By now ita€™s nearly twelve, but there is stil no sign of my meal. Ia€™m beginning to feel distinctly hungry, but I set about mental y identifying myself with the hermit poet in his words a€?vast empty mountains, no one to be seen,a€ and manage to induce a state in which I feel not the least regret at having to skimp a little.3 Drawing a picture feels like too much trouble just now, and as for coming up with a poem, my mind is already immersed in the poetica€”to actual y compose something would be merely a waste of breath. Nor do I have any inclination to undo the box of two or three books that Ia€™ve brought along, tied to my tripod, and read. I feel perfect happiness simply lol ing here on the balcony in the company of the shadow cast by the blossoms, my back toasting in the warm spring sunlight. To think would be to sink into error.
Movement seems perilous. I would cease even to breathe if I could. I want to live like this for a whole fortnight, motionless, like a plant rooted deep in the floor beneath me.
At last footsteps are heard coming along the corridor and climbing the stairs. Listening, I realize that two people are approaching. The footsteps stop before my room, then one person wordlessly retreats. The sliding door opens, and I guess it wil be the woman I saw earlier that morning, but in fact ita€™s the maid of the previous evening who enters. I register a touch of disappointment.
a€?Ia€™m sorry this is so late.a€ She sets down the tray table containing my lunch. There is no explanation for the lack of breakfast. The tray contains a plate with a gril ed fish and a garnishment of greenery, and when I lift the lid of the bowl beside it, a red and white prawn is revealed nestling there in a bed of fresh fern shoots. I gaze into the bowl, savoring the colors.
a€?Dona€™t you like it?a€? asks the maid.
a€?No, no, Ia€™m just about to have it,a€ I reply, but in fact it looks too beautiful to eat. I once read somewhere an anecdote about the artist Turner at a banquet, remarking to his neighbor as he gazed at the salad piled on the plate before him that this cool fresh color was the sort he himself used. I would love to show Turner the color of these fern shoots and prawn. Not a single Western food has a color that could be cal ed beautifula€”the only exceptions I can think of are salad and radishes. Ia€™m in no position to speak of its nutritional value, but to the artista€™s eye it is a thoroughly uncivilized cuisine. On the other hand, artistical y speaking, everything on a Japanese menu, from the soups to the hors da€™oeuvres to the raw fish, is beautiful y conceived. If you did no more than gaze at the banquet tray set before you at an elegant restaurant, without lifting a chopstick, and then go home again, the feast for the eyes would have been more than sufficient to make the visit worth your while.
a€?Therea€™s a young lady in the household, isna€™t there?a€? I inquire as I put down the bowl.
a€?Yes.a€?
a€?Who is she?a€?
a€?Shea€™s the young mistress.a€?
a€?Is there an older mistress here as wel ?a€?
a€?She died last year.a€?
a€?What about the master?a€?
a€?Yes, hea€™s here. Shea€™s his daughter.a€?
a€?You mean the young lady?a€?
a€?Yes.a€?
a€?Are there any other guests?a€?
a€?No one.a€?
a€?Ia€™m the only one?a€?
a€?Yes.a€?
a€?How does the young mistress spend her days?a€?
a€?Wel , she sews . . .a€?
a€?What else?a€?
a€?She plays the
This is a surprise. Intrigued, I continue. a€?And what else?a€?
a€?She visits the temple,a€? replies the maid.
This is also surprising. Therea€™s something peculiar in this visiting temples and playing the
a€?She goes there to pray?a€?
a€?No, she visits the priest.a€?
a€?Is the priest learning the
a€?No.a€?
a€?Wel , why does she go there?a€?
a€?She visits Mr. Daitetsu.a€?
Ah yes, this must be the same Daitetsu who did the framed piece of cal igraphy above my door. To judge from its content, hea€™s clearly a Zen priest. That volume of Hakuina€™s sermons in the cupboard, then, must be her personal property.
a€?Who normal y uses this room?a€?
a€?The young mistress is normal y here.a€?
