Kanji Press

Some time ago, about the twentieth day of the ninth month, I passed through a place called Eguchi.¹ A courtesan’s house was located on the spot between the northern and southern banks of two rivers. I could not help but feeling sorry for the courtesan who had to make her living by depending on the travelers.

Meanwhile a rain shower began which felt as cold as the winter rain. So I decided to take shelter at the courtesan’s house for a short while. But the woman of the house did not appear willing, so I composed a poem for her:

Slightly smiling, the woman replied to me with her poem:

When she finished her poem, she quickly let me into her house. I thought I would stay only while it was raining, but I spent the whole night there, thanks to her elegant poems.

The woman looked about forty years of age and was quite graceful in her appearance and manners. Throughout the night, we talked about various matters. She began to tell her story:

“I have been a courtesan since I was young. I think my profession is most lamentable. I hear women in general are sinful, but especially those working as courtesans. I must have a certain karmic relation to lead this sort of shameful life. For the past few years, as I become older, I have become more regretful, and I have finally stopped being a courtesan.

“The temple bell now sounds sad in the evening, as I wonder how long this transient life will last and feel everything is so futile. Toward dawn my mind becomes clearer, and the cries of the departing birds deeply touch my heart. In the evening I feel anything could happen during the night, and then in the morning I feel like cutting my hair and leaving this mundane life. But alas, abandoning the long-accustomed way is not so easy, and I feel like the birds which constantly suffer from the cold night in the Himalayas.² So I have not yet been able to renounce this life. How sad it is. . .” she wept.

Her unusual story quite overwhelmed me, and the sleeves of my black robe were wet from tears and hard to dry. At daybreak I reluctantly left her, promising to meet her again in future.

On my way home I shed many tears as I thought of her. Just by looking at the trees and grasses, my heart was tearfully touched. Truly, the Way of the Poetry was leading me to the Way of the Law. Had I not recited my poem to her, she would not have let me stay at her place, and I would not have known such a wonderful person. Thanks to her, my yearning for the Way increased. I felt most grateful that my meeting her had helped me to obtain a deeper enlightenment.

In spite of the promise I made to her, I was unable to fulfill it, on account of my busy days in attending to a certain high-ranking priest from the capital. Since I deeply regretted this, I sent her a message with a poem which read

The woman replied to me with her poem entrusted to my messenger. I quickly opened the message and found her poem, written in beautiful calligraphy:

She also wrote another poem in a postscript saying that she had finally changed her life, although her heart was not yet completely in the Way.

For no reason, I was moved to tears by her poem. She was indeed a fine woman.

It was quite natural for a courtesan to wish to be favored by anyone she liked, but it was rare that the woman had abandoned such a desire and longed for the life after death. Perhaps the good deeds in her previous lives must have been remarkable, and such accumulated good karma must have been purified by the water of Eguchi. Her poems were very tasteful.

Just as she had said, “In the evening, I think of receiving the tonsure during the night, and at dawn I will leave this life in tears,” she must have fulfilled her wish and finally left the secular life.

Later I wanted to visit her, but since I heard of her leaving Eguchi after receiving the tonsure, I have done nothing about it. But I often think of her, wondering what her last moments were like.