I sat at my desk, as the sun was going down. I had opened wide all the
paper screens and doors of my room. The people of the hotel are not
many, but its building is extensive. My room is far in the interior,
with many turns of passage, separating it from the quarters inhabited
by the not many people of the establishment, and no sound comes to
disturb my thinking. It has been especially quiet today. I even fancied
that the proprietor, his daughter, the young maid and the man servant
had all gone away unknown to me. Had they done so, they could not, I
thought, have gone to an ordinary place; they must have flown to a land
of hazes, or of cloud—so far, far away that it may be reached only
after floating lazily on the sea, carelessly and too lazy to steer,
until drifted to where the white sail became indistinguishable from
cloud or water, and indeed the sail itself could not tell whether it
was the cloud or water. Otherwise they must have vanished, swallowed
up in the spirit of Spring, the elements of which they are composed
returning to an invisible ether, untraceable in the great expanse
of space even with the help of a microscope. They might have become the
lark and flown to where the evening dusk was deepening into purple,
after they have sung out the golden yellow of the rape flowers. Or else
they might be sweetly sleeping out the world a captive under a fallen
camellia flower, failing to steal its nectar, after having served to
draw out lengthily the long Spring day, by turning into a gad-fly. So
quiet was the day.
♦ “swollowed” replaced with “swallowed”
The Spring breeze passed freely through the empty house not necessarily
as a duty to those who welcomed it, nor yet out of spite to those who
resented it. It came naturally and went naturally, a reflection of the
impartial universe. With my chin resting in the palms of my hands, my
mind was as free and open as my room, and the breeze would, uninvited,
pass in and out with perfect freedom.
You think of treading on, and you fear the earth might crack open under
you. You know the sky is hanging over you, and you dread lightning
might flash out and smite you. You are urged that you fail your manhood
unless you assert your antagonism and the world becomes a place
of endless trouble. To him that lives under the firmament that has
its East and West and has to walk on the rope of interests, true love
is one’s enemy and visible wealth dirt. A name made and honour won
may be likened unto honey which wise bees leave behind by forgoing
their sting, after making it appear that they were manufacturing and
sweetening it. The so-called pleasures all come from love for things
and contain in them all kinds of pain. However, the world happens to
have its poet and artist, who feed on the essence of this world of
relativity, and knows the absolute principle of purity. They dine on
heaven’s haze and quench their thirst with dew. They talk of purple and
discuss crimson, and no regret detains them when death comes for them.
Their pleasures are not to become attached to things, but to become
themselves part of things. When they have become things themselves,
they find no room for their ego though they may explore the remotest
confines of the earth. They rise above worldly dirt and drink full
of the boundless air of purity. These things are said not merely to
scare those saturated with the odor of the lucre of the city, and
alone to pose loftily, but to convey the gospel contained in them
and to invite their brother beings to share in its blessings. To tell
the truth, art and poetry are principles all men are born with. Most
people, who, having counted their summers, are now living their grey
winter, will be able to reawaken their past with its joys of seeing
light shining in them. He who is unable to recall such a memory is one
who has lived a life not worth living.
I do not say that the poet’s joys consist in giving oneself exclusively
over to one thing, or surrendering ourselves solely to another. He
may, at one time enter and become a solitary flower, or turn into a
butterfly at another. Or like Wordsworth become a field of daffodils,
with his heart thrown into confusion by the wind. Sometimes again he
becomes lost in a scene and is unable clearly to tell what is it that
has captured his heart. Some people may call this being possessed by
nature. Others may describe it as the heart listening to a music of an
unstringed harp. Still others may see in it a lingering in boundless
regions or wandering in a limitless expanse, being unable to know or to
understand. Say what they like, they are perfectly free to do so. I was
precisely in this state of mind as I sat resting half of my weight
on my bent elbow that rested on my desk, with my head perfectly vacant
otherwise.
It was unmistakably clear that I was thinking nothing, looking at
nothing. I could not be said to have become or turned into anything,
as there was nothing of striking colours moving within my world of
consciousness. Nevertheless I was in motion. I might not be moving in
the world; but I was anyhow in motion. Not moved by a flower, not moved
by birds, not moved against humanity, still moving as in a spell.
If I must explain this state of being somehow less oracularly, I
should say that my soul was moving with the Spring. I should say
that an etherial essence, obtained by compounding all the colours,
forces, substances and sounds of Spring into an esoteric electuary,
then by melting it in dews gathered in the land of immortals, and
by finally evaporating it in the sunshine of fairyland, found its
way into my pores before I became aware, and put me into my present
state. Ordinarily an absorption is accompanied by a stimulus, which
will make the process pleasant. In my case, how I came to it was quite
hazy no stimulation accompanying it. Because of this absence of
stimulation, there was something indescribably profound in my joy,
which was quite different from those that are transparent and noisy,
and occasion superficial excitement. Mine might be likened unto a
great expanse of ocean, moving from its unseen fathomless depth from
continent to continent, except that there was not quite as much active
vitality. But I was the more fortunate because of this deficiency,
as the manifestation of great vitality must needs anticipate its
exhaustion some day. There is no such worry in the normality of things.
My mind was presently in a state more airy than normal and I was not
only free from all anxiety that strong activity might wear out, but I
was above the common level of indifferent normality. By airiness I mean
simply elusiveness, and do not imply any idea of over-weakness. Poets
speak of melting airiness or downy lightness, and the phrase exactly
fits the condition I am describing.
I wondered next, how it would work to make a picture of my fancy. I
doubted not for a moment that it would not make an ordinary picture.
An every-day painting is a mere reproduction, on a piece of silk or
canvas of what one sees around, as it is, or else after filtering it
through an æsthetic eye. A picture has done its part, when a flower
looks the flower it is, the water as it reflects in the eye, and human
characters animate as in life. If one is to rise above this common
level, one must let live on the canvas one’s theme, with touches that
utter sentiments exactly as one feels about it. Since the artists of
this order aim at working the special impressions they have received
into the phenomena they have caught, they may not be said to have
produced a picture, unless their brush speaks, at its every sweep, of
those impressions. Their work must bear out their claim that their
manner of perceiving this way and feeling that way has in no way been
influenced by or borrowed from old traditions or those going before
them, but that nevertheless theirs is the most correct and beautiful.
Otherwise they are not entitled to call the work their own.
Workers of the two classes are one in waiting for definite outside
impulses before they take up their brush, whatever differences there
may be in their depth and in the manner they treat their subjects. But
in my case, the subject I wished to treat was not so clearly defined. I
roused my senses to the highest pitch of wakefulness; but I looked
in vain for a shape, colour, shade, and lines thick and thin, in the
objects without me, to suit my fancy. My feelings had not come from
without; but even if they had, I could not raise my finger and point at
their cause as such distinctly, as they formed no definite object of
perception. All that there were, were only feelings, and the question
was how those feelings might be depicted to make a picture, nay how
I might give them expression so that others might, by looking at my
production, feel as I was feeling as nearly as possible.
An ordinary picture requires no feeling, but only the object to
reproduce. A picture of a higher order necessitates there existing the
object and feeling; one of the class still higher has nothing for its
life but feelings, and an object that will fit in with such feelings
must be caught to make a picture. But such an object is not easily
forthcoming, and even if it came, it would be no easy work to arrange
it appropriately. Even if arranged successfully, its presentation would
take such a form as would sometimes make it appear totally different
from anything in nature, so much so that it would make no picture at
all for ordinary people. The artist himself would not recognise
that his production represented anything in existence, but that his was
only an attempt to convey, however fractionally, his feelings at the
very moment when his fancy was aroused. He would consider it a most
creditable achievement if he, after scouring the length and breadth
of the country, with not a moment of forgetfulness, comes suddenly,
at the cross roads upon his lost child and folds it in his arms, not
giving time even for lightning to flash, saying, “Why you were here,
my child.” But that is where the rub comes in. If I can only work out
this tone, I shall not care what others may say of my picture. I shall,
with the least concern, let them say it is not a picture at all. If my
combination of colours, gave expression to my feelings even in part;
if the straight and curve of the lines spoke for a fraction of this
spirit; if the general disposition of the picture conveyed any of the
superprosaic thoughts, I shall not mind if the thing to assume a shape
in the picture should happen to be a horse, or a cow or something
neither a horse nor a cow. No, I shall not mind; but the trouble was
nothing would come forth to fit my fancy. I laid my sketch book open on
my desk and looked down upon it until my eyes almost fell through
it. It was useless.
I laid my pencil aside and thought; thought it was a mistake, to begin
with, that I should have tried to make a picture of abstract feelings.
Men are not so different from one another and there must have been some
who have had the same touch of thought as I have and must have tried
to perpetuate such feelings by some means or other. By what means I
wondered.
Music! The word flashed across my mind. Yes, music must be the voice
of nature, born under such necessity, under such circumstances. It
occurred, for the first time, to me, then, that music is something that
must be listened to and that must be learned. Unfortunately, I am a
perfect stranger to music.
I wondered next if my fancy would not make poetry, and ventured to
step into the third dominion. In my memory, it was an individual named
Lessing, who arguing that the province of poetry are events that
occur conditioned on the passing of time, established the fundamental
principle that poetry and painting are not one but two different arts.
Seen in this light, poetry seems to give little promise of making
anything out of the situation of things, to which I have been
struggling to give expression. The physical condition of my feeling
of joy may have in it the element of time, but does not consist of
an event that progressively developed in the flow of time. My joy is
joyous not because No. 1 goes away and No. 2 comes in its place, and
not because No. 3 is born as No. 2 vanishes. I am joyful because my
joy is felt deeply and retained from the beginning. Say this in an
every-day language, and there will be no need of making a factor of
time. Poetry, like painting, will come of things arranged separately.
Only what scene and sentiment to bring into the poetry, to portray this
expansive and abandoned condition is the question. Poetry should be
forthcoming, in spite of Lessing, so soon as these factors are caught.
Homer and Virgil may be let alone. If poetry be fit to give voice to
a mood, that mood may be painted in words without being under time
restrictions and unaided by an event that progresses in an orderly
manner, as long as the simple spatial requirements of painting are
♦fulfilled.
♦ “fulfiled” replaced with “fulfilled”
The point of my pencil began to move slowly, very slowly at first, then
with more speed on my sketch book and in half an hour I got these
lines:
“Spring two or three months old,
Sadness is long as sweet young plants.
Flowers fall on the empty garden,
In the soulless hall lies a plain harp.
Immobile the spider in its ♦maze hangs
Winding travels blue smoke up the bamboo beams.”
♦ “maize” replaced with “maze”
Reading the six lines over, I thought each of them might make a
picture and wondered why I had not set about drawing from the first.
I discussed with myself why it is easier to poetise than to paint.
Having come so far, I felt the rest ought not to be so very difficult
to follow, though a desire seized me that I should now sing a sentiment
that defied colour and brush. The squeezing my head this way and that
way yielded more lines:
“Not a word uttered sitting alone,
But a small light I see in the heart.
Unwontedly troublesome are human affairs.
Who shall forget this state?
Enjoying one day’s quiet
I know now how I passed hundreds of busy years.
My yearning, where shall I communicate?
Far, far away, in the land of white clouds.”
I read the whole piece over again. It was not so very poor; but as
a depiction of ethereal conditions I had just experienced, I felt
something still wanting. I might try to compose one more piece, and
with the pencil still between my fingers, I happened to look out of the
opened door way of my room to see at beautiful vision flitting across
the three feet space. What could it have been?
I now turned my eyes fully toward the doorway and the vision had half
disappeared behind the screen that stood pushed to one side. It had
apparently been moving before it caught my eyes, and had now gone out
of sight altogether as I stared in amazement toward it. I stopped
composing poetry, and instead I now kept my eyes fixed on the open
space in the doorway.
The clock had not ticked a full second when the vision returned from
the opposite direction to that which it had disappeared. It was that of
a slim woman in a wedding gown with long sleeves, walking gracefully
along the upstairs verandah of the wing of the hotel, flanking my room.
I did not know why, but the pencil fell from my fingers, and the breath
I was inhaling through my nose stopped of its own accord. The sky
was darkening, as if forewarning one of the cherry season showers, to
hasten the evening dusk; but the gowned figure kept on appearing and
disappearing in the heavily-charged atmosphere, walking with benign
gentleness along the verandah, twelve yards away from me, overlooking
an inner court.
The woman said nothing, nor looked either way. She was walking so
softly that the rustling of her silk gown seemed scarcely to catch her
ears. Some figures—I could not tell what from the distance—adorned the
skirt of her dress, and the figured and unfigured parts shaded into
each other like day into night. And the woman was indeed, walking in
the borderland of night and day.
What mystified me was what made her go so persistently to and from
along the verandah, dressed in her long-sleeved gown. Nor had I any
idea of how long she had been at this strange exercise in her strange
attire. There was, of course, no telling of her purpose. This figure of
a woman, appearing and disappearing across the open doorway, repeating
the incomprehensible movements, could not help arousing a singular
feeling in me. Could it be that she was moved by her regret for
the departing Spring, or how could she be so absorbed? If so absorbed,
why should she be dressed in such finery?
That resplendent obi, that stood out so strikingly in the hue of
departing Spring, lingering at the ♦threshold of gathering dusk, could
it be gold brocade? I fancied the bright ornament, moving backward
and forward, enshrouded in the gray of approaching night, was like
glittering stars in the early dawn of a Spring day; that every second
went out one by one, in this distant depth and then in that of the vast
vault of heavens, vanishing gradually into the deepening purple.
♦ “threshhold” replaced with “threshold”
Another fancy struck me as the door of night was gradually opening to
swallow into its darkness this flowery vision. Super-nature! this sight
of fading away from the world of colours, with not a sign of regret,
nor of struggle, instead of shining an object of admiration in the
midst of golden screens and silver lights. But there she was with the
shadow of darkness closing in on her, pacing up and down rhythmically,
the very picture of composure, and betraying no disposition to hurry
or dismay, but calmly going over the same ground again and again. If
it be that she knew not the blackness falling upon her, she must
be a creature of extreme innocence. If she knew but did not mind it
as blackness, then, there must be something uncanny about her. Black
must be her native home, and thus may she be resignedly surrendering
her visionary existence to return to her realm of darkness, walking so
leisurely between the seen and unseen worlds. The inevitable blackness
into which the figures adorning her long-sleeves shaded seemed to hint
where she had come from.
My imagination took another turn, bringing before me a vision of a
beautiful person, beautifully sleeping. Sleeping, alive she breathes
herself away into death, without ever awakening. This must break
the heart of those watching anxiously around the bed. If struggling
in pain and agony, the dear ones attending might think it merciful
that death came at once, to say nothing of the wish of the patient
to whom life had become not worth living. But what fault could the
innocent child have been guilty of that she should be snatched away in
a peaceful sleep? To be carried away to Hades while in sleep is like
being betrayed into a surprise and having life taken before the mind
is made up. If death it must be, the dying should be made to resign to
Fate, and one should like to say a prayer or two, yielding to the
inevitable. But if the fact of death alone was made clear, before its
conditions had been fulfilled, and if one had a voice to say a prayer,
one would use that same voice in hallooing, to call, even forcibly
back, the soul that has put one step in the other world. To one passing
away in sleep, it may be hard to have the soul called back, pulled
back, as it were, by the bond of worries of life that would otherwise
break, and that one may feel like saying: “Don’t call me back; let me
sleep.” Nevertheless those around would wish to call aloud. I thought I
might call that woman in the verandah the next time she came into view,
to wake her up from her waking sleep. But my tongue lost its power
of speech no sooner had she passed the opening like a dream. Without
fail, the next time, I thought. But again she passed and disappeared
before I could utter a word. I was asking myself how this could be,
when again she passed, and appeared not to care a rap that she was
being watched by one who was in a frenzied state of mind about her. She
passed and repassed in a manner that told that one like me had never
at all entered her mind. As I was repeating my “next time” in my
mind, the dark cloud above let down, as if no longer able to hold back,
a screen of fine, soft rain, dismally shutting out the shadow of the
woman.