“Her deceased mother had once been a sought-after medium at Hakushu Shrine, but then when rumor spread that she was availing herself of foxes,2 the clientele had, it seems, abruptly fallen off. Moreover, she was quite a large woman, youthfully sensual for all the white spots on her face. There was, foxes aside, something about her that ordinary human males found beguiling.”
“Well, I should rather hear about the daughter than the mother.”
“Now, that’s a fine way to talk! . . . Well now, the mother’s death left the girl with meager means, and despite her efforts she was unable to support herself. She was a lovely and clever lass, but with her tattered rags she was reluctant to venture to the temple grounds for her devotional retreat.”
“My, my, was she such a beauty?”
“She was. I confess to partiality, but there was surely nothing in either her features or her disposition that would have been cause for shame.”
“Ah, what a pity that the story is of so long ago!” the young man exclaimed, tugging slightly on a sleeve end of his faded indigo robe. The old man chortled and resumed his story. Every now and then, in the grove behind the cottage came the mating song of a bush warbler.3
“She had spent twenty-one days in retreat at Kiyomizu-dera, and on the last evening, as the time for the fulfillment of her vow grew nigh, she had a dream. Now as it happened, there was among those lodged in the same temple a hunchbacked monk, who, it seems, was endlessly reciting a dhārāni. This most probably disturbed her, so that though she occasionally dozed, the sound remained in her ears. It was as if even the earthworms in the ground beneath the outer corridor were murmuring in the night . . . And then she suddenly heard a human voice that said: ‘On thy return, a man shall approach thee. Hearken to his words.’
“Startled, she awoke. The monk was still absorbed in his incantation, but no matter how she strained her ears to catch the words, she could understand nothing of their meaning. Suddenly she happened to turn and there saw dimly in a lamp kept burning throughout the night the face of Lady Kannon. It was the countenance she was accustomed to seeing in worship: wondrous and majestic. Yet as she looked, she had the uncanny feeling that someone was whispering in her ear: ‘Hearken to his words.’ The lass had now thoroughly convinced herself that she had, in fact, heard the voice of the bodhisattva.”
“Well, well . . .”
“The night was advancing as she left the temple. She walked down the gentle slope to the capital’s Fifth Avenue, and there, as she might well fully have expected, found herself caught from behind in the arms of a man. It was a warm evening in early spring, but, alas, in the darkness she could neither see his face nor even distinguish his clothing. As she tried to break loose, her fingers touched his mustache. Ah, to have concluded her days of devotion in such a manner!
“Moreover, though she asked him for his name, he gave no reply, nor would he tell her where he resided. He merely said that she was to do as she was told and then led her along the avenue below the slope, holding her firmly in his grip, tugging at her as they went along, and heading ever toward the north. All her weeping and wailing were for naught, as they followed the deserted avenue.”
“I see. And then?”
“At last they came to the Yasaka pagoda,4 where, it seems, he took her inside and spent the night . . . I don’t suppose there is any reason for an old man such as myself to elaborate.”
Again the corners of his eyes wrinkled as he laughed. The shadows of the passersby had lengthened all the more. The scattered cherry blossoms had found their way toward them, perhaps blown across the road by an imperceptible breeze. They now lay between the rain-catching stones, filling the spaces with specks of white.
“You mustn’t jest,” said the attendant, then added, continuing to pluck at his chin stubble, as though having just remembered:
“And that was the end of it?”
“If that were indeed the end of the story, it would hardly be worth telling,” replied the potter, his hands again on the clay utensil he had molded.
“When morning came, the man, apparently thinking that their encounter had been decreed by karma, earnestly entreated the woman to become his wife.”
“Aha!”
“Whatever she might have said had she not had her oracular dream, she was in any case certain that this was the will of Lady Kannon and so finally nodded assent. When they had performed a perfunctory exchange of nuptial cups, the man brought out from the interior of the pagoda ten bolts of twilled fabric and ten bolts of silk, saying that such would serve as a provisional dowry . . . I should think it hardly likely that you could match him!”
The attendant’s only reply was a smirk. The bush warbler too had fallen silent.
“The man now said that he would go and return in the evening. Leaving the woman behind, he hurriedly departed. Now she found herself doubly forlorn. However clever she was, her anxiety could, under the circumstances, have hardly been surprising. With nothing more in her mind than a desire for diversion, she went further inside. There, lo and behold, she found not only twilled fabric and silk but also gems, together with gold dust and other precious metals, heaped up in leather-covered boxes. The sight caused the heart of even this brave lass to skip.
“A man might acquire some of this wealth, but to have amassed such a fortune, there could be no doubt that he was, if not an armed robber, at the very least a thief . . . Adding to her loneliness was now, with this realization, great fear—and thus the desperate desire to remain there not another moment. Were she to fall into the hands of the authorities, what would become of her?
“She was about to turn round and run toward the door, when she was stopped by a hoarse voice calling to her from behind the leather-covered boxes. Utterly astonished by the mere thought of any other person in such a place, she looked and saw sitting among the gold-dust sacks a round figure which, though human, might just as easily have been taken for a sea slug . . . Blear-eyed, wrinkled, bent, and squat, this was a nun of some threescore years. Whether or not she knew of the lass’s intention, she edged forward on her knees and, in a purring tone that quite belied her appearance, offered greetings of introduction.
“She was hardly in a state of mind to receive such, but fearful that she might be suspected of planning an escape, she reluctantly sat among the boxes, her elbow on one of them, and engaged the nun in empty chatter. From their talk, it seemed that the woman had served as the man’s cook. Yet, strangely enough, when asked about his occupation, she gave no answer. And even at that, as she appeared to be rather hard of hearing, the lass was obliged to repeat the same comment or question so often that soon she was close to tears of vexation . . .
“This went on until about noon. But then, as she was talking of how the cherry trees of Kiyomizu were now in bloom and how the bridge at Fifth Avenue was being repaired, she saw that the crone, no doubt as a happy consequence of her years, had begun to grow drowsy. Then too, the lass had not been quick in her replies. Now seeing her drawing the deep and even breath of sleep, the lass seized her chance. Creeping quietly to the entrance, she cracked open the door and looked out. As luck would have it, there was no one outside . . .
“If she had run out right there and then, that might have been the end of it, but suddenly she remembered the twilled fabric and the silk that she had been given that morning. And so she stole back to the leather boxes, where somehow she stumbled over the sacks of gold dust, thereby accidentally touching the knees of the nun. The old wench awoke in surprise. For a moment she remained in a state of dazed annoyance but then suddenly, as though in a mad rage, began clinging to the young woman’s feet, half weeping, half babbling. From what the other could make of her fragmented speech, she seemed to be bemoaning what dire punishment she would face should her captive succeed in escaping. Yet the lass was now sure that to remain in this place would endanger her life, and so the two went to furious battle, with slapping hands, kicking feet, and flying sacks . . . So great was the commotion that had there
been mice nestling in the crossbeams, they would have come tumbling down.
“In this struggle to the death, the strength of the crone was no laughing matter, but in the end it was no match for her age. Soon, as the lass, with the twilled fabric and silk tucked under her arm, was breathlessly and stealthily slipping out the door of the pagoda, the nun was quite still. It was later reported that her remains were found lying faceup in a dimly lit corner, a bit of blood having dripped from her nose and her head awash in gold dust.
“The lass fled Yasaka-dera and made her way to the hovel of a friend in Kyōgoku, near the bridge at Fifth Avenue, for, not surprisingly, she was eager to avoid heavily residential districts. The friend was living no less precariously from hand to mouth, but having no doubt received a bolt of silk, she boiled water, made rice gruel, and, it seems, went to great lengths to care for her guest. Now at long last she could be at her ease.”
“I too am relieved to hear it.” The young attendant took out a fan from his sash and adroitly snapped it open and shut, as he gazed out through the screen at the evening sun. At that moment five or six servants, dressed in white, were strolling along the road, laughing raucously and merrily, trailing long shadows as they passed.
“And so that is the end of the story?”
“Ah, but wait!” said the old man with an exaggerated shake of his head. “While she was still in the house of her friend, there was suddenly a great tumult in the street. And now she heard a cacophony of voices, crying: ‘There! There!’ With her already troubled conscience, she was immediately seized with anxiety. Had the thief come to extract revenge? Or had the constables come for her? Such was her state of mind that she was unable even to sip her gruel.”
“Yes, yes . . .”
“Peering through an opening in the door, she could see among the onlookers five or six officers of the law, accompanied by a bailiff, passing in stately procession. In their midst was a man bound with a rope. He wore a tattered outer robe with no cap and was being pulled along by his captors. It appeared that they had arrested a thief and were taking him to his place of residence to make inventory of all his stolen treasure.
“Moreover, this thief was the very same man who the previous night had accosted the lass on Fifth Avenue. Seeing him, she seems for some reason to have burst into tears. She later told me herself that it was not in the least out of love for him. It was rather that as she saw him so ignominiously bound, she felt pity for herself . . . Be that all as it may, so it was—and at the time the story quite stirred me.”
“In what way?”
“As a cautionary reminder of what may happen when we pray to Lady Kannon.”
“But tell me, old man. Did she not find the means to make her way through life thereafter?”
“She has done better than merely make her way; she now passes her days quite without hardship. I should assume that for one thing she sold the twilled fabric and silk. In that at least the bodhisattva was true to her promise.”
“It would seem to me only just recompense for her ordeal.”
Outside, the sunlight was turning to the color of evening gold; from the bamboo thicket, stirred by a breeze, came a faint rustling sound. The road now appeared to be quite deserted.
“If it was not her intention to cause a death or to wed a thief, there is, I suppose, nothing further to be said.”
The attendant reinserted his fan and stood up, as the old man poured water from a pitcher to wash his clay-covered hands . . . Each seemed to be feeling a vague dissatisfaction, both with the waning light of the spring afternoon and with the disposition of the other.
“Well, whatever the matter, the woman is fortunate,” said the younger of the two.
“You are joking!” replied his companion.
“Not in the least. Do you not agree with me, as a man of your years?”
“As for me, I would have no truck with such fortune.”
“Really? For my part, I would not hesitate to accept such blessings.”
“Then by all means trust in the mercies of Lady Kannon!”
“Yes indeed. Tomorrow I shall go on my own retreat!”
KESA AND MORITŌ
1
It is night. Outside the earthen walls of the palace, Moritō gazes at the rising moon, brooding to himself as he tramps his way through fallen leaves.
His soliloquy:
“So the moon is out. There was a time when I could not wait for it to appear, but now this very brightness has become a dread omen. I tremble at the thought that this night I shall lose my soul, that tomorrow I shall be a common murderer. How rightly the mind’s eye sees my hands already crimson with blood! How damned I shall soon seem even to myself! It would cause me no such anguish if I were to kill a detested foe. Yet tonight I must take the life of a man I do not hate.
“I know him by appearance, though his name, Wataru Saemonno-jō, I learned only recently. When, I wonder, did I first see his fair complexion, a face which, for that of a man, is much too delicate. I confess to having felt pangs of jealousy on being told that this was Kesa’s husband. Yet now every trace of such has vanished, so that though he might be my rival in love, I neither loathe nor resent him. Indeed, I could even say that I feel a degree of empathy. When Lady Koromogawa recounted to me how ardently Wataru had courted her niece, I went so far as to feel genuine fondness for him. Why, it seems that in his desire to make her his wife he even took lessons in writing verse. As I contemplate how this deeply earnest samurai composed and sent love poems to her, I sense a smile stealing over my lips—and by no means one of scorn. I am moved to think that he would do so much for a woman. Perhaps it is the knowledge of the passion that drove him to woo her that gives me, her paramour, a sense of satisfaction.
“Still I wonder: Do I truly love Kesa? My longing for her falls into two phases: past and present. I was already in love with her before she was wed to Wataru—or at least I thought I was. On reflection I now realize that there was much in my feelings for her that was sordid. What did I want of her? Having never had carnal knowledge of a woman, I clearly desired her body. If I may exaggerate, my love for her was, in fact, nothing more than a sentimental frame of mind, embellishing ordinary lust. I submit that though indeed during the three years in which all ties were lost, I never forgot her, the question remains whether, had I once possessed her, I would have remained as steadfast in my infatuation. I confess with shame that I lack the courage to offer an acknowledgment.
“Thus, my attachment to that woman was in no small measure mixed with regret at never having embraced her. It was in that anguished state that I entered into the liaison that I at once both feared and desired. But now? Once again I pose the question: Do I really love Kesa?
“Before answering, I must recall, however painfully, a series of events. After meeting her by chance, for the first time in all those three years, at the dedication of the Watanabe Bridge, I spent the next six months scheming and contriving to meet her in secret. In this I succeeded—and in more. I was able to fulfill my dream of making her mine.
“Yet what possessed me was not merely my previously stated regret at not having had her in my arms. As I sat on a mat in the same room with her in the house of Lady Koromogawa, I was aware of how that feeling had diminished. This may have been in part because I had come to know women. The principal reason was, however, that her beauty had faded; she was no longer the Kesa I had last seen three years before. Her skin had quite lost its luster, and her eyes were encircled by dark rings. The abundant flesh of her cheeks and chin had vanished as though it had never been. All that remained unchanged was the fresh and spirited look of those same jet-black eyes.
“The alteration clearly dealt a terrible blow to my desire for her. Brought together with her again for the first time, I felt compelled to look away. Even now I vividly remember it all.
“How is it then that, my longing having so receded, I came to be involved with her? First there was a bizarre desire for conquest. Sitting across from me, K
esa had poured out her love for Wataru with deliberate exaggeration; it only struck me as hollow. I thought to myself that she had quite a vain opinion of her husband, though it also occurred to me that she might be trying to ward off any pity or compassion on my part. I became increasingly desirous to lay bare her lies. Should anyone ask me why I thought it deception or suggest that such might have been simply my own conceit, I could not refute the charge, though this was my belief then, as it is even now.
“But it was not merely the urge for conquest that ruled me; it was—and I blush red to confess it—something more: sheer lust. It was not even regret at not having made her flesh mine; rather it was something far baser, something for which she was not even required. It was lust for its own sake. A man procuring the favors of a harlot could not, I suppose, be as coarse and common as was I.
“With such muddled motives, I came at last to make love to her—or rather to bring shame upon her. And so I return once more to the question—do I truly love Kesa?—and find that it is one that I need not direct to myself after all. There are times when I even hate her. Especially when the ultimate act was completed and I forcibly lifted her up from where she had lain weeping, she struck me as an even more shameless creature than I. There was nothing—whether her tangled hair or the paint and powder on her perspiring face—that did not suggest a hideousness of both body and spirit. If I had ever had any love for her, it was extinguished forever on that day. And if, in fact, I never loved her, then I may freely say that henceforth there was in my heart a new sense of loathing. And now tonight, for the sake of this woman I do not love, I am setting forth to put to the sword a man I do not hate!
“That too is no one’s sin but my own, for it was I myself who brazenly put the words in Kesa’s ear: ‘Shall we not kill Wataru?’ When I contemplate what I whispered, I wonder whether I was not already quite mad. But the words were nonetheless mine. I told myself that I would say no such thing but then, through clenched teeth, did so nonetheless.