The spring breeze stirs my robes.
Fragrant herbs have sprung in the wheel ruts.
The derelict track leads on into mists.
I halt and gaze about me.
Al is aglow with light.
I hear bush warblers at their song
And in my eyes are drifting cherry blossoms.
a€?At the roada€™s end a vast plain unfoldsa€?a€”
I write this line on an old templea€™s door.
The lone walkera€™s solitude fil s the sky.
A single wild goose wings homeward through
the heavens.
What subtleties lie within one smal heart!
Right and wronga€”forgotten in this eternal
moment.
Poised at thirty on the edge of old age
Yet now a soft spring light wraps me about.
Wandering thus, at one with naturea€™s changes,
I calmly breathe the fragrance al about.3
Thata€™s it! Ia€™ve done it! Ia€™ve truly captured the feeling of lying here gazing at the japonica, al worldly thoughts forgotten. It doesna€™t matter if the poem doesna€™t actual y include the japonica, or the sea, as long as the feeling comes through. I give a groan of pleasurea€”and am astonished to hear the sound of a human clearing his throat not far from me.
Rol ing over, I peer in the direction of the voice. A man comes around the edge of the flat knol and emerges from among the trees.
His eyes are visible beneath the tilted rim of a dilapidated brown felt hat. I cana€™t make them out in detail, but they are evidently shifting uneasily. He is dressed rather indeterminately in an indigo-striped garment tucked up at the thighs, and bare feet in high clogs. The wild beard suggests he is one of those roaming mountain monks.
I assume hea€™l proceed on down the steep mountain path, but to my surprise he turns back at the edge and retraces his steps. Instead of disappearing back the way he came, however, he changes direction yet again. No one could be wandering to and fro on this grassy flat unless he were here to take a strol , surely. Yet this is hardly the figure of a mere strol er; nor would such a person be living hereabouts. The man pauses in his tracks from time to time, tilting his head questioningly, gazing al about him. He appears to be deep in thought. Perhaps hea€™s waiting for someone. I cana€™t make it out at al .
My eyes are held by this alarming fel ow. Ia€™m not particularly afraid; nor do I feel tempted to draw him; ita €™s simply that my eyes are glued to him. My gaze continues to travel left and right, fol owing his movements, until suddenly he comes to a standstil a€”and then another human figure appears in the scene.
They seem to recognize each other, and both approach. Watching them, my vision gradual y focuses in on a single point in the middle of the grassy flat. Now these two figures come together face-to-face, with the spring mountains behind them and the spring sea before.
One, the man, is of course my wild mountain monk. And the other? The other is a womana€”Nami.
As soon as I recognize her, this morninga€™s image of her holding the dagger returns to me. Could it be hidden in her robes now? I wonder, and for al my vaunted a€?nonemotionala€? stance, I shudder.
Facing each other, the two maintain their pose for a long moment. There is no hint of movement in either figure. Perhaps their mouths are moving, but no voices reach me. At length the man hangs his head, and the woman turns toward the mountains. I cannot see her face.
There in the mountains a bush warbler sings; the woman appears to listen to it. After a while the man raises his deeply bowed head and half-turns on his heels. Something odd is happening. The woman rapidly breaks her pose and turns to face the sea. Something peeps from her waistbanda€”it must be that dagger. Head triumphantly high, the man begins to leave.
The woman takes two steps in pursuit of him. She is wearing straw sandals. He pausesa€”has she cal ed him? As he turns, her right hand goes to her waist. Watch out!
What she produces is not the dagger I anticipate, however, but a cloth object like a purse of money. Her white hand holds it out toward him, a long string swaying below it in the spring breeze.
One foot placed before her, the body bent slightly from the waist, the extended white hand and wrist, and that purple cloth baga€”this image is al I need for a picture.
The composition, with its dash of purple, is beautiful y connected by the perfect balance of the mana€™s turned body a few inches away. Distant yet closea€”that expression could have been made to fit this moment. The womana€™s figure seems to draw him toward her, the mana€™s seems drawn backward by her, yet these forces are merely notional. The relationship between them is cleanly broken by the edge of the proffered purple bag.
The interest of the picture is intensified by the fact that the delicate balance these two figures maintain is set against the clear contrast in their faces and clothes.
This swarthy, thickset, bearded man; that delicate form, with her long neck and sloping shoulders and firm,
