In June, with a gnarled stick in my hand (like the god Bishamon), I am that mysterious passer-by who crosses the path of groups of simple, ruddy peasants; and, at six in the evening, while the storm-cloud in the sky endlessly continues its monstrous assault on the mountain, I am that lonely man one sees upon this abandoned road.
I am going nowhere in particular. My wanderings are without end and without profit. The itinerary of the soldier or the merchant, the piety of the sterile woman who, with hopeful humility, seven times makes a tour of the holy peak,—these have nothing in common with my travels. The footprint pointed in the usual direction does not allure my own far enough to lead me astray; and soon, urged by the intimacy there is in treading this moss through the heart of the woods, to pick the black leaf of a camellia by the weeping of a secret waterfall,—I flee suddenly, like an awkward deer. Then, amid the silence of growing things, poised on one foot, I await the echo. How fresh and comic the song of this little bird seems to me! And how the cry of the rooks below delights me! Each tree has its personality, each little beast his part, each voice its place in the symphony; as they say music is comprehended, so I comprehend Nature.
It is like a story of many details, where only the proper names are given. As my walk—and the day—proceeds, I advance also in the development of a philosophy. Already I have discovered with delight that all things exist in a certain accord; and, though believing this secret relationship, by which the blackness of this pine below espouses the clear green of these maples, it is my purified sight only which establishes it; so, because of this restoration of the original design, I call my visit a Revision. I am the Inspector of Creation, the Verifier of all present things. The reality of this world is the cause of my beatitude. In ordinary hours we employ things for their usefulness, forgetting their purer value: that they should exist at all. But when, after a long effort, pushing through branches and briars, I place my hand on the burning shoulder of this heavy rock in the heart of a glade, the entry of Alexander into Jerusalem is alone comparable to the sublimity of my achievement.
And I go on and on! Each one of us contains in himself the autonomous power of motion by which he moves toward his food and his work. As for me, the even motion of my legs serves to measure for me the intensity of more subtle appeals. The allurement of everything! I feel it in the silence of my soul. I understand the harmony of the world. When shall I surprise its melody?
HERE AND THERE
In the street called Nihon Bashi, near the merchants of books and lanterns, of embroideries and bronzes, miniature gardens are sold; and, as a studious idler amid this fantastic display, I mentally compare these little fragments of the world. The artists have subtly shown themselves masters of the exquisite laws by which the lines of a landscape are composed, like those of a physiognomy. Instead of drawing nature they reproduce it, constructing their counterfeits from the very elements of the original, which they borrow—as a rule is illustrated by an example. These images are usually exact and perfect replicas. All sorts and kinds of pines, for instance, are offered me to choose from; and their position in the jar, with their height as a scale, proportionately shows the dimensions of their original territory. Here is a rice-field in Springtime; in the distance is a hill fringed with trees (they are made of moss). Here is the sea, with its archipelago and its capes! By the artifice of two stones, one black, one red, and rather worn and porous, they have represented two islands that appear to be joined together, whose difference in distance is shown only by their different colors, apparently due to the light of the setting sun. And even the many-colored sunset is represented by this bed of motley pebbles covered with the contents of two carafes.
Now, to amplify my thought!
The European artist copies nature according to the sentiment that he has for it. The Japanese imitates it according to the materials with which it furnishes him. One expresses himself, the other expresses nature. One creates, the other mimics. One paints, the other constructs. One is a student; the other, in a way, a master. One reproduces in its detail the spectacle that he surveys with a searching and subtle gaze; the other disengages its law with a flash of the eye, in the freedom of his fancy; and applies it with a scriptural conciseness.
Here the first inspiration of the artist is the material on which he exercises his hand. Good-humoredly, he consults its intrinsic properties, its tints; and, appropriating the soul of the brute thing, he constitutes himself its interpreter. Of all the things that he might say, he expresses only the essential and significant characteristics; and, merely making a few shy indications here and there, leaves to the paper the task of concealing all those infinite complexities which are implied freely because they are taken for granted. It is a frolic of certitude, it is caprice with restraint; and the underlying idea, snared by such a method of argument, imposes itself upon us with an insidious conviction.
Now, first of all, to speak of Color! We note that the Japanese artist has reduced his palette to a limited number of general and predetermined tones. He understands that the beauty of a color resides less in its intrinsic quality than in its implicit accord with contrasted tones. And because of the unmodified blending of two values laid on in equal quantities, he repairs the omission of the many intermediate shades by the vivacity that he gives to the juxtaposition of the essential notes; calmly indicating one repetition or two. He knows that the value of a tone results more from its position than from its intensity; master of keys, he transposes them as he will. Furthermore, as color is nothing less than the particular homage that all visible things render to the universal light, everything fitly takes its place within the frame through the power of color, in accord with the theme that the artist has chosen.