I walked upward slowly and as I did so the thought of Nami-san again possessed me. The first thing that occurred to me was that she would make a fine star if she went on the stage. Most actors and actresses assume visiting manners when before the footlights; but with Nami-san, her home is her stage and she is always acting, without knowing it. With her acting is natural. It may be that hers is what may be called an aesthetic life. Indeed life would be unbearable, with its constant surprises and alarms, if one did not accept hers as theatrical acting. She would soon make you dislike her, with her impulsive excesses, if you were to study her from the ordinary viewpoint of the novelist, with the commonplace background of duty, humanity, etc.
Suppose entangling relations of some sort grew up between her and myself; my mental agony would, I fancied, be then indescribable. I had come out on my present sojourn, I told myself, to be away from the “madding crowd,” and to make of myself a confirmed artist. Everything that came to me through my two windows must, therefore, be seen as a picture. I must not set my eyes on any woman but that I saw in her a figure or character in a Noh play, a drama, or poetry. Seen through this psychological glass, I must say that of all the women I had ever met, Nami-san was the one who acted most beautifully. Precisely because her actions were all perfectly unintentional, with absolutely no idea of showing off a beautiful performance, hers was always far more fascinating than stage acting.
Such were my ideas, I must not be misunderstood, and it would be the height of injustice to me to be censured as unfit to be a member of society. A man is sometimes laughed at for acting theatrically. This is all very well, when one derides the folly of undergoing unnecessary self-sacrifices, in order merely to vindicate one’s taste; but it is wholly unpardonable for curs, with no idea of what tastes are, to scoff at others by judging things from their own low level. Years ago a youth sought and met Death by leaping over a five hundred foot waterfall. I have an idea that he gave his life that must not be lost, all for the word “aesthetic beauty.” Death is heroic in itself; but there is something mysterious in the motives that prompt it. However, it is out of the question for anyone unable to appreciate the heroism of death to laugh at the self-destruction of Fujimura, the youth. Not gifted with the power of grasping the true significance of the heroic ending of life, such a person is bound to fail to resort to the heroic deed, even when circumstances make it most proper, and I conclude, in this sense, that such a one has no right to laugh at Fujimura’s tragic death. I am an artist given over wholly to tastes and sentiments, and mingling with others in this mundane world as I may, I am loftier than my vulgar and prosaic neighbours. As a member of society I hold a position from which I may well teach others. I can act more beautifully than those who have no poetry, no painting, no artistic culture. In this man’s world a beautiful act is right, just and upright, and he who translates justice, righteousness and uprightness into his doings is a model citizen.
I had walked half a mile upward and came upon a tableland, with trees weaving out the beautiful green of Spring on the North, probably the same which I saw from my room in the Shiota hotel, and which so fascinated me as to bring me out here with my painting kit. I went about this way and that, beating the grass, in search of a place of vantage. I awoke in no time to the fact that the charming scenery I saw from the verandah was, after all, not so easy to take on to a canvas, and besides the colour and atmosphere were changing. The desire to paint slipped away from me, I knew not where. With that ambition gone, it made no difference to me where or how I sat. At random I lay me down on the young grass, the roots of which the Spring sun was bathing with his warm rays, and I thought I was crushing the unseen gossamer.
Presently I lay on my back, with wild dwarf quince blooming all around me. Everything was so transporting that I felt I must write a piece of poetry. I took out my sketch book and wrote down in it, line after line, as they slowly came to me until I had eighteen of them to round it up:
I left home full of thoughts within me.
Spring breezes played about my clothes as I came along.
Sweet is the young grass growing in the wheel tracks.
Neglected paths run into haze are faintly visible.
I plant my stick in the ground and look around.
Nature is in her robe of clear brightness.
Gentle yellow songsters are hopping to the tune of their lovely melody.
Seeing plum blossoms falling like snow.
I walk across the wild field, which is far and wide.
Coming upon an old temple, I write a poem on its door.
With sorrowful eyes I look up to the cloud,
And see
