“Could I come for a visit sometime?â€
“Of course, of course. I’m always there. Mr. Shioda’s daughter cal s in quite a lot. Speaking of which,†he says, turning to the old gentleman, “there’s no sign of your Nami today. She’s al right, I hope?â€
“She must have gone out somewhere. Did she go to your place by any chance, KyÅ«ichi?â€
“No, she wasn’t there.â€
“Probably off on a walk by herself again,†says the abbot with a laugh. “She’s got strong legs, has Nami. When I was out at Tonami the other day for a ceremony, I thought to myself, ‘Good heavens, that looks like Nami there on Sugatami Bridge,’ and sure enough it was.
She was wearing straw sandals and had her skirts tucked up behind. ‘What are you doing loitering around here, Your Reverence?’ she says to me, quite out of the blue. ‘Where are you off to?’ Gave me quite a surprise, ha ha. ‘Where in heaven’s name have you been, dressed like that?’ I ask. ‘I’m just back from picking wild parsley,’ says she. ‘Here, I’l give you a bit.’ And she suddenly shoves a muddy bunch of it into my sleeve, ha ha.â€
“Dear me . . .†says old Mr. Shioda, with a pained smile. Then he abruptly rises to his feet and turns the subject hastily back to curios. “I rather wanted to show you this.â€
He reverently takes down from the sandalwood bookcase a little bag made of fine old patterned damask. It seems to contain some heavy object.
“Have you ever seen this, Your Reverence?â€
“What on earth is it?â€
“An ink stone.â€
“That so? What sort of ink stone?â€
“It was a favorite piece in Sanyo’s col ection.â€3
“No, I haven’t seen that one.â€
“It has a spare lid done by Shunsui.â€
“No, haven’t seen it. Show me, show me.â€
The old man tenderly undoes the bag, revealing a corner of the russet stone within.
“That’s a lovely color. Tankei, would it be?â€4
“Yes, and there are nine ‘shrike spots.’â€
“Nine?†repeats the abbot incredulously, evidently deeply impressed.
“This is the Shunsui lid,†says Mr. Shioda, displaying a thin lid in a figured satin wrapping. A Chinese poem of seven characters is written on it in Shunsui’s cal igraphic hand.
“Ah, yes. He had a fine hand, a fine hand—though, mind you, Kyohei wrote a better one.â€5
“You think so, do you?â€
“I’d say Sanyo was the worst of them. That tendency to cleverness made him vulgar. Nothing interesting in him at al .â€
The old gentleman chuckles. “I know you’re no fan of Sanyo, so I changed his scrol for a different one today.â€
“That so?†The abbot turns to look over his shoulder. The alcove is a simple recess in the wal . On its polished board stands an old Chinese copperware vase, its surface elegantly tarnished, with a two-foot-high branch of magnolia blossom arranged in it. The scrol hanging behind it is a large work by Sorai,6 on a backing of subtly glowing figured silk. The cal igraphy is on paper rather than the more usual silk, but the scrol ’s beauty lies not only in the indisputable skil of the writing itself but also in the delightful harmony between the backing and the paper, which has aged with the passage of time. The figured silk itself is not particularly wonderful, but it seems to me to achieve its fine quality through a combination of faded color and a softening of the effect of the gold thread, so that any original gaudiness has dimmed, al owing a certain austerity to assert itself.
The two little ivory scrol ends protrude starkly white against the tea-brown background of the earth wal , while before the scrol softly floats the pale magnolia blossoms, yet the overal effect of the alcove is so calm as to be almost gloomy.
“Sorai, is it?†says the abbot, his head stil turned to look.
“You mightn’t care much for Sorai either, but I thought you’d prefer it to the SanyÅ.â€
“Yes, Sorai’s certainly far better. Cal igraphers from this particular period always have a certain refinement, even if the writing’s poor.â€
“Was it Sorai who said ‘Kotaku is a great Japanese cal igrapher, while I’m just a poor imitator of the Chinese’?â€7
“No idea. My own cal igraphy certainly wouldn’t be worthy of such a boast,†says the abbot with a laugh.
“Speaking of which, Your Reverence, who did you learn from?â€
“Me? We Zen priests don’t read textbooks or do copying practice and suchlike, you know.â€
“Stil , someone must have taught you.â€
“When I was young, I did study Kosen’s cal igraphy for a while. That’s al , though. But I’l do a piece anytime someone asks me.†The abbot laughs again. “Now, could you let us have a look at that Tankei?â€
At last the damask bag is removed. Al eyes go to the ink stone that emerges. It’s roughly twice as thick as a normal stone, about two and a half inches. The five-inch width and eight-and-a-half-inch length are fairly standard. The lid is polished pine bark that stil retains its scaly texture, and on it in red lacquer are written two characters in an unknown hand.
“Now, this lid,†the old gentleman begins, “this lid is no ordinary lid. As you can observe, there’s no question that it’s pine bark.
Nevertheless . . .â€
His eyes are on me as he speaks. As an artist, I’m unable to summon much admiration for a pine bark lid, no matter what its provenance and story, so I say, “A pine lid is a little inelegant, surely?â€
The old gentleman holds up his hands in horrified remonstrance. “Wel , if it’s merely a common pine lid, I do agree, but this one—this one was made with Sanyo’s own hands, from pine stripped from the tree in his very own garden while he was in Hiroshima.â€
Wel then, I think to myself, Sanyo was a vulgar fel ow, it seems. Rather daringly, I remark, “If he made it himself, he could get away with making it look a bit clumsier, I think. It seems to me he needn’t have gone to the trouble of polishing up the rough patches to make them shine like that.â€
The abbot laughs heartily in instant agreement. “True enough,†he says. “It’s a cheap-looking lid.†The young man turns his eyes pityingly to the old gentleman, who rather crossly takes the lid off and puts it aside. Now at last the ink stone itself is revealed.
If there is one thing particularly striking to the eye about this ink stone, it is the craftsman’s carving on its surface. In the center a round area of stone about the size of a pocket watch has been left standing flush with the height of the edges, and it is carved into the shape of a spider’s back. Eight legs go curving out in al directions, the foot of each consisting of one of the stone’s characteristic “shrike spots.†The ninth spot is visible in the center of the spider’s back, a yel ow stain like a trickle of juice. The remaining area around the spider’s body and legs is carved back to a hol ow about an inch deep. Surely this deep trench is not where the ink is intended to be ground? Two whole quarts of water would not fil it. I imagine one must dip a little silver ladle into an elegant water pot, trickle a drop onto the spider’s back, and apply the ink stick there to create a precious pool of ink. Otherwise, though it is an ink stone in name, the object would be nothing more than a simple ornament for the desk.