Prevod

Long ago, at Tōnomine, there lived a holy man of great virtue called the Reverend Sōga. He was exceedingly fierce and stern of spirit. Loathing fame and worldly gain above all else, he deliberately behaved as though he were rather mad. When the Empress Dowager of Sanjō was about to become a nun, she sent for him to confer the precepts. “A most worthy undertaking! Sōga shall see that she truly enters the religious life,” he said, and set out. His disciples had feared he might rage at the messenger and even strike him, so when, contrary to their expectations, he went along quite peaceably, they all thought it a marvel. Word of his arrival was brought to the Empress Dowager, who gladly summoned him inside. Many great nobles and monks had assembled for her taking of the vows, and messengers had come from the imperial palace as well. The holy man had a fearsome gaze, and though his bearing was venerable, there was something forbidding about him. He was summoned into her presence and approached her curtained enclosure to perform the rites of renunciation. Her beautiful long hair was drawn out for him to cut, while the ladies watching behind the blinds wept without restraint. When he had finished cutting it and was about to leave, he said in a loud voice, “Why did you insist on sending for Sōga, of all people? I cannot understand it. Have you perhaps heard that my filthy thing is large? It is larger than most men’s, to be sure, but by now it has gone all limp, like softened silk.” The ladies attending close by within the blinds, and the nobles, courtiers, and monks outside, heard this and could only stare in appalled astonishment, their eyes and mouths wide open. How the Empress Dowager felt hardly needs telling. Every trace of reverence vanished; they all broke into a sweat and scarcely knew what to do with themselves. Then the holy man made to withdraw, drawing his sleeves together. “Now that I am old, illness has taken a heavy toll on me, and these days I do nothing but suffer from diarrhea. I ought not to have come, but since you expressly summoned me, I have held it in as best I could. Now I can bear it no longer, so I must hurry away.” On his way out, he squatted on the slatted veranda of the western wing, bared his backside, and let fly as though water were pouring from the spout of a ewer. The noise was loud and the stench beyond description, reaching even the Empress Dowager’s presence. The young courtiers roared with laughter, while the monks grumbled, “To think they sent for such a madman!” Thus, on every occasion, he deliberately behaved like a lunatic; yet with each such deed, his reputation for holiness only grew.