TIME: The present day.
SCENE: The outer court of the Temple at Asakusa. It is dusk in
the court, but inside the chancel screen one sees the gleam
of candle-light on the faces of the Buddha and the Rakkan,
and the gold and red of lacquer work. The bronze figure of
Binzuru is in the court, to the right of the chancel. He is
cross-legged, his hands folded on his stomach. A few
incense-sticks are smouldering before the chancel steps, and
from inside comes the intermittent chant of the priests.
Beside the low pedestal on which Binzuru sits a Kurumayasan
is squatting, and reading the “Jin Shimbun.” He is in dark
blue, with the “mon” of his craft in great white characters
on his back. Opposite him to the left of the court sits the
Seller of Incense-Sticks smoking, and beside him the Seller
of Hot Beans, who is blowing the charcoal in his brazier.
There are small bowls ranged before him.
_Seller of Incense._ The times are not good times.
_Seller of Hot Beans._ They are bad times.
_Seller of Incense._ What hast thou to grumble at, thou Seller of Hot
Beans? This people are swine. They will buy hot beans to fill
themselves, but they will not buy incense to fill the gods. Hardly a
stick of incense have I sold this day.
_Seller of Beans._ It is the hand of the gods on thee for thy bad
tongue. I told thee that the Buddhas would chastise it.
_Seller of Incense._ The Buddhas are asleep. They sleep loud. Hearken,
and thou wilt hear them——
_Seller of Beans._ Hold thy peace. Half afraid am I to sit beside
thee, lest the gods mistake me for thee.
_Seller of Incense._ They will not do that, O Man of Beans. Do not
flatter thyself. See, O Kurumayasan (he calls to the man behind the
paper as another Kurumayasan limps painfully into the court) here is thy
brother, nigh as light of foot as thou.
(The lame Kurumayasan smiles broadly.)
_Kurumayasan._ Greeting, O my brother. Greeting, O Man of Incense.
Greeting, O Man of Beans.
_Seller of Incense._ What aileth thee, O Runner? Wouldst thou be taken
for the Sacred Tortoise?
_Kurumayasan._ Thy tongue is as sharp as the edge of the bamboo grass.
Yesterday I strained myself pulling a fat pig of a foreigner up the
Tori-i-zaka. And to-day I was two hours crawling hither. A—ah! (He sits
down with a grunt before Binzuru, and applies himself vigorously to
rubbing the thigh of Binzuru alternately with his own.)
_Seller of Beans._ There was a young man from the University. He said
there was no virtue in Binzuru. That it was a lie of the priests. That a
man might as well rub himself upon his own mats. What sayest thou, O
Runner!
_Kurumayasan._ I say that the young man was a fool. It was but last
week that the _akambo_ had the colic, was swollen even as a paper
lantern, and his mother brought him—Aha!
(Two young girls pass into the court. The Seller of the
Incense-Sticks and the Seller of Hot Beans and the two
Kurumayasans eye them with satisfaction. They stop before
the Seller of Incense shyly.)
_One of the Young Girls._ How much?
_Seller of Incense_ (bowing). Five _sen_.
(They buy half-a-dozen. The Seller of Incense touches the
pavement with his head, and they pass on. The Kurumayasan
behind the paper grunts with appreciation.)
_Seller of Beans._ Will that be for the Buddha now?
_Seller of Incense_ (derisively). Nay, nor Binzuru either. They go to
Kwannon—to pray for their lovers. The Buddha maketh no account of women.
What, O Runner (the lame Kurumayasan is on his feet and stepping
gingerly) art on thy legs again? May the devil possess me if thou art
not as nimble as—Daruma! (The Kurumayasan makes towards him
threateningly.) Peace, and I will tell thee a joke about Daruma. I
thought on it last night in my bed.
(The Seller of Hot Beans inclines to listen, and with him the
appeased Kurumayasan. The Seller of Incense-Sticks speaks
rapidly, with snorts of laughter. They fall apart into the
diverse attitudes of a savoured jest. On their laughter
breaks the deep booming of the temple gong, a single stroke,
dominant and mournful. A priest, robed in yellow and with
shaven crown, appears in the opening of the chancel screens.
He makes the gesture of dismissal. The Sellers collect their
wares, the Kurumayasan rises, leaving his paper on the
ground, the young girls come hurrying from the farther
shrine. In a little while the court is empty. The priests
march chanting in procession from the chancel, round the
court to the outer gates. There is a clash, as of their
closing. The sound of chanting grows fainter. Silence. The
incense-sticks before the chancel burn with a faint blue
smoke; the twilight has deepened, but there is a glimmer of
moonlight on the motionless figure of Binzuru. The silence
is broken by a deep breath of relief. The rigidity of the
bronze figure relaxes. He stretches his arms above his head
with a luxurious yawn, and settles down to twirl his thumbs,
contemplating them the while he smiles to himself. In a
little while he chuckles, a reminiscent chuckle. He is so
intent upon his thumbs that he does not see a figure
advancing from inside the chancel. It is the Buddha himself,
cumbrous and magnificent and stately, the gold boss of
wisdom between his brows. He pauses for a moment in the
opening of the chancel screens, moves slowly forward, and
stands before Binzuru, watching him.)
_Buddha._ Binzuru!
_Binzuru_ (starting violently). Master! (He struggles to get up.)
_Buddha._ It is enough, Binzuru; we are no longer young.
_Binzuru._ It is not that. It is my back. Sciatica. They have me
nearly hollow. But, Master (he looks round, anxious to do the honours of
the outer court), where is there a—would you not sit down?
_Buddha._ In truth, Binzuru, I am tired sitting. (He glances at the
dim chancel.)
_Binzuru_ (confidentially). I wouldn’t wonder. Exercise—nothing like
it. Told Daruma so. Years ago. Centuries ago.
_Buddha._ But not to profit, Binzuru. He has lost his legs. Nine
hundred years ago.
_Binzuru._ Told him so. Told him so. Atrophy, they call it. Not that
they were much loss. Said so himself. (Binzuru surveys his own legs.)
And my own—marvellous the Kurumayasans and the wrestlers that come. Come
here and rub me. Rub me away.
_Buddha_ (surveying him). I had hardly thought it would be so soon.
The stubborn flesh.... Only another thousand years, Binzuru, and you
shall sit with us again—yonder. (He looks again at the chancel.)
_Binzuru_ (terrified). You—you think so?
_Buddha_ (laughing softly). You are in no hurry, Binzuru?
_Binzuru_ (squirms. His voice lowers.) Master—your pardon—but—(in a
rush) dost never find it ... DULL?
(The Buddha eyes the chancel.)
_Buddha._ Speaking as one Buddha to another—(Binzuru bridles and
inclines his head). Speaking as one Buddha to another, Binzuru, it is
dull. (He eyes Binzuru very kindly.) How long is it since you and I
talked together, Binzuru?
_Binzuru_ (reflectively). With the Great Cold it will be two
thousand—two thousand four hundred years.
_Buddha._ I would have come before this, Binzuru. Many times. But
Daruma—he never sleeps.
_Binzuru._ A marvellous man, Daruma. Marvellous man. But, Master,
to-night?
_Buddha._ I discoursed, Binzuru——
_Binzuru._ I hear you sometimes. Snatches. Only snatches. Am getting
deaf. Earache. So many cases.
_Buddha._ It was on the first chapter of the eighth book of the
Vedas—you remember it, Binzuru?
_Binzuru_ (feelingly). I do.
_Buddha._ And at last even Daruma slept. (He looks round the court
with pleased interest, and stoops to pick up the “Jin Shimbun.”) What is
this, Binzuru? Is it a Sacred Writing?
_Binzuru_ (convulsed). It is not. The Kurumayasans—they read it aloud
to one another. I listen. I am always listening. I hear it all. The
divorce cases. And the news from the Front. And politics—the political
situation. (He says it proudly.)
_Buddha._ Politics? What are politics, Binzuru? Are they religious?
Religious ceremonies?
_Binzuru_ (again convulsed). They are not. Politics—Politics—(he
flounders). They pass the time. They pass the time. Master (eagerly),
take it, in your girdle, and read it. Tell Daruma it is a Sacred
Writing.
_Buddha_ (wistfully, looking from it to the chancel). The light is
bad, Binzuru. They burn so much incense. And my eyes——
_Binzuru._ Same with my own. And headache—(he draws his hand across
his forehead and shakes his head mournfully). Master, they have all the
good looks rubbed off me.
_Buddha._ See what it is to be popular, Binzuru.
_Binzuru_ (still grumbling, but affectionately). There was a small one
this morning burnt his tongue with the hot beans, yonder. He came and
stood on me and licked me. And then he gave me his bib. This is it. He
put it on me himself. (He tugs at a pink wisp under his left ear. The
Buddha stoops to inspect it. Then he straightens himself and looks down
at Binzuru with immense affection.)
_Buddha_ (teasingly). And the young girls, Binzuru?
_Binzuru_ (mournfully). Not for me. Not for me. I see them. But they
go past old Binzuru.
_Buddha_ (indulgently). Where, Binzuru? They do not come to us.
_Binzuru._ Yonder (he jerks his head to the darkness behind him), to
Kwannon—(he checks himself in confusion. The Buddha inclines his head
gravely, as one who acknowledges information. He is apparently unaware
of Binzuru’s embarrassment. He gazes again about the court, then turns
upon him with a gleam, as suddenly remembering.)
_Buddha._ Tell me, Binzuru, what was it was in your mind as I came
through the chancel?
_Binzuru_ (lighting up). It was a joke. The Seller of Incense-Sticks
told it to the Seller of Hot Beans. It was a good joke. I was for
shouting it over the screen to Daruma just as you came out.
_Buddha._ That was fortunate. It would have wakened him.
_Binzuru._ It would, in soul. (He rocks himself.)
_Buddha_ (eyeing him wistfully). Is it a good joke?
_Binzuru_ (struggling for gravity). Master, it is a profane joke.
_Buddha._ Tell me, Binzuru.
(Their heads come close. Binzuru whispers amid splutters of
laughter behind his hand. Back goes the Buddha’s head in a
shout of laughter, stifled halfway by the sudden terror on
Binzuru’s face. They listen. Inside the chancel someone
yawns, a comprehensive, waking yawn.)
_Binzuru_ (hopelessly). It is Daruma.
(For a moment the Buddha stands stupefied. Then with a swing
of his great shoulders he turns his back on the chancel and
stands looking before him into the night. While one might
count ten he stands to make decision. Then with a long
breath he turns round and paces steadily toward the chancel,
the while he begins in the voice of intoning.)
_Buddha._ Now it is written in the first chapter of the eighth book of
the Vedas that whoso hath attained to the perception of the Infinite can
in no wise be ensnared——
(There is a snore, gentle, long-drawn, continuous. Binzuru,
who has been wagging his head in admiration, is silently
convulsed. The Buddha pauses on the first step of the
chancel, and turns to look at Binzuru. For a moment he
shares the jest. Then gravity falls on him. He stands gazing
at Binzuru. After a long pause he speaks, half to himself.)
_Buddha._ Two thousand—two thousand four hundred years. Binzuru, the
years are long years.
_Binzuru_ (gravely). They are long years.
(Again there is silence. The Buddha turns his eyes from
Binzuru, and looks into the night.)
_Buddha_ (haltingly). Binzuru—was she very beautiful?
(Binzuru eyes him.)
_Binzuru._ Beautiful? As Kwannon.
(The Buddha turns and looks at Binzuru. For a while the two
gaze at each other. It is the final comprehension. The
Buddha turns to climb the steps, and paces into the chancel.
Binzuru watches him till he disappears, then relapses into
the old attitude.)
CURTAIN.
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=Some Poems of Roger Casement.= With an Introduction by Mrs.
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=Leaves on the Wind.= By S. MICHAEL CREVEQUER.
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Transcriber’s Notes
▪ Note: Printer’s errors and apparent misspellings have been silently
corrected.
▪ Note: Hyphenation has been silently standardized where there is a
predominant form in the text.
▪ Note: The text consistently has periods outside parentheses,
including after whole sentences and where whole paragraphs are
parenthesized. This has been silently changed in line with general
usage.