Four Japanese Tales/The Painter of Camellias
THE PAINTER OF CAMELLIAS.
History records that the first great native painter of Japan, was the courtier Kose-no-Kanaoka, whose activity and fame were in flower at the end of the ninth and in the first half of the tenth century, and of whose works very few are extant. But history often makes mistakes, and therefore we must not be surprised that not with a single word does it mention Kose-no-Kanaoka’s predecessor, who was without doubt the contemporary of the great Buddhist saint Kobo Daishi, and who, in an age when Chinese and Korean art held complete sway in Nippon, first began to look at the world around him with his own eyes, Japanese eyes, and to paint with his own brush, a Japanese brush. He it was who first had the idea to paint pictures on sliding screens, and thus ingeniously prevented a thing meant to conceal from reminding offensively of its original purpose; for then the screen at the same time disclosed views into the conceptions of refined minds, it opened a magic window into an imaginary world, and allowed him who stood or sat before it to forget that there was something or other behind it which was hidden to his sight and should remain untouched by his imagination as well. At least this much is registered by unreliable history: that at the emperor’s court painting on screens was practiced in the ninth century, and that in the eleventh century Motomitsu founded the first native school of painting Yamato-ryu. In reality, however, the precursor if not the actual founder of the “Japanese school” was that forerunner of Motomitsu and Kose-no-Kanaoka, whose fate was sadder than that of the latter; for not only was no piece of his work preserved for posterity, but also his very name and memory fell into the absolute oblivion that so often is the lot of those who have the courage first to swim against the current.
Notwithstanding, he whose name is unknown to us bothered his head neither with thoughts as to how his contemporaries judged his paintings nor with fears that future generations would slight or forget him. He was an artist because he knew how to see; and an artist who sees more or better than it is given to his contemporaries to see is never understood by them. He was an artist who, creating his own world, did not vex himself with those to whom this world remained foreign; but there were many who, heard the spring breezes rustle in the bamboo shoots he painted on sliding-doors, who unbarred their souls to the charm of his white plum-blossoms, who comprehended that the mist rising above his lakeshores fringed with irises rose also above the beauty of their own native country, which was overlooked by the disciples of the Koreans and the Chinese. But then envy began to gnaw at the hearts of those who feared that their own narrow horizons would be overshadowed by the brush of the intruder; they raised hue and cry in the name of sacred tradition and effected his falling out of the good graces of the court before he could attain the emperor’s favour. To this he was well-nigh insensible; for it was not his ambition to paint for the sake of praise, but to paint well. A cloud hanging on the gnarled and twisted branch of a pine fascinated him more than Chinese sages seated in the clouds; and his brush loved rather to quicken the outlines of beautiful boulders of which no one before him had taken any notice, than to make petrified symbols of the gods according to patterns repeated hundreds of times. He was visited by a suave courtier and refused to take an order for a picture in the Korean style; he did not know that he was in fact opposing the sovereign will of the court and falling into a snare prepared for him; he painted wisps of bamboo bending under the weight of snow, and in return for his efforts was banished to the north country where the snow lies on the mountains long after everything is green and blooming in the south.
He went away into exile contented that he would no longer be exposed to disturbing influences, whether of praise or of incomprehension; he found himself a dwelling in a secluded hamlet beneath the mountain pass called Shimizu, west of sacred Nikko, deep in the interior, in the neighborhood of the wild Ainus, who at that time still inhabited these regions; and roaming over the mountain paths, in wonder he opened his eyes, which day by day saw more and more of the things before hidden from them. There were days when his: brush was paralyzed into inactivity, in despair over the manifold beauties that he did not wish to record but imperfectly. The secret of perspective was disclosed to his inner sight and tortured him; the feeling of latent movement embodied in a branch seemingly immobile, in a stone seemingly unfeeling, in the mist ensnared between clumps of bamboo, began to torment him by impressing on his mind that hitherto in his effort to see too much he had not seen enough. He wished his brush to picture the hidden soul of things, their mysterious life, their longings and dreams, and as the months went by, he understood ever more clearly that one human life was insufficient for the mastery of so much as he had attempted in the beginning, and he blessed the day that had brought him disfavour and expelled him into this country, where he had awoken to his former blindness. And upon his return from his ramble that day, he sat down to his work as if in a fever, without the slightest idea of what he was about to paint. Was it to be the snowdrift over which he had walked today, the snowdrift thawing under the June sun and pierced here and there by bamboo grass with leaflets of a rich blue-green hue, margined with yellow? Was it to be the great white chalices of wild magnolias, which had commanded his, admiration beneath the pass? Or those graceful red camellias on the mountain slope which every day lured him into a wood of shining leaves sprinkled as if with drops of blood? His heart bled; and his brush pictured the excruciating desire of that poor heart in one single twig with three charming blossoms that opened beneath his hand in tremulous and sweet agitation. Never before had he been so well contented with his work; he felt that he had created life, or even more, that he had divined the meaning of life. There were people who heard the rustling of the spring breeze in his plume-like bamboos; but nobody had thought of listening in his paintings for the soul of the bamboo, for the soul of nature. Nevertheless these three camellias seemed to him to be the first step into regions where he had never been before, and into which nobody’s footprints could lead him.
He became a painter of camellias, partly out of gratitude, but mainly because he became aware of the strange fascination they had for him. His liking for them gradually deepened into passion. It was not long before all other things lost interest for him, and it seemed to him that before his love for camellias all had been but passing play, the whiling away of time, and impatient waiting for the Great Moment which had come upon the day when in his first painting of their flowers he had regained his lost contentment and self-confidence. He painted camellias as some paint again and again the portrait of a beloved woman; he painted them in the way some dedicate their brush to the gods, and in painting camellias he expressed not only their souls but also his own, he betrayed the most secret depths of his inner self. His camellia-blossoms played a wonderful and unending scale of shades of red, and gradually it became possible to guess from a picture whether the day had been sunny or misty, whether the sun were already in the west or had not yet reached the zenith, whether the season were spring or late autumn, whether the flower mourned or exulted, whether it were foreordained to premature death or to living out its life in full. His camellias seemed to stand out from his pictures in such a life-like manner that many a screen of his gave the impression of being a tokonoma, an alcove in which was placed a vase with a camellia branch, or of a windov opened into a wood cf camellias. Sometimes he would play with some bizarre fancy: he would paint a praying mantis or a noisy cicada on a camellia twig whose buds were striped in pink and white, and the earthen vessel in which the camellia twig was placed would be ornamented on its slender body with unbelievably plastic camellia flowers, moulded as if by the hands of a sculptor. This, however, was only play; his leading passion was the scarlet magnificence or the carmine rapture or the pink delicacy of live flowers, the lay of live branches, the sensitive turning of living leaves. His hold on perspective grew ever firmer, his way of putting movement into immobility became ever more daring; and when after a certain length of time his fame began to spread from province to province, the courts of the nobles began to whisper about this miraculous painter of the before unnoticed tsubaki, whom the emperor’s court had driven into exile.
To all of this the painter of camellias paid as little attention as to his former failure, he painted and loved his camellias so much that he could not think of any other object worthy of his brush, nor of any womah worthy of his love. But one day when returning from a stroll he met in the pass of Shimizu a charming young girl, whom he had never seen before, and who was attired in a splendid court gown, the like of which surely had never appeared before in that mountainous region. He was amazed by her beauty and by her mien; but still more was he surprised at the perturbation that had laid hold of him with his first glance at this girl. They stopped, facing each other, and for a time both were silent; nevertheless even in this silence his soul spoke, and she dropped her eyes; in that silence his heart went out to her, and she accepted it in exchange for her own. And then she told him never to ask her about her origin, but to let it suffice that she had come after him and to him, because she had to come, and that her name was Tsubaki, Camellia. His wonder increased. Tsubaki was her mame, and tsubaki it was that he loved more than all the other flowers of earth and far more than anything he ever saw or could imagine in this imperfect world. At any rate he would not be unfaithful to his camellias in this new love for a woman, for beautiful Tsubaki-San, who for some mysterious reason had come to him, he did not know whence and how. Her refined speech was that of the court; and he was not slow in discovering that she had been carefully educated in poetry and philosophy, and that she understood not only his art but also his passion for the flowers she resembled so much. Her company only incensed his love for camellias and in loving them he only all the more adored TsubakiSan, who from that day lived with him first as his servant, then as his companion, and finally as his gentle sweetheart-wife. Her cheeks burned with a wonderful and unending scale of shades of red under his ardent gaze, her body seemed to him like the supple trunk of a camellia tree, her arms like its branches, her fingers like sensitive leaflets. Sometimes the idea struck him to portray her, and smiling happily she would sit for him; but ever and again his brush painted new camellia flowers, and she was not jealous, on the contrary finding these strange portraits of herself the most beautiful of his work. And there was not a single discord in their happy love; for there never was a woman who could better incite love ja art and stimulate its expression than Tsubaki-San did almost involuntarily, merely by loving and being loved.
The day came, however, when the unheard-of and never-befor-seen beauty of his paintings was voiced even to the august ears of the emperor; and when the envoys of the highest court brought an assortment of his pictures and screens, the emperor was so enthusiastic that immediately he recalled the Painter of Camellias from exile and in advance honored him with a resplendent court title. A special mission was sent out into the remote mountainous country, which according to the intentions of the court intriguers was to have closed over the exile like water over a stone; but these schemes failed, his art triumphed, and in the intoxication of the moment the Painter of Camellias consented to go to the court to thank the emperor for his favor and to paint for him a large and beautiful picture in several panels on the sliding-screens of the new ceremonial hall in the imperial palace. Vainly the charming eyes of Tsubaki-San wept with tearless sadness and mute presentiment; he talked himself into the idea that shortly he would return to her, just as soon as he had tasted of the humiliation meted out to his former opponents and detractors; and she did not dissuade him with a single word. He, who had never cared for the praise or the censure of the world, now boasted of the amazement which he imagined he would arouse with the work he had in mind, with The Hall of Camellias in the Emperor’s palace, and she smiled with a wilting smile in which there were more tears than in the most desperate weeping, more pain than in a breaking heart.
Thus the Painter of Camellias returned in triumph there whence he had departed in disgrace a few years before. The good will of the sovereign was his, learned critics were finding ever new charms and virtues in his work, and his admirers worshipped him. He talked about his principles, and the court listened to him with interest; he began the work entrusted to him, and the critics nodded their heads approvingly when they saw that he was beginning to paint in a style which was to eclipse the Korean and Chinese masters on their own field. The work progressed slowly, but that did not decrease the fame and favor he enjoyed at the court; and in the midst of feasts and festivals grew ever dimmer the memory of Tsubaki-San, whom he had left behind far away in the heart of the mountains. The painting progressed slowly, but all the more rapidly there grew within him a sort of anxiety when he was alone with his work, vainly waiting for the moment which would make him forget the whole world and live and breathe only in his idea, in his art. And as the weeks lengthened into months, the Painter of Camellias who no longer painted camellias became more and more discontented with himself and with everything else; at first he cursed all those years in which he had painted nothing but camellias, and then himself for ever having set out upon these new paths, which really were very old; gladly he would have stopped his work, obliterated it all, and begun anew as he had learned to create in banishment, but his name and honor were engaged, and he felt that he never would have the strengh to finish this painting against his convictions, against his past, against his art, against his love, against himself. He still kept up the appearance of pride and self-confidence; but in private and in solitude he grew faint-hearted, he hardly could support his heavy head, and his eyes imagined the delicacy and beauty of her whom alone he loved and to whom he had been unfaithful, not only for the smiles of other women but still more through having enstranged himself from his own self and from his camellias. His heart ever more passionately called Tsubaki-San, but his brush was afraid to attempt even a stroke in his former style. He wished to paint his camellias, but felt that without Tsubaki-San he would fail, and that he could not survive his failure. Only one thing saved him from despair: the profound, though unwarranted belief that Tsubaki-San would come to liberate him, he knew not how and when, but he was sure that only she could save him from disgrace, and that she would . . .
At last when he was already contemplating suicide, so as to escape ridicule and dishonor for the work in which he had failed, when danger threatened that the grievous decline of his genius would be exposed and that he would be thrown into an abyss of humiliation, in comparison with which exile had been a happy fate, the Painter of Camellias was actually saved by her for whom he longed as an artist and as a man, and whom he mutely implored for help. The night following the day when, shut up alone in the Hall of Clouds, which originally was to have been the Hall of Camellias, it was brought home to him with full force that he was at the end of his tether and on the verge of ruin, and that he no longer had the strength to go on with the comedy . . . that night, when in his apartments he was dispairingly trying to imagine Tsubaki-San, his former happiness at her side, her devoted love, and her ability to inspire him . . . that night, when his dry burning eyes wept without tears for the camellias that had led him on to the right path in art andi which he had lightheartedly betrayed . . . that night a terrible fire broke out in the imperial palace, and running out-of-doors so that he could watch it from afar, the Painter of Camellias had the impression that gigantic and unbelievably beautiful camellias were being tossed upwards to the midnight sky. At the first moment the possibility did not strike him that in this fire might also be turned to ashes the work in which he had been a traitor to himself, a liar and a failure, for which he had deserted sweet Tsubaki-San and given up painting camellias: but hardly had the thought taken form when his heart was filled with certainty that this had happened, that he was saved, and that his deliverer was his own sweet Tsubaki-San. His happiness was so great that the first instant his heart failed him and he nearly fainted; but when a little later breathless people rushed to him with the news that it was his paintings which were flaming to the sky and suffusing it with crimson, he was to all intents and purposes extraordinarily calm. He even smiled, and people admired his strength of spirit. Very soon, however, he reentered his house, for he was afraid that he would not be able to suppress either wild joy or overpowering emotion, which alternately were taking possession of him; far from the turmoil and alone, he sat down in the room flooded with reddish reflections and endeavored to imagine his Tsubaki-San and his return to his mountain retreat, where he had been so happy in life and art. For the first time his own folly and meanness were fully impressed upon his mind and he was filled with bitter remorse for his infatuation. Notwithstanding, do what he would he could not call forth in his memory the picture of his companion and adviser; ever and again there appeared to his inner sight a magnificent camellia flower whenever he thought he had the features of her face within his mental grasp, and finally, towards morning, he fell asleep, worn out by the vain effort but none the less happy.
Next morning, however he learned a terrible piece of news. The Hall of Clouds had been set on fire intentionally, and the incendiary–a woman–had been caught. The Painter of Camellias hurried out to see the wretched creature, who acording to law doubtlessly would be condemned to the stake and then burned in public: and his foreboding proved correct. The incendiary was his charming Tsubaki-San, without whom he could imagine neither life nor further artistic activity; his lover and his inspiration . . . She was smiling with fathomless sadness, surrounded by armed guards who were protecting her against the rage of the populace; she sank to the earth at his feet and hiding her flaming cheeks behind the sleeve of her magnificent gown, she awaited his words. The mob, the courtiers, all who had hastened in their wake, waited likewise; and with the exception of Tsubaki-San, all were amazed that he did not allow himself to be carried away by anger, but that his voice was gentle, even loving, when at last he overcame his emotion and spoke. Thereupon a surprised murmur arose from the palace court-yard: The Painter of Camellias thanked the woman for having forgiven him his perfidy and for saving him from shame . . . Tsubaki-San uncovered her face, and her smile was no longer sad but happy. She begged him to forgive her if she had disgraced his name by her crime; but the Painter of Camellias shook his head, »I am the one who, brought disgrace on my name,« he replied so that all could hear, »and I am the one who committed a crime. For there is no shame more criminal and no crime more shameful than when an artist is untrue to himself and is led astray by the lure of fame.«
Only out of respect for the high rank of the famous painter and upon his declaration that the incendiary was his wife did the Emperor augustly consent to Tsubaki-San’s being spared the shame of the stake and to her being executed by the sword; but the Painter of Camellias was ordered to carry out the sentence himself before the eyes of the court. With smiles upon their faces the lovers met on a raised platform and to the strains of music they sat opposite each other for a long time before the signal was given for the execution; they were not capable of uttering a single word, but their eyes spoke for them, and in hers he read that she did not wish him to follow her, but to live on for her memory. He promised her all she requested; and when she extended her delicate neck and he raised his arm with the sword, there was not a heart in the court-yard that was not touched to its depths. The sword whizzed through the air; but no head dropped on the wooden floor with a dull thud, no awful stream of blood gushed forth. Instead of a head there fell on the mat a marvelously beautiful camellia-blossom, the like of which no one had ever seen before.
And the Painter of Camellias understood that Tsubaki-San had been no daughter of man, but the embodied soul of the flower he loved above all others, to whom he had consecrated his life and his art, and whom finally he had wished to betray, spellbound as he was with the vanity and emptiness of wordly fame.
Satiated with the world and its illusions, he shaved his head and entered a Budhistic monastery so that secluded from the tumult of life he could end his life in memories of her whom he loved, whom his love had called into being and his treachery had condemned to death.
***
Not a single picture by the Painter of Camellias is extant: indeed, not a single one survived the sad fate of his sweetheart, for at the instant when the sword struck the neck of Tsubaki-San, all the camellia blossoms he had ever painted fell off their stems, not petal by petal, as camellias had done up to that time after the manner of roses, but as a whole . . . like a severed head falling to the ground . . . The name and fame of the Painter of Camellias were soon obliterated, and the camellia became a flower almost unknown in art, except in the Korin school. From that time to this day, however, wilted camellias do not drop off petal by petal, but each flower falls intact to the ground. And therefore the Japanese people to this day have a sort of superstitious dread of this flower, even though they admire it; it reminds them of heads condemned to the sword. However, this legend fell into oblivion, and had it not been revealed to me once in a dream, probably nobody ever would have been able to disclose to the world this touching and instructive incident of the Painter of Camellias and his sweetheart, beautiful Tsubaki-San. For not even in Japan does anyone know this legend.
