39 Stories by Kawabata Yasunari

Author:Kawabata, Yasunari [Kawabata, Yasunari]
Language: eng
Format: epub

THE FESTIVAL OF THE FULL MOON

Otoko was planning to take Keiko to the temple on Mt. Kurama for the Festival of the Full Moon. The festival was always held in May, but on a different date from that of the old lunar calendar. Early in the evening before the festival, the moon was rising in the clear sky over the Eastern Hills.

Otoko watched it from the veranda. "I think we’ll have a fine moon tomorrow," she called in to Keiko. Visitors to the festival were supposed to drink from a sake bowl reflecting the full moon, so a cloudy, moonless night would have been disappointing.

Keiko came out on the veranda and put her hand lightly on Otoko’s back.

"The moon of May," said Otoko.

Finally Keiko spoke. "Shall we go for a drive along the Eastern Hills? Or out toward Otsu, to see the moon in Lake Biwa?"

"The moon in Lake Biwa? There’s nothing special about that."

"Does it look better in a sake bowl?" Keiko asked, sitting down at Otoko’s feet. "Anyway, I like the colors in the garden tonight."

"Really?" Otoko looked down at the garden. "Bring a cushion, won’t you? And turn off the light in there."

From the studio veranda one could see only the inner garden — the view was cut off by the temple’s main residence. It was a rather artless oblong garden, but about half of it was bathed in moonlight, so that even the steppingstones took on different colors in the light and shadow. A white azalea blooming in the shadow seemed to be floating. The scarlet maple near the veranda still had fresh young leaves, though they were darkened by the night. In spring people often mistook its bright red budding leaves for flowers, and wondered what kind of blossoms they were. The garden also had a rich cover of hair moss.

"Suppose I make some of our new tea," said Keiko. Otoko kept on gazing at her familiar garden, as if she were not used to seeing it at all hours. She was sitting there with her head slightly lowered, preoccupied, her eyes fixed on the moonlit half of the garden.

When Keiko returned with the tea she mentioned reading somewhere that Rodin’s model for The Kiss was still alive, and around eighty years old. "It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?"

"That’s because you’re young! Must you die early if an artist immortalized your youth? It’s wrong to hunt out models like that!"

Her outburst had come from being reminded of Oki’s novel. But Otoko, at thirty-nine, was beautiful. "Actually," Keiko went on calmly, "it made me think of asking you to paint me once, while I’m young."

"Of course, if I could. But why not do a self-portrait?"

"Me? I couldn’t get a good likeness, for one thing. Even if I did, all sorts of ugliness would come out, and I’d end up hating the picture. And still people would think I was flattering myself, unless I made it abstract."

"You mean you’d like a realistic one? But that’s out of character.

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