Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [311]
The peony, remarked Yoshino, was the king of flowers. Perhaps it was only natural that its withered branches had a quality not to be found in ordinary wood, just as certain men had a worth not displayed by others. “How many men are there,” she mused, “whose merit endures after the blossoms have faded and died?” With a melancholy smile, she answered her own question. “We human beings blossom only during our youth, then become dry, odorless skeletons even before we die.”
A little later, Yoshino said, “I’m sorry I have nothing more to offer you than the sake and the fire, but at least there’s wood, enough to last until sunrise.”
“You shouldn’t apologize. This is a feast fit for a prince.” Shōyū, though accustomed to luxury, was sincere in his praise.
“There is one thing I’d like you to do for me,” said Yoshino. “Will you please write a memento of this evening?”
While she was rubbing the ink stone, the girls spread a woolen rug in the next room and laid out several pieces of Chinese writing paper. Being made of bamboo and paper mulberry, it was tough and absorbent, just right for calligraphic inscriptions.
Mitsuhiro, assuming the role of host, turned to Takuan and said, “Good priest, since the lady requests it, will you write something appropriate? Or perhaps we should first ask Kōetsu?”
Kōetsu moved silently on his knees. He took up the brush, thought for a moment and drew a peony blossom.
Above this, Takuan wrote:
Why should I cling to
A life so far removed from
Beauty and passion?
Peonies though lovely
Shed their bright petals and die.
Takuan’s poem was in the Japanese style. Mitsuhiro chose to write in the Chinese manner, setting down lines from a poem by Tsai Wen:
When I am busy, the mountain looks at me.
When I am at leisure, I look at the mountain.
Though it seems the same, it is not the same,
For busyness is inferior to leisure.
Under Takuan’s poem, Yoshino wrote:
Even as they bloom
A breath of sadness hangs
Over the flowers.
Do they think of the future,
When their petals will be gone?
Shōyū and Musashi looked on in silence, the latter greatly relieved when no one insisted that he write something too.
They returned to the hearth and chatted for a while, until Shōyū, noticing a Biwa, a kind of lute, next to the alcove in the inner room, asked Yoshino to play for them. The others seconded his suggestion.
Yoshino, displaying no trace of timidity, took up the instrument and sat down in the middle of the dimly lit inner room. Her manner was not that of a virtuoso proud of her skills, nor did she attempt to be unduly modest. The men cleared their minds of random thoughts, the better to give their attention to her rendition of a section from Tales of the Heike. Soft, gentle tones gave way to a turbulent passage, then to staccato chords. The fire dwindled and the room darkened. Entranced by the music, no one stirred until a tiny explosion of sparks brought them back to earth.
As the music ended, Yoshino said, with a slight smile, “I’m afraid I didn’t play very well.” She replaced the lute and returned to the fire. When the men stood up to take their leave, Musashi, happy to be saved from further boredom, was the first to reach the door. Yoshino said farewell to the others one by one but said nothing to him. As he turned to go, she quietly took hold of his sleeve.
“Musashi, spend the night here. Somehow … I don’t want to let you go home.”
The face of an importuned virgin couldn’t have been redder. He tried to cover up by pretending not to hear, but it was plain to the others that he was too flustered to speak.
Turning to Shōyū, Yoshino said, “It’ll be all right if I keep him here, won’t it?”
Musashi removed Yoshino’s hand from his sleeve. “No, I’m going with Kōetsu.”
As he made hastily for the door, Kōetsu stopped him. “Don’t be like that, Musashi. Why don’t you stay here tonight? You can come back to my house tomorrow. After all, the lady