Nothing can be done about the divergence of individual tastes, but we must at least bring out that quality of air and colour which is peculiar to Japan when we take a piece of Japanese scenery as our subject. You cannot say, 'Thiis is a Japanese landscape,' of a picture in which the artist has slavishly copied colour tones as they appear in French paintings, however much you admire French art. You must meet Nature face to face, studying her every shape and form from dawn to dusk, until such time as you feel that you have found just the right colours. You must then grab your tripod and immediately rush out to record them on canvas, for a particular shade lasts but a moment, and once gone will not easily be discovered again. The crest of the hill at which I was now looking was full of wonderful colours the like of which were rarely to be seen in this region of Japan. Having taken the trouble to come here, I felt it a pity to waste this opportunity, and so decided to go and try my hand at reproducing these colours in a picture.Sliding back the fusuma, I stepped out on to the verandah, and found O-Nami leaning against the shōji of the first-floor room opposite. Her chin was buried in the neck band of her kimono, so that only one side of her face was visible. I was on the point of calling out to her, when her left hand dropped to her side, and in the same instant her right hand moved like the wind. A flash, which might almost have been lightening, shot two or three times across her chest. Then came a sharp click, the flash vanished and in her left hand she was holding a white-wood sheath about a foot long. The next moment she disappeared behind the shōji. I left the hotel feeling that I had been watching a very early morning performance of Kabuki.1
I turned left out of the gate along a path which very soon began to slope gently upwards. Here and there I could hear the song of an uguisu. The ground to my right fell away into a peaceful valley which was one mass of mandarin orange trees, and to my left, two low hills stood side by side. Here too there seemed to be nothing but a profusion of orange trees. I had been to this area once some years before. I cannot be bothered to work out how many years ago that was, but anyway, it was in December, and it was cold. That was the first time I had ever witnessed the sight of a hillside completely covered with orange trees. I asked one of the pickers if she would sell me a few oranges, and she replied that I was welcome to as many as I wanted, free. Then, still perched at the top of a tree, she began to sing a strange melody. If this were Tokyo, I thought, I would even have to go and buy dried peel at a chemist's. In the evening, I heard guns being fired repeatedly, and when I asked what was happening, was told that it was the hunters out after wild duck. All this, of course, happened at a time when, as yet, I had been spared even so much as the sound of O-Nami's name.
O-Nami, I thought, would make a first class actress. When before the footlights, most actors and actresses have to assume a special manner for the occasion, but O-Nami was different : her home was her stage, and her life one continuous performance. She was, moreover, quite unaware that she was playing a part, for to act was second nature to her. Hers was what, I suppose, you might describe as an aesthetic life. Thanks to her, my study of art had been considerably advanced.
Her behaviour was such that, unless regarded as playacting, it would seem weird, and rapidly become intolerable. Set against a background of stock concepts like duty and compassion, and viewed from the standpoint of the average novelist, it appears over-stimulated, and thus disagreeable. I could well imagine the probably unspeakable anguish which would result for me, an inhabitant of the world of reality, should any involved relationship develop between her and myself. Since the whole object of my present trip was to get away from everyday human ties, and do my utmost to become an artist, it was essential that I should regard everything I saw as a picture, and all the people I met as though they were merely performers in a Noh drama, or characters in a poem. Seen in the light of this resolution, O-Nami's behaviour and mode of life were more beautiful than those of any woman I had ever met. They were far more beautiful than those of an actress in a play, simply because she herself was not consciously trying to give a beautiful performance.
It would indeed be discourteous if people, misunderstanding these ideas, were to censure me as unfit to be a member of society. It is hard to follow the ways of virtue and righteousness, and the preservation of integrity is no easy task. Moreover, it requires courage to lay down one's life for honour's sake. Since suffering awaits all those who dare these paths, there must be joy in the conquest of pain if we are to muster the necessary courage to do so. Painting, poetry and drama are but different names for this joy which is couched in misery. Only when we are able to appreciate the existence of such joy can our actions become heroic, our lives purged of impurity, and can we desire to gratify that supreme spark of poetry which lies within our hearts, by overcoming all hardship and privation. Only then are we able to disregard physical pain and material discomfort, and gladly suffer death at the stake in the cause of humanity. If it is possible to define art solely in the narrow terms of human emotion, then it is that uncompromosing determination to forsake evil, and turn to virtue; to fight on the side of truth and justice in the war against iniquity; to help the weak and afflicted, and destroy the mighty, which has crystalized within the hearts of us men of culture, and which reflects the illuminating light of day.
A man whose behaviour is considered theatrical is laughed at. He is ridiculed if he should deviate so far from the human norm as to make an unnecessary sacrifice in order to convey the beauty of his feelings; and scoffed at for the absurdity of forcefully thrusting his views and ideas upon the world, instead of waiting for an opportunity to express his nobility of character by some natural means. It is permissible for those who really understand such things to laugh, but revilement by louts who have no capacity whatsoever for appreciating the finer feelings of others, and compare them with their own mean nature, is intolerable. There was once a young boy named Fujimura who commited suicide by plunging over a five hundred foot waterfall into the swirling rapids below. Before he died he wrote a poem called 'The Cliff-Top'.1 As I see it, that youth gave his life—the life which should not be surrendered—for all that is implicit in the one word 'poetry'. Death itself is truly heroic. It is the motive which prompts it that is difficult to comprehend. What right, however, have those who are not even able to see the heroism of death to ridicule Fujimura's behaviour? It is my contention that they have no right at all, for being confined by their inability to sympathize with the concept of bringing life to a heroic conclusion, however much such a step may be justified by circumstances, they are inferior to him in character.
As an artist, my specialization in mood and sentiment raises me above my more prosaic neighbours, even though I am forced to share the same world with them. Furthermore, as a member of society, I occupy a position from which I may easily educate others, for I am more readily able to perform beautiful deeds than those who are strangers to poetry and painting, and have no artistic accomplishment. In our dealings with one another, a beautiful deed is virtue, justice and righteousness; and whoever manifests these in his daily life is a model to his fellow men.
I had, for a while, been able to stand aside and view the complexity of human emotions and relationships objectively, and there was no reason for me to become involved again, at least for the duration of this trip. In fact, it was imperative that I should not become involved, for if that should happen it would mean that all my efforts had been wasted. I had to take human nature, sift out the sand and grit, and then spend my time gazing at the beautiful gold which remained in the bottom of the sieve. I was not at present a member of society, but a pure artist who, having succeeded in severing the bonds of self-interest, was leading his life peacefully in a painted world. It goes without saying, of course, that it was essential for me to view the mountains, the sea and the people around me as no more than pieces of scenery, and to accept O-Nami's behaviour just as it was without question.
I had been following the path upwards for nearly a quarter of a mile, when I caught sight of
the white wall of a building. Ah, a house among the orange groves, I thought. The path divided at this point, and I took the left-hand fork. As I did so, I looked back over my shoulder and saw a girl in a red skirt coming up from the valley. The red of her skirt gave way to the brown of her legs, which in turn ended at a pair of straw sandals. These sandals were gradually moving towards me. Wild cherry blossom was falling upon the girl's hair, and on her back she carried the sparkling sea.
The steep path eventually led me up to a plateau on a projecting spur of the mountain. To the north was a peak clothed in the green of spring. This was probably what I had seen from the verandah earlier in the morning. To the south was a strip of what I suppose would be termed burnt heathland. This was about sixty yards wide and terminated at the crumbling brink of a precipice. At the foot of the precipice were the two hills covered with orange trees which I had just passed, and looking out beyond the village, I saw, of course, the blue sea.
The path now split into many threads which converged and separated, crossed and recrossed in such a complex fashion that it was impossible to say that any of them was the main one. The result of this entanglement was that instead of every thread being a path, none of them was. The dark red earth of the tracks showed in irregular patches among the clumps of grass, and I found the unpredictability of its progress entertaining.
I wandered here and there through the grass looking for a suitable place to sit. The scenery, which when seen from the verandah had seemed a good subject for a picture, now appeared to be disappointingly unsettled. The colours too were slowly changing. Suddenly, while I was tramping back and forth across the plateau, the desire to paint deserted me. Since I was no longer seeking a vantage point, where I sat ceased to be of any importance; I could make myself comfortable anywhere. The spring sunshine penetrated to the very roots of the grass, and as I walked about wondering where to sit, I had the feeling that I was trampling unseen summer-colts underfoot.
Down there, the sparkling sea. The spring sunshine, unimpeded by so much as a flake of cloud, set the whole sheet of water aglitter, and its warmth was such that you could imagine it permeating right down to the sea-bed. The smooth surface of the sea was a study of torpid motion: one sweeping brush-stroke of dark blue, stippled with fine silver scales. The space beneath the heavens was filled with a limitless expanse of sparkling water on which the only discernible object was a white sail the size of a moth's wing. This, I thought, was how ships crossing with tributes from Korea must have looked in olden times. Apart from that sail, my whole world was sun and sea; the one giving light, and the other receiving it.
Flopping down on to the ground, I eased my hat up from my forehead so that it perched on the back of my head, and relaxed completely. Here and there the stunted forms of dwarf quince trees rose two or three feet out of the grass, and I now found myself face to face with one of them. The quince is an interesting tree. Its branches obstinately refuse to bend at all, and yet the overall effect is certainly not one of straightness. The whole lopsided framework of the tree is composed of short straight twigs and branches which collide with each other at an angle. The red or white blooms which appear in a rash over this framework look as though they do not know what they are doing there, and do not much care either. Even the soft leaves seem to have been stuck on at random. When you consider, the quince is the most foolish yet philosophical of all plants. There are people who are absolutely unconcerned with their inability to make any headway in the world, and make no effort to improve themselves. I am sure that they, in some future life, will be reborn as quince trees. I would very much like to be a quince myself.
Once, when I was a boy, I took a branch of quince, complete with blossoms and leaves, and amused myself by pruning it into a suitable shape for a writing-brush rack. When I had set my penny brushes so that their white spear-heads peeped out from among the blossoms and leaves, I placed the branch on my desk. That night when I went to bed, I thought of nothing but the quince brush-rack, and next morning, no sooner were my eyes open, than I leaped out of bed and ran to the desk to have a look at it. The flowers had died, and the leaves had shrivelled. Only the white brush-heads stood out as brightly as before. To me, it was inconceivable how such a thing of beauty could wither like that in one short night. Looking back on the incident, I realise that I was more unworldly then than I am now.
Here, up on the plateau, I had thrown myself down on to the ground, and had been greeted immediately by the quince, my old friend of twenty years ago. Staring at the flowers, I gradually started to drift, and a pleasant feeling stole over me. Once again I felt the inspiration to write, and lying in the grass, I began to arrange my ideas. I wrote down every line in my sketchbook as it came to me, and eventually when I felt I had done all I could, I read them through from the beginning.
My head was crammed with thoughts when I left home,
With spring's sweet breath playing around my skirts.
The rutted path is overgrown with fragrance,
And passes neglected into hazed obscurity.
Leaning upon my staff, 1 view each detail
Of bright Nature in her shining mande.
A crystal cascade of nightingale's notes falls on the ear,
While air is filled with sweetest floral rain.
Beyond a wide and desolate plain I reach
An ancient temple, on whose door a poem I inscribe.
In uncompanioned loneliness I look towards the clouds
Where one wild goose, unskeined, wings homeward 'cross the sky.
How deep, how recondite this seeming petty heart,
In whose recesses right and wrong lie dimmed by distance.
Although yet thirty, my thoughts are those of age,
But Spring retains her former glory.
Wandering here and there I am as one with everything in turn,
And 'midst the perfumed blossoms, peace is mine.
'Done it! I've done it!' The words escaped from me with a contented sigh. This is what I had been waiting to write. These lines exactly expressed my oblivion to the world while I had been lying gazing at the quince blossoms. It did not matter that there was no mention of the blossoms themselves, or of the sea; it was enough that the poem expressed what I felt. I was happily mumbling and muttering away to myself, when suddenly the sound of somebody clearing their throat made me jump.
Rolling over on to my stomach, and looking towards where the voice had sounded, I saw a man coming out from among the trees which fringed the spur of the mountain. He wore a battered brown Homburg, the brim of which was angled low over his brow. I was unable to see his eyes, but I felt certain that they were darting nervous glances from side to side. His dark blue striped kimono tucked up around his loins, his bare legs and wooden clogs told me svery little about him, but bis fierce unkempt beard gave him the air of a soldier of fortune.
Instead of descending the steep path which I had come up, as I expected him to do, the man stopped where it met the track he was on, turned and retraced his steps. I thought that he was going to disappear among the trees from whence he had originally emerged. But no, once again he turned and came back. Surely, I thought, only someone out for a stroll would walk to and fro across the heath like that, yet his whole attitude belied the idea. Moreover, I just could not imagine that such a person lived in this neighbourhood. From time to time the man would cock his head on one side, and then look all around him. He seemed to be lost in thought. He might, of course, be waiting for somebody; it was impossible to tell.
I eventually found that I was unable to take my eyes off this fearsome-looking character. I was not particularly scared of him, nor did I have any desire to paint him. However, I just could not tear my eyes away. I was swivelling my head from right to left, left to right, following his progress up and down when he finally came to a halt. No sooner had he done so than another figure appeared on the edge of my field of vision, and, as though in mutual recognition, the two gradually moved towards one another. The border
s of my field of vision slowly began to close in, until at last they included no more than a tiny area right in the centre of the heath. The two figures now stood facing each other, almost touching. Behind one, were the mountains of spring, and behind the other, the sea.
One of the pair was, of course, the 'soldier of fortune*. And who was his companion? It was a woman—O-Nami! At the sight of O-Nami, I immediately recalled the dagger I had seen her with earlier that morninig, and the thought that she probably had it concealed in her kimono sent a shiver of fear through me, even though I was supposed to be watching objectively.
For a while, the man and the woman remained perfectly still, both maintaining the same posture as when they had first come together. There was not a movement to be seen anywhere. They may perhaps have been talking, but I could hear nothing at all. The man at length allowed his head to slump forward on to his chest, and O-Nami turned away towards the mountains, so that her face was hidden from me. She appeared to be listening to an uguisu which was singing somewhere over there. A few moments later, the man drew himself upright and half turned on his heel. There was definitely something wrong. O-Nami spread her arms and. silently swung round to face the sea. Something which looked like the hilt of a dagger was poking out from the top of her obi. Holding himself proudly erect the man started to move away. With just two steps, which her straw sandals rendered quite noiseless, O-Nami came up behind him. He stopped. Had she called out to him? He turned his head, and in that instant O-Nami's right hand dropped to her obi. Look out!
What flashed into view, however, was not the foot long dagger, but some kind of purse, the long drawstring of which swung back and forth in the spring breeze, as it dangled from the white hand extended to the man.
O-Nami stood with one foot advanced, and her body from the waist up leaning slightly backwards. On the outstretched palm of her white hand sat the purple-coloured purse. This posture alone was worth a canvas to itself.