The Spirit of Japanese Art

KOYETSU

When I left home toward a certain Doctor’s who had promised to show me his collection of chirography and art, the unusual summer wind which had raged since midnight did not seem to calm down; the rain-laden clouds now gathered, and then parted for the torrent of sunlight to dash down. I was most cordially received by him, as I was expected; in coming under threat of the weather I had my own reasons. I always thought that summer was worse than spring for examining (more difficult to approve than deny) the objects of art, on account of our inability for concentrating our minds; the heat that calls all the shoji doors to open wide confuses the hearts of bronze Buddhas or Sesshu’s “Daruma” or Kobo’s chirography or whatever they be, whichever way they have to turn, in the rush of light from every side; I thanked the bad weather to-day which, I am sure, I should have cursed some other day. The Doctor’s house had an almost winter-sad aspect with the shoji, even the rain-doors all shut, the soft darkness assembling at the very place it should, where the saints or goddesses revealed themselves; hanging after hanging was unrolled and rolled before me in quick succession. “Doctor, tell me quick whose writing is that?” I loudly shouted when I came to one little bit of Japanese writing. “That is Koyetsu’s,” he replied. “Why, is it? It seems it is worth more than all the others put together; Doctor, I will not ask you for any more hangings to-day,” I said. And a moment later, I looked at him and exclaimed in my determined voice: