An Artist of the Floating World

by Kazuo Ishiguro

  ‘But you’re changing your tack now. You were saying something about my being “too proud”. Why don’t you say more about it?’

  ‘I just hope Father’s presentable when the time comes,’ she said, and went purposefully out of the room.

  On that occasion, as often during those difficult days, I was obliged to reflect on the marked contrast of Noriko’s attitude with that she had displayed the previous year, during the negotiations with the Miyake family. Then, she had been relaxed almost to the point of complacency; but of course, she had known Jiro Miyake well; I dare say she had been confident the two of them would marry, and had regarded the discussions between families as nothing more than cumbersome formalities. No doubt the shock she subsequently received was a bitter one, but it seems to me unnecessary for her to have made insinuations such as she did that afternoon. In any case, that little altercation hardly helped to put us in the right frame of mind for a miai, and in all likelihood contributed to what took place that evening at the Kasuga Park Hotel.

  For many years, the Kasuga Park Hotel had been amongst the most pleasant of the Western-style hotels in the city; these days, though, the management has taken to decorating the rooms in a somewhat vulgar manner – intended, no doubt, to strike the American clientele with whom the place is popular as being charmingly ‘Japanese’. For all that, the room Mr Kyo had booked was pleasing enough, its main feature being the view from the wide bay windows down the west slope of Kasuga Hill, the lights of the city visible far below us. Otherwise, the room was dominated by a large circular table and high-backed chairs, and a painting on one wall which I recognized to be by Matsumoto, an artist I had known slightly before the war.

  It may well be that the tension of the occasion made me drink a little more quickly than I intended, for my memories of the evening are not as clear as they might be. I do remember forming immediately a favourable impression of Taro Saito, the young man I was being asked to consider for a son-in-law. Not only did he seem an intelligent, responsible sort, he possessed all the assured grace and manners I admired in his father. Indeed, observing the unworried, yet highly courteous way Taro Saito received myself and Noriko as we first arrived, I was reminded of another young man who had impressed me in a parallel situation some years earlier – that is to say, Suichi at Setsuko’s miai at what was in those days the Imperial Inn. And for a moment, I considered the possibility that Taro Saito’s courtesy and good-naturedness would fade with time as surely as Suichi’s has done. But then, of course, it is to be hoped that Taro Saito will never have to endure the embittering experiences Suichi is said to have done.

  As for Dr Saito himself, he seemed as commanding a presence as ever. Despite our never having been properly introduced prior to that evening, Dr Saito and I had in fact been acquainted for some years, having taken to greeting one another in the street out of mutual recognition of our respective reputations. His wife, a handsome woman in her fifties, I had likewise exchanged greetings with, but little else; I could see she was, like her husband, someone of considerable poise, confident of handling any awkward situation that might arise. The only member of the Saito family who did not impress me was the younger son – Mitsuo – whom I guessed to be in his early twenties.

  Now that I think back to that evening, I am sure my suspicions about young Mitsuo were aroused as soon as I saw him. I am still uncertain as to what first set off a warning – perhaps it was that he reminded me of young Enchi whom I had encountered in Kuroda’s apartment, in any case, as we began to eat, I found myself becoming increasingly confirmed in these suspicions. Although at this point Mitsuo was behaving with all due decorum, there was something in the way I would catch him looking at me, or about the way he would pass a bowl to me across the table, that made me sense his hostility and accusation.

  And then, after we had been eating for several minutes, I was struck by a sudden thought; that Mitsuo’s attitude was not in fact any different from that of the rest of his family – it was simply that he was not as skilled in disguising it. From then on, I took to glancing over at Mitsuo, as though he were the clearest indicator of what the Saitos were really thinking. However, because he was sitting at some distance across the table, and because Mr Kyo, next to him, appeared to be engaging him in prolonged conversation, I did not have any significant exchanges with Mitsuo at that stage of the proceedings.

  ‘We hear you’re fond of playing the piano, Miss Noriko,’ I remember Mrs Saito remarking at one point.

  Noriko gave a small laugh and said: ‘I don’t practise nearly enough.’

  ‘I used to play when I was younger,’ said Mrs Saito. ‘But now I too am out of practice. We women are given so little time for such pursuits, don’t you think?’

  ‘Indeed,’ my daughter said, rather nervously.

  ‘I have very poor appreciation of music myself,’ Taro Saito put in, gazing unflinchingly at Noriko. ‘In fact, my mother always accuses me of being tone-deaf. As a result, I have no confidence in my own taste, and I’m obliged to consult her about which composers to admire.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ said Mrs Saito.

  ‘You know, Miss Noriko,’ Taro went on, ‘I once acquired a set of recordings of a Bach piano concerto. I was very fond of it, but my mother was forever criticizing it and chastising my poor taste. Naturally my opinions stood little chance against the likes of Mother here. Consequently I now hardly listen to Bach. But perhaps you could come to my rescue, Miss Noriko. Aren’t you fond of Bach?’

  ‘Bach?’ For a second, my daughter looked at a loss. Then she smiled and said: ‘Yes, indeed. Very much so.’

  ‘Ah,’ Taro Saito said triumphantly, ‘now Mother will need to reconsider things.’

  ‘My son is talking nonsense, Miss Noriko. I’ve never criticized Bach’s work as a whole. But tell me, don’t you agree Chopin is more eloquent so far as the piano is concerned?’

  ‘Indeed,’ said Noriko.

  Such stiff responses typified my daughter’s performance for much of the earlier part of the evening. This was not, I might say, altogether unexpected. When amongst family, or in the company of close friends, Noriko is in the habit of adopting her somewhat flippant manner of address, and often achieves a wit and eloquence of sorts; but in more formal settings, I have often known her to have difficulty finding an appropriate tone, thus giving the impression she is a timid young woman. That this was precisely what was occurring on this of all occasions was reason for concern; for it seemed to me clear – and Mrs Saito’s own high profile appeared to confirm this – the Saitos were not the old-fashioned sort of family who preferred their female members to be silent and demure. I had in fact anticipated this, and in our preparations for the miai, had stressed my opinion that Noriko should as far as appropriate emphasize her lively, intelligent qualities. My daughter had been in full agreement with such a strategy, and indeed, had declared so determinedly her intention to behave in a frank and natural way, I had even feared she would go too far and outrage the proceedings. So, as I watched her struggling to produce simple, compliant replies to the Saitos’ promptings, her gaze rarely leaving her bowl, I could imagine the frustration Noriko was experiencing.

  Noriko’s problems aside, however, talk seemed to flow easily around the table. Dr Saito in particular proved so expert at generating a relaxed atmosphere, that, had it not been for my awareness of young Mitsuo’s gaze on me, I might well have forgotten the gravity of the occasion and lowered my guard. At one point during the meal, I can recall Dr Saito leaning back comfortably in his chair, saying:

  ‘It seems there were more demonstrations in the city centre today. You know, Mr Ono, I was on the tram this afternoon and a man got in with a large bruise over his forehead. He sat next to me, so naturally I asked him if he was all right and advised him to visit the clinic. But you know, it turned out he had just been to a doctor, and he was now determined to rejoin his companions in the demonstrations. What do you make of that, Mr Ono?’

  Dr Saito had spoken casu
ally enough, but I got for a moment the impression that the whole table – Noriko included – had stopped eating to hear my reply. It is quite possible, of course, that I imagined this; but then I do recall quite distinctly that when I threw a glance towards young Mitsuo, he was watching me with a peculiar intensity.

  ‘It’s regrettable indeed,’ I said, ‘that people are getting hurt. No doubt feelings are running high.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Mr Ono,’ Mrs Saito put in. ‘Feelings may well be running high, but people seem to be going too far now. So many getting injured. But my husband here claims it’s all for the good. I really don’t understand what he means.’

  I expected Dr Saito to react to this, but instead there was another pause during which attention seemed once more to focus in my direction.

  ‘It is, as you say,’ I remarked, ‘a great pity so many have been injured.’

  ‘My wife is misrepresenting me as usual, Mr Ono,’ Dr Saito said. ‘I never claimed all this fighting was a good thing. But I’ve been trying to convince my wife there’s more to these things than simply people getting injured. Of course, one doesn’t want to see people hurt. But the underlying spirit – that people feel the need to express their views openly and strongly – now that’s a healthy thing, don’t you think so, Mr Ono?’

  Perhaps I hesitated for a moment; in any case, Taro Saito spoke before I could reply.

  ‘But surely, Father, things are getting out of hand now. Democracy is a fine thing, but it doesn’t mean citizens have a right to run riot whenever they disagree with something. In this respect, we Japanese have been shown to be like children. We’ve yet to learn how to handle the responsibility of democracy.’

  ‘Here’s an unusual case,’ Dr Saito said, laughing. ‘It seems on this question at least, it’s the father who’s far more liberal than the son. Taro may be right. At this moment, our country is like a young boy learning to walk and run. But I say the underlying spirit is healthy. It’s like watching a growing boy running and grazing his knee. One doesn’t wish to prevent him and keep him locked indoors. Don’t you think so, Mr Ono? Or am I being too liberal, as my wife and my son insist?’

  Perhaps again I was mistaken – for as I say, I was drinking a little faster than I had intended – but there seemed to me a curious lack of disharmony about the Saito’s supposed difference of views. Meanwhile, young Mitsuo, I noticed, was once more watching me.

  ‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘I hope no more people are injured.’

  I believe at this point Taro Saito changed the subject by asking Noriko her opinion on one of the city’s recently opened department stores, and for a while the conversation reverted to smaller topics.

  These occasions are not, of course, easy for any prospective bride – it seems unfair to ask a young woman to make judgements so crucial to her future happiness while under such scrutiny herself – but I must admit I had not expected Noriko to take the tension quite so badly. As the evening progressed, her confidence seemed to wane further and further, until she seemed unable to say little more than ‘yes’ or ‘no’. Taro Saito, I could see, was doing his best to get Noriko to relax, but the occasion demanded he should not appear overly persistent, and time and again, his attempts to start a humorous exchange would end in awkward silences. As I watched my daughter’s distress, I was struck again by the contrast of the proceedings with the miai the previous year. Setsuko, down on one of her visits then, had been present to give her sister support, but Noriko had seemed in little need of it that night. Indeed, I could recall my irritation at the way Noriko and Jiro Miyake had continued to exchange mischievous glances across the table, as though to mock the formality of the occasion.

  ‘You remember, Mr Ono,’ Dr Saito said, ‘the last time we met, we discovered we had a mutual acquaintance. A Mr Kuroda.’

  We were by this time nearing the end of the meal.

  ‘Ah yes, indeed,’ I said.

  ‘My son here’ – Dr Saito indicated young Mitsuo with whom I had so far exchanged barely a word – ‘is presently studying at Uemachi College, where, of course, Mr Kuroda is now teaching.’

  ‘Is that so?’ I turned to the young man. ‘So you know Mr Kuroda well?’

  ‘Not well,’ the young man said. ‘Regrettably, I have no ability in the arts, and my contact with the art professors is limited.’

  ‘But Mr Kuroda is well spoken of, isn’t he, Mitsuo?’ Dr Saito put in.

  ‘He is indeed.’

  ‘Mr Ono here was a close acquaintance of Mr Kuroda once. Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I’d heard,’ Mitsuo said.

  At this point, Taro Saito changed the subject again by saying:

  ‘You know, Miss Noriko, I’ve always had a theory about my poor ear for music. When I was a child, my parents never kept the piano tuned. Every day, throughout my most formative years, Miss Noriko, I was obliged to listen to Mother here practising on an out-of-tune piano. It’s quite possible, don’t you think, this is behind all my troubles?’

  ‘Yes,’ Noriko said, and looked back down at her food.

  ‘There. I always maintained it was Mother’s fault. And she’s constantly chastised me all these years for having a bad ear. I’ve been most unfairly treated, wouldn’t you say, Miss Noriko?’

  Noriko smiled, but said nothing.

  Around this point, evidently, Mr Kyo, who had thus far kept in the background, began to tell one of his comic anecdotes. According at least to Noriko’s account of things, he was still in the midst of his story when I interrupted by turning to young Mitsuo Saito and saying:

  ‘Mr Kuroda has no doubt spoken to you about me.’

  Mitsuo looked up with a puzzled expression.

  ‘Spoken about you, sir?’ he said, hesitantly. ‘I’m sure he often mentions you, but I’m afraid I’m not well acquainted with Mr Kuroda and consequently …’ Hse trailed off, and looked towards his parents for help.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Dr Saito said, in what struck me as a rather deliberate voice, ‘Mr Kuroda remembers Mr Ono well enough.’

  ‘I do not think,’ I said, looking at Mitsuo again, ‘that Mr Kuroda would have a particularly high opinion of me.’

  The young man turned awkwardly once more towards his parents. This time, it was Mrs Saito who said:

  ‘On the contrary, I’m sure he would have the highest opinion of you, Mr Ono.’

  ‘There are some, Mrs Saito,’ I said, perhaps a little loudly, ‘who believe my career to have been a negative influence. An influence now best erased and forgotten. I am not unaware of this viewpoint. Mr Kuroda, I would think, is one who would hold it.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Perhaps I was mistaken about this, but I thought Dr Saito was watching me rather like a teacher waiting for a pupil to go on with a lesson he has learnt by heart.

  ‘Indeed. And as for myself, I am now quite prepared to accept the validity of such an opinion.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re being unfair on yourself, Mr Ono,’ Taro Saito began to say, but I quickly went on:

  ‘There are some who would say it is people like myself who are responsible for the terrible things that happened to this nation of ours. As far as I am concerned, I freely admit I made many mistakes. I accept that much of what I did was ultimately harmful to our nation, that mine was part of an influence that resulted in untold suffering for our own people. I admit this. You see, Dr Saito, I admit this quite readily.’

  Dr Saito leaned forward, a puzzled expression on his face.

  ‘Forgive me, Mr Ono,’ he said. ‘You’re saying you are unhappy about the work you did? With your paintings?’

  ‘My paintings. My teachings. As you see, Dr Saito, I admit this quite readily. All I can say is that at the time I acted in good faith. I believed in all sincerity I was achieving good for my fellow countrymen. But as you see, I am not now afraid to admit I was mistaken.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re too harsh on yourself, Mr Ono,’ Taro Saito said cheerfully. Then turning to Noriko, he said: ‘Tell me, Miss Nori
ko, is your father always so strict with himself?’

  Noriko, I realized, had been staring at me in astonishment. Perhaps as a result of this, she was taken off guard by Taro, and her customary flippancy came to her lips for the first time that evening.

  ‘Father’s not strict at all. It’s me that has to be strict with him. Otherwise he’d never be up for breakfast.’

  ‘Is that so?’ Taro Saito said, delighted to have drawn a less formal response from Noriko. ‘My father is also a late riser. They say older people sleep less than we do, but from our experience this seems quite incorrect.’

  Noriko laughed and said: ‘I think it’s just fathers. I’m sure Mrs Saito has no trouble getting up.’

  ‘A fine thing,’ Dr Saito remarked to me. ‘They’re making fun of us and we’re not even out of the room.’

  I would not wish to claim that the whole engagement had hung in the balance until that point, but it is certainly my feeling that that was when the miai turned from being an awkward, potentially disastrous one into a successful evening. We went on talking and drinking sake for a good while after the meal, and by the time taxis were called, there was a clear feeling that we had all got on well. Most crucially, although they had kept an appropriate distance, it was obvious Taro Saito and Noriko had taken to one another.

  Of course, I do not pretend certain moments of that evening were not painful for me; nor do I claim I would so easily have made the sort of declaration I did concerning the past had circumstances not impressed upon me the prudence of doing so. Having said this, I must say I find it hard to understand how any man who values his self-respect would wish for long to avoid responsibility for his past deeds; it may not always be an easy thing, but there is certainly a satisfaction and dignity to be gained in coming to terms with the mistakes one has made in the course of one’s life. In any case, there is surely no great shame in mistakes made in the best of faith. It is surely a thing far more shameful to be unable or unwilling to acknowledge them.