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 appallingly difficult place in which to live. We humans meet and part as strangers—if this were not so, who would be willing to take on the job of standing there directing the milling 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’ll likely go on sitting there, gazing at that float, until the Russian War is over.
The river is shallow 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 full of noisy people who love to collide 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 compelling him to a dark and fearsome land far to the north, and we whose fate is tangled with his are likewise compelled to travel with him until the ties that bind us at last give way. When this happens, something between us will audibly snap; he alone will 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 will 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 willows. Here and there among them a low farmhouse reveals a thatched roof and a glimpse of a sooty window; occasionally a few white geese spill forth and waddle cackling into the river.
That flash of brightness between those willows 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,” I say obligingly. Taking out my sketchbook, I jot down the following 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.”
“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.”
“That’s a charming answer, I must say! So what should I do to get a picture?”
“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.”
“What do you mean, lacking? It’s the face I was born with, so there’s nothing I can do about it.”
“The face one’s born with can change in all manner of ways.”
“You mean I can change it?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t treat me like a fool just because I’m a woman.”
“On the contrary, it’s because you’re a woman that you say foolish things like that.”
“Well then, let’s see you make some changes to your own face.”
“It already changes quite enough from day to day.”
She falls 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 all together. Looking up, I see the towering form of a steep peak half-blocking the sky, with a wisp of spring cloud spilled out across its flank.
“That’s the mountain you crossed.” Nami extends a white hand over the side of the boat and points to the dreamlike peak.
“Is Tengu Rock around there?”
“See that patch of purple below the dark green part?”
“That shadowy bit?”
“Is it shadow? It looks like a bald patch to me.”
“Come now, it’s a hollow. If it was bald, it would have more brown in it.”
“Is that so? Anyway, Tengu Rock is apparently in behind that.”
“So the Seven Bends would be a little farther to the left, then.”
“They’re way off somewhere else, on a mountain behind that one.”
“Ah yes, that’s true. But I’d guess they’re about where that bit of cloud is hanging.”
“Yes, that’s the direction.”
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?”
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.”
I too laugh. “I see you like archery,” 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 still remarkably steady.”
Up in the bow, the talk of war is in full 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. Occasionally the sound of a rickshaw comes from the road beyond. Swallows 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 quintessentially 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 all 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 all its means to develop the individual, civilization then proceeds to crush it by all possible means. Present civilization gives each person his little patch of earth and tells 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 naturally 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 fall apart. Then we will 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 all on board indiscriminately as so much freight, and mentally 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 thoughtfully at the piece of cake before me as I ponder this train theory of mine. I can’t very well 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?”
“No good.”
“We oughta have two stomachs, eh, like a cow.”
“That’d be the answer. One goes wrong, you just cut it out.”
This country fellow 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 still 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 bell begins to clang. The ticket is already bought.
“Right, let’s go,” 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 bell 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 farewell,” says the old man.
“Take good care of yourself,” Kyuichi responds with a bow.
“Make sure you come home dead,” Nami says once more.
“Is the luggage here?” 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 will 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 fall 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 all that the carriage doors and windows are still open, our faces are still 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. Finally 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 small.
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 full and final form.
Notes
CHAPTER 1
1 . By my eastern hedge: A verse from the poem “Drinking Wine,” by the Chinese poet Tao Yuanming (365-427), a work famous for extolling 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 Village” 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 pillow.”
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 call that poetically 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 Millais (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 collection 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 . . .”: This quotation comes from a well-known collection 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 calligraphy.
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. “Blossom” and “hazy” are both season words for spring.
8 . Inari’s fox god: The Inari god is often represented by its guardian foxes. The fox is traditionally
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 full 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 seen”: This is the first line of a poem in praise of the hermit’s life, by Wang Wei (699-759), titled “Deer Park.”
4 . “Willow Branch” Kannon bodhisattva: Kannon, bodhisattva of mercy, is sometimes depicted holding a willow branch, symbolizing her ability to bend and hear all prayers.
5 . “the eye is the finest thing in the human form”: 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.” The second is by Yosa Buson (1716-83): “The bush warbler / oh how he sings / small mouth open wide!”
Kusamakura Page 16
