O-SODE-SAN
And does it speak to you, grandmother—
OBAA-SAN
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.
O-SODE-SAN
You never seemed to care.
OBAA-SAN
Did I not care! Grandmother! Grandmother! Why? Because I loved a weeping willow tree. Because to me it was real. It was my baby. But no lover ever came to woo. No words ever came to me.—Think you, O-Sode-San, that the song of birds in the branches is ease to an empty heart. Think you that the wind amongst the leaves soothes the mad unrest in here. (She beats her breast) I have no one—no one. I talk to my weeping willow tree—but there is no answer—no answer, O-Sode-San—only stillness—and yet—sometimes I think I hear a sigh.—Grandmother! Grandmother! There! Is that enough? I've bared my heart to you. Go spread the news—I am lonely and old—old.—I have always been lonely. Go spread the news.
O-KATSU-SAN
No, Obaa-San. We shall not spread the news. No one shall know.