Kyoto Diary

Koetsu-ji

When I went to Koetsu-ji, there were two little buildings standing among the pines beside the main hall. Seeing how oddly well they fit in there, they did not seem to be mere sheds or anything of that sort. Or rather, one of them even had a plaque hanging on it written by Mr. Okura Kihachiro. So I caught Kobayashi Uko, who was guiding me, and asked, “What is this?” He replied, “These are tea pavilions built by the Koetsu Society.”

At once, I lost all respect for the Koetsu Society.

“Don’t those people seem to think they’ve put Koetsu himself on their payroll?”

Kobayashi, hearing my spiteful remark, began to grin.

“Now that these are here, you can no longer see where Takagamine and Washigamine run together. Instead of building tea pavilions, they ought at least to clear away some of those scrub trees over there.”

I looked where Kobayashi pointed with his umbrella. Sure enough, the leafy crowns of the early-summer brush, tangled and thick, were gloomily hiding the left foot of Takagamine. If that were cleared away, you would be able to see not only the mountain but also the great bamboo grove gleaming beyond it. And in the first place, that would surely take less trouble than building tea pavilions.

After that, the two of us went to the priests’ quarters, and the resident monk showed us the temple treasures. Among them was a small hanging scroll, perhaps eight inches square, on which silver bellflowers and golden pampas grass were interwoven, with a poem written over them in beautiful brushwork. What was especially interesting was the way the pampas-grass leaves drooped. Kobayashi, being a connoisseur, had it hung from the alcove post and kept saying things like, “Excellent. The silver has aged beautifully.” I was still sulking, a Shikishima cigarette between my lips, but as I went on looking at the piece, I too began to feel calmer, brighter, more at ease.

But after a while the resident monk turned to Kobayashi and said this:

“Before long, another tea pavilion will be built.”

Even Kobayashi seemed somewhat startled.

“Another one by the Koetsu Society?”

“No, this time by a private individual.”

I went beyond mere irritation and felt something stranger still. What people think Koetsu was, what they think Koetsu-ji is, and for that matter what they think Takagamine is as well, once things come to this I can no longer understand at all. If they are so eager to build tea pavilions, why not buy up more of the barley fields where the estate of Chaya Shirojiro once stood, and line them indiscriminately with fences? Then they can hang plaques and lanterns all over the eaves of those pavilions. If they did that, I for one would never have gone out of my way to come to Koetsu-ji in the first place. Certainly not. Who would come?

Later, when we stepped outside, Kobayashi said, “You came at a good time. If any more tea pavilions go up, the place will be ruined.” Seen in that light, I had indeed come at a good time. But it was still a matter for repeated regret that I had not come at an even better time, when there had not been a single tea pavilion. Still wearing my sour expression, I left with Kobayashi through the lonely gate of Koetsu-ji, standing behind the bamboo grove.

Bamboo

One evening after rain, I was riding in a rickshaw through the streets of Kyoto when, after a while, the puller asked something like, “Where shall I take you?” or, in Kyoto fashion, “Where would you like to be let off?” “Where?” Of course, to my inn. So from behind the hood I called out twice or so, “The inn, the inn.” The puller said he did not know which inn I meant, and stood motionless in the middle of the street. Once he said that, I too suddenly became flustered. I knew the inn’s name, but I could not remember what district it was in. And the name itself was so extremely commonplace that no matter how clever the puller might be, it could hardly be enough to get me back there safely.

As I was thinking what a fix this was, the puller removed the hood and asked whether it might be somewhere around here. By the light of his lantern I saw that there was a bamboo grove in front of the rickshaw. In the darkness, ten thousand blue stalks seemed to stand in a row, their overlapping leaves glistening wet and cold. I thought I had been taken to a ridiculous place, so I explained, “Not in a countryside like this. It’s where, if you turn a couple of corners, you come out at the big bridge on Shijo.” The puller gave me a baffled look and said, “But this is near Shijo too.” “Oh? Is that so?” I said. “Then go on a little farther, somewhere livelier. I’m sure I’ll recognize it then.” That served to patch things over for the moment. But just as the rickshaw started moving again and seemed to turn left at the mouth of a side street, we suddenly came out in front of the Kaburenjo theater, which was astonishing. It happened to be the season of the Miyako Odori, and on both sides the red lanterns of Gion Dango stood neatly lit in a row. Only then did I realize that the bamboo grove I had just seen belonged to Kennin-ji. Yet the fact that this bamboo grove, sweeping away the darkness, stood face to face with such a cheerful pleasure quarter struck me as unreal no matter how I thought about it. Afterward I reached my inn without incident, but I still remember clearly the fox-bewitched feeling I had at the time. ...

Ever since then, I have noticed that wherever one goes in and around Kyoto, there are bamboo groves. Even in the liveliest parts of town, one can never quite let down one’s guard against them. The moment you think you have left the rows of houses behind, a bamboo grove appears at once. Then, before you know it, it is town again. Above all, the bamboo grove at Kennin-ji that I have just mentioned always leapt before my eyes like a sudden Zen shout whenever I passed through Gion afterward. ...

And yet, once one grows used to them, Kyoto’s bamboo seems curiously lacking in any rugged vigor. It feels like bamboo that has become accustomed to city life, gentle bamboo. Even the water its roots draw up seems as though it must somehow be scented with face powder. To put it another way, it seems like bamboo that grew from the start in order to be painted by an artist of the Rinpa school. If it is like that, then there is of course no harm in its growing in the middle of town. Indeed, I should like it even better if in the very heart of Gion there stood two or three thick stalks, tall and splendid, like the bamboo in Koetsu’s maki-e lacquer.

Even bare roots, how green the bamboo in spring rain

When I went to Osaka and Tatsumura asked me to write something, Kyoto’s bamboo came back to mind, and I wrote that haiku. Kyoto has so much bamboo, and that bamboo has been shaped into something thoroughly Kyoto-like.

The Maiko

At a teahouse in Upper Kiyamachi, while I was drinking sake, one of the geisha there became wildly boisterous. To me she seemed somehow to have the makings of mania. It began to make me uncomfortable, so I left dealing with her entirely to Kobayashi and turned toward the maiko sitting beside me. She was quietly eating tsubaki-mochi. The white makeup around the hairline had worn thin, and the healthy skin showed darkly beneath; for that alone she seemed far more reassuring. She looked childlike and charming, so I asked whether she knew gymnastics. She answered that she had forgotten gymnastics, but still remembered how to skip rope. I wanted to say, “Then do it for me,” but the shamisen began, so I let it pass. Even if I had asked, she probably would not have done it.

To the accompaniment of that shamisen, Kobayashi sang one of the comic alternate lyrics to an Otsu-e song. Apparently the words had been written out on a half-sheet and kept inside somewhere, and unless he had that in front of him he could not sing it in ideal fashion. Whenever he grew uncertain, two or three of the geisha present came to his aid. And when those geisha in turn became uncertain, an old geisha called Omatsu came to their aid. The way all those different voices pieced the Otsu-e song together felt exactly like looking at a patchwork folding screen. It struck me as so funny that halfway through I burst out laughing. Kobayashi, infected by this, ended by laughing the Otsu-e itself to death. After that, Omatsu sang the rest alone to the end.

Then Kobayashi asked the maiko to dance. Omatsu said the room was too cramped, so she should open the paper sliding doors and dance in the next room. The maiko who had been eating tsubaki-mochi obediently went into the next room and danced The Four Seasons of Kyoto. Regrettably, when it comes to that sort of dancing, I cannot tell what is skillful and what is poor. But her flowered hair ornaments tilted, her long dangling sash swayed, and her dance fan flashed, and since it was all exceedingly beautiful, I watched with pleasure while picking at slices of duck roast.

But to tell the truth, it was not only because it was beautiful that I watched with such enjoyment. The maiko seemed to have a cold, and whenever she came to a part where she lowered her face, there was always, deep within that well-shaped nose of hers, a faint sound like stepping in spring mud. It was unlike the affected child of the pleasure quarter one might expect, and gave me an altogether natural, agreeable feeling. I was drunk and strangely delighted, so when the dance was over I served her things like yokan and tsubaki-mochi. If there had been no danger of embarrassing her, I would almost have liked to say, “You sniffled exactly five times.”

Before long the excitable geisha went home, and the room suddenly grew quiet. Looking out beyond the window glass, I saw the light of electric advertisements reflected in the river. The sky was overcast, and it was impossible to tell exactly where Higashiyama lay. In a kind of reaction, my spirits began to sink, and I said to Kobayashi, “Won’t you sing another Otsu-e song?” Leaning against an armrest, Kobayashi smiled like a child and shook his head. He must have been quite drunk by then. The maiko, apparently tired even of tsubaki-mochi, was folding paper cranes by herself. Omatsu and another geisha were talking softly about someone or other. Since leaving Tokyo, it was there for the first time, in that gaudy teahouse, that I tasted a lonely feeling like homesickness on a journey.

(June 1918)