The Three-Cornered World

by Sōseki Natsume

  I heard the harsh rustling sound of someone treading among the bamboo undergrowth, and the plan of my picture, which was two thirds completed in my head, crumbled. Looking up I saw a man going towards the Kankaiji temple, having presumably come down the neighbouring hillside. He was wearing a tight-sleeved kimono, and carried a bundle of faggots on his back.

  'Lovely weather,' he said, untying a towel from around his head. As he bowed the blade of a hatchet thrust into his belt flashed in the sunlight. He was a powerfully built man of about forty, and I had a feeling that I had seen him somewhere before. He treated me with the easy familiarity of an old friend.

  'Do you paint too, sir?' he asked noticing my open colour-box.

  'Yes. I came down to have a look at this pond because I thought I might paint it, but this is a lonely place, isn't it? Nobody seems to come here.'

  'Yes, it certainly is isolated . . . . You must have had a terrible time of it in all that rain up in the pass.'

  'Eh? Oh, you're the packhorse driver I met there.'

  'That's right. I cut firewood like this, and take it down to the town,' said Gembei, for it was he. Lowering his bundle to the ground, he sat down on it and took out a tobacco pouch. This was so old that it was impossible to tell whether it was paper or leather. I offered him a match.

  'Don't you find it a job having to cross the mountains every day like that?'

  'No, I'm used to it. Besides, I only go once every three days, or sometimes every four days; it all depends.'

  'I wouldn't want to do it even once in four days.'

  'Ha, ha, ha, ha. I try and keep it down to once in four days because the trip's hard on the horse.'

  'So the horse is more important than you, is he? Ha, ha, ha, ha.'

  'Well, I wouldn't quite say that. . . .'

  'By the way, this pond is extremely old, isn't it? How long has it been here, for heaven's sake?'

  'For ages.'

  'For ages? What do you mean by ages?'

  'Well, from a very long time ago.'

  'A very long time ago. I see.'

  'I know it's been here for years and years, because this is where the Shioda girl drowned herself.'

  'Shioda? At the hot spring, you mean?'

  'That's right.'

  'You say she drowned herself? But she's still alive and well.'

  'No, no, no. I'm not talking about the present Mr Shioda's daughter. This was years ago.' 'Years ago? How long?*

  'Oh, way back in olden times.'

  'And why did she drown herself?'

  'It seems, sir, that she was just as beautiful as this Mr Shioda's daughter.'

  'Go on.'

  'One day a boronji came along . . .'

  'You mean one of those wandering minstrels?'

  'Yes. You know, they used to go from place to place playing a flute, and begging. Well, Shioda's beautiful daughter saw him while he was staying at their place, and it was a case of love at first sight.—What they call Fate, I believe. Anyhow, she said she simply had to marry him, and burst into tears.'

  'Did she? Well, well, well.'

  'But her father wouldn't hear of it. He said that a boronji wasn't a fit husband for her, and quickly threw him out of the house. The girl followed him, and then when she got as far as this she threw herself into the water from somewhere near that pine tree you can see over there.—It caused a tremendous stir in the village.—The girl had a mirror with her when she drowned herself, so the story goes. That's why even to this day this is called the Kagami pond.'

  'I see. So this pond has already been somebody's grave, has it?'

  'Yes, a very extraordinary affair, indeed.'

  'How many years ago was this supposed to have happened?'

  'Oh, years and years back.—But you know sir, between you and me . . .'

  'Yes?'

  'There's been somebody mad in every generation of the Shioda family.'

  'You don't say.'

  'There's a curse on them, and no mistake. Everybody makes fun of O-Nami Shioda because they say she's become strange lately.'

  'Ha, ha, ha, ha. Nonsense.'

  'Maybe you're right. But her old lady was definitely queer in the head.'

  'Does she live with the family?'

  'No, she died last year.''Hm,' was all the reply I made as I watched a thin coil of smoke rise from the tobacco ash which my companion had knocked from his pipe. Gembei shouldered his load again and left.

  I had come to this pond to paint, but it was clear that if I continued musing and listening to such tales I would not produce a solitary picture even if I remained here for days. Since I had gone to the trouble of bringing my colour-box with me, I felt that the least I could do today would be to make some preliminary sketches of the place. Fortunately the scenery opposite would need very little rearranging to turn it into a picture, and I thought that I might make some sort of attempt at painting it.

  In an angle of the tortuous shore-line away to the right, a rock lifted its rugged bulk over ten feet out of the thick stagnant water. The bamboo which I mentioned before completely covered the precipitous side of the rock and reached right down to the water's edge. At the top, an enormous ivy-mantled pine tree about three arm spans in circumference had wrenched itself askew and leaned more than half its length out over the water. It was probably from the top of that rock that the woman had jumped clutching the mirror to her breast.

  I sat down on my tripod and cast an appraising eye over the materials that would go to make up the picture. There was the pine tree, the bamboo, the rock and the water. I could not decide, however, how much of the latter I ought to include, for the ten foot high rock cast a reflection of equal length into the depths and the bamboo was so clearly mirrored that it appeared to have continued its luxuriant growth right out into the water. Moreover, the image of the enormous towering pine tree stretched far across the pond. It was obvious that I would not get the whole scene on to the canvas in the proportions in which they appeared to me, and this led me to think that it might be interesting to paint just the reflections. I felt sure that I would astonish people if I showed them a canvas which depicted only water and reflections, and claimed that it was a picture. Mere astonishment, however, was worthless. I wanted to find some way to present these things which would astonish people because it forced them to admit that they did constitute a picture. Staring intently at the surface of the water, I sought for a solution.

  Strangely enough I could think of no expedient while looking at just the reflections, and I felt that I needed to compare them with their actual counterparts. I allowed my gaze to travel slowly from the tip of the rock's reflection up to where image joined reality, and then on again upwards appreciating as I did so not only the overall atmosphere of permanence and solidity, but also every detail of the wrinkled surface. When finally my eyes reached the top of that dangerous rock, I dropped my sketchbook and brush in surprise, and froze like a toad beneath the hypnotic stare of a snake.

  The shadows of the spring evening were beginning to deepen, and the last rays of sunlight slanted down through the green foliage making a patchwork quilt of light and shade as a backdrop to the rock. Into this I could see a face clearly interwoven. It was the face of the woman who had startled me as she stood beneath the aronia blossoms; who had startled me by entering my room as a phantom; who had startled me when wearing her wedding gown; and who had startled me in the bathroom.

  For a second I sat rooted to the spot with my gaze fixed on the woman's face. She too stood perfectly immobile on top of the rock, drawing her supple body up to its full height. It was an exquisite moment.

  Suddenly without thinking I leaped to my feet, and as I did so she swung round nimbly. I had scarcely time to glimpse a snatch of red like a camellia blossom in her obi before she jumped down the other side and was gone. The evening sun rested gently on the tree tops, subtly dyeing the trunk of the great pine, and making the bamboo look an even darker green.

  Once again I had been startled. />
  Footnotes

  1 Iwasaki and Mitsui were the founders of the Mitsubishi and Mitsui companies respectively. These were and still are two of the largest concerns in Japan.

  Thinking it a pity to waste the spring twilight by staying indoors, I had come out for a walk. Going up the flight of stone steps which led to the Kankaiji temple I had made up the following lines to express the simple child-like awe with which the sight of the stars filled me.

  Turn your face up—two, three,

  And count—four, five,

  The stars in the spring sky—six, seven, eight. . . .

  There was no particular business that I had wanted to discuss with the abbot, nor had I even felt the desire for a chat. I had simply left the hotel on the spur of the moment and strolled along aimlessly until I came to the large stone lantern set at the foot of the steps. For a while I had just stood there running my hand lightly over the stone surface on which was carved, 'No alcohol or strongly flavoured vegetables are to be brought into the temple.' Then quite suddenly I had felt a surge of happiness and had begun to climb.

  In Tristram Shandy, Sterne states that there is no method of writing more in accordance with the will of God than his. He says that he composes the opening gambit by his own efforts, but that thereafter it is a matter of fervent prayer and leaving the movement of the pen to God. Accordingly he has, of course, no idea of what he is going to write or of his ultimate destination. He only holds the pen, and it is God who does the writing. Thus, apparently, he is free from all responsibility. My stroll, and Sterne's method of writing had much in common, since they both drank at the well of irresponsibility. On my side, however, the lack of responsibility was greater, for I had not even relied on God. Sterne got rid of his responsibility by thrusting it on to his Heavenly Father, but I, who have no God to take it from me, finally dispose of mine by throwing it into a ditch with the rest of the rubbish.

  I had no intention of climbing the stone steps if the ascent should prove laborious. At the first signs of fatigue I would have withdrawn from the fray. However, stopping on the first step, I had unaccountably felt a sense of pleasure, and so had proceeded to the second. On the second step I had had the urge to compose a poem. In silence I regarded my shadow. There had seemed something strange and mysterious about the way in which it was arrested and broken by the edge of the third step; and because of this air of mystery, I had continued my climb. I had gazed up at the heavens and seen a host of small stars blinking out at me from the sleepy depths. This had struck me as poetic, and once again I had gone on, until in this way I had eventually reached the top.

  Here I had been reminded of something that happened a long time ago when I went on a trip to Kamakura. I had been roaming around having a look at the five most famous temples there, and I am almost certain that this particular incident took place at an outer shrine of the Enkakuji temple. I was slowly plodding up a flight of stone steps, just as at the Kankaiji, when a priest wearing a saffron robe and with a fiat-crowned head emerged from the gateway at the top. I was going up, and the priest was coming down. When we drew level he asked me sharply where I was going. I stopped and replied that I wanted to have a look round the temple grounds. 'There's nothing to see,' he said curtly, and hurried away down the steps. His unexpectedly frank and easy manner took me unawares, and I was still standing at the top of the steps watching his flat-crowned head bob from side to side, when he disappeared from view among some cryptomeria trees. Dining the entire descent he had not given a single backward glance. Zen priests certainly are interesting people, I thought. They are always short, sharp and to the point. I trudged in through the temple gate and looked about. There was not a living soul in either the priests' quarters or in the main hall. The whole place looked desolate. On seeing this I felt elated. The thought that there were in the world people as straightforward as the priest I had just met who dealt with you frankly somehow reassured me. It was not that I was well versed in Zen Buddhism, for to tell the truth I did not know the first thing about it. No, it was just that I was taken with the attitude of the priest with the singularly shaped head.

  The world is full of the most terrible people who are importunate, coarse, niggling and, to crown it all, brazen. Indeed, it is incomprehensible why some of them ever showed their faces on earth in the first place. They assume airs and graces, but in reality there is nothing great about them at all. Because of their expansive appearance, the fickle world frequently casts its spotlight on them, and they labour under the misapprenhension that this is fame. They will set a detective on your tail for five or ten years to reckon up how many times you break wind, and they think this is Life. Moreover, they will, on occasion, leap out in front of you and impart such unsolicited information as, 'You farted x number of times'. When they tell you this face to face, you may listen and make a note of it for future reference. But the refrain, 'You farted x number of times', often comes from behind. If you say they are a nuisance, they do it all the more. If you tell them to stop it, they redouble their efforts. Even if you say that you know, they will still repeat, 'You farted x number of times'. This is their idea of how to live with their fellow creatures. They are, of course, free to formulate their own principles for living, providing that these do not include telling people, 'You farted, you farted'. It is only common decency to desist from any course of action which is going to inconvenience others. If, however, they cannot find such a course of action, then I shall have no choice but to adopt farting as my policy; and if that should ever happen, it will be a sorry day for Japan.

  My aimless wandering on that beautiful spring evening at the Kankaiji temple was a practical manifestation of refinement. If inspiration came to me, I would accept its coming as the reason for my walk; if it left me, then its departure would become my reason. If I should compose a poem, to compose would have been my object; if I should not, then my aim would have been not to compose. Moreover, I was not inflicting myself on anybody. Thus mine was an unimpeachable principle. Counting how many times others break wind is a policy of personal attack to which farting itself is a legitimate means of defence. I, however, in climbing the steps of the temple as I had just done, was pursuing a policy of 'live and let live, and follow wherever Fate may lead.'

  Turn your face up—two, three,

  And count—four, five,

  The stars in the spring sky—six, seven, eight . . .

  By the time I had made up these lines I was above the field of light shed by the stone lantern, and thus was able to discern through the dusk the softly shimmering surface of the vernal sea which lay unrolled beneath me like a broad patterned sash. I now passed through the gateway. I was no longer in the mood for composing Chinese style quatrains, and so decided upon a policy of stopping immediately.

  On the right of the stone-paved path which led to the priests' living quarters was a wild azalea hedge, beyond which, I imagined, would be the burial ground. To the left stood the main temple hall. It was a tall imposing building whose tiled roof had taken on a dull sheen in the moonlight. Looking up I became sensible of an air of great antiquity: of untold moons who had poured their light on innumerable tiles. Somewhere I could hear the repeated cooing of pigeons. They seemed to be living beneath the ridge of the roof. I did not know whether it was my imagination, but I fancied that the eaves were flecked with white. Pigeon droppings, perhaps.

  Beneath the overhang of the eaves I could see a line of weird shadowy forms. They did not look like trees, and yet they were obviously too tall to be flowers or clumps of grass. The impression they gave was that the 'Praying Spirits' painted by Iwasa Matabei1 had ceased praying and begun dancing. They danced in a well-ordered row which extended from one end of the main hall to the other, accompanied by the equally well-ordered line of their own shadows. They had probably found the beauty of the evening irresistible, and paused only long enough to persuade each other before abandoning their gongs, bell-hammers2 and records of sacred offerings, and coming here to dance.