If I picture myself, a sodden figure moving in this vast ink-wash world of cloud and rain shot through diagonal y with a thousand silver arrows, not as myself but as some other person, there’s poetry in this moment. When I relinquish al thought of the self as is and cultivate the gaze of pure objectivity, then for the first time, as a figure in a painting, I attain a beautiful harmony with the natural phenomena around me. The instant I revert to thoughts of my distress at the fal ing rain and the weariness of my legs, I lose my place in the world of the poem or painting. I am as before, a mere cal ow townsman. The swirling brushstrokes of cloud and mist are a closed book to me; no poetic sentiment of fal ing blossom or cal ing bird stirs my breast; I have no way of understanding the beauty of my own self as it moves lonely as cloud and rain among the spring mountains. . . .
To begin with, I tilt my hat and stride out. Later, I simply walk with eyes fixed on my feet. In the end, I am plodding unsteadily along, with shoulders hunched. The branches fil ing my vision sway in the blowing rain, which drives in relentlessly from every direction upon the solitary traveler. This is a bit too much of the unhuman for my taste!
CHAPTER 2
“Anyone there?†I cal . There is no response.
Standing beneath the eaves, I peer in. The smoke-stained paper screen doors beyond the entrance area are firmly shut, and what lies within is invisible. Half a dozen forlorn pairs of rough straw sandals dangle from the eaves’ rafters, swaying listlessly to and fro. Below them is a neat row of three boxes containing cheap cakes, with a scattering of smal coins at their sides.
“Anyone there?†I cry again. Several plumped fowl, asleep atop a hand mil that is tucked in one corner of the entrance, awaken with a start and set up a raucous cackle. Beyond the threshold a clay hearth stands, wet and partly discolored by the rain that is stil fal ing. Above it hangs a blackened tea-kettle, whether earthenware or metal I cannot tel . Happily, the fire in the hearth is lit.
Since there is no reply, I take the liberty of going on in and sit myself down on a bench in the entrance area. The fowl flap noisily down from their perch on the hand mil and hop up onto the matting of the raised floor. They might wel walk right into the room beyond if the screen doors weren’t standing in their way. The rooster gives a lusty crow, and the hen takes up the cry more softly. They seem to view my intrusive presence as they would some fox or dog. On the stool sits a smoker’s tray, about as large as a two-quart measure. The coil of incense inside it is sending up a tranquil curl of smoke, as if oblivious to the passage of time. The scene has a simple serenity. The rain gradual y eases.
After a while footsteps are heard from within, then one of the grimy screen doors slides smoothly open. An old woman appears.
I have been expecting someone to emerge sooner or later. The fire in the hearth is lit, after al ; coins lie scattered about the cake boxes; the incense is left nonchalantly burning. Someone must eventual y appear. But this casual way of leaving the shop open and unattended is rather different from the city ways I’m used to. And to simply go in and make myself at home like this, despite receiving no answer to my cal , and to sit there patiently waiting, feels a little like stepping into an earlier century than the twentieth. Al this is intriguingly otherworldly, that “nonemotional†realm I aspire to. What’s more, I take an immediate fancy to the face of the old woman who has emerged.
Two or three years ago I saw a Hosho School production of the Noh play Takasago, 1 and I remember being struck by the beautiful tableau vivant it made. The old man, brush-wood broom on his shoulder, walks five or six steps along the bridgeway leading to the stage, then turns slowly back to face the old woman behind him. That pose, as they stand facing each other, remains vividly before my eyes to this day. From where I was seated, the old woman’s face was more or less directly facing me. Ah, how beautiful! I thought, and in that moment her expression burned itself like a photograph into my heart. The face before me now and that face are so intimately alike that the same blood might flow in both.
“I’m afraid I’ve come in and made myself at home.â€
“Not at al . I had no idea you were here.â€
“That was quite some rain, wasn’t it?â€
“You must have had hard going, with this unfortunate weather. My goodness, you certainly are wet! Let me get the fire going and dry things off for you.â€
“If you’d just build up that fire a little, I can stand beside it and dry off. I seem to have got rather cold sitting here.â€
“I’l get it going right away. How about a cup of tea?†She rises to her feet and chases the fowl away with a quick “Shoo! Shoo!â€
Clucking indignantly, they scramble off the age-stained matting, trample through the cake boxes, and flee out to the road, the rooster depositing a dropping in one of the boxes as he goes.
“Here you are,†says the old woman, reappearing in no time with a teacup on a tray made from a hol owed piece of wood. In the bottom of the cup, which is stained a blackish brown from years of tea, three plum blossoms have been casual y sketched with a few quick brushstrokes.
“Have a cake.†She fetches me a sesame twist and a ground-rice stick cake from one of the boxes the fowl trampled through. I look them over warily, wondering if I’l find the rooster dropping, but evidently it remains somewhere in the box.
The old woman pul s her kimono sleeves back up her arms with a cord looped over her sleeveless work jacket, then crouches down in front of the hearth fire. I take out my sketchbook and draw her profile as we talk.
“It’s lovely and quiet here, isn’t it?â€
“Yes, just a little mountain vil age, as you can see.â€
“Do you get bush warblers singing?â€2
“Yes indeed, you hear them every day. They sing in summer too around here.â€
“I’d love to hear one now. When none is singing, you real y long to hear one.â€
“Unfortunately it’s not the day for it. They’ve gone off somewhere to get out of the rain.â€
The hearth has meanwhile begun to emit a crackling sound, and suddenly a scarlet flame shoots up a foot or more into the air, sending out a rush of heat.
“Here you are then, come and warm yourself,†she urges. “You must be cold.†A column of blue smoke rises to meet the edge of the eave, where it thins and dissipates, leaving faint wisps trailing in under the wooden roof.
“Ah, this feels good. You’ve brought me back to life.â€
“The rain’s cleared off nicely now. Look, you can see Tengu Rock.â€
The storm has resolutely swept across the section of mountain before us, in apparent impatience at the spring sky’s timid clouds, and there, where the old woman points, a towering rock like a rough-hewn pil ar now soars against the bril iant blue left in the storm’s relentless wake. This must be Tengu Rock.
I gaze first at the rock, then back at the old woman, then final y I hold them both in my line of sight, comparing. As an artist, my mind contains only two old woman images—the face of the old woman of the Noh play and that of the mountain crone of Rosetsu’s painting.3 When I saw Rosetsu’s painting, I understood the eerie power inherent in the ideal image of the old woman. This was a figure to set among autumn leaves, I thought, or beneath a cold moon. Seeing that Noh play at the Hosho theater, on the other hand, I was astonished at how gentle her expression can be. That Old Woman mask could only have been created by a master carver, though unfortunately I failed to learn the artist’s name. This portrayal brought out a rich, tranquil warmth in the image—something that would be not unfitting depicted on a gilt screen, say, or set against spring breezes and cherry blossoms. As this old woman stands here, bare-armed and drawn up to her ful height, one hand shading her eyes while the other points into the distance, her figure seems to match the scene of the mountain path in spring better than does the rugged form of Tengu Rock beyond. I take up my sketchbook again, in the hope that she wil hold the pose just a little longer, but at that moment she moves.