Three-Cornered World

by Sōseki Natsume

  Music! The word suddenly flashed into my mind. Of course! Music was the voice of Nature which, fathered by necessity, had been born in exactly such circumstances. I now became aware for the first time that music is something which must be listened to and learned. Unfortunately, however, I knew nothing whatsoever about this form of communication.

  I thought next that I might possibly have some success with poetry, and so I stepped into the third realm. I seem to remember that Lessing argued that poetry can only be concerned with those events which are relevant to the passage of time, and thus established the fundamental principle that poetry and painting are two entirely different arts. Looked at in this light, it did not seem that poetry was suited to the mood which I had been so anxiously trying to express. Perhaps time was a contributory factor to the happiness which reached right down to the innermost depths of my soul. There was, however, no element in my present condition which had to follow the course of time and develop successively from one stage to another. My happiness was not due to the fact that one event arrived as another left, and was in turn followed by a third whose eventual departure heralded the birth of number four. It was derived from the atmosphere which pervaded my surroundings: an atmosphere of unvarying intensity which had remained with me there in that one place from the very beginning. It is those words 'remained in that one place' that are important, for they mean that even if I should try to translate this atmosphere into the common medium of language, there would be no necessity for the materials which had gone into creating it to be placed in any chronological order. All that would be necessary surely is that they be arranged specially as are the components of a picture. The problem was what features of my surroundings and what feelings should I use to represent this vast and vague state. I knew, however, that once having selected these, they would make admirable poetry—in spite of Lessing's contentions. However Homer and Virgil may have used poetry is beside the point. If you accept that it is suitable for expressing a mood, then it should be possible, providing that the simple special requirements of graphic art are fulfilled, to produce a verbal picture of that mood without making it the slave of time, and without the aid of events which follow each other in a regular progression.

  Well that is enough of argument. I have forgotten most of Laokoon1 and it is quite possible that if I read it through carefully I might find that I was on rather uncertain ground. Anyway, I had decided to try my hand at poetry since I had failed to produce a picture, and I sat rocking my body backwards and forwards, my pencil pressed firmly to the page. I tried and tried to make the point of that pencil move, but for some time I had no success whatsoever. Imagine that all at once you forget a friend's name. You feel that it is on the tip of your tongue, yet somehow it just will not come out. You know, however, that unless you keep on trying to remember, the name will slip back into the recesses of your mind. This is exactly the feeling one has when attempting to compose poetry. Let me take a more concrete example to illustrate the point. When you are making paste and first begin mixing the powder into the water, it presents not the slightest resistance to your chopsticks. Gradually, however, it starts to thicken, and the hand with which you are stirring feels a little heavy. You pay no attention to this, but continue until the mixture becomes so glutinous that you are scarcely able to stir any more. Finally the paste becomes so thick that it clings to the chopsticks, and they become bogged down.

  My pencil moved fitfully on the page, but by persevering I succeeded in producing the following lines in about thirty minutes.

  The months of spring are short as fleeting youth,

  Yet sadness like the stems of fragrant plants is long.

  Petals fall silently to earth in an empty garden,

  And in the deserted hall a simple harp lies silent.

  Immobile in his web the spider hangs

  As fingers of smoke trace round the bamboo beams.

  On reading them through I had the impression that any one of these lines could have been turned into a picture. Why, I wondered, was it easier to write poetry than to paint. I thought that perhaps I should not have abandoned my attempt at painting, when with a little more effort I might have been successful. However, I had a desire to put into words a sentiment that could not be expressed on canvas. Once again I racked my brains, and eventually wrote:

  Seated alone in silence undisturbed,

  Within my heart a shaded light I see.

  How futile the activity of man.

  Oh, can I e'er forget this state

  Where for one day tranquillity I find

  And see how busy were the ages past for me?

  Where can I lay this yearning soul to rest?

  Far, far away among the milk-white clouds.

  This time I read right from the beginning through all the lines I had written. I found them quite interesting, but considered as a description of my present ethereal state they definitely lacked something. I thought that I should have to continue my search, and decided while I was about it to write one more poem. As I sat there pencil in hand, I happened to glance towards the open doorway, and caught a glimpse of a beautiful shadowy form pass across the three foot space. 'Good heavens,' I thought.

  By the time I had chanced to look up, this lovely figure was already half-hidden by the shōji which flanked the doorway. It had apparently been moving before I had noticed it, and now as I stared in amazement, it passed out of sight. I gave up all idea of writing poetry and fixed my gaze on the doorway.

  In less than a minute the shadowy form reappeared from the opposite direction. It was the slender figure of a woman wearing a long-sleeved bridal gown. There was something forlorn about her as she walked noiselessly along the first floor verandah opposite. I let the forgotten pencil slip from my fingers, and suddenly caught my breath.

  As so often happens in blossom time, a cloudy haze had gradually descended to deepen the dusk, bringing warning that at any moment it would rain. But over there, twelve yards away across the inner courtyard, the woman in the bridal gown continued her same graceful walk back and forth along the verandah. She had about her an air of serenity as she moved through the heavy air, her figure playing hide-and-seek among the evening shadows.

  She said nothing, and looked neither to left nor right. So smoothly and quietly did she walk that not even her own ears could have caught the sound of her skirts trailing along the verandah. Her kimono from the waist down was covered with a bright design, but I was too far away to tell what it was. I could see, however, that the design and the plain background colour shaded gently together like the day and night whose border the woman herself was now treading.

  I did not know why she had put on that gown with its long flowing sleeves, and was walking up and down the long passageway so persistently. Nor did I have any idea how long she had been at this unusual exercise dressed in such a totally unexpected way. Moreover, it was impossible to say in what, if anything, she was interested. However, it gave me a weird sensation to see this decorous and calm figure continually disappearing from view to reappear a moment later in the doorway, as she repeated her absolutely incomprehensible performance. She looked too unconcerned for this to be a lament at the passing of spring, and yet if she was unconcerned, why was she arrayed in such beautifully fine silk.

  The colours of that late spring day were beginning to deepen, and gave an unreal, dream-like tint to the world as it lingered for a moment on the threshold of the long dark night. Against this background the woman's strikingly beautiful obi, which looked to me to be made of gold brocade, stood out in vivid relief. Every few seconds, however, enveloped by the dusky shades of evening, the bright material would vanish into the void; only to appear a moment later in another place. It was just like looking at a galaxy of brilliant stars which, with the approach of dawn, fall back one by one into the purple depths of the heavens.

  As I watched the gates of night swing wide open to swallow this bright and elegant figure into the lonely darkness, I felt that there was a
touch of the supernatural about the way in which this woman, who, dressed as she was, should have been the centre of attraction in a setting the visible world without any apparent regret, and with no signs of trying to draw back. Peering into the rapidly approaching gloom, I could see that she was still calmly walking up and down the same stretch of verandah at the same unhurried, even pace. She would, I thought, have had to be extremely naive not to be aware of the evil that was overtaking her. But it was uncanny if she was aware of it and yet did not consider it an evil. If this were the case, it meant that black was her natural home, and the reason why she could stroll about so nonchalantly between existence and non-existence was that this phantom shape which she had temporarily assumed was now returning to the obscurity from whence it had come. The way in which the pattern adorning her gown merged with the unavoidable black surround seemed to point to her origin.

  At this point my thoughts turned on to another tack. Imagine a beautiful girl who is apparently sleeping peacefully, but who, without gaining consciousness at all, dies. How heartbreaking it would be for those sitting around the sickbed in such circumstances. If her pain had gradually become worse and worse until it had reached unbearable proportions, then not only would she herself have felt that life was not worth living, but her loved ones too might have reconciled themselves to the fact that death would be a merciful release. When, however, the child merely drifts into sleep and then dies, they wonder what they can possibly have done to deserve such a thing. To be carried off over the Styx like that without a chance to prepare oneself is, they think, tantamount to being tricked into a fatal ambush. If death must come, they would like to be forewarned so that they can resign themselves to the inevitable and pray for the soul of the dying girl. The chances are, however, that if they knew she were going to die before the actual event, they would not raise their voices to the Lord Buddha to ask him to receive this person who had already taken one step towards the next world, but would instead call out to the girl herself to make her return to them. To a person who is on the verge of slipping unawares from the sleep of this world into the sleep of eternity it may be painful to be called back, for it is merely adding one more strand to the rope of human passions which bound her to life, and which otherwise would soon have broken. She herself might say if she could, 'In the name of mercy, do not call me. Let me sleep in peace.' Nevertheless they would still want to call her.

  I thought that the next time I saw the woman through the doorway, I might call out to her to rouse her from the coma into which she had fallen. No sooner had the shadow glided like a dream back into view, however, than my tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of my mouth. I made up my mind that the next time I would call without fail, but again I could not. As I was trying to work out why it was that I was unable to say anything, the woman passed by yet again. It was obvious that she had not the slightest idea that there was somebody over here who kept watching for her, and who was worrying about her so anxiously. It irked me the way she seemed to consider it beneath her dignity to notice such a person as I. I was still saying, 'Next time, next time,' to myself, when the layer of clouds, as if unable to hold back any longer, let fall a melancholy screen of fine rain which completely hid the figure from sight.

  Footnotes

  1 Wen Tung — Chinese painter (1018-1079)

  Unkoku Togan — Japanese landscape painter (1547-1618)

  Ike Taiga — Japanese landscape painter (1723-1776)

  Yosa Buson — Japanese painter and poet (1716-1783)

  2 This is the title of the work in which Lessing discussed the differences between poetry and painting.

  1 Sessyu Toyo — Japanese painter (1420-1506)

  Brrr! It was cold. Towel in hand, I went down for a warm bath. I undressed in a small matted room, and then went down the four steps into the bathroom which was about twelve feet square. There appeared to be no shortage of stones in these parts, for both the floor, and the lining of the sunken bath tank in the centre were of pebbles set in cement. The tank was about the size of the vats they used to make bean-curd, being roughly four feet deep. This place was called a mineral spring, so there were presumably many mineral ingredients in the water. As, in spite of this, it was clear and transparent, I found it very pleasant to bathe in. From time to time some of the water found its way into my mouth, but it had no distinctive taste or odour. This spring was said to have medical properties, but I never took the trouble to find out what ailments it was supposed to cure. Since I myself was not suffering from any illness, the idea that the spring might have any practical value did not enter my head. As I stepped into the tank all I was thinking of was a poem by the Chinese poet Pai Le-tien that expresses the feeling of pleasure which the mere mention of the words 'hot spring' rouses in me.

  The waters of the spring caress;

  And smooth away all coarseness from my skin.

  All that I ask of any hot spring is that it give me just such a pleasant feeling, but if it is unable to do so, in my opinion it is worthless.

  The water came up to my chest, and I stood there soaking myself thoroughly. I do not know from where the hot water gushed, but it was constantly pouring over the sides in an attractive stream. I was happy, and very much at ease as there in the springtime I felt beneath my feet the warmth of those stones which were never dry. So gentle and quiet was the falling rain that it was able to dampen the spring without the night being aware of it, and yet clusters of raindrops had gradually formed on the eaves, and now their rhythmic 'drip, drip' as they fell to earth reached my ears. The steam which completely filled the room from floor to ceiling was so confined that it escaped wherever it could find a crack or even a tiny knot-hole.

  The cold mists of autumn; the tranquil haze which hangs over the world in spring; the blue smoke rising from cooking fires at evening; all these are capable of drawing my ephemeral form up with them into the limitless expanse of the heavens. Yes, there are many things which can charm me, and whose cry finds an answering echo within me; but only on a spring evening, with my body softly enveloped in clouds of steam from a hot bath, can I feel that I belong to a bygone age. The steam which draped itself around me was not so dense that I was unable to see. Nor yet was it as thin as a layer of sheer silk which may easily be torn aside to reveal the ordinary mortal figure beneath. I was isolated in a warm rainbow: shut in on all sides by steam from which I could never emerge however many layers I might pull aside. One can talk of becoming drunk on wine, but I have never heard the phrase 'to become drunk on vapour'. Even if there were such a phrase, it could not of course be used of mist, and is rather too strong to use of haze. Nevertheless it does become apt when used to describe the steam rising from a hot bath, but then only in the context of a spring evening.

  Leaning my head back against the side of the tank, I let my weightless body rise up through the hot water to the point of least resistance. As I did so I felt my soul to be floating like a jelly-fish. The world is an easy place to live in when you feel like this. You throw off the shackles of common sense, and break through the bars of desire and physical attachment. Lying in the hot water, you allow it to do with you as it likes, and become absorbed into it. The more freely you are able to float, the easier life becomes, until if your very soul floats, you will be in a state more blessed than had you become a disciple of Christ. Following this train of thought, even the idea of drowning is not without a certain refinement and elegance. I believe it was Swinburne who, in one or other of his poems, described a drowned woman's feeling of joy at having attained eternal peace. Looked at in this light, Millais' 'Ophelia', which has always had a disturbing effect on me, becomes a thing of considerable beauty. It had been a constant puzzle to me why he had chosen to paint such an unhappy scene, but I now realised that it was after all a good subject for a picture. There is certainly something aesthetic.in the sight of a figure being carried along by the current free from all pain, whether it be floating, beneath the surface, or rising and sinking by turns. Moreover, it wil
l undoubtedly make an excellent picture if both banks are decked with many kinds of flowers whose colours blend unobtrusively with those of the water, the person's clothes and her complexion. If the facial expression is perfectly peaceful the picture becomes almost mythical or allegorical. A look of convulsive agony will destroy the whole mood, while one which is absolutely composed and devoid of all passion will fail to convey any of the girl's emotions. What expression ought one portray to be successful? It may well be that Millais' 'Ophelia' is a success, but I doubt whether he and I are of the same mind. Still, Millais is Millais, and I am myself; and I wanted to express the aesthetic quality of drowning according to my own convictions. It seemed, however, that it was going to be a difficult task to find the face I wanted.

  Still floating in the bath, I composed the following eulogy on drowning.

  Beneath the earth where all is black as night,

  The drenching rain seeps down

  And frost descends to chill;

  But in spring water,

  Buoyed by waves or lying in the deep,

  There is no pain.

  As I lay there absently murmuring the lines over to myself, I heard the sound of a samisen. Although I am supposed to be an artist, I am ashamed to say that in fact such knowledge as I have about this instrument is decidedly unsound. My ear would never detect anything unusual even if the second string were sharp or the third flat. Nevertheless, in that small mountain village on a spring night, to which even the rain lent an added sense of pleasure, it was delightful to listen idly to the distant strains of a samisen as I floated body and soul in the hot water. It was too far away for me to be able to recognise either the words or the tune of. what was being played, and this gave the music a certain charm. Judging from the mellow tone, I thought the instrument might be one of the thicker-necked samisens which, I believe, the blind minstrals of the Kyoto area used to accompany folk songs.