheerily, “Take as many as you want,†and began to sing an odd song. Back in Tokyo, I remember reflecting wonderingly, you had to go to a herbalist to come by so much as the skin of a mandarin. I heard a frequent sound of gunshot, and when I asked what it was, I was told that hunters were out shooting ducks. On that visit I had not the faintest inkling of Nami’s existence.

As an actor, she would make a marvelous female impersonator on the Kabuki stage. When most actors appear onstage, their performance is that of someone outside the home setting, but she spends her everyday life performing, and she doesn’t even recognize the fact. She’s a natural actor. Hers could truly be cal ed “the artist’s life.â€​ Thanks to Nami, I am wel on the path to true painting.

Unless I view her behavior as performance, its unsettling nature wil doubtless plague me to distraction al day. An ordinary novelist, equipped with the standard tools of reason or human sentiment, would quickly find the study of this woman overstimulating and retreat in disgust. If any emotional entanglement were to develop between us in the real world, my suffering would no doubt be unspeakable. But my aim on this journey is to leave behind the world of common emotions and achieve the transcendent state of the artist, so I must view everything before me through the lens of art—apprehending people in terms of the Noh or other drama or as figures in a poem. Viewed from my chosen artistic perspective, this woman’s behavior is more aesthetical y satisfying than that of any woman I have come across, and it’s al the more beautiful for the fact that she is unaware of the beauty of her art.

Don’t misunderstand me. I maintain that it’s quite unreasonable to judge behavior such as hers simply as unbecoming in a citizen of our society. Yes, to do good, to be virtuous, to preserve chastity, to sacrifice oneself for the sake of duty are no easy matters. Al who attempt these things must suffer to achieve them, and if we are to brave such suffering, somewhere must lurk the promise of a pleasure great enough to defeat the pain. Painting, poetry, drama—these are simply different names for the pleasure within this anguish. When we once grasp this truth, we wil at last act with courage and grace; we wil overcome al adversity and be in a position to satisfy the supreme aesthetic urges of our heart. One must disregard physical suffering, set material inconvenience at naught, cultivate a dauntless spirit, and be prepared to submit to any torture for the sake of righteousness and humanity. Defined on the narrow basis of human sentiment, Art could be said to be a bright light hidden within the heart of us men of learning, a crystal ization of that fierce dedication that cannot but repel evil and cleave to the good, shrink from the warped and align itself with the straight, aid the weak and crush the strong—a crystal that wil shoot back the flashing arrows of the daylight world that would pierce it.

People wil laugh at someone’s behavior when they see it as theatrical. They are real y laughing at what is, from the point of view of human sentiment, the quite incomprehensible and meaningless sacrifice being made on the grounds of purity of aesthetic principle. They deride the fol y of parading one’s sensibility before the world rather than awaiting a moment that wil al ow innate beauty of character natural y to shine forth.

Those who have a true grasp of such matters may wel scoff, but the louts and riffraff who have no understanding of taste, and choose to scorn others by comparing them to their own base natures, are unforgivable. There was once a youth who leaped five hundred feet to his doom down a waterfal into the swirling rapids, leaving behind him a final poem on the rock above.2 To me, it seems that this young man sacrificed his life, that precious gift, for the sake of beauty pure and simple. Such a death is heroic, though the impulse that prompted it is difficult for us to comprehend.

But how can those who fail to grasp the heroism of that death dare to deride his action? Such people, who can never know the emotions of one who accomplishes such supreme heroism, must surely forfeit al right to scoff, for they are inferior to this young man in being unable, even in circumstances that justify such an action, to achieve his noble sacrifice.

I’m a painter and, as such, a man whose professional y cultivated sensibility would automatical y put me above my more uncouth neighbors, if I were to descend to dwel ing in the common world of human emotions. As a member of society, my superior position al ows me to instruct others.

Furthermore, the artist is capable of a greater aesthetic behavior than those who have no sense of poetry or painting, no artistic skil . In the realm of human feelings, a beautiful action is one of truth, justice, and righteousness; and to express truth, justice, and righteousness through one’s behavior is to align oneself with the pattern of behavior deemed proper for civic life.

Now, I have removed myself for a while from that sphere of human feelings, and during this journey I feel no necessity to rejoin it. Were I to do so, the whole point of the journey would be lost. I must sieve from the rough sands of human emotions the pure gold that lies within and fix my eyes on that alone. For now, I choose not to play my part as a member of society but to identify myself purely and simply as a professional painter, to cut myself loose from the entangling strictures of gross self-interest, and to dedicate myself ful y to my relationship with the artist’s canvas—and of course my disinterested stance applies also to mountains and to water, not to mention to other people. Under the circumstances, then, I must observe Nami’s behavior in the same way, simply for what it is.

When I have climbed about a quarter of a mile, a single white-wal ed dwel ing looms up ahead. A house among the mandarin trees, I think. The road now divides in two, and I turn left, with the white-wal ed house off to one side. I glance back and discover a girl in a red skirt climbing the hil behind me. The skirt gives way to a pair of brown shins, below which is a pair of straw sandals, advancing steadily toward me. Petals from the mountain cherries tumble about her head. At her back she bears the shining sea.

She arrives at the top of the steep path and emerges onto the flat top of the knol . To the north tower fold upon fold of spring’s green peaks, perhaps the view that I gazed up at from my balcony this morning. To the south is what seems like a burned area about fifty yards wide, and beyond it a crumbling cliff face; below lies the mandarin orchard I have just passed through, and beyond the distant vil age, al that meets the eye is that familiar expanse of blue sea.

The main path has become indistinguishable among the numerous tracks that meet and part and intersect. Al are a path of some sort, and none is the path itself. A further interesting confusion is the intriguing patches of dark red earth that are visible here and there in the grass, not clearly connected to this or that track.

I wander through the grass, looking for a place to settle myself down. The landscape that looked so suitable for painting when viewed from my balcony also seems suddenly to have lost its unity and coherence. Its color too is gradual y fading. As I plod stupidly hither and yon in this fashion, al desire to paint deserts me. With the need to paint gone, the selection of a place no longer matters—wherever I choose to sit wil become my home. The warmth of the spring sunlight has penetrated to the roots of the grass, and as I plump myself down, I sense that I am inadvertently crushing beneath me an invisible shimmer of heat haze.

Down beyond my feet shines the sea. The utterly cloudless spring sky casts its sunlight over the entire sea surface, imparting a warmth that suggests the sunlight has penetrated deep within its waves. A swath of delicate Prussian blue spreads lengthwise across it, and here and there an intricate play of colors swims over a layering of fine white-gold scales. Between the vastness of the spring sunlight that shines upon the world, and the vastness of the water that brims beneath it, the only visible thing is a single white sail no bigger than a little fingernail. The sail is absolutely motionless. Those ships that plied these waters in days gone by, bearing tributes from afar, must have looked like this. Apart from the sail, heaven and earth consist entirely of the world of shining sunlight and the world of sunlit sea.

I throw myself back onto the grass. My hat slips from my forehead and haloes my head. The grass is studded with little clumps of wild japonica bush one or two feet tal , and my face has come to rest just in front of one. Japonica is an interesting plant. Its branches obstinately refuse to bend, yet neither are they straight: each smal straight twig col ides with another smal straight twig at an angle, so that the whole branch consists of a series of obliques, tranquil y ornamented with rather pointless scarlet or white flowers, and a casual scattering of soft leaves to top it off. You could characterize the japonica as belonging to the type of the enlightened fool. Some in this world doggedly retain an awkward and innocent honesty—they wil be reborn as japonica. It’s the flower that I myself would like to become.

When I was a child, I once cut myself some twigs of japonica, complete with flowers and leaves, and arranged them attractively to make a rack for holding my writing brush. In it I propped a cheap, soft-haired brush, and seeing the contraption there before me on my desk, the white brush head peeping out from among the flowers and leaves, gave me great pleasure. When I went to bed that night, the japonica brush rack fil ed my thoughts.

As soon as I awoke the next morning, I leaped from my bed and ran to the desk—to discover the flowers drooping and the leaves dried. Only the brush head glowed there unaltered in their midst. That such a beautiful thing could wither and die in the space of a single night appal ed me. This earlier self seems to me now enviably unsul ied by the world.

The japonica that meets my eyes now, as soon as I lie back, is an old and intimate friend. As I gaze at it, my mind drifts pleasantly, and the impulse to poetry wel s up in me again.

Lying here, I ponder, and as each line of a Chinese poem comes to me, I jot it down in my sketchbook. After a little time, the poem seems complete. I reread it from the beginning.

Beset by thoughts I leave my gate.

The spring breeze stirs my robes.

Fragrant herbs have sprung in the wheel ruts.

The derelict track leads on into mists.

I halt and gaze about me.

Al is aglow with light.

I hear bush warblers at their song

And in my eyes are drifting cherry blossoms.

“At the road’s end a vast plain unfoldsâ€​—

I write this line on an old temple’s door.

The lone walker’s solitude fil s the sky.

A single wild goose wings homeward through

the heavens.

What subtleties lie within one smal heart!

Right and wrong—forgotten in this eternal

moment.

Poised at thirty on the edge of old age

Yet now a soft spring light wraps me about.

Wandering thus, at one with nature’s changes,

I calmly breathe the fragrance al about.3

That’s it! I’ve done it! I’ve truly captured the feeling of lying here gazing at the japonica, al worldly thoughts forgotten. It doesn’t matter if the poem doesn’t actual y include the japonica, or the sea, as long as the feeling comes through. I give a groan of pleasure—and am astonished to hear the sound of a human clearing his throat not far from me.

Rol ing over, I peer in the direction of the voice. A man comes around the edge of the flat knol and emerges from among the trees.

His eyes are visible beneath the tilted rim of a dilapidated brown felt hat. I can’t make them out in detail, but they are evidently shifting uneasily. He is dressed rather indeterminately in an indigo-striped garment tucked up at the thighs, and bare feet in high clogs. The wild beard suggests he is one of those roaming mountain monks.

I assume he’l proceed on down the steep mountain path, but to my surprise he turns back at the edge and retraces his steps. Instead of disappearing back the way he came, however, he changes direction yet again. No one could be wandering to and fro on this grassy flat unless he were here to take a strol , surely. Yet this is hardly the figure of a mere strol er; nor would such a person be living hereabouts. The man pauses in his tracks from time to time, tilting his head questioningly, gazing al about him. He appears to be deep in thought. Perhaps he’s waiting for someone. I can’t make it out at al .

My eyes are held by this alarming fel ow. I’m not particularly afraid; nor do I feel tempted to draw him; it’s simply that my eyes are glued to him. My gaze continues to travel left and right, fol owing his movements, until suddenly he comes to a standstil —and then another human figure appears in the scene.

They seem to recognize each other, and both approach. Watching them, my vision gradual y focuses in on a single point in the middle of the grassy flat. Now these two figures come together face-to-face, with the spring mountains behind them and the spring sea before.

One, the man, is of course my wild mountain monk. And the other? The other is a woman—Nami.

As soon as I recognize her, this morning’s image of her holding the dagger returns to me. Could it be hidden in her robes now? I wonder, and for al my vaunted “nonemotionalâ€​ stance, I shudder.

Facing each other, the two maintain their pose for a long moment. There is no hint of movement in either figure. Perhaps their mouths are moving, but no voices reach me. At length the man hangs his head, and the woman turns toward the mountains. I cannot see her face.

There in the mountains a bush warbler sings; the woman appears to listen to it. After a while the man raises his deeply bowed head and half-turns on his heels. Something odd is happening. The woman rapidly breaks her pose and turns to face the sea. Something peeps from her waistband—it must be that dagger. Head triumphantly high, the man begins to leave.

The woman takes two steps in pursuit of him. She is wearing straw sandals. He pauses—has she cal ed him? As he turns, her right hand goes to her waist. Watch out!

What she produces is not the dagger I anticipate, however, but a cloth object like a purse of money. Her white hand holds it out toward him, a long string swaying below it in the spring breeze.

One foot placed before her, the body bent slightly from the waist, the extended white hand and wrist, and that purple cloth bag—this image is al I need for a picture.

The composition, with its dash of purple, is beautiful y connected by the perfect balance of the man’s turned body a few inches away. Distant yet close—that expression could have been made to fit this moment. The woman’s figure seems to draw him toward her, the man’s seems drawn backward by her, yet these forces are merely notional. The relationship between them is cleanly broken by the edge of the proffered purple bag.

The interest of the picture is intensified by the fact that the delicate balance these two figures maintain is set against the clear contrast in their faces and clothes.

This swarthy, thickset, bearded man; that delicate form, with her long neck and sloping shoulders and firm, clear features. This wild figure twisted harshly toward her; that elegant shape, sleekly graceful even in her everyday kimono, leaning gently forward from the waist. His misshapen brown hat and indigo-striped garment tucked to the thigh; her elegant curve of hair, combed to a gossamer glint, and the captivating glimpse of padding deep within the glowing black satin of her obi folds—al this is marvelous material for a picture.

The man puts out his hand and takes the purse, and at once the beautiful y balanced tension in their mutual poses disintegrates; the woman’s figure ceases to draw him, while he in turn has broken free of that force. Painter though I am, I have never before realized just how powerful y psychological states can influence a picture’s composition.

They move apart now, to left and right. No tension holds the two figures in relation, and the composition has lost al vestige of coherence. At the entrance to the wood the man pauses and turns to look back, but the woman never glances behind her. She is walking smoothly toward me. At length she arrives directly in front of me.

“Sir!â€​ she exclaims, and again, “Sir!â€​

Damn! When did she notice me?

“What is it?â€​ I inquire, poking my head up above the japonica. My hat tumbles back onto the grass behind me.

“What are you doing there?â€​

“I was lying here composing a poem.â€​

“Liar! You saw what happened just now, didn’t you?â€​

“Just now? You mean, you two. . . . Yes, I did see a bit.â€​

She laughs. “You didn’t need to just see a bit. You could have watched al of it, you know.â€​

“To tel the truth, I did see quite a lot.â€​

“There you are, then! Come on over here a moment. Come out from under that japonica.â€​

I meekly do as instructed.

“Was there something else you wanted to do there?â€​

“No, I was just thinking of heading back.â€​

“Wel then, let’s go together.â€​

“Very wel .â€​

Stil submissive, I return to the clump of japonica, put on my hat, retrieve my painting equipment, and set off to walk beside her.

“Did you paint anything?â€​

“No, I gave up.â€​

“You haven’t painted a single picture since you’ve been here, have you?â€​

“That’s so, yes.â€​

“But surely it’s odd coming here special y to paint and then producing nothing?â€​

“There are no odds about it.â€​

“Real y? Why not?â€​

“What’s the odds whether I paint a picture or not, after al ?â€​

“That’s a pun, isn’t it.â€​ She laughs. “You’re very nonchalant, I must say.â€​

“What’s the point of coming to a place like this if you’re not going to be nonchalant?â€​

“Oh, come now. No matter what place you’re in, being alive has no point unless you’re nonchalant. Look at me, I’m not at al embarrassed to have been seen as you saw me back there.â€​

“There’s no need to be embarrassed, surely.â€​

“You think so? So who do you imagine that man was?â€​

“Hmm. Wel , he certainly isn’t someone with a lot of money.â€​

She laughs again. “A good guess. You’re a master of insight, aren’t you! Actual y, he has so little money he can’t stay in the country, and he came to get some money from me.â€​

“Real y? Where did he come from?â€​

“He came from the town down there.â€​

“That’s a long way. And where is he going?â€​

“Wel , it seems he’s going to Manchuria.â€​

“What wil he do there?â€​

“What wil he do there? I don’t know, he may make some money, or he may die.â€​

I raise my eyes to look at her. The little smile that has been hovering on her lips is rapidly disappearing. I can’t guess the meaning of her words.

“That man is my husband.â€​

Quick as a flash, she has landed me a slashing blow! I’m utterly caught by surprise. I had of course had no intention of asking who he was; nor had I expected her to expose herself to me like this.

“How was that? Did I surprise you?â€​ she said.

“Yes, you did a bit.â€​

“He’s not my present husband. He’s the one I had to sever relations with.â€​

“I see. So . . .â€​

“So nothing. That’s al .â€​

“I see. . . . That fine white-wal ed house over there in the mandarin orchard, it’s in a nice place, isn’t it? Whose house is it?â€​

“That’s my older brother’s house. Let’s cal there on the way home.â€​

“Do you have some business there?â€​

“Yes, he’s asked me to do something.â€​

“I’l come with you, then.â€​

When we reach the beginning of the path down the mountainside, we don’t descend but turn right and, after a climb of a little over a hundred yards, arrive at the front gate of the house. Rather than proceeding straight to the entrance, we go to the garden at one side. Nami strides boldly along, so I fol ow suit. Three or four palms stand in the south-facing garden. Immediately beyond the earth wal , the mandarin orchard begins.

Without preliminaries, Nami seats herself on the edge of the veranda and remarks, “It’s a fine view. Look.â€​

“Yes, it certainly is.â€​

Behind the sliding doors to the house, al is quiet. Nothing suggests anyone is home. Nami shows no sign of cal ing on anyone. She simply sits at her ease, gazing down at the slope of mandarin orchard beyond. I feel rather puzzled. What business has actual y brought her here?

Our conversation has petered out, and we sit on in silence, looking at the mandarin trees. The noonday sun floods the mountain with its warm rays, and the mandarin leaves that fil our vision seem to steam and glitter. After a while a cock crows loudly in the barn behind the house.

“Good heavens, it’s noon!†Nami exclaims. “I was forgetting what I had to do. Kyuichi! Kyuichi!†She reaches over and slides open the door with a slight clatter. I can see a large empty room; a pair of scrol s in the style of the Kano School hang somehow mournful y in the alcove.4 “KyÅ«ichi!â€​

At last an answering voice is heard from the barn. The approaching steps pause behind the sliding door. It opens, and in an instant the dagger in its white wooden sheath is tumbling over the matting.

“A farewel gift from your uncle for you!â€​ Nami announces.

I had no inkling of the moment when her hand went to her waistband. The dagger somersaults two or three times, then slides smoothly across the matting to Kyuichi’s feet. It has slipped a little from the loose sheath, to reveal an inch or so of cold glinting steel.

CHAPTER 13

It is the day of Kyuichi’s departure. We are accompanying him by boat down the river as far as Yoshida Station. Besides Kyuichi, our boat contains Mr. Shioda, Nami, her brother, Genbei, and myself, of course merely in the capacity of invitee.

I am happy to go along as “inviteeâ€â€”indeed, I am happy to go along without puzzling over reasons and roles at al . Prudence, after al , can play no part in the “nonemotionalâ€​ journey.

Our boat is a flat-bottomed one, rather like a raft with sides added. The old man is seated in the middle, Nami and myself in the stern, and Kyuichi and Nami’s brother in the bow. Genbei sits apart, looking after the luggage.

“KyÅ«ichi, how do you feel about war?â€​ Nami inquires. “Do you like it?â€​

“I won’t know til I’m in it. There’l be suffering, I should think, but perhaps there’l be pleasures tooâ€​ is his innocent reply.

“No matter the suffering,â€​ the old gentleman remarks, “it’s for the sake of the nation.â€​

Nami’s next question is equal y odd. “Surely you’re inclined to go to war and see what it’s al about, now that you’ve been given a dagger?â€​

“Yes, I guess so,†Kyuichi responds with a light nod. The old gentleman laughs and tugs at his beard. His son pretends to have heard nothing.

Nami now abruptly thrusts her pale face close to Kyuichi and demands, “How are you going to be able to fight with that sort of nonchalant attitude?â€​

“You’d make a fine soldier, Nami,†says her brother. These are the first words he has spoken to her. His tone indicates that the remark is not intended as a joke.

“Me? Me, a soldier? If I could become a soldier, I’d have done it long ago. I’d be dead by now. Kyuichi, you must die too. You’l lose your honor if you come home alive.â€​

“Good heavens, hold your tongue!†exclaims her father. “No, no, you must return in triumph. Death is not the only way to serve one’s nation. I plan to live a couple of years yet. We’l be able to meet again.†The old man’s last drawn-out words tremble and are lost in tears; only the imperative of manliness prevents him from spil ing al that is in his heart. Kyuichi says nothing but simply sits with his head turned aside, looking at the riverbank.

There’s a large wil ow on the bank, and beneath it sits a man in a little boat moored to the tree, staring at his fishing line. As our boat goes by, trailing its rocking wake, the man glances up, and his eyes meet Kyuichi’s. No acknowledging charge flows between the two. The man’s mind is focused on his fishing, while Kyuichi’s busy thoughts have no space for so much as a single fish. Our boat floats calmly on past the unknown fisherman.

If you were to stand in the middle of the street, as a street-car director does, at the approach to Tokyo’s Nihonbashi Bridge, and stop every one of the hundreds who pass by every minute and learn each one’s trials and troubles, this world of ours would seem to you an appal ingly difficult place in which to live. We humans meet and part as strangers—if this were not so, who would be wil ing to take on the job of standing there directing the mil ing streetcars? It’s a lucky thing that our unknown fisherman seeks no explanation for Kyuichi’s tearful face. When I turn back to look, he is calmly watching his float. He’l likely go on sitting there, gazing at that float, until the Russian War is over.

The river is shal ow and quite narrow; the current flows gently. Our boat slips along through the water, moving inexorably on and on through the passing spring toward some other place, a place ful of noisy people who love to col ide with one another. This young man with the brutal mark of bloodshed upon his brow is drawing us mercilessly along with him. The bonds of fate are compel ing him to a dark and fearsome land far to the north, and we whose fate is tangled with his are likewise compel ed to travel with him until the ties that bind us at last give way. When this happens, something between us wil audibly snap; he alone wil be reeled inescapably in by the hand of his own fate, while we in turn are fated to remain behind. Beg and struggle though we might, he wil be powerless to draw us with him.

It is delightful how gently the boat floats on. Those must be field horsetails covering either bank; farther up are stands of wil ows. Here and there among them a low farmhouse reveals a thatched roof and a glimpse of a sooty window; occasional y a few white geese spil forth and waddle cackling into the river.

That flash of brightness between those wil ows must be a white peach tree in bloom. A loom knocks and clatters, and from within its rhythm the sound of a woman’s plangent singing drifts across the water; the song is impossible to recognize.

“Would you do a portrait of me?†Nami suddenly says to me. Kyuichi and her brother are deep in military talk, and the old man has nodded off.

“Certainly,â€​ I say obligingly. Taking out my sketchbook, I jot down the fol owing poem and pass it to her: That silken obi

unraveled by the breeze of spring—

what name does it bear?

She laughs. “It’s no good just dashing something off like this. You must put a bit of care into it, and do something that reveals my temperament.â€​

“I’ve been wanting to do the same thing myself, but somehow that face of yours just won’t compose itself into a picture the way it is.â€​

“That’s a charming answer, I must say! So what should I do to get a picture?â€​

“Oh, I could do one right now. It’s just that there’s something lacking. It would be a shame to draw you without it.â€​

“What do you mean, lacking? It’s the face I was born with, so there’s nothing I can do about it.â€​

“The face one’s born with can change in al manner of ways.â€​

“You mean I can change it?â€​

“Yes.â€​

“Don’t treat me like a fool just because I’m a woman.â€​

“On the contrary, it’s because you’re a woman that you say foolish things like that.â€​

“Wel then, let’s see you make some changes to your own face.â€​

“It already changes quite enough from day to day.â€​

She fal s silent and turns away. The riverbanks are now level with the water, and the flat expanse of unplanted rice fields beyond is deep in flowering milk vetch. A vast sea of flowers stretches away forever, blurred with the haze of spring so that it seems a recent rain has half-dissolved those vivid dots of red and run them al together. Looking up, I see the towering form of a steep peak half-blocking the sky, with a wisp of spring cloud spil ed out across its flank.

“That’s the mountain you crossed.â€​ Nami extends a white hand over the side of the boat and points to the dreamlike peak.

“Is Tengu Rock around there?â€​

“See that patch of purple below the dark green part?â€​

“That shadowy bit?â€​

“Is it shadow? It looks like a bald patch to me.â€​

“Come now, it’s a hol ow. If it was bald, it would have more brown in it.â€​

“Is that so? Anyway, Tengu Rock is apparently in behind that.â€​

“So the Seven Bends would be a little farther to the left, then.â€​

“They’re way off somewhere else, on a mountain behind that one.â€​

“Ah yes, that’s true. But I’d guess they’re about where that bit of cloud is hanging.â€​

“Yes, that’s the direction.â€​

At this point the elbow of the old man slips from the edge of the boat where he’s propped it to doze, and he awakens with a start.

“Not there yet?â€​

He stretches, chest out, right elbow drawn back, left arm thrust straight before him, then does an imitation of releasing an arrow from the bow.

Nami chuckles.

“Don’t mind me, it’s a habit of mine.â€​

I too laugh. “I see you like archery,â€​ I remark.

“I could draw a good thick bow in my youth,†he replies, patting his left shoulder, “and even now my left-hand action is stil remarkably steady.â€​

Up in the bow, the talk of war is in ful swing.

At length, the boat enters a townscape. I notice a sign painted on the low paper window of a little bar, “Drinks and Snacks,†and farther on an old-fashioned tavern. We pass a lumberyard. Occasional y the sound of a rickshaw comes from the road beyond. Swal ows twist and twitter in the air; geese honk.

Now our little party leaves the boat, and we make our way to the station.

We are being dragged yet deeper into the real world, which I define as the world that contains trains. Nothing can be more quintessential y representative of twentieth-century civilization than the steam train. It roars along, packed tight with hundreds of people in the one box, merciless in its progress, and al those hundreds crammed in there must travel at the same speed, stop at the same places, and submit to a baptismal submersion in the same swirling steam. Some say that people “ride†in a train, but I would say they are thrust into it; some speak of “going†by train, but it seems to me they are transported by it. Nothing is more disdainful of individuality. Having expended al its means to develop the individual, civilization then proceeds to crush it by al possible means. Present civilization gives each person his little patch of earth and tel s him he may wake and sleep as he pleases on it—but then it throws up an iron railing around it, and threatens us with dire consequences if we should put a foot outside this barrier. Those who can act as they please in their own little patch natural y feel the urge to do the same beyond it, so the pitiful citizens of this world spend their days biting and raging at the boundary fence that hems them in. Civilization, having given individuals their freedom and turned them into wild beasts thereby, then maintains the peace by throwing these unfortunates behind bars. This isn’t real peace, it’s the peace of the zoo, where the tiger lies in his cage glaring out at the gaping sightseers. Should one bar of that cage come loose, the world would fal apart. Then we wil have our second French Revolution. Indeed, the revolution is already under way night and day among individuals; the great European playwright Ibsen has provided us with detailed examples of the conditions necessary for it to occur. I must say, whenever I see one of those fierce trains hurtling along, treating al on board indiscriminately as so much freight, and mental y balance the individuals crammed in there against the train’s utter disregard for their individuality—I can only say, Watch out, this could be nasty if you’re not careful! Modern civilization in fact reeks of such dangers. The steam train hurtling blindly into the darkness ahead is simply one of them.

I sit in a tea shop at the station, staring thoughtful y at the piece of cake before me as I ponder this train theory of mine. I can’t very wel write it down in my sketchbook, and I feel no need to talk to anyone about it, so I simply sit here in silence, eating my cake and drinking my tea.

Opposite me are two men. Both wear straw sandals, one has a red blanket over his shoulders, and the other is dressed in pale green workman’s trousers with patches at the knees, to which he presses his hands.

“No good, eh?â€​

“No good.â€​

“We oughta have two stomachs, eh, like a cow.â€​

“That’d be the answer. One goes wrong, you just cut it out.â€​

This country fel ow is apparently suffering from stomach problems. The stench blowing from the Manchurian battle-fields has not reached these men’s nostrils; nor do they understand the evils of modern civilization. They know nothing of such matters as revolution; indeed, they haven’t so much as heard the word. They’re stil at the stage where they can seriously entertain the possibility of having two stomachs. I take out my sketchbook and set about sketching the two figures.

A bel begins to clang. The ticket is already bought.

“Right, let’s go,â€​ says Nami, rising to her feet.

The old man stands with a grunt of effort. Our party goes through the ticket gate and out onto the platform. The bel is ringing fiercely.

With a roar, the serpent of civilization comes slowly writhing along the glittering tracks, belching black smoke from its jaws.

“So the time has come to say farewel ,â€​ says the old man.

“Take good care of yourself,â€​ Kyuichi responds with a bow.

“Make sure you come home dead,â€​ Nami says once more.

“Is the luggage here?â€​ asks her brother.

The serpent draws to a halt in front of us. The doors along its side open, and now people are streaming in and out. Kyuichi boards, leaving the old man, his son, Nami, and myself standing there outside.

With a single turn of those wheels, Kyuichi wil be no longer of our world. He is off to a world far distant, where men labor amid the reek of gunpowder, and slither and fal on a red slick, while the sky thunders ceaselessly above. Kyuichi, already on his way there, stands wordlessly in the carriage gazing out at us. Here is the snapping point of our mutual fates—his that has drawn us down from the mountains, and ours that have been drawn along by him. The break is already happening, for al that the carriage doors and windows are stil open, our faces are stil visible to each other, and a mere six feet separate him who is leaving from us who remain behind.

The conductor comes running down the platform toward us, clapping the doors shut one by one, and as each closes, the distance between the travelers and those who stay behind increases. Final y Kyuichi’s door slams shut. There are now two worlds. The old man steps closer to the window, and the young man thrusts his head out.

“Careful, it’s moving!†comes a cry, and already the train is heartlessly chugging into motion. One after another the windows slide past us. Kyuichi’s face grows smal .

Then as the last third-class carriage is passing me, another face appears at the window. Gazing disconsolately out is the bearded visage of the wild mountain monk, under his brown felt hat. His eyes and Nami’s suddenly find each other. The chugging train is picking up speed, and in another instant the wild face is gone. Standing there in a daze, Nami continues to stare after it, and astonishingly, her face is flooded with an emotion that I have never until this moment witnessed there—pitying love.

“That’s it! That’s it! That’s what I need for the picture!†I murmur, patting her on the shoulder. At last, with this moment, the canvas within my own heart has found its ful and final form.

Notes

CHAPTER 1

1 . By my eastern hedge: A verse from the poem “Drinking Wine,â€​ by the Chinese poet Tao Yuanming (365-427), a work famous for extol ing the natural world and the calm heart divorced from the troubles of human life.

2 . Seated alone: A verse from the poem “House in the Bamboo Vil ageâ€​ by the Chinese poet Wang Wei (699-759).

3 . Hototogisu or Konjikiyasha: Hototogisu, written by Soseki’s contemporary Tokutomi Roka (1868-1927), depicts the tragedy of a tubercular woman separated from her beloved husband by her feudalistic family. Konjikiyasha, by another contemporary, Ozaki Koyo (1867-1903), also depicts the sorrows of love. Both novels were immensely popular.

4 . no more do they . . . peace and tranquillity: In Chinese legend a fisherman takes his boat upstream and wanders into a grove of flowering plums. There he discovers the tranquil realm of the Taoist sages, which has no contact with the mundane world.

5 . Shichikiochi or Sumidagawa: Shichikiochi is an anonymous Noh play that dramatizes the story of a loyal retainer prepared to sacrifice his child to save his master. The Noh play Sumidagawa, by Zeami (c.1364-c.1443), portrays a woman crazed by grief at the abduction of her child; she travels to the distant river Sumida in search of him.

6 . Basho . . . composed a haiku on it: Basho (1644-94), the famous Edo-period haiku poet, wrote this haiku: “Plagued by fleas and lice—/and here is my horse peeing/right by the pil ow.â€​

7 . haori: A haori is a short coat worn over Japanese dress.

CHAPTER 2

1 . a Hosho School production of the Noh play Takasago: Hosho, one of the five schools of Noh performance, had its theater in the Kanda district of Tokyo. Takasago, by Zeami, is one of the most famous Noh plays. Its protagonists are an old couple who are the spirits of two pine trees.

2 . bush warblers: These birds have a sweet cal that poetical y evokes spring.

3 . the mountain crone of Rosetsu’s painting: A famous painting by the Edo-period painter Nagasawa Rosetsu (1754-99) depicts the mythic wild-haired old woman of the mountains ( yamamba ).

4 . the war: The Russo-Japanese War of 1904-5.

5 . in Izen’s ears: Hirose Izen (1652?-1711) was a disciple of the haiku poet Basho. He spent much time on journeys composing.

6 . Suzuka’s far pass: Suzuka Mountain is on the border between present-day Mie and Shiga prefectures. The Suzuka Pass was renowned as a difficult place on the old Tokaido road between Kyoto and Edo (Tokyo) and often appeared in travel poems.

7 . it is not in fact my own poem: Soseki’s friend the poet Masaoka Shiki (1867-1902) wrote a haiku that differs in only one word.

8 . the takashimada style: an elaborate high coiffure worn by a bride.

9 . Ophelia in Millais’s painting: The English painter John Everett Mil ais (1829-96), in his famous Ophelia, depicted her floating down a river among flowers. Although Soseki describes the hands as folded, they are not so in the painting.

10 . As the autumn’s dew . . . this brief world: A poem found in the ancient poetry col ection Manyoshu (mid-eighth century) was said to be composed by a girl torn between two lovers. The legend told here is a local variation loosely based on this story.

11 . the magic feather cloak . . . demand that I return it: In the Noh play Hagoromo ( The Feather Cloak), based on a folk legend, a fisherman finds an angel’s feather cloak cast aside on a beach while she bathes, but he returns it to her when she pleads that she cannot fly back to heaven without it.

CHAPTER 3

1 . Boshu province: In the southern part of present-day Chiba prefecture.

2 . “Bamboo shadows . . .â€​: This quotation comes from a wel -known col ection of epigrammatic sayings, Taigentan, by sixteenth-century writer Hong Zieheng.

3 . Kosen . . . Mokuan: These seventeenth-century priests of the Obaku sect were renowned for their cal igraphy.

4 . Jakuchu: Ito Jakuchu (1716-1800) was famous for his paintings of creatures and plants.

5 an Okyo gives us the beauty of a ghost: Maruyama Okyo (1733-95) famously painted the ghost of a woman in diaphanous robes.

6 . Salvator Rosa: Rosa (1615-73) was an artist and poet who specialized in dramatic scenes.

7 . too many season words: A haiku must have one word associated with a season. “Blossomâ€​ and “hazyâ€​ are both season words for spring.

8 . Inari’s fox god: The Inari god is often represented by its guardian foxes. The fox is traditional y reputed to be a shape-changer, often taking the form of a woman.

9 . The fierce sculptures . . . Hokusai: Unkei (c.1148-1223) was a Buddhist sculptor. His sculptures of guardian gods at the Nara temples of Todaiji and Kofukuji are among his greatest works. Hokusai (1760-1849) was a famous artist of the ukiyo-e style. His cartoon sketches of everyday life are ful of movement.

CHAPTER 4

1 . Hakuin’s sermons . . . The Tales of Ise: Hakuin (1685-1768) is one of the most famous Japanese Zen masters. The Tales of Ise (c.877-c.940) is among the earliest classic works of Japanese literature.

2 . Young Yoshitsune . . . under the hazed moon: According to legend, the folk hero Minamoto Yoshitsune (1159-89) as a youth disguised himself as a woman to make a surprise attack on the great warrior Benkei.

3 . “vast empty mountains, no one to be seenâ€​: This is the first line of a poem in praise of the hermit’s life, by Wang Wei (699-759), titled “Deer Park.â€​

4 . “Willow Branchâ€​ Kannon bodhisattva: Kannon, bodhisattva of mercy, is sometimes depicted holding a wil ow branch, symbolizing her ability to bend and hear al prayers.

5 . “the eye is the finest thing in the human formâ€​: A quotation from Confucius. The eye is considered good because it unfailingly reveals a person’s good or evil nature.

6 . Sadder . . . from my sight: This poem is contained in The Shaving of Shagpat: An Arabian Entertainment, a novel by the British novelist George Meredith (1828-1909). The two lines below continue this poem.

7 . Rikyu: Sen Rikyu (1522-91) first refined the rituals surrounding the drinking of whisked green tea, which subsequently developed into the modern tea ceremony.

8 . as the famous haiku has it: This passage contains quotations from two haiku. The first is by Kikaku (1661-1707): “The bush warbler/flings his body upside down/with his first song of spring.â€​ The second is by Yosa Buson (1716-83): “The bush warbler / oh how he sings / smal mouth open wide!â€​

CHAPTER 5

1 . Fukurokuju: One of the seven “gods of fortune,â€​ of Chinese origin. Fukurokuju is characterized by a very elongated head. Childless couples could pray to a chosen deity in hopes of receiving the gift of a child from him.

2 . Anglo-Japanese Alliance: In 1902 England and Japan drew up a military al iance. It was celebrated in Japan by the issue of sets of tiny crossed flags of the two nations.

CHAPTER 6

1 . Wen Tong’s bamboo . . . the human figures of Buson: Wen Tong (1018-79) was a Chinese ink painter famed for his bamboo. Unkoku Togan (1547-1618) was a bold and expressive painter of screens. Taigado (Ike Taiga, 1723-76) painted in the style of the Southern School of Chinese painting known as Nanga. Yosa Buson (1716-83) was a haiku poet and painter in the Nanga style.

2 . Sesshu: Sesshu (1420-1506) was an ink painter of landscapes.

3 . Lessing: Gotthold Lessing (1729-81) was a German dramatist and essayist who wrote on the theory of aesthetics, most famously in Laocoön.

CHAPTER 8

1 . the Nanso School: Nanso was a style of traditional ink painting originating in China.

2 . Mokubei: Aoki Mokubei (1767-1833) was a wel -known Kyoto ceramicist and ink painter.

3 . Sanyo: Rai Sanyo (1780-1832) was a Confucian scholar and aesthete, as was his father, Shunsui (1746-1816).

4 . Tankei: Tankei is an area of China that gave its name to the ink stones produced from its prized stone. The stone was characterized by round red spots known as shrike spots.

5 . Kyohei: Rai Kyohei (1756-1834) was a disciple of Shunsui.

6 . Sorai: Ogyu Sorai (1666-1728) was a Confucian scholar and poet.

7 . Kotaku: Hosoi Kotaku (1658-1735) was a Confucian scholar and cal igrapher.

CHAPTER 9

1 . “The woman emanated . . . his veinsâ€​: A free translation of a scene at the end of Chapter 8 of Beauchamp’s Career by the English novelist George Meredith (1828-1909).

CHAPTER 10

1 . the Iwasakis and Mitsuis of this world: The Iwasaki family, founders of the Mitsubishi Company, and the Mitsui family, founders of the Mitsui Company, were the two great financial families of the Meiji period.

2 . Timon of Athens: This famously misanthropic Greek ruler (fifth century B.C.) was portrayed in Shakespeare’s 1623 play of that name.

CHAPTER 11

1 . Iwasa Matabei: Matabei (1578-1650) was a Japanese painter with a quirky, freestyle form.

2 . nembutsu: A repeated chant invoking Amida Buddha. An early form of nembutsu worship included dance.

3 . Chao Buzhi: Buzhi (1053-1110) was a Chinese poet, painter, and scholar. The fol owing quotation is from Traveling to the Northern Mountains of Xincheng.

CHAPTER 12

1 . Goodall: Frederick Goodal (1822-1904) was a British portraitist and landscape painter.

2 . There was once a youth . . . on the rock above: In 1903, at the age of eighteen, Fujimura Misao, a disciple of Soseki, committed suicide at the Kegon Fal s in Nikko. He left a final poem on a nearby tree.

3 . Beset by thoughts . . . all about: A poem composed by Soseki in March 1899, contemporaneously with the period of his life on which this novel is based.

4 . in the style of the Kano School: Kano was an elegant painting style dating from the fifteenth century.