More Portmanteau Plays. Stuart Walker
on the unrest of humans. Their unhappiness is his food. He has to find misery in order to live, and win his way back once more to humanity. To different men he changes his shape at will, and sometimes is invisible.
Quick, Katsu, let us go to the shrine—and pray—and pray.
Ay. There!
[They go out. The Gaki appears.
Why did you sigh?
O Gaki of Kokoru! My heart hangs within me like the weight of years on Obaa-San.
Why did you moan?
The tree is growing—and it tears my heart.
I live upon your unrest. Feed me! Feed me!
[The tree sighs and moans and The Gaki seems transported with joy.
Please! Please! Give me my freedom.
Where then should I feed? Unless I feed on your unhappiness I should cease to live—and I must live.
Someone else, perchance, may suffer in my stead.
I care not where or how I feed. I am in the sixth hell, and if I die in this shape I must remain in this hell through all the eternities. One like me must feed his misery by making others miserable. I can not rise through the other five hells to human life unless I have human misery for my food.
Oh, can't you feed on joy—on happiness, on faith?
Faith? Yes, perhaps—but only on perfect faith. If I found perfect faith—ah, then—I dare not dream.—There is no faith.
Do not make me suffer more. Let me enjoy the loveliness of things.
Would you have someone else suffer in your stead?
Someone else—someone else—
Ay—old Obaa-San—she whom they call the grandmother.
[The Tree moans.
She will suffer in your stead.
No! No! She loves me! She of all the world loves me! No—not she!
It shall be she!
I shall not leave!
You give me better food than I have ever known. You wait! You wait!
Here comes Obaa-San! Do not let her suffer for me!
You shall be free—as free as anyone can be—when I have made the misery of Obaa-San complete.
She has never fully known her misery. Her heart is like an iron-bound chest long-locked, with the key lost.
We shall find the key! We shall find the key!
I shall warn her.
Try!
Alas! I can not make her hear! I can not tell her anything.
She can not understand you! She can not see me unless I wish! Earth people never see or hear!
Hai! Hai! Hai!
[Obaa-San enters. She is old, very, very old, and withered and misshapen. There is only laughter in your heart when you look at Obaa-San unless you see her eyes. Then—
My tree! My little tree! Why do you sigh?
Hai! Hai! Hai!
Sometimes I think I pity you. Yes, dear tree!
Hai! Hai! Hai!
Now I am a traveller. She sees me pleasantly.—Grandmother!
Ay, sir!
Which way to Kyushu?
You have lost your way. Far, far back beyond the ferry landing at Ishiyama to your right. That is the way to Kyushu.
Ah, me!
You are tired. Will you not sit and rest?—Will you not have some rice?
Oh, no.—Where is your brood, grandmother?
I have no brood. I am no grandmother. I am no mother.
What! Are there tears in your voice?
Tears! Why should I weep?
I do not know, grandmother!
I am no grandmother!—Who sent you here to laugh at me?—O-Sode-San? 'Tis she who laughs at me, because—
No one, old woman—
Yes, yes, old woman. That is it. Old woman!—Who are you? I am not wont to cry my griefs to any one.
Griefs? You have griefs?
Ay! Even I—she whom they call Obaa-San—have griefs.—Even I! But they are locked deep within me. No one knows!
Someone must know.
I shall tell no one.
Someone must know!
You speak like some spirit—and I feel that I must obey.
Someone must know!
I shall not speak. Who cares?—What is it I shall do? Tell my story—unlock my heart—so that O-Sode-San may laugh and laugh and laugh. Is it not enough that some evil spirit feeds upon my deep unrest?
How can one feed upon your unrest when you lock it in your heart? (The voices of O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San are heard calling to Obaa-San) Here come some friends of yours. Tell them your tale.
[He goes out.
Strange. I feel that I must speak out my heart.
[O-Sode-San and O-Katsu-San come in.
Good morning, grandmother!
OBAA-SAN (with a strange wistfulness in her tone)
Good morning, O-Sode-San. Good morning, O-Katsu-San. May the bright day bring you a bright heart.
And you, Obaa-San.
How is the weeping willow tree, grandmother?
It is there—close to me.
And does it speak to you, grandmother—
I am no grandmother! I am no grandmother! I am no mother! O-Sode, can you not understand? I am no mother.—I am no wife.—There is no one.—I am only an old woman.—In the spring I see the world turn green and I hear the song of happy birds and feel the perfumed balmy air upon my cheek—and every spring that cheek is older and more wrinkled and I have always been alone. I see the stars on a summer night and listen for the dawn—and there never has been a strong hand to touch me nor tiny fingers to reach out for me. I have heard the crisp autumn