THE MORNING FANCY
IT should begin with the opening of the shoji
here. I pushed them apart. I should see the lotus bud of Fuji, singing the "
swan-like rhapsody of dying night," from my garden, if it were a Japanese
fiction. written by a foreigner; I do not see it from here. Never mind! I can be
pretty well off without seeing it this morning. Thank God, I have even a quite
comfortable peace. So I opened my garden Shoji.
I went straight into dream from the reading of a book of poem by a certain
lady, last night; during the whole night my mind was touched by the perfumes
down a certain lane, now and then deliciously startled by a phantom that came
back from a forgotten shade; and I am still dreaming this morning. I asked my
servant to burn the incense which softly began to flap towards me as a tiny,
pearl-winged butterfly tantalising many flowers. The incense tantalised my soul
of fancy; my fancy grew irritated, and presently mad; it tried to chase it away
again and again. May it not be the gray-robed ghost of something forgotten
haunting my memory ? [<152]
I know you ghost of some lone, delicate hour,
Long-gone but unforg[o]t,
Wherein I had for guerden and dower,
That one thing I have not."
It was a white lilac that inspired the lady to write the
lines—yes, the lilac tree. Shall I plant it in my garden,
although I have no particular faith in flowers in a Japanese
garden?" We moderns have only flowers, but not gardens," I
often said; and I even went on to declare that we must
protest against such a state of things. However, I should be
glad to have one or two lilacs, not in the garden, but
somewhere beyond my sight, their old perfumes sailing
towards me over the grayness.
As I said, I opened the shoji apart and sat on the verandah,
sipping tea; from the cup my soul of fancy drank the
youthfulness and love of these early summer days when every
tree has changed its crimson-sleeved flower dress to a green
coat. I always thought that green is a symbol of, youth, and
also of a maturing love. So this early Summer is more to my
heart than Spring. It is with these summer days that the
breeze can spread its musical wings freely. O [<153] breeze
terribly cursed by us and Spring in April-poor musician in
air. Play on now, we welcome you really from our hearts! I
am perfectly comfortable this morning. A moment ago I
resolved that I would stop writing books; I would convert
myself into a reader,—Well that is to say, when I have
time. And this morning I am extremely happy in a sort of
dream on this verandah. I looked upon the sky, and found a
few birds; my own soul followed after them. The sun began to
cast a strong fight.
"To-day my soulls a dragon-fly."
The world a awaying reed."
I thought presently about garden-making and now declared
that the garden had nothing to do with nature, or not much.
Those people are silly, I thought, who think that they can
make a garden with a few scraps of what is vaguely called
Nature, closed in with a wall or fence. Oh, no! There must
be primarily the art of man; veil or clothe it with the
breath of nature; let us read the art of man as well as that
of Nature,—the unmistakable suggestion of humanity under
the solitary breath of Nature. [<154] And my ideal garden
should be silent. I am sure you will regard the voice as a
piece of vulgarity when you are acquainted with the
sweetness of silence. So a few trees I will have in my
garden. But there must be a somewhat fantastic shape of
stone under any circumstances. And one stone lantern,
perhaps? The garden must be a poetry whose voice is
suggestion or memory itself ; and I will try to gather there
the meaning fit for my own fancy. But when shall I have my
ideal Japanese garden?—Oh, my garden dark-robed and silent
as a Buddha priest.
Next: INSULARITY
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