Read Online Beauty and Sadness by Yasunari Kawabata - Free Book Online
Authors: Yasunari Kawabata
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them.
“Otoko,” Keiko called. “You’re looking at your mother’s picture, and wondering how you can paint me,aren’t you? You think you can’t possibly have that kind of love for me.” She came in and sat close beside her.
“Silly! I’m dissatisfied now when I look at it—I’ve improved a little since then, you know. Anyway, I’m still fond of the picture. For all its faults, it’s one I devoted myself to heart and soul.”
“You needn’t go to such pains over
my
picture. Just dash it off.”
“No, no,” said Otoko, her thoughts elsewhere. Looking at the portrait had brought a flood of memories of her mother. Then Keiko had called to her, and Otoko was reminded once again of the old portraits of the boy saint. Some of the figures looked like pretty little girls or beautiful young maidens, in the elegant, refined manner of Buddhist art but also with a certain voluptuousness. They could be taken as symbols of the homosexual love at medieval monasteries where women were forbidden, of the yearning for handsome boys who could be mistaken for beautiful young girls. Perhaps that was why the saint’s portraits had come to mind as soon as she thought of painting Keiko. The hair style was not unlike the bobbed hair and bangs worn by little girls today. However, one no longer saw such resplendent brocade kimonos except in the No theater; they would seem much too old-fashioned for a modern young woman. Otoko recalled Kishida Ryusei’s portraits of his daughter Reiko. They were oils or water colors minutely drawn in a meticulous classical style influenced by Dürer: some of them were like religious paintings. But Otoko had seen an extremely rare one, in light colors on Chinese paper,that showed Reiko in a red underskirt naked above the waist. She was sitting in a formal pose. It was hardly one of Ryusei’s masterpieces, and Otoko wondered why he had portrayed his own daughter that way, in a painting in classical Japanese style. He had done similar things in Western style.
Why not paint a nude of Keiko, then? She could still follow the design of the boy saint’s portrait, and there were even Buddhist figures that gave the hint of a woman’s breasts. But what of the hair style? She had seen a superb portrait by Kobayashi Kokei, of exquisite purity, but that too had the wrong sort of coiffure. Pondering various solutions, Otoko felt all the more keenly that it was beyond her powers.
“Keiko, shall we go to bed?” she asked.
“So early? With such a lovely moon?” Keiko turned to look at the clock. “It’s only five minutes of ten.”
“I’m a little tired. Can’t we talk lying down?”
“All right.”
While Otoko was at the dressing table Keiko prepared their beds. She was very quick at it. After Otoko got up, Keiko went to the mirror to remove her makeup. Leaning over, curving her slender neck, she stared at the face in the mirror.
“Otoko, I’m not the right person for a Buddhist painting.”
“That depends on the artist.”
Keiko took out her hairpins and shook her head.
“Are you undoing your hair?”
“Yes.” As Keiko combed the long strands, Otoko watched from her bed.
“You’re taking down your hair tonight?”
“I think it’s getting an odor. I should have washed it.” Keiko sniffed at a handful of her back hair. “Otoko, how old were you when your father died?”
“Eleven, of course! How many times are you going to ask me?”
Keiko said nothing. She closed the paper-screened doors to the veranda, and the doors between the bedroom and the studio, and lay down beside Otoko. The two beds were together.
For several nights they had gone to bed without closing the outside shutters. The paper screens facing the garden glowed faintly in the moonlight.
Otoko’s mother had died of lung cancer, without revealing to her that Otoko had a younger half-sister by a different mother. Otoko had never been told.
Her father had been in the export-import trade in silk and wool. A great
“Otoko,” Keiko called. “You’re looking at your mother’s picture, and wondering how you can paint me,aren’t you? You think you can’t possibly have that kind of love for me.” She came in and sat close beside her.
“Silly! I’m dissatisfied now when I look at it—I’ve improved a little since then, you know. Anyway, I’m still fond of the picture. For all its faults, it’s one I devoted myself to heart and soul.”
“You needn’t go to such pains over
my
picture. Just dash it off.”
“No, no,” said Otoko, her thoughts elsewhere. Looking at the portrait had brought a flood of memories of her mother. Then Keiko had called to her, and Otoko was reminded once again of the old portraits of the boy saint. Some of the figures looked like pretty little girls or beautiful young maidens, in the elegant, refined manner of Buddhist art but also with a certain voluptuousness. They could be taken as symbols of the homosexual love at medieval monasteries where women were forbidden, of the yearning for handsome boys who could be mistaken for beautiful young girls. Perhaps that was why the saint’s portraits had come to mind as soon as she thought of painting Keiko. The hair style was not unlike the bobbed hair and bangs worn by little girls today. However, one no longer saw such resplendent brocade kimonos except in the No theater; they would seem much too old-fashioned for a modern young woman. Otoko recalled Kishida Ryusei’s portraits of his daughter Reiko. They were oils or water colors minutely drawn in a meticulous classical style influenced by Dürer: some of them were like religious paintings. But Otoko had seen an extremely rare one, in light colors on Chinese paper,that showed Reiko in a red underskirt naked above the waist. She was sitting in a formal pose. It was hardly one of Ryusei’s masterpieces, and Otoko wondered why he had portrayed his own daughter that way, in a painting in classical Japanese style. He had done similar things in Western style.
Why not paint a nude of Keiko, then? She could still follow the design of the boy saint’s portrait, and there were even Buddhist figures that gave the hint of a woman’s breasts. But what of the hair style? She had seen a superb portrait by Kobayashi Kokei, of exquisite purity, but that too had the wrong sort of coiffure. Pondering various solutions, Otoko felt all the more keenly that it was beyond her powers.
“Keiko, shall we go to bed?” she asked.
“So early? With such a lovely moon?” Keiko turned to look at the clock. “It’s only five minutes of ten.”
“I’m a little tired. Can’t we talk lying down?”
“All right.”
While Otoko was at the dressing table Keiko prepared their beds. She was very quick at it. After Otoko got up, Keiko went to the mirror to remove her makeup. Leaning over, curving her slender neck, she stared at the face in the mirror.
“Otoko, I’m not the right person for a Buddhist painting.”
“That depends on the artist.”
Keiko took out her hairpins and shook her head.
“Are you undoing your hair?”
“Yes.” As Keiko combed the long strands, Otoko watched from her bed.
“You’re taking down your hair tonight?”
“I think it’s getting an odor. I should have washed it.” Keiko sniffed at a handful of her back hair. “Otoko, how old were you when your father died?”
“Eleven, of course! How many times are you going to ask me?”
Keiko said nothing. She closed the paper-screened doors to the veranda, and the doors between the bedroom and the studio, and lay down beside Otoko. The two beds were together.
For several nights they had gone to bed without closing the outside shutters. The paper screens facing the garden glowed faintly in the moonlight.
Otoko’s mother had died of lung cancer, without revealing to her that Otoko had a younger half-sister by a different mother. Otoko had never been told.
Her father had been in the export-import trade in silk and wool. A great
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