Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [291]
When it came to business, not only was samurai status more of a hindrance than a help, there were definite advantages to being a commoner, chief of which was stability. When fighting erupted, the great merchants were patronized by both sides. True, they were sometimes forced to furnish military supplies for little or nothing, but they had come to regard this onus as no more than a fee paid in lieu of having their property destroyed during wartime.
During the Ōnin War of the 1460s and ‘70s, the whole district around the ruins of the Jissōin had been razed, and even now people planting trees often dug up rusted fragments of swords or helmets. The Hon’ami residence had been one of the first built in the vicinity after the war.
A branch of the Arisugawa flowed through the compound, meandering first through a quarter acre or so of vegetable garden, then disappearing into a grove, to emerge again near the well by the front entrance of the main house. There was a branch flowing off toward the kitchen, another toward the bath, and still another toward a simple, rustic teahouse, where the clear water was used for the tea ceremony. The river was the source of water for the workshop, where swords forged by master craftsmen like Masamune, Muramasa and Osafune were expertly polished. Since the workshop was sacred to the family, a rope was suspended over the entranceway in the manner of Shinto shrines.
Almost before he knew it, four days passed, and Musashi made up his mind to take his leave. But before he’d had a chance to mention this, Kōetsu said, “We’re not doing much to entertain you, but if you’re not bored, please stay as long as you like. There are some old books and curios in my study. If you’d like to look them over, feel free to do so. And in a day or two, I’m going to fire some tea bowls and dishes. You might enjoy watching. You’ll find ceramics almost as interesting as swords. Maybe you could model a piece or two yourself.”
Touched by the graciousness of the invitation and his host’s assurance that no one would take offense if he decided to leave on a moment’s notice, Musashi allowed himself to settle down and enjoy the relaxed atmosphere. He was far from bored. The study contained books in Chinese and Japanese, scroll paintings from the Kamakura period, rubbings of calligraphy by ancient Chinese masters and dozens of other things, any one of which Musashi could happily have pored over for a day or so. He was particularly attracted by a painting hanging in the alcove. Called Chestnuts, it was by the Sung master Liang-k’ai. It was small, about two feet high by two and a half wide, and so old that it was impossible to tell what sort of paper it was drawn on.
He sat and gazed at it by the hour. Finally, one day, he remarked to Kōetsu, “I’m sure no rank amateur could paint the sort of pictures you paint, but I wonder if maybe even I couldn’t draw something as simple as this work.”
“It’s the other way around,” Kōetsu informed him. “Anybody could learn to paint as well as I, but there is a degree of profundity and spiritual loftiness in Liang-k’ai’s painting that cannot be acquired merely by studying art.”
“Is that really true?” Musashi asked in surprise. He was assured that it was.
It showed nothing but a squirrel looking at two fallen chestnuts, one split open and the other tightly closed, as if it wanted to follow its natural impulse and eat the chestnuts but hesitated for fear of the thorns. Since the painting was executed very freely in black ink, Musashi had thought it looked naive. But the more he looked at it after talking to Kōetsu, the more clearly he saw that the artist was right.
One afternoon,