Western-style house, which had been equipped with a steam-heating system imported from Chicago. The period before dinner with the assembled Matsugae family was awkward for Kiyoaki and his guests, but when the three young men were left to themselves after the meal, stiff formality suddenly eased as the princes began to show Kiyoaki photographs of the golden temples and exotic scenery of Bangkok. Kiyoaki noticed that Prince Kridsada was no younger than his cousin and yet still retained a certain childish capriciousness, but he warmed to Prince Pattanadid in whom he sensed a dreamy nature like his own.
One of the photographs was a general view of the monastery of Wat-Po, famous for its huge sculpture of the reclining Buddha. Since a skilled artist had applied delicate tinting to the photo, it was almost like having the temple itself before one’s eyes. Palm trees were blowing gracefully, every detail of their clustered leaves carefully etched in color against a background of tropical sky whose vivid blue contrasted sharply with the sheer white of the clouds. The monastery buildings were incomparable; they overwhelmed the spectator with a brilliant sunburst of gold, scarlet, and white. Two golden warrior gods stood guard on either side of a scarlet gate outlined in gold. Delicately carved golden bas-relief climbed the temple’s white walls and columns to form a kind of frieze at the top. Then there was the roof with its array of pinnacles, each one also covered with intricate bas-relief of gold and scarlet; from the treasure house in their midst, the gleaming spires of the triple tower soared up into the bright blue of the sky.
The princes were delighted with Kiyoaki’s look of unfeigned admiration. Then Prince Pattanadid began to speak; there was a distant look in his fine, wide, sloping eyes, whose keen glance contrasted strongly with his soft, round face.
“This temple is special for me. On the voyage here to Japan, I often dreamed about it. Its golden roofs seemed to float up out of the night sea. The ship kept on moving, and even by the time the entire temple was visible, it was still a long way off from me. Having risen from the waves, it glistened under the stars the way the light of the new moon shines across the surface of the water. Standing on the deck of the ship, I put my hands together and bowed in reverence toward it. As happens in dreams, although it was night and the temple was so far away, I could make out the smallest details of the gold and scarlet decoration.
“I told Kri about this dream and said that the temple seemed to be following us to Japan. But he laughed at me and said that what was following me to Japan was not the temple but the memory of something else. He made me angry at the time, but now I’m inclined to agree with him. For everything sacred has the substance of dreams and memories, and so we experience the miracle of what is separated from us by time or distance suddenly being made tangible. Dreams, memories, the sacred—they are all alike in that they are beyond our grasp. Once we are even marginally separated from what we can touch, the object is sanctified; it acquires the beauty of the unattainable, the quality of the miraculous. Everything, really, has this quality of sacredness, but we can desecrate it at a touch. How strange man is! His touch defiles and yet he contains the source of miracles.”
“He certainly puts it in a difficult, roundabout way,” said Prince Kridsada, breaking in, “but what he’s really thinking about is the girl he loves back in Bangkok. Chao P., show Kiyoaki her picture.”
Prince Pattanadid flushed, but his dark skin hid the rush of blood to his cheeks. Seeing his guest’s discomfiture, Kiyoaki turned the conversation back to their previous topic.
“Do you often dream like that?” he asked. “I keep a diary record of my dreams.” Chao P.’s eyes flashed with interest as he replied: “I wish my Japanese were good enough to let me read
One of the photographs was a general view of the monastery of Wat-Po, famous for its huge sculpture of the reclining Buddha. Since a skilled artist had applied delicate tinting to the photo, it was almost like having the temple itself before one’s eyes. Palm trees were blowing gracefully, every detail of their clustered leaves carefully etched in color against a background of tropical sky whose vivid blue contrasted sharply with the sheer white of the clouds. The monastery buildings were incomparable; they overwhelmed the spectator with a brilliant sunburst of gold, scarlet, and white. Two golden warrior gods stood guard on either side of a scarlet gate outlined in gold. Delicately carved golden bas-relief climbed the temple’s white walls and columns to form a kind of frieze at the top. Then there was the roof with its array of pinnacles, each one also covered with intricate bas-relief of gold and scarlet; from the treasure house in their midst, the gleaming spires of the triple tower soared up into the bright blue of the sky.
The princes were delighted with Kiyoaki’s look of unfeigned admiration. Then Prince Pattanadid began to speak; there was a distant look in his fine, wide, sloping eyes, whose keen glance contrasted strongly with his soft, round face.
“This temple is special for me. On the voyage here to Japan, I often dreamed about it. Its golden roofs seemed to float up out of the night sea. The ship kept on moving, and even by the time the entire temple was visible, it was still a long way off from me. Having risen from the waves, it glistened under the stars the way the light of the new moon shines across the surface of the water. Standing on the deck of the ship, I put my hands together and bowed in reverence toward it. As happens in dreams, although it was night and the temple was so far away, I could make out the smallest details of the gold and scarlet decoration.
“I told Kri about this dream and said that the temple seemed to be following us to Japan. But he laughed at me and said that what was following me to Japan was not the temple but the memory of something else. He made me angry at the time, but now I’m inclined to agree with him. For everything sacred has the substance of dreams and memories, and so we experience the miracle of what is separated from us by time or distance suddenly being made tangible. Dreams, memories, the sacred—they are all alike in that they are beyond our grasp. Once we are even marginally separated from what we can touch, the object is sanctified; it acquires the beauty of the unattainable, the quality of the miraculous. Everything, really, has this quality of sacredness, but we can desecrate it at a touch. How strange man is! His touch defiles and yet he contains the source of miracles.”
“He certainly puts it in a difficult, roundabout way,” said Prince Kridsada, breaking in, “but what he’s really thinking about is the girl he loves back in Bangkok. Chao P., show Kiyoaki her picture.”
Prince Pattanadid flushed, but his dark skin hid the rush of blood to his cheeks. Seeing his guest’s discomfiture, Kiyoaki turned the conversation back to their previous topic.
“Do you often dream like that?” he asked. “I keep a diary record of my dreams.” Chao P.’s eyes flashed with interest as he replied: “I wish my Japanese were good enough to let me read
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