The Three-Cornered World

by Sōseki Natsume

  When I was a boy there was a wine shop called Yoro-zuya just beyond the gate of our house, and on quiet spring afternoons the proprietor's young daughter, O-Kura, would always practise singing and playing long epic ballads. As soon as she began, I would go into the garden to listen to her. Just in front of our tea-garden, which was a little over forty square yards in size, three pine trees stood in a row along the eastern side of the guest rooms. They were tall trees with trunks about a foot in circumference, but the interesting thing was that they only looked elegant when viewed as a group. As a child, I remember, it gave me a great deal of pleasure to look at these trees. Beneath the three pines, there was a slab of some kind of reddish rock on which stood a metal lantern blackened and rusted with age. It was always there like some cantankerous and obstinate old man who refused to budge, and I used to love to sit and gaze at it. Around the lantern wild spring flowers and tall grasses whose names I did not know pushed through the thickly moss-covered ground. They appeared to pay no attention to the changing world about them, nor to fear the wind that might destroy them. Alone they gave off their fragrance, and alone they were happy. I used to seek out a small space where I could kneel among the flowers without crushing them, and there I would crouch quietly. To gaze at the lantern beneath the pine trees, to smell the perfume of the flowers and to listen to the sound of O-Kura playing and singing ballads in the distance became my daily routine.

  O-Kura would have left behind her long ago the age when she wore red silk ribbons in her hair, and now probably presented a rather dowdy domesticated picture as she served behind the shop counter. I wondered whether she was happily married, and whether the swallows still looked as busy as ever, carrying in their beaks mud for their nests. Somehow I just could not get those swallows and the smell of rice-wine out of my head.

  Were the three pine trees still standing there as elegantly as before? The metal lantern would doubtless be broken. Did the spring flowers remember a small boy who knelt among them? No, even in those days they had gone then-own sweet way without a word, so there was no reason why they should remember now. Nor would they have retained the memory of O-Kura's voice as every day she sang: 'The hempen gown of the wandering priest . . .'

  At the sound of the samisen, this unexpected panorama had opened up before me, and I found myself in the mysterious and wonderful world of the past. Once again I was that small boy who had lived twenty years ago. Suddenly the door of the bathroom slid open. 'Somebody has come in,' I thought, and without changing my position I raised my eyes towards the door. Since I was lying with my head resting on the side farthest away from the door, I was able to see the steps which led down to the bath, diagonally opposite to me and approximately twenty feet away. As yet, however, no one had come into view. For a while the only sound was of raindrops falling from all around the eaves, for the samisen had stopped playing at some time or other.

  At length something appeared at the head of the steps. Although large, the room was lit only by one small hanging lantern, and so even had the air been completely clear, it would still have been difficult to distinguish anything accurately at this distance. To make matters worse, however, this evening the rising steam was unable to escape, being shut into the bathroom by the fine drizzle outside, and it became abolutely impossible to tell who was standing there. Whoever it was put one foot down on to the second step, but as at that moment the light was not falling directly on them, I could not make out whether it was a man or a woman, and was thus at a loss what to say.

  The dark shape descended to the next step without a sound, making it seem that the stone underfoot was as soft as velvet. Indeed, anyone judging from the sound would have been excused for thinking that there had been no movement at all. The shimmering outline had now become a little more clearly discernible. Being an artist, I have an unusually good sense of perception concerning the structure of the human body, and no sooner had this unknown person moved down a step than I realised that I was alone in the bathroom with a woman.

  I was still floating there, trying to decide whether or not to give any indication of having seen her, when quite suddenly and without any reserve she appeared directly before me. She stood there surrounded by swirling eddies of mist into which the gentle light suffused a rose-tinted warmth, and the sight of her lithe and upright figure, crowned with billowing clouds of jet-black hair, drove all thoughts of good manners, civility and propriety out of my head. My whole being was filled with the realisation that I had discovered a beautiful artistic subject.

  I have no complaint to make against classical Greek sculpture, but whenever I see one of those nude paintings which seem to have become the lifeblood of contemporary French art, I feel that somehow it is lacking in refinement, for it is obvious that the artist has gone to extremes to express the beauty of uncovered flesh. I cannot say that such paintings have ever perturbed me unduly, but I have, from time to time, been annoyed at my inability to define why I thought them indelicate. I know that in covering up the human body one is concealing a thing of beauty, and yet to leave it uncovered makes it common. The modern painters of nudes are not even content with reproducing as it is the body they have deprived of attire, but thrust it to a nauseating extent on to the clothed world round about. They forgot that it is a natural thing for man to wear clothes, and attempt to give nudity all the rights. Instead of leaving well alone, they try with all their might to get the nakedness to scream out to you from the canvas. When art is carried to such lengths it debases itself by coercing the people who look at it. If you struggle to make a thing of perfect beauty appear more beautiful, you will only succeed in detracting from it This idea is expressed, with regard to everyday life, in the proverb: 'From Perfection there is only one road—down.'

  Placidity and simplicity both indicate the presence of that underlying depth which is an indispensible ingredient of art and literature. The shortcomings of modern art may be attributed to the way in which the so-called tide of civilisation is indiscriminately sweeping aside the 'old guard' in its impatient haste to advance. Nude paintings provide a good example of this. In the cities we have Geisha, those women who trade on their physical charms, and to whom the art of flattery is a means of earning a living. When they are with a 'client', their sole expression is one of anxiously trying to impress him with their appearance. The nude beauties who fill the perennial salon catalogues to overflowing are similar to these Geisha. Not only are they unable to forget their own nakedness, but they use to the uttermost every muscle in their bodies to make the viewer aware of it.

  There was, however, no trace of any such vulgarity about the exquisite form before me. As soon as you use the words 'stripped of clothes', you have already descended to the level of ordinary mortals; but this woman looked as natural as if she had been conjured up in a cloud in the age of the gods, before there were any clothes to cover the body or any sleeves to put arms through.

  Wave upon wave of steam rolled upwards refracting and diffusing the late spring light, and filling the entire room with a warmly scintillating rainbow. There in the opalescent depths rose her pure white form, gradually shading into hair so dimly visible as to make it difficult to determine whether indeed it was black or not. What a superb figure.

  The line of her neck on both sides turned lightly inwards, and then sloping easily downwards, rounded the ample shoulders and flowed on down her arms, separating at the ends to form the fingers. Beneath the two well-formed breasts the wave of her body subsided for a while to rise again gently as the firm full line of her abdomen. This fullness receded in its turn, and faded at the line of her groin. From here the thigh muscles stood out slightly, being tensed to preserve her balance. The long sweeping undulation of her leg was deflected by the knee and sent curving down to the heel. Here the whole intricacy of line was resolved and carried finally to the sole of her tapering foot. Such complexity yet unity of structure was surely unique. It would be impossible to find a shape so natural, so soft, so lacking in resistance and yet so
unobtrusive.

  It was not in fact thrust flagrantly into view like the average nude, but being only dimly visible in the midst of a strange aura of enchantment which lent mystery to all within it, gave no more than a subtle hint of its full beauty. There was about it that same artistically perfect combination of atmosphere, warmth and sense of the ethereal that exists in a picture in which the artist suggests the presence of a horned dragon merely by dotting a few scales here and there in an inky black haze. If it it true that a dragon on which every single scale has been carefully painted looks ludicrous, then conversely the naked human body when looked at with deference retains its sublime loveliness. When I first caught sight of this figure I thought it might be some beautiful maiden who had fled down to earth from the kingdom of the moon, and who now stood there hesitating, surrounded by the rainbow which had pursued her.

  The whiteness of the woman's skin came floating towards me, and I feared that with one more step my maiden from the moon would degenerate into a being of this common world. Just then, however, her thick blue-black hair streamed around her with a swish like the tail of some gigantic legendary turtle cleaving through the waves. Next moment her white figure was flying up the steps tearing through the veils of mist. A clear peal of feminine laughter rang out in the corridor and gradually echoed away into the distance, leaving the bathroom quiet again. The water washed over my face, so I stood up. As I did so, startled waves lapped against my chest, and splashed noisily over the sides of the tank.

  I had been invited to have tea with old Mr Shioda. Besides myself, the other guests were Daitetsu the abbot of the Kan-kaiji temple, and a young layman who was about twenty-four or twenty-five years of age. To get from my room to the old man's I just had to go down the passage to the right, and turn left at the end. His room was about twelve feet long by nine feet wide, but seemed smaller because of the large rosewood table set in the centre. Looking towards the place he had indicated I should sit, I noticed instead of a cushion, there was a beautiful rug spread there, which was obviously Chinese. Strange and wonderful houses and willow trees had been woven into a hexagon in the middle, and the surround was an almost metallic shade of indigo. In each of the four corners was a pattern of brown rings interwoven with a creeper-like design. I doubt whether such a rug would ever be used in a Chinese sitting-room, but it looked very nice as a substitute for a cushion. Just as the merit of Indian chintz and Persian tapestry lies in their conservatism, so the charm of this rug lay in its lack of frivolous detail. This lack is not only noticeable in Chinese carpets, but in all their furniture and ornaments. Looking at them, you cannot fail to realise that they were created by a stolid, patient people. What makes these objects so superlative is their ability to absorb one's interest utterly and completely. Japan produces her works of art with the attitude of a pick-pocket, while in the West everything must be on a grand scale, and is inseparable from the material world. It was with these thoughts in mind that I took my seat. The young man sat down next to me, occupying half the rug.

  The abbot was seated on a tiger skin whose tail stretched out near my knees and whose head was underneath our host. Mr Shioda was completely bald, but had a bushy white beard, giving the impression that the hair had been transplanted from his head to his face. He now placed the teacups on their saucers and carefully arranged them on the low table. Turning to the abbot he said: 'How are you? It's been quite a time since we had a guest, so I thought it would be nice if we all had some tea together.'

  'Thank you for the invitation,' replied the abbot. 'I was only thinking today that it had been so long since I had been to see you, that I really would have to call in.' He was a man of about sixty, whose once round face had now collapsed into the mellow lines of age. In fact he looked for all the world like a picture of Dharma Buddha which someone had sketched with rapid unsteady strokes. He seemed to have been a close friend of Mr Shioda's for a long time.

  'I presume this gentleman is the guest you were speaking of,' he continued.

  Nodding his head in assent, Mr Shioda tilted the small vermilion teapot and allowed a few precious drops of the green-tinged amber liquid to trickle into each of the cups. I could feel the delicate aroma gently assailing my nostrils.

  'You probably find it rather lonely right out here in the country by yourself, don't you?' the abbot asked me as soon as the tea had been poured.

  For reply I made as non-committal a noise as possible. To say that I was lonely would have been untrue, and yet if I said I was not, it would necessitate giving a long explanation.

  'No, Abbot,' broke in Mr Shioda, 'this gentleman has come here to paint, so he has plenty to do.'

  'Oh really? That's splendid. I suppose you belong to the Nanso school.'

  This time I answered with a plain 'No'. I felt sure the abbot would not have understood if I had said that I painted in the Western style.

  'No, he paints in that Western style.' Once again Mr Shioda, in his role as host, had taken upon himself the task of answering for me.

  'Oh, the Western style? Then you must paint the same sort of things as Kyuichi here. I saw one of his pictures for the first time the other day, and I must say it was very pretty.'

  'Oh no, it wasn't any good at all,' protested the young man, speaking at last.

  'Did you show one of your paintings to the abbot then?' Mr Shioda asked him. Judging from the way he spoke and from his attitude, I thought they might be related.

  'Well, I didn't exactly show it to him; he just happened to catch me painting down by the Kagami pond.'

  'Hm. Did he now?—Well, the tea's poured out, so please start.' So saying he placed a cup before each of us. Although the cup itself was large, there was only a very small amount of tea in the bottom. The dark grey exterior of the cup was covered with deep red and pale yellow brush strokes, but whether these were meant to form a picture, a pattern or a devil's mask motif I could not imagine.

  'It's by Mokubei,' explained old Mr Shioda simply.

  It's very interesting,' I replied with equal brevity.

  'There seem to be a lot of imitations about—have a look at the bottom, the name's written there.'

  I picked it up, and in order to see better turned towards the shōji on which were thrown the warm elliptical shadows of the leaves of a 'haran' plant standing in a pot outside.

  Bending my head forward I peeped inside the cup, and there sure enough was the name 'Mokubei' in small letters. I do not think the name is particularity important as far as the appreciation of an object is concerned, and yet apparently it is something which collectors set great store by. Instead of putting the cup back down on the table, I raised it to my lips.

  For the man of leisure there is no more refined nor delightful pursuit than savouring this thick delicious nectar drop by drop on the tip of the tongue. The average person talks of 'drinking' tea, but this is a mistake. Once you have felt a little of the pure liquid spread slowly over your tongue, there is scarcely any need to swallow it. It is merely a question of letting the fragrance penetrate from your throat right down to your stomach. On no account should it be swilled round the mouth and over the teeth, for this is extremely coarse. 'Gyokuro' tea escapes the insipidness of pure water and yet is not so thick as to require any tiring jaw action. It is a wonderful beverage. Some complain that if they drink tea they cannot sleep, but to them I would say that it is better to go without sleep than without tea.

  While I was engrossed in these thoughts, Mr Shioda had brought out a cake bowl which was the colour of sapphires. The skill and precision with which the craftsman had shaved away large lumps of the porcelain to leave parts of the wall so thin as to be translucent was truly amazing. When I held it up to the light, it seemed as though the spring shadows had darted into the bowl, and then become trapped having forgotten the way out. I was glad that it was empty.

  'I heard how you admired celadon porcelain, so I thought I would show you a little today.'

  'What celadon porcelain is that you're talking ab
out?' broke in the abbot. 'Oh, the cake bowl. Yes, I like that too. By the way,' he went on to me, 'do you think it would be possible to paint a Western style picture on a fusuma1? If it would, I'd like to ask you to do one for me.'

  I could hardly refuse outright, but I was not sure whether the abbot would like my painting. It would, I felt, have been a great pity if I spent a considerable amount of effort on it, only to have him say that he did not care for the Western style of painting; so I said, 'I don't think it would go well on a fusuma.'

  'No, perhaps it wouldn't. If Kyuichi's picture which I saw the other day is anything to go by, it might be a little too gaudy.'

  'Oh, mine was no good, I was only messing about,' said the young man modestly, obviously acutely embarrassed.

  'Where is that what's-its-name pond you mentioned just now?' I asked him out of curiosity.

  'It's in a secluded spot down in the valley behind the Kankaiji temple—it was only that I learned a little Western painting when I was at school, so I thought I'd go down there to while away the time.'

  'The Kankaiji temple?'

  'That's where I am,' the abbot answered. 'It's a nice place. It looks right down on the sea, and—well, you must come and see for yourself while you're here; it's not half a mile away. Look, you can see the stone steps that lead up to the temple, from the verandah there.'

  'May I really come up and visit you sometime?'

  'Yes, of course. I'm always there. Mr Shioda's daughter often comes.—Speaking of O-Nami, I haven't seen her today.—Is there anything wrong with her, Mr Shioda?'

  'She's probably gone out somewhere. I don't suppose she went to your place Kyuichi, did she?'

  'No, I didn't see her.'

  'I expect she's gone off on one of her lone walks again,'put in the abbot. 'Ha, ha, ha. She certainly has a sturdy pair of legs. I had to go down to Tonami the other day on a clerical matter, and when I got near Sugatami bridge I saw someone that I thought looked remarkably like O-Nami. Sure enough, when I got closer I found it was her. There she was with her kimono tucked right up at the back, and wearing a pair of straw sandals. Well, she suddenly turned to me, and burst out with, "Hello, Abbot. What are you standing there gaping for? Where are you going?" It quite took me aback, I can tell you. Ha, ha, ha, ha. When I asked her where on earth she'd been, dressed like that, she said that she'd been gathering parsley. And then she said, "I'll give you some, Abbot," and without more ado she thrust a bunch of the muddy parsley into my sleeve. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha.'