An Artist of the Floating World (18 page)

Taro-san happened to mention a conversation he had had with you just last week. A conversation concerning the composer who recently committed suicide." "Yukio Naguchi? Ah yes, I remember that conversation. Now let me see, I believe Taro was suggesting the man's suicide was pointless." "Taro-san was somewhat concerned Father should be so interested in Mr Naguchi's death. Indeed, it would seem Father was drawing a comparison between Mr Naguchi's career and his own. We all felt concern at this news. In fact, we have all been somewhat concerned lately that Father is not becoming a little downhearted following his retirement." I laughed and said: "You can put your mind at rest, Setsuko. I am not for one moment contemplating taking the sort of action Mr Naguchi did." "From what I understand," she continued, "Mr Naguchi's songs came to have enormous prevalence at every level of the war effort. There would thus appear to have been some substance to his wish that he should share responsibility along with the politicians and generals. But Father is wrong to even begin thinking in such terms about himself. Father was, after all, a painter." "Let me assure you, Setsuko, I wouldn't for a moment consider the sort of action Naguchi took. But then I am not too proud to see that I too was a man of some influence, who used that influence towards a disastrous end." My daughter seemed to consider this for a moment. Then she said: "Forgive me, but it is perhaps important to see things in a proper perspective. Father painted some splendid pictures, and was no doubt most influential amongst other such painters. But Father's work had hardly to do with these larger matters of which we are speaking. Father was simply a painter. He must stop believing he has done some great wrong." "Well now, Setsuko, this is very different advice from last year. Then it seemed my career was a great liability." "Forgive me, Father, but I can only repeat I do not understand these references to the marriage negotiations last year. Indeed, it is some mystery to me why Father's career should have been of any particular relevance to the negotiations. The Saitos, it would seem, were certainly not concerned and, as we have said, they were very puzzled by Father's behaviour at the miai." "This is quite astonishing, Setsuko. The situation was that Dr Saito and I had been acquainted for a long time. As one of the city's most eminent art critics, he would have followed my career over the years and have been fully aware of its more regrettable aspects. It was therefore right and proper that I should make my attitude clear at that point in the proceedings. Indeed, I"m quite confident Dr Saito much appreciated my doing so." "Forgive me, but it would appear from what Taro-san has said that Dr Saito was never so familiar with Father's career. Of course, he always knew Father as a neighbour. But it would seem he was unaware that Father was connected with the art world at all until last year when the negotiations began." "You"re quite wrong, Setsuko," I said with a laugh. "Dr Saito and I have known about each other for many years. We often used to stop in the street and exchange news about the art world." "No doubt then I am mistaken. Forgive me. But it is nevertheless important to stress that no one has ever considered Father's past something to view with recrimination. One hopes then that Father will cease to think of himself in terms of men like that unfortunate composer." I did not persist in arguing with Setsuko, and I seem to recall we soon moved on to discussing more casual topics. However, there is surely no doubt that my daughter was in error over much of what she asserted that morning. For one thing, it is impossible that Dr Saito could have been ignorant of my reputation as a painter for all those years. And when that evening after supper I contrived to get Taro to confirm this, I did so merely to make the point clear to Setsuko; for there was never any doubt in my mind. I have, for instance, the most vivid recollection of that sunny day some sixteen years ago when Dr Saito first addressed me as I stood adjusting the fence outside my new house. "A great honour to have an artist of your stature in our neighbourhood," he had said, recognising my name on the gatepost. I remember that meeting quite clearly, and there can be no doubt that Setsuko is mistaken.

JUNE 1950

After receiving the news of Matsuda's death late yesterday morning, I made myself a light lunch, then went out for a little exercise. The day was pleasantly warm as I made my way down the hill. On reaching the river, I stepped up on to the Bridge of Hesitation and looked around me. The sky was a clear blue, and a little way down the bank, along where the new apartment blocks began, I could see two small boys playing with fishing poles at the water's edge. I watched them for some moments, turning over in my mind the news about Matsuda. I had always meant to pay Matsuda further visits since reestablishing contact with him during Noriko's marriage negotiations, but in fact had not managed to get out to Arakawa again until just a month or so ago. I had gone on sheer impulse, having no idea at the time he was so near his end. Perhaps Matsuda would have died a little happier for having shared his thoughts with me that afternoon. On my arrival at his house, Miss Suzuki had recognised me instantly and shown me in with some excitement. The way she did this seemed to suggest Matsuda had not had many callers since my visit eighteen months earlier. "He's much stronger than the last time you were here," she said happily. I was shown into the reception room and a few moments later, Matsuda came in unaided, dressed in a loose kimono. He was clearly glad to see me again, and for some moments we talked of small matters and of mutual acquaintances. I believe it was not until Miss Suzuki had brought our tea and left again that I remembered to thank Matsuda for his letter of encouragement during my recent illness. "You appear to have made a good recovery, Ono," he remarked. "To look at you, I"d never guess you"d been ill so recently." "I"m much better now," I said. "I have to be careful not to overexert myself. And I"m obliged to carry this stick around with me. Otherwise I feel as well as I ever did." "You disappoint me, Ono. And I thought we could be two old men discussing our ill health together. But here you are and it's just like the last time you came. I have to sit here and envy you your health." "Nonsense, Matsuda. You"re looking very well." "You'll hardly convince me of that, Ono," he said with a laugh, "though it's true I"ve regained a little weight over this past year. But tell me, is Noriko-san happy? I heard her marriage went through successfully. When you last came here, you were very worried for her future." "Things have turned out very well. She's now expecting a child in the autumn. After all that worry, things have gone as well as I could ever have hoped for Noriko." "A grandchild in the autumn. Now that must be something to look forward to." "As a matter of fact," I said, "my elder daughter is expecting her second child next month. She's been longing for another child, so it's particularly good news." "Indeed, indeed. Two grandchildren to look forward to." For a moment, he sat there smiling and nodding to himself. Then he said: "No doubt you remember, Ono, I was always far too busy improving the world to think about marriage. Do you remember those arguments we used to have, just before you and Michiko-san were married?" We both laughed. "Two grandchildren," Matsuda said again. "Now, there's something to look forward to." "Indeed. I"ve been most fortunate as regards my daughters." "And tell me, Ono, are you painting these days?" "A few watercolours to pass the time. Plants and flowers mostly, just for my own amusement." "I"m glad to hear you"re painting again in any case. When you last came to see me, you seemed to have given up painting for good. You were very disillusioned then." "No doubt I was. I didn't touch paints for a long time." "Yes, Ono, you seemed very disillusioned." Then he looked up at me with a smile and said: "But then of course, you wanted so badly to make a grand contribution." I returned his smile, saying: "But so did you, Matsuda. Your goals were no less grand. It was you, after all, who composed that manifesto for our China crisis campaign. Those were hardly the most modest of aspirations." We both laughed again. Then he said: "No doubt you'll remember, Ono, how I used to call you na�. How I used to tease you for your narrow artist's perspective. You used to get so angry with me. Well, it seems in the end neither of us had a broad enough view." "I suppose that's right. But if we"d seen things a little more clearly, then the likes of you and me, Matsuda--who knows? --we may have done some real good. We had much energy and courage once. Indeed, we must have had plenty of both to conduct something like that New Japan campaign, you remember?" "Indeed. There were some powerful forces set against us then. We might easily have lost our nerve. I suppose we must have been very determined, Ono." "But then I for one never saw things too clearly. A narrow artist's perspective, as you say. Why, even now, I find it hard to think of the world extending much beyond this city." "These days", Matsuda said, "I find it hard to think of the world extending much beyond my garden. So perhaps you"re the one with the wider perspective now, Ono." We laughed together once more, then Matsuda took a sip from his teacup. "But there's no need to blame ourselves unduly," he said. "We at least acted on what we believed and did our utmost. It's just that in the end we turned out to be ordinary men. Ordinary men with no special gifts of insight, it was simply our misfortune to have been ordinary men during such times." Matsuda's earlier reference to his garden had drawn my attention in that direction. It was a mild spring afternoon, and Miss Suzuki had left a screen partially open, so that from where I sat I could see the sun reflected brightly on the polished boards of the veranda. A soft breeze was coming into the room, and with it a faint odour of smoke. I rose to my feet and went over to the screens. "The smell of burning still makes me uneasy," I remarked. "It's not so long ago it meant bombings and fire." I went on gazing out on to the garden for a moment, then added: "Next month, it will be five years already since Michiko died." Matsuda remained silent for a while. Then I heard him say behind me: "These days, a smell of burning usually means a neighbour is clearing his garden." Somewhere within the house, a clock began to chime. "It's time to feed the carp," Matsuda said. "You know, I had to argue with Miss Suzuki for a long time before she would allow me to start feeding the carp again. I used to do it regularly, but then a few months ago, I tripped on one of those stepping stones. I had to argue with her a long time after that." Matsuda rose to his feet, and putting on some straw sandals left out on the veranda, we stepped down into the garden. The pond lay amidst sunshine at the far end of the garden and we proceeded with care along the stepping stones that ran across the smooth mounds of moss. It was while we were standing at the edge of the pond, looking into the thick green water, that a sound made us both glance up. At a point not far from us, a small boy of about four or five was peering over the top of the garden fence, clinging with both arms to the branch of a tree. Matsuda smiled and called out: "Ah, good afternoon, Botchan!" The boy went on staring at us for a moment, then vanished. Matsuda smiled and began to throw feed into the water. "Some neighbour's boy," he said. "Every day at this time, he climbs up on that tree trunk to watch me come out and feed my fish. But he's shy and if I try and speak to him he runs away." He gave a small laugh to himself. "I often wonder why he makes the effort like that every day. There's nothing much for him to see. Just an old man with a stick, standing by his pond feeding the carp. I wonder what he finds so fascinating in such a scene." I looked over to the fence again to where a moment ago the small face had been, and said: "Well, today he got a surprise. Today, he saw two old men with sticks, standing by the pond." Matsuda laughed happily and went on throwing feed into the water. Two or three splendid carp had come to the surface, their scales glistening in the sunlight. "Army officers, politicians, businessmen," Matsuda said. "They"ve all been blamed for what happened to this country. But as for the likes of us, Ono, our contribution was always marginal. No one cares now what the likes of you and me once did. They look at us and see only two old men with their sticks." He smiled at me, then went on feeding the fish. "We"re the only ones who care now. The likes of you and me, Ono, when we look back over our lives and see they were flawed, we"re the only ones who care now." But even as he uttered such words, there remained something in Matsuda's manner that afternoon to suggest he was anything but a disillusioned man. And surely there was no reason for him to have died disillusioned. He may indeed have looked back over his life and seen certain flaws, but surely he would have recognised also those aspects he could feel proud of. For, as he pointed out himself, the likes of him and me, we have the satisfaction of knowing that whatever we did, we did at the time in the best of faith. Of course, we took some bold steps and often did things with much singlemindedness; but this is surely preferable to never putting one's convictions to the test, for lack of will or courage. When one holds convictions deeply enough, there surely comes a point when it is despicable to prevaricate further. I feel confident Matsuda would have thought along these same lines when looking back over his life. There is a particular moment I often bring to my mind--it was in the May of 1938, just after I had been presented with the Shigeta Foundation Award. By that point in my career I had received various awards and honours, but the Shigeta Foundation Award was in most people's view a major milestone. In addition, as I recall, we had finished that same week our New Japan campaign, which had proved a great success. The night after the presentation, then, was one of much celebrating. I remember sitting in the Migi-Hidari, surrounded by my pupils and various of my colleagues, being plied with drink, listening to speech after speech in tribute to me. All manner of acquaintances called in to the Migi-Hidari that night to offer their congratulations; I even recall a chief of police I had never met before coming in to pay his respects. But happy as I was that night, the feeling of deep triumph and fulfilment which the award should have brought was curiously missing. In fact, I was not to experience such a feeling until a few days later, when I was out in the hilly countryside of the Wakaba province. I had not been back to Wakaba for some sixteen years--not since that day I had left Mori-san's villa, determined, but nevertheless fearful that the future held nothing for me. Over the course of those years, though I had broken all formal contacts with Mori-san, I had remained curious of any news concerning my old teacher, and so was fully aware of the steady decline of his reputation in the city. His endeavours to bring European influence into the Utamaro tradition had come to be regarded as fundamentally unpatriotic, and he would be heard of from time to time holding struggling exhibitions at ever less prestigious venues. In fact, I had heard from more that one source that he had begun illustrating popular magazines to maintain his income. At the same time, I could be quite confident Mori-san had followed the course of my career and there was every chance he had heard of my receiving the Shigeta Foundation Award. It was then with a keen awareness of the changes time had brought on us that I stepped off the train at the village station that day. It was a sunny spring afternoon as I set off towards Morisan's villa along those hilly paths through the woodland. I went slowly, savouring the experience of that walk I had once known so well. And all the while I turned over in my mind what might occur when I came face to face with Mori-san once more. Perhaps he would receive me as an honoured guest; or perhaps he would be as cold and distant as during my final days at the villa; then again, he might behave towards me in much the way he had always done while I had been his favourite pupil--that is, as though the great changes in our respective status had not occurred. The last of these possibilities struck me as the most likely and I remember considering how I would respond. I would not, I resolved, revert to old habits and address him as "Sensei"; instead, I would simply address him as though he were a colleague. And if he persisted in failing to acknowledge the position I now occupied, I would say, with a friendly laugh, something to the effect of: "As you see, Mori-san, I have not been obliged to spend my time illustrating comic books as you once feared." In time I found myself at that spot on the high mountain path that gave a fine view of the villa standing amongst trees in the hollow below. I paused a moment to admire that view, as I had often done years before. There was a refreshing wind, and down in the hollow, I could see the trees swaying gently. I wondered to myself if the villa had been renovated, but it was impossible to ascertain from such a distance. After a while, I seated myself amidst the wild grass growing along the ridge and went on gazing at Mori-san's villa. I had bought some oranges at a stall by the village station, and taking these from my kerchief, I began to eat them one by one. And it was as I sat there, looking down at the villa, enjoying the taste of those fresh oranges, that that deep sense of triumph and satisfaction began to rise within me. It is hard to describe the feeling, for it was quite different from the sort of elation one feels from smaller triumphs--and, as I say, quite different from anything I had experienced during the celebrations at the Migi-Hidari. It was a profound sense of happiness deriving from the conviction that one's efforts have been justified; that the hard work undertaken, the doubts overcome, have all been worthwhile; that one has achieved something of real value and distinction. I did not go any further towards the villa that day--it seemed quite pointless. I simply continued to sit there for an hour or so, in deep contentment, eating my oranges. It is not, I fancy, a feeling many people will come to experience. The likes of the Tortoise--the likes of Shintaro--they may plod on, competent and inoffensive, but their kind will never know the sort of happiness I felt that day. For their kind do not know what it is to risk everything in the endeavour to rise above the mediocre. Matsuda, though, was a different case. Although he and I often quarrelled, our approaches to life were identical, and I am confident he would have been able to look back on one or two such moments. Indeed, I am sure he was thinking along these lines when he said to me that last time we