Siburapha Behind the Painting
Behind the Painting
Kulap Saipradit (1905–74), better known by his pen name Siburapha, was a prominent newspaper editor and novelist. A vocal critic of the military rulers of the day, he was imprisoned on two occasions and spent the last sixteen years of his life in exile in China.
David Smyth is the author of a biography of Siburapha and has translated several other classic Thai novels, including The Battle of Life (also by Siburapha), The Prostitute and The Dreams of an Idealist
Siburapha
Behind the Painting
Translated by David Smyth
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First published by Oxford University Press 1990
Published by Silkworm Books 2000
First published in Penguin Classics 2024
001
Text copyright © Siburapha Foundation, 2024
Translation copyright © David Smyth, 1995, 2024
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Behind the Painting
Three days passed before Pree noticed the picture I had hung up in my study. She showed little interest beyond pausing briefly for a closer look and asking, ‘Where is it, this Mitake?’ I was a little startled, but Pree did not notice.
‘It’s a lovely area of countryside outside Tokyo. People from Tokyo often go there on Sundays.’
‘Oh, so you bought it in Tokyo, then?’
I buried my head in the book I had been reading when Pree entered the room. ‘No, a friend of mine painted it for me.’ I felt uneasy about the way my voice sounded, because it resembled that of an actor, speaking in a guarded manner on stage.
‘That’s what I thought. It would’ve been a bit strange if you’d had to buy it, because it looks very ordinary, and I don’t see anything particularly special about it. But my eye may not be up to appreciating its merits.’
‘If you look at watercolours like this from close up, you might not appreciate them, but if you view them from a little further back, you might have a different opinion.’
Pree showed no inclination to do as I suggested, nor to ask any further questions. I was glad. The painting was mounted in a jet-black frame and hung on the wall opposite my desk. When I sat down to work, it was behind me. I had thought of hanging it directly in front of me, so that I could see it whenever I looked up. But later I changed my mind, being quite certain that if I were
to follow through with my original idea, the painting would really disturb my peace of mind.
In fact, Pree was not far wrong in what she had said. The painting was ordinary. There was nothing striking about it, and it bore no comparison to the pictures hanging in the living-room and bedroom, some of which were worth 40 or 50 yen. It was a watercolour, depicting a stream which ran past the foot of a mountain. Tall trees grew densely on the slope of the mountain. On the other side of the stream was a small, uneven stone path which passed over an overhanging rock, rising and descending in places. Creeping plants and wildflowers of various colours grew in a line along the rock. Further down, on a large rock almost touching the water, sat two figures. The scene was depicted from a distance, and it was not clear whether they were a man and a woman, or whether they were both men. But one of them was undoubtedly a man. The words ‘By the Stream’ appeared on the painting; the artist intended this to be the title. In a bottom corner, in small letters, was the word ‘Mitake’, with the date below it, indicating that it had been painted six years previously.
The painting, then, was ordinary, with nothing remarkable about it. The artist’s talent was modest, and while it was quite pleasant, it was not going to draw forth cries of admiration from the viewer. Lovers of nature might express some interest and appreciation, but that is not part of Pree’s character. It is a pity because it is quite the opposite with me.
However, it is perfectly reasonable that neither Pree, nor anyone else, should show any interest in the picture, for as Pree had said, it was a very ordinary picture. But I, and I alone, think very differently, for I know, all too well, that behind the painting was a life, a life which has stamped its indelible mark upon my heart. To other people, behind that painting there is only a sheet of cardboard and, beyond that, the wall. How else, then, could they see it, other than as just an ordinary painting?
Behind the Painting
Gazing at the picture when I am alone, I see the water meander by and then gather speed as its course descends. I see even the pale, autumn sunlight. And the two people sitting on the overhanging rock, whom the artist has daubed on almost carelessly, I see quite clearly. I even see the long, curling eyelashes of one of them, and the three bright red triangles drawn over thin lips, lending their very thinness a wonderful charm. I know, all too well, that the artist put everything into that picture, that it was no half-hearted effort. In that tranquil and apparently very ordinary picture, I see everything unfolding. Every scene, every part, from the beginning to the final act, on which the curtain fell so tragically, only recently.
When Chao Khun Atthikanbodi took his wife, Mom Ratchawong Kirati, to Japan for their honeymoon, I was a student at Rikkyo University and, at the time, just twenty-two years old. I had known Chao Khun in Thailand because he and my father were friends, and he had always been kindly disposed towards me. I had also met Khunying Atthikanbodi, his first wife, and got to know her as well as Chao Khun. About a year after I had gone to study in Japan, I was saddened to hear that Khunying Atthikanbodi had died of influenza. After that I had no further news of Chao Khun for two years, until just recently, when I heard from him once again. Chao Khun Atthikanbodi wrote saying that he was coming to Japan with his new wife, Mom Ratchawong Kirati, and asked me to find accommodation for him and make other necessary arrangements. He intended to stay in Tokyo for two months.
When I say he was taking his wife to Japan for their honeymoon, these are my own words. In his letter, he said he needed a change of scenery and wanted to take a long trip to relax and enjoy himself for a while. His main reason for wanting to come to Japan was to give his wife a treat she would enjoy. Referring to Mom Ratchawong Kirati, he had written, ‘I both love her and feel sorry for her. She is not very familiar with the outside world, despite her age. I want to give Kirati some experience of the world beyond Thailand, and I want to make her happy and
feel that marrying someone of my age is at least not completely meaningless. I think, Nopporn, that you will like Kirati, just as you liked my poor deceased wife. For people who don’t know her, Kirati is rather on the quiet side. But she is kind-hearted. There’s no need for you to worry, though. I think Kirati will like you very much. I’ve told her that, too.’
I had never met Mom Ratchawong Kirati before, and the little that Chao Khun Atthikanbodi had said about her in his letter did not tell me very much. I guessed that she was probably about forty, or possibly a little younger. She was probably rather aloof, or at least somewhat reserved, in keeping with her aristocratic background; and she would certainly not like young people who were loud and boisterous, not that that was part of my nature. She was probably a rather serious person, who took little pleasure in the things most people enjoy, and probably rather rigid in some of her ways, which meant I would have to be careful about how I talked to her.
Chao Khun had said in his letter that he had no desire to stay in a hotel, no matter how luxurious it was, even if it were the Imperial Hotel. He was tired of having to mingle with strangers in his free time, and tired, too, of having to dress formally whenever he left his rooms or took his meals. He wanted to rent a house where he could be completely free, and it did not worry him how much it would cost. Of the latter concern I was well aware, because Chao Khun, as well as being generous and kindhearted, was widely known to be among the richest men in Thailand. I arranged for him to rent a house in Aoyama District, a suburb not far from the railway. Travel into the city was convenient in every respect. The house I had arranged was not very large, but it was one of the most attractive ones in the district. From the outside it had a Western appearance, but inside, the rooms were partitioned and laid out and furnished in Japanese style. It stood on slightly raised ground, surrounded by a wall
Behind the Painting
made of large rocks about two and a half feet high. Above the rocks was an embankment about three feet high, covered in lush, green grass, with small shrubs evenly spaced along the top. Inside the grounds there was a garden covered in dense greenery. At the front of the house stood two large trees, their branches and thick foliage covering almost the whole of the grounds, making the house appear pleasant and green and all the more attractive. I myself really liked it, and even though the owner wanted 200 yen a month for rent, I did not think it expensive for a nicely furnished and well-maintained house.
I hired an attractive servant girl to look after the house, in the Japanese manner. In choosing an attractive girl, I do not mean that she was to look after Chao Khun in any sense other than her normal duties. I just thought that if there was a choice between a servant who looked like an ogress and a beautiful one, then the latter was preferable, since living in proximity to beauty, whether in a person or an object, helps to lift our spirits. I was well aware that Chao Khun was in a position to be choosy. I had to pay the servant more than the normal rate, the added expense being not for her looks, but because I had to find a Japanese girl who could speak adequate English. Otherwise, both Chao Khun and his wife would have found it difficult.
The first day I met Chao Khun Atthikanbodi and his entourage at Tokyo Station was also the first great shock I was to experience in my acquaintance with his wife. When I first caught sight of the two women accompanying Chao Khun, I guessed that the one who was about thirty-eight, neatly dressed, and looked somewhat old-fashioned and a little nervous, was probably Mom Ratchawong Kirati. My assumption was based on the letter Chao Khun had sent me. The other was the complete opposite. She looked young and radiant and was elegantly dressed. Even at that first brief glance her dignified demeanour was quite apparent to me. I could not imagine who she was.
Chao Khun’s eldest daughter, who had married several years earlier, I had already met in Bangkok. My speculations, however, lasted less than a minute, because after I had exchanged a few words of greeting with Chao Khun, he turned to the young woman, who at that moment was standing beside him, and said, ‘This is my wife, Khunying Kirati.’ His introduction almost startled me. As a result of my stupid mistake, I nearly forgot my manners and stared straight into her face, in order to dispel any doubt that she was Mom Ratchawong Kirati, Chao Khun Atthikanbodi’s new wife.
She received my greetings with a gentle, graceful smile. The other woman meanwhile respectfully retired a couple of paces behind Chao Khun. As I glanced at her once more, I suddenly remembered that in his letter, Chao Khun had said that he would bring his cook out from Bangkok, too. I had completely forgotten. In the end, there could be no doubt as to who was who. Yet I still could not help feeling surprised that I had been so wrong in my expectations about Mom Ratchawong Kirati’s age and appearance.
That day I was wearing my university student’s uniform, and that was the first thing about me that Mom Ratchawong Kirati took an interest in. She said it was nice and neat and that she especially liked the colour, navy blue. As it happened, she was wearing the same navy-blue colour, with a white floral pattern on both her skirt and blouse. There was nothing showy about the colour, yet it conveyed a pride and dignity which is hard to put into words.
As I ordered the car to slow down to pass through the gates of the house, Chao Khun Atthikanbodi leaned over and patted me gently on the shoulder, congratulating me on finding such a lovely house. It was true that in the neighbourhoods we had driven through, there was not a house to compare with ours. Dressed in a kimono, the servant girl stood waiting at the steps