Natsume Soseki - Kusamakura

The fol owing haiku occurs to me:

My eyes lift to see

A sky that is entirely

magnolia blooms.

Somewhere the pigeons are cooing softly together.

I step into the priests’ quarters. The door has been left unlocked. This world seems to know no thieves; no dog has barked either.

“Anybody here?â€​ I cry. Silence is the only reply.

“Excuse me?â€​ I then try. The pigeons continue their soft coo coo .

I raise my voice and cal again, and now from far away comes an answering cry: “Ye-e-e-e-s!†I have never before received this sort of response when I cal ed at someone’s house! Final y, footsteps are heard along the corridor, and a taper casts its light beyond the wooden partition. A smal monk pops suddenly into view. It’s Ryonen.

“Is the abbot in?â€​

“He is. What brings you here?â€​

“Could you let him know that the painter from the hot spring inn is here?â€​

“The painter? Come on in.â€​

“Are you sure you shouldn’t ask him first?â€​

“No, it’l be fine.â€​

I slip off my shoes and enter.

“You’re not very wel mannered, are you?â€​ he says.

“Why?â€​

“You should put your shoes neatly together. Here, look at this.†He points with his taper. Pasted onto the middle of the black pil ar, about five feet above the earth floor of the entrance area, is a quartered piece of cal igraphy paper on which some words are written.

“There. Read that. ‘Look to your own feet,’ it says, doesn’t it?â€​

“I see,â€​ I say, and I bend down and arrange my shoes neatly.

The abbot’s room is beyond a right-angle bend in the corridor, beside the main worship hal . At the entrance Ryonen reverently slides open one of the paper doors and makes a low obeisance on his knees.

“Excuse me, but the painter from Shioda’s is here,â€​ he announces, in a tone of deep deference that strikes me as rather funny.

“Is that so? Let him come in.â€​

I replace Ryonen at the entrance. The room is tiny. There’s a sunken hearth in the middle, with an iron kettle singing quietly on the coals. The abbot is seated beyond it, a book in his hands.

“Come on in,â€​ he says, removing his glasses and laying the book aside.

“Ryonen. Ryoooonen!â€​

“Ye-e-e-s!â€​

“A cushion for the guest, please.â€​

“Ye-e-e-e-s!â€​ Ryonen’s drawn-out cry floats back from somewhere in the distance.

“I’m glad you’ve come. You must be quite bored here.â€​

“The moonlight was so lovely, I just wandered over.â€​

“It’s a fine moon,â€​ he says, opening the paper screens at the window.

Nothing is visible outside except two stepping-stones and a single pine tree. The flat garden ends at what appears to be a precipice, with the hazy moonlit sea directly below. Looking out produces the sensation of a sudden expansion of the spirit. The lights of fishing boats twinkle here and there out at sea, seeming at the far horizon to lift into the sky and imitate the stars.

“What a lovely view! It’s a waste to keep the shutters closed, Your Reverence.â€​

“That’s true. But then, I see it every night.â€​

“This view would stil be lovely however many nights you saw it. If it were me, I’d stay up al night just to gaze.â€​

The abbot laughs. “Of course you’re an artist, so we’re bound to be a bit different.â€​

“You too are an artist, Your Reverence, when you find such a view beautiful.â€​

“Yes, that’s true enough, I suppose. Even I can do the odd Bodhidharma painting. Look at this one hanging here. This scrol painting was done by a predecessor. It’s very good, isn’t it?â€​

I look at the Bodhidharma painting on the scrol in the little alcove. As a painting, it’s dreadful. Al you can say for it is that it’s not vulgarly ambitious. The painter has made not the slightest attempt to conceal its clumsiness. It is a naïve work. This predecessor must have been a similar type, someone who cared nothing for pretension.

“It’s an unsophisticated painting, isn’t it?â€​

“That’s al our sort of painting requires. It only needs to reveal the painter’s nature.â€​

“It’s better than the sort that’s skil ful but worldly.â€​

The abbot laughs. “Wel , wel , that’s a good enough compliment, I suppose. Now tel me, are there such things as doctors of painting these days?â€​

“No, there aren’t.â€​

“Ah, I see. Because I met a doctor the other day.â€​

“Real y?â€​

“I suppose a doctor is a fine thing to be, eh?â€​

“Yes, I imagine so.â€​

“You’d think there’d be doctorates for painters too. I wonder why there aren’t.â€​

“In that case, there ought to be doctorates for abbots as wel , oughtn’t there?â€​

He laughs again. “Yes, wel , maybe so. . . . Now what was his name, the fel ow I met the other day? I must have his name card here somewhere.â€​

“Where did you meet him? In Tokyo?â€​

“No, here. I haven’t been to Tokyo for twenty years or more. I hear those things they cal ‘trains’ are running these days. I wouldn’t mind taking a ride on one to see what it’s like.â€​

“There’s nothing very interesting about them. They’re noisy things.â€​

“Wel , you know the saying—‘The dogs in a misty country wil bark at the sun, the cows in a hot country wil pant at the moon.’ I’m a country fel ow, so I’d probably have a hard time coping with trains, in fact.â€​

“Oh, I’m sure you’d cope perfectly wel . They real y are very boring things.â€​

“Is that so?â€​

Steam is pouring from the iron kettle. The abbot takes a pot and cups from the nearby tea chest and proceeds to make us tea.

“Have a cup of coarse-leaf tea. It’s not the delicious tea that Mr. Shioda makes, mind you.â€​

“I’m sure it’s perfectly fine.â€​

“You look as if you wander about a lot. Now, is that in order to paint?â€​

“Yes. I take along the equipment when I go walking, but I don’t mind if I don’t actual y paint any picture.â€​

“Ah, so it’s only half-serious, then?â€​

“Yes, you could say that. I hate submitting myself to al that fart counting, you see.â€​

Even a Zen practitioner such as the abbot is apparently at a loss to comprehend this expression. “What do you mean by ‘fart counting’?â€​

“If you live in Tokyo for a long time, you get your farts counted.â€​

“How so?â€​

I laugh. “It wouldn’t be so bad if it was just counting, but then they go on to analyze your farts, and measure your ass-hole to see if it’s square or triangular, and so on.â€​

“Ah, you’re talking about hygiene, are you?â€​

“Not hygiene, no. I’m talking about detectives.â€​

“Detectives? So it’s the police, is it? Now, what’s the purpose of policemen, eh? Do we real y have to have them?â€​

“No, artists certainly have no need of them.â€​

“Nor do I. I’ve never had any cause to bother one.â€​