SERVANT.
No, sir, you were speaking of Master Hanamatsu.
FATHER.
Now then, Hanamatsu. Is this true? Very well then; just listen quietly to me. These childish tricks—writing odes, capping verses and the like are not worth anything. They’re no more important than playing ball or shooting toy darts. And as for the chop-sticks and drum—they are the sort of instruments street urchins play on under the Spear[210] at festival-time. But when I ask about your studies, you tell me that in the Hokke you have not got to the Law-Master Chapter, and in the Gusha-shāstra you have not reached the Seventh Book. Might not the time you spent on the chop-sticks have been better employed in studying the Seventh Book? Now then, don’t excuse yourself! Those who talk most do least. But henceforth you are no son of mine. Be off with you now!
(The boy hesitates, bewildered.)
Well, if you can’t get started by yourself I must help you.
(Seizes him by the arm and thrusts him off the stage.)
In the next scene Hanamatsu enters accompanied by a pious ship’s captain, who relates that he found the lad on the point of drowning himself, but rescued him, and, taking him home, instructed him in the most recondite branches of knowledge, for which he showed uncommon aptitude; now he is taking him back to Tango to reconcile him with his father.
At Tango they learn that the father, stricken with remorse, has become demented and is wandering over the country in search of his son.
Coming to a chapel of Manjushrī, the captain persuades the lad to read a service there, and announces to the people that an eminent and learned divine is about to expound the scriptures. Among the worshippers comes an eccentric character whom the captain is at first unwilling to admit.