More Portmanteau Plays. Stuart Walker
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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 winds fight the falling leaves and I have known that long winter days and nights were coming—and I have always been alone—alone. I have pretended to you—what else could I do? Grandmother! Grandmother! Every time you speak the name, the emptiness of my life stands before me like a royal Kakemono all covered with unliving people.
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