An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  Then my father turned to my mother and said: ‘Do you remember, Sachiko, the wandering priests who used to come through this village? There was one who came to this house just after our son here was born. A thin old man, with only one hand. But a very sturdy fellow for all that. You remember him?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ my mother said. ‘But perhaps one should not take to heart what some of these priests have to say.’

  ‘But you remember,’ my father said, ‘this priest gained a deep insight into Masuji’s heart. He left us with a warning, you remember, Sachiko?’

  ‘But our son was no more than a baby then,’ my mother said. Her voice was lowered, as though she somehow hoped I would not hear. In contrast, my father’s voice was needlessly loud, as if addressing an audience:

  ‘He left us with a warning. Masuji’s limbs were healthy, he told us, but he had been born with a flaw in his nature. A weak streak that would give him a tendency towards slothfulness and deceit. You remember this, Sachiko?’

  ‘But I believe the priest also had many positive things to say about our son.’

  ‘This is true. Our son had a lot of good qualities, the priest did point that out. But you recall his warning, Sachiko? He said if the good points were to dominate, we who brought him up would have to be vigilant and check this weak streak whenever it tried to manifest itself. Otherwise, so the old priest told us, Masuji here would grow up to be a good-for-nothing.’

  ‘But perhaps,’ my mother said cautiously, ‘it is unwise to take to heart what these priests have to say.’

  My father appeared a little surprised by this remark. Then, after a moment, he nodded thoughtfully, as though my mother had made a perplexing point. ‘I was myself reluctant to take him seriously at the time,’ he continued. ‘But then at every stage of Masuji’s growing up, I’ve been obliged to acknowledge that old man’s words. It can’t be denied, there is a weakness running through our son’s character. There’s little in the way of malice in him. But unceasingly, we’ve had to combat his laziness, his dislike of useful work, his weak will.’

  Then, with some deliberation, my father picked up three or four of my paintings and held them in both hands as though to test their weight. He turned his gaze towards me and said: ‘Masuji, your mother here was under the impression that you wished to pursue painting as a profession. Has there perhaps been some misunderstanding on her part?’

  I lowered my eyes and remained silent. Then I heard my mother’s voice beside me, almost whispering, say: ‘He’s still very young. I’m sure It’s just a childish whim of his.’

  There was a pause, then my father said: ‘Tell me, Masuji, have you any idea what kind of a world artists inhabit?’

  I remained silent, looking at the floor before me.

  ‘Artists’, my father’s voice continued, ‘live in squalor and poverty. They inhabit a world which gives them every temptation to become weak-willed and depraved. Am I not right, Sachiko?’

  ‘Naturally. Yet perhaps there are one or two who are able to pursue an artistic career and yet avoid such pitfalls.’

  ‘Of course, there are exceptions,’ my father said. My eyes were still lowered, but I could tell from his voice that he was again nodding in his perplexed manner. ‘The handful with extraordinary resolve and character. But I’m afraid our son here is far from being such a person. Indeed, quite the contrary. It is our duty to protect him from such dangers. We do, after all, wish him to become someone we can be proud of, don’t we?’

  ‘Of course,’ my mother said.

  I looked up quickly. The candle had burned half-way down its length and the flame was sharply illuminating one side of my father’s face. He had now placed the paintings on his lap, and I noticed how his fingers were moving impatiently along their edges.

  ‘Masuji,’ he said, ‘you may leave us now. I wish to speak with your mother.’

  I can remember a little later that night, coming across my mother in the darkness. In all likelihood, it was in one of the corridors that I encountered her, though I do not remember this. Neither do I remember why I was wandering around the house in the dark, but it was certainly not in order to eavesdrop on my parents – for I do recall being resolved to pay no heed to what occurred in the reception room after my departure. In those days, of course, houses were all badly lit, so it was not at all unusual that we should stand in the dark and converse. I could make out my mother’s figure in front of me, but could not see her face.

  ‘There’s a smell of burning around the house,’ I remarked.

  ‘Burning?’ My mother was silent for a while, then she said: ‘No. I don’t think so. It must be your imagination, Masuji.’

  ‘I smelt burning,’ I said. ‘There, I just caught it again. Is Father still in the reception room?’

  ‘Yes. He’s working on something.’

  ‘Whatever he’s doing in there,’ I said, ‘it doesn’t bother me in the least.’

  My mother made no sound, so I added: ‘The only thing Father’s succeeded in kindling is my ambition.’

  ‘That is good to hear, Masuji.’

  ‘You mustn’t misunderstand me, Mother. I have no wish to find myself in years to come, sitting where Father is now sitting, telling my own son about accounts and money. Would you be proud of me if I grew to be like that?’

  ‘I would indeed, Masuji. There is much more to a life like your father’s than you can possibly know at your age.’

  ‘I would never be proud of myself. When I said I was ambitious, I meant I wished to rise above such a life.’

  My mother fell silent for some moments. Then she said: ‘When you are young, there are many things which appear dull and lifeless. But as you get older, you will find these are the very things that are most important to you.’

  I did not reply to this. Instead, I believe I said: ‘Once, I was terrified of Father’s business meetings. But for some time now, they’ve simply bored me. In fact, they disgust me. What are these meetings I’m so privileged to attend? The counting of loose change. The fingering of coins, hour after hour. I would never forgive myself if my life came to be like that.’ I paused and waited to see if my mother would say anything. For a moment, I had a peculiar feeling she had walked silently away while I had been speaking and I was now standing there alone. But then I heard her move just in front of me, so I repeated: ‘It doesn’t bother me in the least what Father’s doing in the reception room. All he’s kindled is my ambition.’

  However, I see I am drifting. My intention had been to record here that conversation I had with Setsuko last month when she came into the reception room to change the flowers.

  As I recall it, Setsuko had seated herself before the Buddhist altar and had begun to remove the more tired of the flowers decorating it. I had seated myself a little behind her, watching the way she carefully shook each stem before placing it on her lap, and I believe we were talking about something quite light-hearted at that stage. But then she said, without turning from her flowers:

  ‘Excuse me for mentioning this, Father. No doubt, it would have already occurred to you.’

  ‘What is that, Setsuko?’

  ‘I merely mention it because I gather it is very likely Noriko’s marriage negotiations will progress.’

  Setsuko had begun to transfer, one by one, the fresh cuttings from out of her vase into those surrounding the altar. She was performing this task with great care, pausing after each flower to consider the effect. ‘I merely wished to say,’ she went on, ‘once the negotiations begin in earnest, it may be as well if Father were to take certain precautionary steps.’

  ‘Precautionary steps? Naturally, we’ll go carefully. But what precisely did you have in mind?’

  ‘Forgive me, I was referring particularly to the investigations.’

  ‘Well, of course, we’ll be as thorough as necessary. We’ll hire the same detective as last year. He was very reliable, you may remember.’

  Setsuko carefully repositioned a stem. ‘Forgive me, I am
no doubt expressing myself unclearly. I was, in fact, referring to their investigations.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure I follow you. I was not aware we had anything to hide.’

  Setsuko gave a nervous laugh. ‘Father must forgive me. As you know, I’ve never had a gift for conversation. Suichi is forever scolding me for expressing myself badly. He expresses himself so eloquently. No doubt, I should endeavour to learn from him.’

  ‘I’m sure your conversation is fine, but I’m afraid I don’t quite follow what you are saying.’

  Suddenly, Setsuko raised her hands in despair. ‘The breeze,’ she said with a sigh, and reached forward to her flowers once more. ‘I like them like this, but the breeze doesn’t seem to agree.’ For a moment, she became preoccupied again. Then she said: ‘You must forgive me, Father. In my place, Suichi would express things better. But of course, he isn’t here. I merely wished to say that it is perhaps wise if Father would take certain precautionary steps. To ensure misunderstandings do not arise. After all, Noriko is almost twenty-six now. We cannot afford many more disappointments such as last year’s.’

  ‘Misunderstandings about what, Setsuko?’

  ‘About the past. But please, I’m sure I’m speaking quite needlessly. Father has no doubt thought already of all these things and will do whatever is necessary.’

  She sat back, pondering her work, then turned to me with a smile. ‘I have little skill in these things,’ she said, indicating the flowers.

  ‘They look splendid.’

  She gave a doubtful glance towards the altar and laughed self-consciously.

  Yesterday, as I was enjoying the tram ride down to the quiet suburb of Arakawa, the recollection of that exchange in the reception room came into my mind, causing me to experience a wave of irritation. As I looked out of the window at the scenery, growing ever less cluttered as we continued south, the image returned to my mind of my daughter seated in front of the altar, advising me to take ‘precautionary steps’. I remembered again the way she had turned her face towards me slightly to say: ‘After all, we cannot afford many more disappointments such as last year’s.’ And I remembered again her knowing manner on the veranda that first morning of her visit, when she had hinted I had some peculiar secret about the Miyakes’ withdrawal last year. Such recollections had already marred my mood over this past month; but it was yesterday, in the tranquillity of travelling alone to the quieter reaches of the city, that I was able to consider my feelings more clearly, and I came to realize my sense of irritation was not essentially directed against Setsuko, but against her husband.

  It is, I suppose, natural enough that a wife is influenced by her husband’s ideas – even, as in the case of Suichi’s, when they are quite irrational. But when a man induces his wife to turn suspicious thoughts against her own father, then that is surely cause enough for resentment. On account of what he must have suffered out in Manchuria, I have in the past tried to adopt a tolerant attitude towards certain aspects of his behaviour; I have not taken personally, for instance, the frequent signs of bitterness he has displayed towards my generation. But then I always assumed such feelings fade with time. However, so far as Suichi is concerned, they seem to be actually growing more trenchant and unreasonable.

  All this would not be bothering me now – after all, Setsuko and Suichi live far away, and I never see them more than once a year – if it were not that latterly, ever since Setsuko’s visit last month, these same irrational ideas seem to be infecting Noriko’s mind. This is what has irritated me and tempted me several times these past few days to write an angry letter to Setsuko. It is all very well a husband and wife occupying each other with ridiculous speculations, but they should keep such things to themselves. A stricter father, no doubt, would have done something long ago.

  More than once last month, I had come upon my daughters deep in discussion and noticed how they broke off guiltily before starting some fresh, rather unconvincing conversation. In fact, I can recall this happening at least three times during the course of the five days Setsuko spent here. And then just a few days ago, Noriko and I were finishing breakfast when she said to me:

  ‘I was walking past the Shimizu department store yesterday and guess who I saw standing at the tram stop? It was Jiro Miyake!’

  ‘Miyake?’ I looked up from my bowl, surprised to hear Noriko mentioning the name so brazenly. ‘Why, that was unfortunate.’

  ‘Unfortunate? Well actually, Father, I was rather pleased to see him. He seemed embarrassed though, so I didn’t talk to him for long. In any case, I had to get back to the office. I was just out on an errand, you see. But did you know he’s engaged to be married now?’

  ‘He told you that? What a nerve.’

  ‘He didn’t volunteer it, of course. I asked him. I told him I was in the middle of new negotiations now and asked him how his own marriage prospects were. I asked him just like that. His face was going scarlet! But then he came out with it and said he was all but engaged now. It’s all practically settled.’

  ‘Really, Noriko, you shouldn’t be so indiscreet. Why did you have to mention marriage at all?’

  ‘I was curious. I’m not upset about it any more. And with the present negotiations going so well, I was just thinking the other day, what a pity it would be if Jiro Miyake was still brooding over last year. So you can imagine how pleased I was to find him practically engaged.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I hope I get to meet his bride soon. I’m sure she’s very nice, aren’t you, Father?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  We continued eating for a moment. Then Noriko said: ‘There was something else I almost asked him. But I didn’t.’ She leaned forward and whispered: ‘I almost asked about last year. About why they pulled out.’

  ‘It’s just as well you didn’t. Besides, they gave their reason clearly enough at the time. They felt the young man was inadequately placed to be worthy of you.’

  ‘But you know that was just formality, Father. We never found out the real reason. At least, I never got to hear about it.’ It was at this point that something in her voice made me look up again from my bowl. Noriko was holding her chopsticks poised in the air, as though waiting for me to say something. Then, as I continued eating, she said: ‘Why do you suppose they pulled out? Did you ever discover about that?’

  ‘I discovered nothing. As I say, they said they felt the young man was inadequately placed. It’s a perfectly good answer.’

  ‘I wonder, Father, if it was simply that I didn’t come up to their requirements. Perhaps I wasn’t pretty enough. Do you think that’s what it was?’

  ‘It wasn’t anything to do with you, you know that. There are all sorts of reasons why a family pulls out of a negotiation.’

  ‘Well, Father, if it wasn’t to do with me, then I wonder what it could have been to make them pull out like that.’

  It seemed to me there was something unnaturally deliberate in the way my daughter uttered those words. Perhaps I imagined it, but then a father comes to notice any small inflexions in his daughter’s speech.

  In any case, that exchange with Noriko put me in mind again of the occasion I myself had encountered Jiro Miyake and had ended up talking with him at a tram stop. It was just over a year ago – the negotiations with the Miyake family were still going on at that point – towards the late afternoon when the city was full of people returning home after the day’s work. For some reason, I had been walking through the Yokote district and was making towards the tram stop outside the Kimura Company Building. If you are familiar with the Yokote district, you will know of the numerous small, rather seedy offices that line the upper storeys of the shops there. When I encountered Jiro Miyake that day, he was emerging from one such office, having come down a narrow staircase between two shop fronts.

  I had met him twice prior to that day, but only at formal family meetings when he had turned out in his best clothes. Now he looked quite different, dressed in a tired-looking raincoat a littl
e too large for him, clutching a briefcase under his arm. He had the appearance of a young man much accustomed to being bossed around; indeed, his whole posture seemed to be fixed on the verge of bowing. When I asked him if the office he had just left was his workplace, he began laughing nervously, as though I had caught him coming out of some disreputable house.

  It did occur to me his awkwardness was perhaps too extreme to be accounted for merely by our chance meeting; but at the time I put it down to his embarrassment at the shabby appearance of his office building and its surroundings. It was only a week or so afterwards, when learning with surprise that the Miyakes had pulled out, that I found myself casting my mind back to that encounter, searching it for significance.

  ‘I wonder,’ I said to Setsuko, for she was down on one of her visits at the time, ‘if all the while I was talking with him, they’d already decided on a withdrawal.’

  ‘That would certainly account for the nervousness Father observed,’ Setsuko had said. ‘Did he not say anything to hint at their intentions?’

  But even then, only a week after the actual encounter, I could hardly recall the conversation I had had with young Miyake. That afternoon, of course, I was still going on the assumption that his engagement to Noriko would be announced any day, and that I was dealing with a future member of my family. My attentions, then, were focused on getting young Miyake to relax in my presence, and I did not give as much thought as I might to what was actually said during our short walk to the tram stop and the few minutes we spent standing there together.

  Nevertheless, as I pondered over the whole business during the days which followed, a new idea struck me: that perhaps the encounter itself had helped bring about the withdrawal.

  ‘It’s just possible,’ I put it to Setsuko. ‘Miyake was very self-conscious about my having seen his workplace. Possibly it struck him afresh that there was too much of a gulf between our families. After all, it’s a point they’ve made too often for it to be just formality.’

  But Setsuko, it would seem, was unconvinced by that theory. And it seems she must have gone home to her husband to speculate over the failure of her sister’s proposal. For this year, she appears to have returned with her own theories – or at least, those of Suichi. So then I am obliged to think back yet again to that encounter with Miyake, to turn it over from yet another perspective. But as I have said, I could barely recall what had taken place just one week afterwards, and now more than a year has passed.