Musashi - Eiji Yoshikawa [553]
It occurred to Musashi what an odd fact it was that most children could draw—and sing, for that matter—but that they forgot how to as they grew older. Perhaps the little bit of wisdom they acquired inhibited them. He himself was no exception. As a child he had often drawn pictures, this having been one of his favorite ways of overcoming loneliness. But from the age of thirteen or fourteen until he was past twenty, he gave up drawing almost entirely.
In the course of his travels he had often stopped over at temples or the houses of the wealthy, where he had the opportunity to see good paintings—murals, or scrolls hanging in alcoves—and this had given him a lively interest in art.
The aristocratic simplicity and subtle profundity of Liang-k’ai’s painting of chestnuts had made an especially deep impression. After seeing that work at Kōetsu’s house, he had availed himself of every opportunity to view rare Chinese paintings of the Sung dynasty, the works of the fifteenth-century Japanese Zen masters and the paintings of contemporary masters of the Kanō School, particularly Kanō Sanraku and Kaihō Yūshō. Naturally, he had his likes and dislikes. Liang-k’ai’s bold, virile brushwork, as seen by a swordsman’s eye, struck him as revealing the prodigious strength of a giant. Kaihō Yūshō, possibly because he was of samurai origin, had in his old age achieved such a high degree of purity that Musashi considered him a worthy man to take as a model. He was also attracted by the light impromptu effects in the works of the hermit priest and aesthete Shōkadō Shōjō, whom he liked all the more because he was reputed to be a close friend of Takuan.
Painting, which seemed far removed from the path he had chosen, was hardly an art for a person who rarely spent a full month in any one place. Yet he did paint from time to time.
As in the case of other adults who have forgotten how to draw, his mind would work, but not his spirit. Intent upon drawing skillfully, he was unable to express himself naturally. Many had been the times he’d become discouraged and quit. Then, sooner or later, some impulse invariably moved him to pick up the brush again—in secret. Being ashamed of his paintings, he never showed them to others, though he allowed people to inspect his sculpture.
Until now, that is. To commemorate this fateful day, he resolved to paint a picture fit for the shōgun, or anyone else, to see.
He worked rapidly and without interruption until it was finished. Then he quietly put the brush in a jar of water and left, without a single backward glance at his work.
In the courtyard, he did turn around for one last look at the imposing gate, one question filling his mind: Did glory lie inside or outside the gate?
Sakai Tadakatsu returned to the waiting room and sat for some time gazing at the still damp painting. The picture was of Musashino Plain. In the middle, appearing very large, was the rising sun. This, symbolizing Musashi’s confidence in his own integrity, was vermilion. The rest of the work was executed in ink to capture the feeling of autumn on the plain.
Tadakatsu said to himself, “We’ve lost a tiger to the wilds.”
The Sound of Heaven
“Back already?” asked Gonnosuke, blinking his eyes at the sight of Musashi in stiffly starched formal dress.
Musashi went inside the house and sat down. Gonnosuke knelt at the edge of the reed matting and bowed. “Congratulations,” he said warmly. “Will you have to go to work right away?”
“The appointment was canceled,” Musashi said with a laugh.
“Canceled? Are you joking?”
“No. And I consider it a good thing, too.”
“I don’t understand. Do you know what went wrong?”
“I saw no reason to ask. I’m grateful to heaven for the way it turned out.” “But it seems a pity.”
“Are even you of the opinion I can find glory only within the walls of Edo Castle?”
Gonnosuke did not answer.
“For a time, I had such an ambition. I dreamed of applying my understanding