Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [261]
Musashi, unaware of Kōetsu’s lofty attitude, said with great sincerity, “It’s really beautiful.” He couldn’t take his eyes off the ink box.
“I said I made it myself, but actually the poem on it is the work of Konoe Nobutada, so I should say we made it together.”
“Is that the Konoe family the imperial regents come from?”
“Yes. Nobutada’s the son of the former regent.”
“My aunt’s husband has served the Konoe family for many years.” “What’s his name?”
“Matsuo Kaname.”
“Oh, I know Kaname well. I see him whenever I go to the Konoe house, and he sometimes comes to visit us.”
“Is that so?”
“Mother, it’s a small world, isn’t it? His aunt is the wife of Matsuo Kaname.” “You don’t say!” exclaimed Myōshū.
She moved away from the fire and placed the vessels for tea before them. There could be no doubt that she was perfectly at home with the tea ceremony. Her movements were elegant yet natural, her delicate hands graceful. Even at seventy, she seemed to be the epitome of feminine grace and beauty.
Musashi, uncomfortably out of his depth, sat politely on his haunches, in what he hoped was the same fashion as Kōetsu. The tea cake was a plain bun known as Yodo manjū, but it rested prettily on a green leaf of a variety not found in the surrounding field. Musashi knew there were set rules of etiquette for serving the tea, just as there were for using the sword, and as he watched Myōshū, he admired her mastery of them. Judging her in terms of swordsmanship, he thought to himself, “She’s perfect! She doesn’t leave herself open anywhere.” As she whisked the tea, he sensed in her the same unearthly proficiency that one might observe in a master swordsman poised to strike. “It’s the Way,” he thought, “the essence of art. One has to have it to be perfect at anything.”
He turned his attention to the tea bowl in front of him. This was the first time he had been served in this fashion, and he had not the slightest notion of what to do next. The tea bowl surprised him, for it resembled something that might have been made by a child playing in the mud. Yet seen against the color of this bowl, the deep green of the foam on the tea was more serene and ethereal than the sky.
He looked helplessly at Kōetsu, who had already eaten his tea cake and was holding his tea bowl lovingly in both hands, as one might fondle a warm object on a cold night. He drank down the tea in two or three sips.
“Sir,” began Musashi hesitantly, “I’m just an ignorant country boy, and I don’t know the first thing about the tea ceremony. I’m not even certain how to drink the tea.”
Myōshū chided him gently. “Hush, my dear, it doesn’t make any difference. There shouldn’t be anything sophisticated or esoteric about drinking tea. If you’re a country boy, then drink it the way you would in the country.”
“It is really all right?”
“Of course. Manners are not a matter of rules. They come from the heart. It’s the same with swordsmanship, isn’t it?”
“When you put it that way, yes.”
“If you become self-conscious about the proper way to drink, you won’t enjoy the tea. When you use a sword, you can’t let your body become too tense. That would break the harmony between the sword and your spirit. Isn’t that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Musashi unconsciously bowed his head and waited for the old nun to continue the lesson.
She laughed, a little tinkling laugh. “Listen to me! Talking about swordsmanship, when I know nothing at all about it.”
“I’ll drink my tea now,” said Musashi with renewed confidence. His legs were tired from sitting in formal style, so he crossed them in front of him in a more comfortable position. Swiftly, he emptied the tea bowl and set it down again. The tea was very bitter. Not even for the sake of politeness could he force himself to say it was good.
“Will you have another cup?”
“No, thank you, that’s quite enough.”
What did these people find good about this bitter liquid? Why did they talk on so seriously about the “simply purity” of its flavor and all that sort of thing? Though understanding eluded him,