Prevod

There was once a monk named Kūsuke who fancied himself a warrior. He lived with a monk whom I knew well. Kūsuke was forever saying that he wished to have an image of the Buddha made and hold a ceremony to dedicate it. Someone who heard him supposed that he meant to pay a sculptor to make it, and summoned one to the house. “I want an image three feet tall,” Kūsuke told him. “These are the things I shall give you for making it.” He brought them out for the sculptor to see. The sculptor thought it an excellent offer and was about to take the goods away when Kūsuke said, “If I give you your payment and you are slow in making the image, I may grow angry. Then you will find my reproaches troublesome, and all my efforts to acquire religious merit will seem wasted. These are very fine things. Seal them up and leave them here, and make the image here as well. On the day you finish it, you may take everything away.” The sculptor thought this a tiresome arrangement, but since the payment was generous, he agreed and set to work. Then Kūsuke said, “If you were making the image at your own house, you would eat there, would you not? Surely you would not come here and ask to be fed.” And he gave him nothing to eat. The sculptor could hardly deny his reasoning, so he ate at home, came early each morning, worked all day, and returned home at night. After some days the carving was finished. Relying on the payment he had been promised, he borrowed money to have the image lacquered and to buy gold leaf, intending to make it as splendid as could be. “Rather than borrow from others,” he said, “I should like to receive enough of my payment now to cover the lacquer, buy the gold leaf, and pay the lacquerer.” But Kūsuke replied, “Why do you say such things? Did we not settle all this at the beginning? It is much better to receive your payment in one lump. It is a poor thing to ask for it in dribs and drabs.” He would give him nothing, and the sculptor had to borrow the money elsewhere. At last the image was finished, and the sculptor said that he would paint in the Buddha’s eyes, collect his payment, and go home. Kūsuke wondered what to do. There were two young girls in the household, and he said to them, “Today, at least, we must give the sculptor something to eat. Take something and go and fetch what we need.” Having sent them out, he declared that he too would go to get something, girded on his sword, and left. Only his wife remained with the sculptor. The sculptor finished painting in the Buddha’s eyes and began to make his plans. When the monk returned, he would have a good meal, collect the goods that had been sealed up, and take them home. He would use this for one purpose and that for another. While he was thinking in this way, the monk slipped back into the house. At once he glared fiercely and shouted, “So! There is a man here trying to seduce another man’s wife! Is there? Is there? Aha! Aha!” Drawing his sword, he rushed at the sculptor to cut him down. Convinced that his head was about to be split open, the sculptor fled. Kūsuke chased him, catching up with him and slashing at him, missing him again and again as he drove him away. “Curse the wretch! I have let him escape!” he cried. “I meant to split his skull! That sculptor must have been making advances to my wife. Just wait until I meet him again!” With this threat, he went home. The sculptor, having escaped, stood gasping for breath and thought, “Thank goodness I got away without having my head split open! If he had not threatened what he would do when we next met, I might have supposed he had merely lost his temper. But if he sees me again, he may decide to split my skull after all. No amount of wealth is worth a man’s life.” He did not even go back for his tools, but hid himself well away. The people from whom he had borrowed money for the gold leaf and lacquer sent messengers to press him for repayment, and somehow or other he managed to pay them back. Meanwhile Kūsuke went about saying, “I have had a magnificent Buddha made. Now, how shall I arrange its dedication?” Those who heard what had happened either laughed or were disgusted. He chose an auspicious day for the ceremony and begged provisions from his patron and his acquaintances. He also had someone arrange a meal for the preacher. On the appointed day he sent for the preacher, who duly arrived. As he came in at the front of the house, Kūsuke went out to meet him, swept a patch of ground clean, and seated himself upon it. “What is this you are doing?” asked the preacher. “How could I receive you with any less respect?” Kūsuke replied. He wrote out a pledge of service and handed it to him. “This is quite unexpected,” said the preacher. “From this day forward I mean to serve you,” Kūsuke said. “That is why I offer it.” Then he had a fine horse led out. “I have nothing else to give you, so I mean to present this horse as your offering.” He also brought out a parcel containing some very fine gray silk. “This is the offering my wife wishes to give you,” he said, showing it to him. The preacher broke into a smile and thought how satisfactory it all was. A meal had been prepared and set before him, but just as he was about to eat, Kūsuke said, “Surely you should first perform the dedication of the Buddha, and eat afterward.” The preacher agreed and ascended the preaching seat. Thinking what fine offerings he was to receive, he put his whole heart into the sermon. His listeners were deeply moved, and Kūsuke himself wept freely. When the sermon was over, the preacher struck the bell, descended from his seat, and was about to eat. Kūsuke came up to him, rubbing his hands together. “How wonderful that was!” he said. “From this day on, I shall look to you for support for the rest of my life. Now that I have become your servant, it is for you to provide my food. Pray let me have this meal.” Without allowing the preacher so much as to put his chopsticks into it, he picked it up and carried it away. While the preacher was still marveling at this, Kūsuke had the horse brought out. “I should be grateful if you would let me have this horse to ride,” he said, and led it away again. Then he came for the silk. Surely, thought the preacher, he would at least be allowed to keep that. But Kūsuke said, “I should be grateful to have this for my winter clothes,” and took it too. “Well, you may go home now,” he added. The preacher went away feeling as though he had been bewitched in a dream. I heard that he had been invited elsewhere that day, but had declined because he had learned beforehand that Kūsuke intended to give him a fine horse and other handsome offerings, and so had come here instead. Still, even by such means, did Kūsuke acquire a little religious merit? What are we to think?