Pathway to Japanese Literature

Period:

Medieval times, around A.D. 11th century—A.D. 1077–A.D. 1095

Characters

Gregory VII, Roman Pope

Henry IV, German Emperor

Old Attendant: A man who served as Henry IV’s guardian, now over ninety years old.

First Lady

Second Lady

Third Lady

Off-duty Old Retainer

Emperor’s attendants and numerous courtiers

Pope’s numerous attendants and disciples

An old farmer couple from Salerno, Italy

Numerous common folk, and faithless idlers

Act I

Scene 1

Setting

The rear of King Henry’s castle

Scene: A square at the center of the barrack-style building where the attendants lived.

Three stone benches stood at intervals, moss growing at their bases.

The square contained not a single tree, with about three entrances visible on the front facade. Flanking the largest central entrance stood two pillars bearing carved royal crests.

A cluster of wilting red flowers was planted beneath them.

The ivy crawling over the house walls and square stone chimney glowed crimson, while the roof's sunward side lay deeply shadowed and its opposite face shone with an unsettling, peculiar hue.
The small windows adorned with numerous wooden carvings stood half open and half closed; in one hung a birdcage.
Roads crossed through the square branching left and right.
In the pale yellow light of mid-autumn, no voices sounded from any direction.
As the curtain rose, the First Lady sat alone on a bench positioned slightly downstage from center, idly watching the crimson-glowing ivy.

A woman with a face that suggested affluence and remarkably large eyes.

She wore a crimson kimono with shallow folds properly arranged, a white hood fitted snugly about her head, her fingers entirely adorned with rings.

Among these, the ring on her right middle finger stood out conspicuously—a pallid gemstone so large it carried an unsettling air.

From immediately downstage emerged the Second and Third Ladies and the Off-duty Old Retainer.

The two women walked on tiptoe with utmost care in their gait, their bodies slightly lifted as if floating at all times.

The Off-duty Old Retainer strode grandly yet affectedly.

The Second Lady wore a dark green kimono and a hood of the same shape (as the First Lady’s), her hair coiled tightly to protrude from beneath the hood, adorned with gleaming earrings.

The Third Lady wore a kimono of the same color as the First Lady’s, adorned with five thick vertical braided cords, and a hood that flared open at the back.

The Off-duty Old Retainer wore a brown jacket, black-and-white striped trousers fastened neatly, ankle boots with white ornaments, and a decorated sword at his side.
The royal crests on his edgeless coat and matching cap glinted with every movement he made.

The Second Lady’s voice was cheerful, while the First and Third Ladies spoke slowly in subdued tones.

Second Lady: “Oh my! Were you here?”
“You were looking for me.”
First Lady: “Oh? Was that so?”
“I have done something most regrettable.”
“I have been here all along.”

“It is such a quiet day—remaining indoors feels quite wasteful.”

Third Lady: "Bathed in just the right sunlight, the ivy appears ready to ignite."

"Oh, do look! The slightest cloud movement shifts its hue noticeably."

"She truly never tires of gazing—no matter how long she looks…"

“My, how truly beautiful it is.”
“But truly, it is the harbinger that winter will soon be upon us.”
“In dimly lit rooms where scant light enters—listening daily to storm winds howl while yielding to cold’s relentless siege, watching silent birds tremble even when placed by fireside—we must wait endlessly for winter’s arrival, that season when only bare tree buds dare swell.”
“Moreover, I am twice over sensitive to the cold compared to others.”

“The moment I hear winter mentioned, I shiver as though catching a chill—Your Ladyship must detest the season even more profoundly.”
(To the Off-duty Old Retainer)

Off-duty Old Retainer: “By God’s grace, this old man finds winter not the least bit trying. Had my sons not restrained me, I’d be out snowballing or whatnot with fifteen- or sixteen-year-olds even now.”

First Lady: "That is most fortunate indeed."
(In a low, gloomy tone) "I have heard something more dreadful than winter—and more loathsome." She paused, gazing at the ground.

She was so consumed by worry and anxiety that winter's approach and the deepening cold had slipped her mind entirely.

"As if I've been left utterly alone in this world."

Third Lady: “Such a thing?”
“I haven’t the slightest inkling—I’ve heard nothing of the sort. Why, these days I spend every single day working beside Mother.”

Second Lady: “As for me—truly, these days there’s absolutely nothing left to worry about.”

“Ever since that child’s illness was cured, I believed all worries had ended—why, we even had the Reverend himself come visit us.”

“Please do tell—it weighs on my mind.”

First Lady: “Even I have only just heard of it myself, but...”

“It was last night.”

“Around the time the moon had set, someone came down from the imperial presence.”

“The moment they saw my face, they said this—”

“‘His Majesty is in a most foul temper—something is certain to happen.’”
“‘I know the gist of it, but—’”
“...they trailed off.”
“I pressed them further, but they insisted they were just a simple-minded woman and would say no more.”

“The young man who went to town this morning reported that the entire town—”

They could sell high-priced horses, and weapon orders were coming in faster than they could handle.

and even reported that some had inquired about the state of the castle.

The off-duty old retainer silently listened to the women’s conversation.

Second Lady: “My—this is my first time hearing of such a thing.”

“That I did not hear such a loathsome matter directly is just as well—truly—”

Third Lady: “How delightful it would be if this were some foolish worry we could laugh away—yet that may not come to pass.”

“Who exactly is this king we face?”

“If it’s those barbarians from foreign lands—the naked ones with pitch-black faces—I’m certain I could best them.”

“Such filthy creatures couldn’t possibly own iron armor.”

“Tell me—which king truly opposes us?”

First Lady (in a quivering whisper): “It is His Holiness the Pope—”

The two women silently exchanged glances.
A brief silence.

Groaningly, she addresses the Off-duty Old Retainer.

Second Lady: “You... are a man of standing.”

“You are one who has often encountered terrible things.”

“Please explain matters quietly so we shan’t be startled.”

“Knowing this much yet not understanding why fills me with greater dread.”

Off-duty Old Retainer: “Your wish bears too heavy a burden...”
“But—in brief—His Holiness the Pope has ridden his zeal too far.”

Those who venerate his virtue increase daily—his territories expand ever wider—and now multitudes consider dying at his command easier than stifling a yawn—so His Majesty deigns to say: "I appoint you as Pope." His Majesty’s decree did not sit well with him.

First Lady: Just because it displeased His Holiness...

Second Lady: I have heard His Holiness is a most virtuous person.

"Surely this isn't rebellion."

"This matter dates back quite some time—His Holiness demanded in writing that His Majesty permit him to determine his own role through me."
"Given His Holiness's stature, His Majesty deigned to calmly refuse with a simple 'No' for the first two or three entreaties—but with each repeated demand, their tempers grew frayed,"

"Even through force—"

"It began when His Majesty came to learn what His Holiness had inadvertently let slip—unnoticed—and now matters have become truly perilous, like ignited gunpowder ready to explode…"
"It's a bitter affair indeed."

Third Lady: "And yet God has commanded us to love our enemies..."

“That stands as proof that humans cannot escape bearing the name ‘human’.”

"Moreover, quarrels between strong parties have since ancient times been destined to end in mutual ruin."

“I have heard Your Holiness the Pope is the Son of God,” said the Second Lady. “Therefore possessing power beyond mortal measure—though it would be tragic should conflict arise between you both—His Majesty must surely yield victory to Your Holiness without fail—”

The Third Lady clasped her hands tightly. “This magnificent castle too shall be reduced to rubble—by divine wrath and Your Holiness the Pope’s will. Where would we live then?”

“We would have to dwell in a log hut with snow blowing through cracks and frost-laden winds piercing our flesh—trembling and weeping until God summons us home—”

“Though knowing it more futile than tallying a dead child’s years, we must still remember those joyous days within the castle walls.”

First Lady: “I lack any power to judge which of you two stands righteous or wicked—but that Your Holiness the Pope has waxed wrathful... this alone fills me with terror past bearing.”

“Your Holiness the Pope has grown wrathful—God must surely have grown wrathful as well.”

“Oh, what should I pray for—and whom should I beseech?”

Off-duty Old Retainer: “Pray to yourselves, rely on yourselves. In this world, there exists nothing as reliable as oneself.”

"It is precisely because His Holiness the Pope—and His Majesty as well—each believed his own power to be great that this matter has come to pass, no?"

The three women huddled together, their faces pale as they gazed toward the roof, while the old retainer silently watched them.

Two young men came running from the shadow of the house and stopped before the four.
The women suddenly composed themselves and turned their faces toward the men.

One of the Young Men: "I must inform you ladies. His Holiness the Pope has arrived at the castle and is currently passing through the central gate on his way here as we are informed..."

Second Young Man: “Please be informed accordingly, as we are instructed to convey.”

The young men departed.

“His Holiness must surely have brought many warriors with him,” said the First Lady.

“They bear smartly polished swords,” observed the Second Lady.

The Third Lady wedged herself between them.

All four stared silently at the unseen ground below.

The sound of a flute gradually drew nearer.
Footsteps echoed forth.

The three women huddled together as if by prior arrangement, pressing their bodies tightly against the side of the house while clasping each other’s hands.

The old retainer stood apart on the opposite side.

Two men bearing small flags were first to show themselves.
Two men holding large smoking torches came next, followed by about twenty warriors—then Pope Gregory VII appeared astride a white horse adorned with lavish trappings.

A pure white cloak streamed down at length, his beard and eyebrows equally white.
From his neck hung a golden cross that flickered dazzlingly.

Behind the Pope—his thick hair combed tightly to both sides and head slightly bowed—many courtiers followed in the same manner as those preceding them, trailing along.

The calm and quiet procession crossed the center of the square and gradually disappeared from view.

With bated breath, the three women watched the vanishing procession.
When it had completely disappeared from view, the three women simultaneously exchanged glances.

“His Holiness was indeed here.”

The Second Lady said.

First Lady: “Truly... At last.”

She murmured in a low voice and made the sign of the cross with her ring-laden hand.
The old retainer stared fixedly in the direction where the Pope had departed.

The curtain falls quietly.

Act I

Act II

Location:

A section of the King's palace grounds

Scene: Thick pillars stood solidly in a row with imposing grandeur, flanked by doors that opened leftward and rightward at center stage right and stage left.

On all four walls hung heavy brocade tapestries, and the floor was spread with a deep blue carpet.

Two chairs flanked a large table.

The marble throne, slightly reddish in hue and grand in scale with its splendid carvings, made even the other chair—though one of a pair—appear utterly crude by comparison.

On the table lay a freshly cut quill and a silver filigree inkwell.

Purplish light streamed into the entire room, depicting a scene nearing dusk on the same day as the previous act.

The curtain rises.

For a while, the stage remained empty.

A thin trumpet sound resounded.

The large central doors opened soundlessly to either side, and two pages of seventeen or eighteen years—wearing crimson velvet robes with matching boots, their hair grown out to their shoulders—knelt as if bracing the doors from left and right, one hand pressed to their chests.

Two figures in blue garments with matching boots held censers.

From behind came Henry IV.

He wore a crimson cloak and a necklace adorned with numerous jewels.

A golden crown pressed down his thick chestnut hair, its ends bent beneath his ears.
From behind came many attendants.

When the king sat in the larger chair, the attendants stood behind him, and the censer bearers took positions to either side.

Purplish thin smoke continuously rose and danced above the king’s head.

Henry IV: “Pope Gregory VII has come to see me, so I hear.”
Page: “As you say, Your Majesty.”
Henry IV: “Summon him.”
The page departed from below.
From the same entrance emerged Pope Gregory VII.

In the same attire as in the previous act, holding a Bible in his hand.

When [the Pope] sat before the king, many attendants stood guard behind him.

"Your Holiness appears in good health—"

King: "We are having splendid weather."

"Truly this calm weather persists—the apples have ripened so abundantly that even livestock cannot manage them."

"All of this too flows from divine blessing."

King: "Though beautifully ripened fruits abound, many hearts now fester too rotten for medicinal use."

“Yet in that way lies much of the world’s goodness, I must say—though such matters cannot be summed up so simply…”

“Oh—it appears I must offer countless strata of gratitude for what Your Holiness has accomplished here today.”

“Nay—being one who seems sprung from Mother’s crown, I find matters of thanksgiving and commendation as loathsome as maggots writhing beneath my flesh.”

“Should one grow too intoxicated by others’ gratitude, inevitably some ill-fated consequence must needs arise for those who offered hollow courtesies.”

“Not one soul in ten can laugh without tendering even a sliver of thanks.”

“Once I fell into a ditch through some absurd mishap, I’ve grown to detest even the sight of scum floating on gutters.”

“Well now—you are a man of many preferences.”

“I, contrary to Your Holiness, am quite fond of it.”

“How amusing it is to take a slender splinter and stir without rest, muddling what was so painstakingly clarified.”

“That said—whether one muddles skillfully or not depends on the stirrer’s dexterity...”

“The evil of gutters remains unseen as long as one does not fall into them—but once the mire runs deep, they say one will recklessly burrow into it...”

“Of course it is,” said the King. “Night after night, I’ve heard all manner of tales from old men and sparrow-like folk, I tell you. These innocent amusements dance wild at my lips’ very edge. Since this old incident came up, I’ve been looking forward—since first hearing of Your Holiness’s coming—to recounting only those tales you already know. Until a yawn escapes Your Holiness...” The King leaned forward. “Now then—listen well.”

"In a certain place—so the story goes—there lived a small bird of unknown name, with pale-red breast feathers, green wings, and eyes like violet blossoms. Though smallest among its kind, its beauty of plumage and song was such that even God who fashioned it marveled—so immense were the blessings bestowed by both divine and mortal hands.

Day upon day it rose singing with dawn's first light and bade farewell to silver moon before seeking nestward rest—so runs this tale.

Yet one day this creature ventured forth ere morning's dew had dried—driven by unaccustomed vigor yet lacking clear purpose—and soared above mansions where shrines stood sacred below. Mid-flight heaven's mood turned foul; winds howled fierce as winter wolves. Seeking refuge from tempest's wrath, soon spied it shelter—a mighty tree whose crown pierced skies higher than any feathered flight might reach—and there concealed its fair form beneath leafy canopy."

In the tree’s shade, the small bird, awed by how this great tree stood unyielding against the fierce wind, no sooner had the gale subsided than it returned to its nest to rest its wings,

“O merciful and gracious Heavenly God,

I beseech You to make me like that tree which sheltered me today, so long as You graciously restore my beautiful form and voice.”

And just as the small bird finished praying, the devil—having overheard this from a hole in the ground—let out a wicked, human-like laugh and,

“[The devil] deigned to grant [the wish]”

“Since a tree has no need for beautiful feathers like thine, pluck them all out,”

mimicking God’s manner.

The honest small bird shed tears and endured the pain until it stood completely naked—then the very next day,

“A tree has no need for a beak.”

Having declared this, from some unseen place he hurled a stone and shattered its beak.

Day after day, deprived of one precious thing after another, when seven days had passed and evening came, the once-beautiful small bird stood naked upon a dead branch with but a single leg.

Lord, may I become a tree now?

When the pitiful, near-death small bird heard this, the devil laughed uproariously and declared:

"You shall become one soon enough—"

"As fertilizer for sprouting trees—"

No sooner had he spoken than the small bird tumbled from the branch and fell into the devil's gaping hole that yawned open upon the ground—so the tale goes.

"That was a long tale—I wonder if it didn't make you yawn."

"So engrossing was your tale that no yawn could escape," replied Your Holiness. "This story I heard from an old pilgrim is indeed fascinating—but merely hearing it recounted would not suffice."

"It was said to have occurred in a southern land—"

"—where there lived a man so wealthy he could dwell in houses with ceilings inlaid in gold and floors laid with fragrant wood."

"In every place deemed scenic within that country, he would invariably build his residence—so they say—even if it required great effort."

“Countless storehouses stood filled with treasures from nations—within them lay a stone said to shine silver when the moon waxed and turn black when it waned, and a mirror that revealed the fortunes God had bestowed upon people—so the tale goes.

Thus willfully indulging his heartless nature, he showed no mercy to the poor and did nothing but delight in the ever-growing hoard of his treasures.

One day, a beautiful maiden came bearing a single small stone, proclaimed that it would glow purple in spring, green in summer, golden in autumn, and silver when winter arrived—then left the stone behind and departed.”

It was spring then, and the small stone took on the hue of grapes beaded with dew.

They say this capricious man—who pined endlessly for summer’s coming—would retreat early to bed each night and scarce emerge come dawn.

The day stood at summer’s very threshold when he—grumbling at the season’s tardiness—commanded an apothecary in peevish haste to brew a draught for three days’ unbroken sleep. No sooner had he drunk it than he sank into slumber profound as breathless death.

For three days and three nights he spent in frenzy, behaving like a beast from the southern edge, when he suddenly glanced at the jewel beside him and found that without his noticing, it had turned the pale blue of a pond God created myriad years before—so overjoyed was the man that thereafter, they say, he forged an iron box, within it a silver box, within that a small golden casket, concealed the stone within, and stored it in the deepest part of his most treasured vault.
As years passed and ten had gone by since that event, the man began being tormented nightly by strange dreams—so the story goes.

After all, he was a man with enough gold to rot—claiming it was for atonement, he built temples and summoned monks, yet to no avail did any effect appear. After being tormented for three months, he perished—so the story goes.

Neither learned men nor virtuous monks realized that his act of storing away in his vaults the stone—which changed color with each season and had been brought by the maiden—had invoked a curse, and thus he came to have to perish—so goes the tale.

“An interesting tale.”
“However, three days ago I received a letter whose messenger’s attire and stationery alone were truly splendid indeed.”
“And its substance?”
“Truly more unsightly than the hunched back of an aged woman.”
“I ordered my page to tear it up immediately and had it burned.”
“It’s a wonder that the one who penned that unsightly letter had two eyes and a mouth not split up to their ears—perfectly ordinary features for any person.”

“Will Your Majesty grant what was requested,”
“Or will you have that detestable wretch beheaded or put to public display...”
“To call it ‘bad’ would still be too generous a description,”
“To say ‘unacceptable’ remains too blunt.”
“Do papal matters now command your attention?”

“How many days have you considered this,”
“What do you intend to do with that detestable wretch?”
“A mere moment—nothing but—”
“To dwell on a single matter for more than a day is the work of those to whom God did not bestow a mind.”

“I possess precisely the mind that the world calls wise.”

“Well now,”
“Through flattering glass, even pockmarks become dimples.”
“The child bred of self-love bears a small head indeed.”

“Your Holiness appears to have emerged mouth-first from your mother’s womb into this world’s corrupting winds.”

“Hence your scripture-reciting prowess—not wholly without virtue, mind—yet barely passable...”

“Ah! If only all mankind understood this truth—that boats cannot be rowed through fields—that would suffice.”

“Yet creatures capable of living both in water and on land exist among those living things created by God.”

“Most double-dealing creatures are laughably called ‘frog’s aunts’ or ‘duck’s cousins.’”

“It appears you mistook oil for wine last night and drank it down.”

“Well now—setting that aside—it appears you’ve taken no more than two hours’ rest—”

“You have eyes like those of a young rabbit.”

Henry IV: “It’s because I’ve been seeing infuriating dreams night and day.”

Pope Gregory VII: “That comes from your prayers proving futile, I tell you. Shall I pray in your stead?”

“I would still prefer that over having some wax effigy molded in my shape or having a lock of hair plucked without my noticing.”

“Your Holiness has unexpectedly acquired such a refined heart.”

King: “Oh! With one-sided will, that unsightly wrath-creature has begun gnawing at my heart’s very core—let us withdraw.”

“What □□—I am wise after all.”
“Characters inscribed on paper are beautiful to behold alone.”

“And should you wish not to see them—you may tear them up or cast them into flames.”

Human angry faces were things even harder to look upon than the world's most poorly written characters,
Not so easily could they be burned away.
They were troublesome creatures.

"The absence of a mirror of law remained preferable by comparison, I tell you."

King: Precisely so, Your Holiness.
I have grown weary of speaking in exquisitely courteous words.
Henceforth, I shall speak with unvarnished honesty.
Pope: Then you would do well to bring this matter to a swift conclusion.

King: "It was settled long ago on my part—"

That Your Holiness should seek to obtain the right of clerical appointment was an inevitable matter—so long as you remain human.

That I should refuse to permit you this was likewise an inevitable matter—so long as I remain human.

Human beings—whether highborn or lowly—do not willingly confine themselves within their ordained spheres of authority.

Pope: "Yet the right of clerical appointment remains fundamentally ecclesiastical."

"The Pope, as overseer of a nation’s religion, should rightfully hold such authority—indeed."

"King: The Pope governs but the tiniest sliver of politics—that which pertains to religion."

“That the king holds in his grasp both the entirety of his nation’s governance and its very destiny is a matter understood without being spoken.”

“Were I to say that this authority—held by kings since the time of my ancestors several generations back, since emperors of generations past—had now been ceded to the Pope in my reign, future generations would surely think me the most wretched fool.”

“If I truly thought Your Holiness a great man from the bottom of my heart, I might have ceded it to you—”

“Unfortunately, I did not hold such regard.”

“That is why I declare I shall not yield—I declare I shall not permit it.”
*(With measured force)*

“I am the emperor. Your Holiness must obey my commands.”

“Your Majesty declares yourself to be emperor.”

“Will you not then believe in the greatness of God’s divine power rather than the power of Law?”

“At God’s single utterance, all flowers in the world open their buds, butterflies array themselves in splendid raiment to dance, and larks sing praises to His divine power beneath clouds tinged with imperial purple.”

This they name spring—when even those who faltered beneath winter’s chill found vibrant hues rising to their pallid cheeks, and all living things were granted new strength once more—
There remained none who did not praise and give thanks for God’s divine power that fools could not perceive.
When a sinner—driven by desire possessed by contemptible Satan to seize others’ belongings without permission and bring them into my household, then accused of this crime—with body trembling ceaselessly at the judicial officer’s stern decree, confined in a prison cell of silent stone where no sound echoed even when striking its walls within a small square space save for one narrow window—recalled those dear ones waiting in their homeland, how scalding and abundant must their flowing tears have been.

“Thus when they sat alone in darkness, taking to heart the accusing voices echoing through shadows enveloping them, and profoundly realized their own sin—whose name did they cry out in desperation? To whose virtue did they appeal when praying ‘Save us’? Calling upon the great name of God—it was by appealing to His lofty divine virtue that they entreated.”

“Your Majesty may claim to dwell near God’s mighty presence, yet you seek to race through my domain with those wings of yours that beat with such clamorous force.”

I believe solely in myself.

The monks declare that miracles manifest through God,

Miracles worthy of astonishment manifest solely when I believe in myself, pray to my own strength, and advance forward—just as Jesus, who is called the Son of God, profoundly believed in Himself.

Deeds performed through profound belief in myself manifest as miracles—turning water into wine and restoring this world’s light to the blind.

In all this world, there is nothing more noble and great than myself.

“I shall forever extol the noble name of myself—I shall cling to the power of the self. My own voice rejects Your Holiness’s desire—I shall not permit it! It shall not come to pass! Thus did I declare.”

“Though what we call the Pope is an exceedingly formal matter,” he said, “people do revere it nonetheless.”
“Forms that do not overstep their bounds are essential in all matters.”
“Even were one emperor—even barefoot in but a single garment—to remain emperor still, he must don formal crowns and wear conspicuous robes to preserve that dignity—all matters of formality.”

In the same manner, though as Pope he could wear black robes like any ordinary monk, he dons white vestments merely for formality’s sake—and to preserve that dignity, he must hold various rights.

King: “Forms were made for humankind—humankind was not created for forms! Humans should possess the power to freely command forms.”

“No matter how much Your Holiness preaches about God day after day—even should you preach until I draw my last breath—my heart shall not change.”

“I will not yield.”

“Though we remain locked in this trial of endurance, it shall not outlast autumn’s arrival.”

“Given neither of us may live a thousand years—there shall be no contest waged through earthen masks, hollow eyes staring unblinking, mouths agape like grinning maidens from dawn till dusk as we trade barbs.”

“If Your Holiness craves such persistence in grand designs—pray to that God who shields your greatness for an elixir of immortality! Have Him grant you leave to endure until emperors ten generations hence deign to permit it.”

The King rose quietly and, surrounded without a sound by attendants, vanished into the shadow of the central door, leaving the stage to the Pope’s sole faction.

Before long, the lower door opened, and a page entered clutching a written document in his hand.

When he handed it to the Pope, at a glance an icy smile formed on his lips.

“Your Holiness shall respond thus,”

“I humbly accept.”

“Having been strictly reared in propriety since childhood, I would wish to say one word to the King in answer to this—yet in lieu of verbal address, I deem this a fitting reciprocation to present.”

He did not think the day they would meet again would be so very distant.

“And add that I have spoken thus—convey this message.”

The Pope produced a rolled document from beneath his cloak with a composed gesture and handed it to the page.

The page received it and hastily stepped back,

[Page:] Your Holiness!

“This is the excommunication decree,”
“To His Majesty—”
“You must be mistaken.”
“I am neither blind nor afflicted with eye sores.”
The page stood frozen, head bowed low.
“Prepare my horse.”

One of the Pope’s attendants departed from stage left.

“Young man, there’s no need to be so startled. The King has merely sent me a deposition decree as his...gift.”

“It may be somewhat meager, but I am too poor to offer anything beyond that.”

The Pope’s entourage moved quietly and disappeared through the upper door.

On the stage, the page remained alone, gazing for a while in the direction the Pope had departed,

At length, he let out a deep sigh and retreated through the opposite doorway—dragging his feet as he withdrew stage left.

Curtain

Act II

Scene 1 (Three months after the previous act; as winter nears December) (Circa A.D. 1077)

Location:

Henry IV's Castle Interior: The King's Chamber

The scene was a not particularly spacious chamber with dark reddish-brown drapery hung on all four walls.

On both sides hung two large frames painted with portraits of the previous king and queen consort, beneath which a fire burned.

Surrounded on all four sides by stone slabs bearing crude carvings—far from what one might call a modern stove—lay a sunken area where thick logs were neatly stacked, red flames rising between the wood.

On the opposite side lay spears and swords.
Armor was solemnly arrayed.

In the center stood a table upon which the King’s personal effects were placed.

Positioned diagonally to catch the light from the burning fire, a long stone bench sat considerably off-center, draped over it from above with a long, heavy-looking fur pelt.

About three small windows stood open, their simple rectangular panes allowing the cold, bluish-white moonlight to illuminate a withered orchard beyond, while in the distance, the castle walls appeared pitch black.

Considerably distant from the bench stood a bronze lamp of daring height upon a rod-like pedestal, topped with a cup-shaped oil dish that used fish oil—its thin wick producing a yellow flame that flickered precariously as if on the verge of extinction, thin trails of oily smoke perpetually rising.
Everything bore the appearance of a night grown exceedingly late.

As the curtain rose, the King and the old man who had served as his guardian sat together on the stone bench.

The King wore no crown, dressed in a deep green garment that flowed loosely from neck to hem like sleepwear, its sleeves exceedingly slack.

He wore many rings on his hands.
His eyes bore a slightly weary look, and his brows were knit with unresolved tension.

The old attendant, now over ninety years of age with hair and eyebrows all white and glossy, maintained a serene demeanor while wearing a coat covered in pure white fur reaching his feet and suspending a small silver cross from his neck.

With a sentiment akin to that of the king’s parent, he felt nothing but excessive fondness.

King: “The moon shines so beautifully that all things keep silent like some peasant girl I once chanced upon in the capital.”

Old Attendant: “Truly quiet it is.”

“In those days when I was still unweaned—a fool ignorant of the world—whenever such nights came upon me, I’d kneel upon the floor in my nightclothes...repeating quiet litanies longer than any Bishop’s prayers...repeating them like one blood-maddened...shedding tears without cause until my body felt weightless, Your Majesty. Through endless nights without sleep’s respite, come dawn I’d pinch my own shins like some empty husk—barely convincing myself life’s blood still flowed within.”

“Even now when such joys are lost, keeping things arranged thus shows excessive willfulness on your part.”

“Oh no no, Your Majesty—how could such a thing ever be?”

“For one like this old man—having watched the ways of this world so very long that one might think God forgot to summon him—people’s selfish demands and unreasonable claims cease to weigh upon the heart in such fashion, and thus have I too come to voice my own willfulness and unreason.”

“Moreover, Your Majesty—next only to Her Majesty the Queen Mother—I am the one who has attended to Your Majesty’s every need since earliest childhood, yet no matter what Your Majesty commands, this old man finds himself utterly incapable of compliance.”

“Indeed it is.”

“I still remember clearly how I once thought you were the most terrifying person.”

“In early autumn, when I wore a white garment and climbed an apple tree—clambered onto a branch—and ate a large fruit peel and all, you discovered me there—”

“You suddenly barked like this:

‘Whose servant’s brat are you up there?

Come down at once! I’ll see you properly disciplined!’

...you shouted.

‘I am your master—I am!’

But no matter how many times I protested,

‘However young Your Majesty may be, an Emperor does not climb trees to eat like some thieving peasant child.

You must comport yourself with dignity!

These apple peels strewn about prove you’re no master of mine.’”

“After saying that, he remained standing there no matter how long I waited, and when he finally went over there, I secretly escaped and hid in my room.”

Old Attendant: “Such things did occur, did they not? It feels like a dream from over ten years past—I can scarcely even recall them now.”

“It is precisely through having forgotten ever addressing such matters to Your Majesty that I remain here—were it otherwise, each recollection of my impertinent manner of speech would leave me unable to even meet your august gaze.”

King: "Yet these memories comfort me beyond measure—me who must dwell upon matters I would rather not contemplate—and only then do I abide in that innocent childlike state from those days."

"The deepest sins have ever been borne by those named 'King' since ancient times."

"That under law we must shorten lives rich with promise for the multitude's sake, that to preserve authority we must commit violent acts against our conscience—this constitutes the lifelong duty of those called 'King.'"

Old Attendant: “Well now, Your Majesty—we lowly ones who dedicated our samurai lives to you possess a life that is both ours and not ours, yet never truly grasp this... If only I were a samurai... that’s what I often think. That samurai must live frantically yet envy lords’ status, that lords envy the king whom all revere, that this same king envies God, while descending further still—the single sword that governs their lives envies those very samurai—this chain of yearnings forms one of those eternal mysteries beyond even God’s comprehension, unchanged through any age.”

“Yet that must remain beyond human ken for all eternity,” said the King. “Nor is it meet that mortal hands should overreach into God’s own demesne.”

The old attendant inclined his head. “Yet in these latter days, men do fashion medicines to cure their ills with their own hands—you see.”

“A noble endeavor in itself,” he continued, “yet with these same life-giving draughts they artfully curtail what ought to be enduring spans—you see.”

“As though,” his voice dropped to a whisper, “they’ve pilfered the very divine power that governs life’s ebb and flow from God Himself.”

“Since monsters and diseases have dwindled from this world—though I hear they’ve been sealed behind the Night God’s thick palace doors—the devil has planted a dreadful seed in people’s hearts, so they say. Yet being aged so terribly myself, that demon’s abandoned possessing me—or so the young ones claim, you see.”

The King stared at the flickering lamp wick with a forlorn gaze.
The old man was rubbing the King’s hand with bony yet soft hands.

Outside the window, two slender flames from the torches carried by night watch warriors could be seen swaying back and forth in a rather leisurely manner.

The King spoke as though sunk in thought.

The old man quietly looked up and down the King’s body.

King: “I know shamefully little about the world as it was when you were my age.”

“What you remember is enough—tell me.”

Old Attendant: “Like an ancient scroll, I suppose—fragmentary and broken.”

“This was from a time even further back than when I used to address you as ‘Wako,’ you see—the world had changed so strangely compared to now, and everything about society back then was far more comprehensible than it is today.”

“When men were divided into three sorts, all found their place—first those quarrelsome gentlemen who’d bite and bark at any human like fighting hounds; next those tormented by ‘honor’ from waking till sleeping; and last those who loved love itself—you see.”

“Those hound-like gentlemen would devote themselves to maintaining their armor, weapons, and horses—should even a nail’s-width tarnish appear inside their breastplates or a single hair lie disordered in their horse’s coat, they’d have their retainers test their blades in displeasure—while those tormented by honor became drenched in sweat and grime roaming about the kitchens of every lordly residence they venerated, you see.”

They who bankrupted themselves spending fortunes on instruments and bouquets to send letters to women’s gates were later found munching bread crumbs at those very thresholds; another who sat singing by waterfall basins to improve his voice grew dizzy and vanished to unknown ends; someone who risked life to sneak closer upon overhearing stray song fragments and glimpsing a retreating figure found instead a one-eyed elder covered in ammonite-like growths—so violently shocked that they perished on the spot—all these were people who loved love yet failed in loving.

"In those days, people could understand each other through human language alone—and red was unmistakably red—you see."

At this moment, a young attendant brought a rolled document.
He added some slightly dying firewood, replaced the lamp wick, carefully surveyed his surroundings, and withdrew.

The King quietly opened the scroll.
He glanced through it briefly, then immediately stopped reading with a harsh gaze.

“From where might this be? ’Tis an unfamiliar crest indeed.”
“Though perchance you may have forgotten it, having seen it so many times before.”

“What!”
“This comes from my vassal the Duke of Franconia.”

“What does it convey?”

“The King does not stoop—it is merely humans conveying what they must.”
“Those like you who have grown old would do better not to heed overmuch what those still clinging to humanity have to say.”

Old Attendant: “Those like me who’ve grown old can scarcely manage anger more than fourfold where others rage ten times over—though in turn, our measure of joy and delight shrinks alike.”

King: “I too—from hearing too many trifles, this heart of mine has grown rough as the backs of washerwomen’s hands toiling all day at the riverbank.”

Old Attendant: “Ah, but Your Majesty—what noble folk cannot grasp is this: we lowborn wretches who trade in shame, begging year-round at men’s gates in threadbare robes—by three years after being born crying from mothers’ wombs, we’re said to bear stunted, stubborn hearts already. That Your Majesty has merely heard too many trifles still counts as virtue by comparison.”

"To those who wish to hear, it may be told."

King: “The more clumsily phrased and infuriatingly inept the letter grows with its wretched sentences piled high—but let me roughly summarize its contents.”

“You have been issued an excommunication decree by the Pope.”

“The Pope has stated his case—and as for myself,” he writes with peasant grammar befitting his station,“to obey commands from an excommunicated king—a disgrace surpassing death itself—would soil God’s holy name.”

“Thus having conspired with like-minded men,”

“He went out of his way,”

“It is a curious thing indeed,” said the old attendant. “There still remain a great many quarrelsome hounds in this world, you see.”

“Quarrelsome hounds shall never cease to exist until the world itself perishes,” replied the King. “What—let those who wish to rebel do so as they please. It has always been ordained since ancient times that wayward youths who run away from home in youthful indiscretion shall soon return to their homeland with tears streaming down their faces.” He paused, then added with imperious certainty: “Moreover, I have been granted the power to deftly unravel even the most tangled threads.”

“No matter what power there may be—though perhaps ’tis my own cowardice that compels me—I detest quarrels,” said the old attendant.

“Quarrels settled by words alone are few enough in this world.
When lowborn folk quarrel, those involved grapple and kick and pummel each other—once one side bleeds from the nose, the matter’s settled, you see.”

“But quarrels among those who hold vast territories won’t be ended so easily.
If those of high standing wish to brawl, they send soldiers to clash on their behalf—and ill-temper breeds swiftly in such times. No sooner do hands grip sword hilts than others too cannot stay silent: with dreadful fervor they slash and stab as though themselves the quarrel’s principals, raging unchecked until God-forged kin lie bloodied and groaning—all while spectators laugh at this ghastly spectacle. To dwell on such things is truly loathsome.”

“It is during such times that monasteries swell with young, beautiful nuns, and temple grave-diggers line their pockets—you see.”

“The nobler the person’s quarrel, the mightier the ground trembles, you see.”

“When the heavenly gods quarreled—so I heard long ago in my childhood—the world met its ruin, so they say.”

King: “Therefore, from its very origins, the world has ever multiplied in its affairs.”

“No one condemns a quarrel grounded in reason, you see.”

“Oh no no—such matters lie beyond this old man’s understanding, as I’ve been saying from the start.”

“Quarrels require both parties to bear blame.”

“It is precisely because both parties are fools that a quarrel can arise.”

“The fact that none censure it proves there exists none wiser than those who quarrel, you see.”

“Your Majesty,”

“I have never once heard tell of maggots quarreling with the glorious sun.”

“If what you say holds true, then both I and the Pope are fools.”

“This old man, Your Majesty—
For Your Majesty is supremely adorable indeed.
That being said—when Your Majesty was still young and took such fondness in trivial quarrels—
I am not worthy to presume to scold you, nor does this old man have any heart left for offering admonishments—
Ah yes—Your Majesty is such a clever lord, and this old man is overjoyed.
And then, Your Majesty—back when we still used to call you Wako—”

Having seen the mischievous lads within the castle capture a dimwitted pigeon that had strayed in and lost its way—tying stones to its legs and laughing as they chased the wretched creature that could no longer fly properly—you then went to where they were gathered...

...in that solemn voice of yours, as though you had already become king—

“You there! What do you think you’re doing?
This pigeon carries a life granted by God, same as we do—you must not torment it so.”

“How would you fare if treated thus?”

“Quickly remove the stone and take it outside the castle to release it,” he had commanded.

When he led the pale-faced child and set the pigeon free, I was utterly overjoyed.
“What a noble heart you possessed—and those gentle eyes of yours! How that voice scolding the children carried such stern authority!” That night I lay awake laughing uncontrollably, unable to sleep a wink.

“Your Majesty was just barely seven or eight years old then—oh how utterly adorable you were in your prime of sweetness.”

“I no longer remember any of those sorrowful things—and what’s more, having been compelled to devote myself to extensive studies soon thereafter, I was made to forget them all the more.”

“The privilege of having seen scholars’ stern, furrow-browed faces far too early in life, I suppose.”

“Ah, ah—though it may be impertinent—this old man has grown quite drowsy, yet conversing with Your Majesty while nodding off brings me such joy.”

The extremely aged old man—wearing a serene, untroubled countenance—shifted from his position slightly before the bench toward its edge, still clasping the king’s hand.

Upon the king’s face appeared an expression of unbearable anguish—yet this seemed somewhat tempered by the old man’s words.

King: "However warm one may claim it to be—it remains winter. Should a vicious cold take hold of you, that would not do."

Old Attendant: "Your Majesty alone—how gracious you are to speak so."

――――

The tearful old man spoke in a choked voice.

“The care I now show you pales before how many times over you have cared for me.”

The Old Attendant did not respond to the king’s words.

“Back when you clung so sweetly to your mother’s bosom, Your Majesty was ever fond of this lullaby.

With these vigorous white hands of my youth, I would rock the cradle draped in beautiful silk curtains like a small boat upon calm waves—gently, gently—Your Majesty.

With a voice praised by those graced with maternal blessings, I sang each night as darkness fell.”

Eyes closed, he began singing in a deeply meditative voice—low and husky yet beautiful—his tempo lingering slightly behind in its gentleness.

Sleep，Wako
Light-blue silk，
Within curtains，
Dreams in gentle haze，
The scent of roses and，
The voice of little doves，
The realm of dreams，
To the sound’s end，
Sleep，Wako

“Dreams in gentle haze……”

“Hmm…”

“Having received God’s grace too long—my voice grown hoarse from singing you to sleep—even Wako, whom I thus lulled, has reached adulthood in this manner. When I come to sleep beneath the temple grasses, soon there will be none left to repeat this song, nor any who remember it at all.”

“Beloved dear lord.”

The king’s heart swelled with an indescribable sadness born from the old man’s lullaby, his gaze fixed on a dim corner as though chasing the song’s lingering echoes.
The old man, as though having forgotten everything, bowed his large forehead slightly and drifted into sleep.

King: (startled by the old man’s faint snoring) Oh!
“He’s already asleep.”

He slept as contentedly as a young child, even snoring…

“Is anyone there?!”

The page emerged from the corner of the room with a drowsy expression. “Your Majesty! Have you summoned me?”

“Indeed—” The king’s voice tightened. “This could give one a chill.”

“I pushed too hard,” he continued, shaking the old man awake. “Have him retire to his chamber and sleep warmly.”

The old attendant stirred. “Just as I used to rouse you awake while calling you Lady Wako,” he murmured, “you now shake me awake, Your Majesty.”

“May you find good dreams.”

Helped by the page, he disappeared from stage left.

The king was left completely alone.

He looked at the letter from the Duke of Franconia that he had perfunctorily glanced at earlier.

As he read on, his expression grew increasingly severe until he suddenly tore it apart and flung it away.

"What is this?"

"By God's name they declare □□□□."

"They declare that having a king who has even been excommunicated is something the noble blood flowing through our veins will not permit," he said.

"If you wish to rebel, let you rebel to your heart's content."

“I am no craven weakling to slit my own throat when harried by your armies! These pitiful maggots—egged on by that spite-drunk Pope—can scarce conceal their layered schemes as they mindlessly clamor and—”

The king's agitated nerves gradually subsided as the stillness around him grew.

Quietly and thoughtfully.

King: "Suppressing mere fools who stir up baseless uproars with military might is no difficult matter."

"Therefore I do not wish to kill soldiers."

"There are so many things I must not do going forward... hmm."

"I must devise the best course of action."

"You! Mind,"

"Mind, work harder than usual and become wise for me."

A brief silence ensued.

He paced around the room with measured steps.

The sound of falling snow rustled... rustled...

The king: Hmm? What was that?
Apologize?
Mind!
Open those clear eyes wide and answer me properly—I abhor the very act of apologizing.

I abhor bowing my head to others.
Until now I had been wise enough that matters resolved themselves without me doing so.

The sound of powdered snow grew fiercer than before; the hearth fire died out completely.

The king paced the room in an even more irritated manner than before, unconsciously drawing near the window.

"Oh! It’s coming down hard!"
"I wish pleasant wisdom would accumulate in my heart like that ceaselessly falling snow."

The king groaned lowly while looking at the hearth and suddenly pulled his wide collar together as if feeling cold.

"I had been thinking for an unusually long time since earlier—"

I pondered one matter deeply.

My usual mind should have been wiser than today's, yet no matter which corner I probed,

"Apologize."

the thought itself failed to surface rather than being voiced by some ominous utterance.

"Apologize."

This voice tells me - to the Pope -

The first words I ever heard upon being born - words that have threatened me most throughout my life.

This mind-slave persists:

"Merely a stratagem for one fleeting moment-"

To apologize without justification - what spinelessness!

Like that pitiful cowering child raised by a mother of ill intent - made to utter "Apologize" through trembling lips-

Mother, forgive me.

To say that was just as incomprehensible and spineless a thing.

The incompetence of a child raised by another's parent might still warrant sympathy, but a king's incompetence became nothing but the world's mockery.

If I were to—

I shall apologize.

If I were to utter a single word, I would have to silently endure all slanders, all insults.

My mother had devoted her heart to raising me—she had taught me to endure bitter cold, sweltering heat, and ceaseless labor.

But she never taught me the means to endure when receiving slander and insults.
Or perhaps she thought I could endure receiving such vile things—...

The rustling sound of powdery snow ceased, and the full-fledged snowfall steadily accumulated.

From somewhere distant—yet still within the castle—came faint voices singing folk songs accompanied by flute music.

The king’s voice and demeanor gradually grew heavier and more troubled; the voices singing and flute sounds intermittently ceased and resumed with the occasional gusts of wind.

The lamplight had grown exceedingly dim, and through three windows streamed a stagnant, bluish-white light.

The king firmly grasped his left arm with his right hand and stared at a single spot.

Apologize?

It is truly a vexing matter.

I want to hurl myself and my body from a cloud-piercing mountain’s precipice and smash them into pieces too small to be seen.

I have never truly tasted until now,

Apologize.

The time has come when I must endure this experience—this act of apology.

Until now, I—

Apologize.

I had even come to detest hearing those very words.

Nevertheless, the time has come when I must listen to each resonance of those words and taste their flavor myself.

Even in distressing times, I possess a mind and body that do not succumb to madness.
My courage persists in compelling me to endure even this loathsome ordeal for the sake of achieving final victory.

That's right—I must resolutely apologize.
Precisely because I think of apologizing to the Pope, it infuriates me.
Let it suffice that subjecting this noble head of mine to even a moment's loathsome distress counts as an apology made to one's own mind.

It is to secure the final victory.

I shall make it so that I begin to speak words stating that those who apologize cannot be deemed fools or losers.

If one performs a worthwhile deed, they gain one enemy; behind anything grand there always lies a wretched shadow—this is an inevitability.

"I must now go to Canossa and meet with the Pope."

"Only for it to make me great, I suppose."

The king sat by the armchair, heaving a deep sigh while gazing at the faintly flickering lamplight, and muttered in an exceedingly low voice.

The king: For my own sake,

It is to secure the final victory.

He lowered his head and supported it with his right hand.

Curtain falls quietly.

Act II

Scene II

Location

Italy, Salerno – A Farmhouse (the Pope’s Temporary Residence)

Set: Slightly off-center stage stood a humble bed draped in clean white curtains.

Surrounding it lay old furniture arranged haphazardly, while on the wall nearest the bed hung a wooden carving of Christ crucified upon a cross.

The other walls bore faded paintings—so ancient their colors had become indistinguishable—and along the edge of a bay-like window sat a small birdcage devoid of occupants.
A large platter piled with fresh vegetables provided a bright splash of color in one corner.

Two young monks in tasteful yet unassuming clerical robes and one withered-looking monk stood immediately beside the bed.

The two young monks had remarkably beautiful faces.
When the curtain rose, three people were huddled together on one long bench.

Before long, the first young monk stood up, clutched his own shoulder area, looked around the surroundings, and sat back down.

First Young Monk: “Will it just turn to night again like this today?”

“We must keep guarding our Master’s dreams while he lies here asleep—”

“I wonder who’s guarding our dreams somewhere out there.”

“Who guards our dreams in what place?”
(in a low, resentful tone)

Second Young Monk: “If you consider that we face God’s divine trial, then all matters should conclude with that. ‘Even if we die as we are—so long as we conform to God’s will—we shall ascend to heaven—’”

“That must certainly be so, must it not?”

First Young Monk: “I would rather be in the capital now than go to heaven after death.”

“God teaches of heaven and hell alike so that this world where people live in fear might become a heaven to dwell in.”

The Second Young Monk paced about the room with stealthy footfalls, as though unable to endure his yearning for the capital.

First Young Monk: "Well, setting aside whether we return to the capital or not—every time I recall recent events, how truly pitiful and wretched our current station seems."

"Just think back to that incident."

"The incident when King Henry came all the way to Canossa to apologize on the day when snow had piled up enough to bury everything."

Second Young Monk: "That incident was truly more remarkable than anything before."
(mutters to himself)

The old monk remained motionless, gazing out the window.

First Young Monk: "When the King—his eyes shining unnaturally bright from seven days and nights of cold and hunger, still struggling to maintain dignity on unsteady feet—stood before our Master—

You remember, don't you?

That splendid cloak was covered in mud stains."

Before that King—his face deathly pale and hair disheveled—our Master appeared truly magnificent.

While glaring at us through drenched garments,

“Let us reconcile,” the King had humbly uttered to our Master—but when I recall it now, his eyes held a deeply scheming look—

Hey, back then—was there even a single soul who noticed such a thing? There must have been none without doubt.

We were far too overzealous.

The two exchanged glances and laughed bleakly.

Old Monk: Growing rather self-satisfied—

He spoke without turning around.
The two abruptly fell silent.
Then they resumed their conversation.

Second Young Monk (lowering his voice): “Hey... we’ve truly been caught in the ‘trap.’”

We had truly been deceived by cunning artifice.

When His Holiness appeared before that King—his trembling form seated directly upon the floor as he declared “The time for reconciliation has come at last”—he shone radiant as the rising sun itself.

But being driven from the capital like this, I find I can place no hope whatsoever in what lies ahead.

“Had it been me,” said the First Young Monk, “I would never have imagined those I pardoned being incited by princes to commit crimes again—yet—” He drew a ragged breath, fingers tightening on his robe’s coarse fabric. “And that we should face this perverse reversal—being forced to flee back to the capital—there ought to have been no need!”

An oppressive silence continued for some time.

The old monk occasionally peered into the depths of the white bedding.

On one bench, the three cast their eyes to different places and were thinking different thoughts.

First Young Monk: "Evening comes again."

"Then those villagers come swarming like that to receive blessings."

"How does His Holiness endure that filthy, clamorous mob?"

Second Young Monk: "It shows His Holiness's exalted virtue."

“If that’s truly how it works,” said the First Young Monk, “then greater virtue only multiplies vexations—”

From now on I don’t want to become prominent—I won’t even be able to say what I want—

The stage fell silent once more.

The First Young Monk paced back and forth in a straight line, muttering something inaudible.

At times he gazed in one direction, furrowed his brow, and wrung his hands together.

First Young Monk: “I absolutely want to die in the capital.”

“Even if I say I’ve ended up like this—at my age I still can’t be satisfied dying in such a lonely place—you understand…?”

He looked at the Second Young Monk and spoke in a tone that sought sympathy.

The Second Young Monk clung tightly to the Old Monk’s side, gripping the Bible.

The First Young Monk stared fixedly at the two for a short while, then removed the cross hanging around his neck, placed it nearby, and exited the room.

The Second Young Monk shot a glance at the old monk’s face, muttered something under his breath in apparent surprise at his faint smile, then made the sign of the cross over his chest.
Before long, movement stirred within the bedding—a light, feeble cough resonated through the stillness like the clattering footsteps of a skeleton dance.

Second Young Monk: “Your Holiness has awakened—”

He drew the curtain.

The haggard, pitiful figure of Pope Gregory VII appeared, raising his upper body.

The old monk stared fixedly at his figure while,

Old Monk: "You have rested well, Your Holiness."

"How do you fare?"
"Your condition—"

Pope Gregory VII (weakly—nostalgically): “I have rested quite well.”

The Second Young Monk brought medicine emitting thin wisps of smoke.

Second Young Monk: “Your Holiness,
I prepared the medicine for you.
Please take it—”

Pope Gregory VII: “You’ve gone to such trouble.”
“However, though you’ve gone to the effort, I require no medicine today.”

Second Young Monk: “What do you mean, Your Holiness?
But I went through such trouble to prepare it—”

Pope Gregory VII: “Your thoughtfulness—I am well aware of it.”

“I knew with certainty I would be called today,” he said weakly yet with conviction. “This peaceful slumber granted until now—God in His mercy let me taste final earthly rest.” His voice gained strength as he continued: “Having long answered Heaven’s call, I discern His perfect will without error.”

The Second Young Monk placed the medicine aside with trembling hands, his somber gaze falling upon the cross left behind by his departed brother monk.

He pinched it with his fingers and gently set it aside.

Old Monk (with rational gaze and tone): “That pure and righteous heart—you must have sensed it.”

“And furthermore, that path brings Your Holiness greatest blessedness.”

Second Young Monk: “Your Holiness.”

“Are these words truly spoken from your own heart?”

“For one such as myself, I believe there exists nothing more dreadful and sorrowful than death.”

"When I think of being placed in that dark, damp grave pit—"

"Even when death comes—even in that moment—I would surely cry 'I want to live!'"
"I find nothing unreasonable in this."

The Pope: "Youth makes you so."

"In this world exist sorrows more terrible than death."

"The grief men call 'death' pales before what they name 'outliving one's time'."

"I have somewhat...outlived mine."
"For I walk among them."

As the Second Young Monk tried to say something more, the crudely carved door creaked open slightly, and the master and mistress of the house emerged with hesitant deference.

Unremarkable—yet on the old woman’s little finger, a single ring adorning her modestly prosperous kimono caught the eye.

Old Farmer: How do you fare?

"The old woman’s been frettin’ something fierce that maybe the fire we used to brew your medicine earlier was too strong."

"Oh Reverend!"

"This foolish old woman went and carelessly added more firewood—I worried whether it might’ve made it bitterer than usual and came out to apologize."

The old monk meant to speak privately, but his loud voice in the single room ended up addressing the Pope regardless.

Old Farm Wife: (in friendly, chatty tones) "And what’s more, Reverend—folks been waitin’ all cramped-like since sunup askin’ to see Your Holiness quick as can be, that’s what they’re sayin’."

“Well now, do listen—
The voices from that square carry clear through to here.”

Old Monk: “But...”
“Today remains impossible.”
“His Holiness lies utterly spent and has scarce awakened,”

“Tell them ‘tomorrow’ and have them come back.”

“That would be better.”

Pope Gregory VII (calling out from behind the old monk): “Here, old woman.”

“I shall gladly meet them. Have them come here.”

“To Your Most Revered Holiness,”
“There’s no call to make any special exception for today alone.”
“If three days pass, Your Holiness’s head’ll surely feel lighter—we’ll do it then, says I.”
“That’s well.”
“Hey, old woman.”
“That’s how ’tis, that’s how ’tis.”

"That’s just right."

"These people—so different from when they repeatedly appeared before nobles in the capital—now found themselves overwhelmed with unworthiness and gratitude, reduced to endless tears and helpless laughter rather than knowing any proper decorum."

"I am glad of that," said Pope Gregory VII.

"Have them come quickly."

"Truly, even sayin' we're grateful ain't enough to cover it," said the Old Farmer. "For a decrepit old man without even proper ancestors to receive words from Your Holiness—it’s beyond imagining."

Wiping tears of devotion with his large hands,

Old Farmer: Then we’ll do as you say.

The two left through the doorway.

Before long, numerous footsteps sounded quietly, and a great many men and women dressed in their Sunday best came forth.

As the people knelt fearfully at the doorway, the Pope maintained a tear-strained smile.

While bustling about from where Old Farmer spoke to one among the crowd,

“Now then, everyone! Listen well, all of you. How undeserving we are—Your Holiness bears his illness yet still endures to bless you like this. Normally you’d need make pilgrimage for weeks just to glimpse his robe’s hem, yet here he—”

Ahh, ahh, truly, truly—

The old man who had been at the front, led by the hand of the second young monk, knelt before the Pope.

He was trembling minutely.

“Oh! Such an overwhelming honor for this unworthy one,” said the Old Farmer. “The sins this fool has committed unknowingly must surely be numerous.”

The Pope placed his bony, emaciated hand upon the old man’s thinning-haired head and offered a silent prayer.

Then came those who offered brief words of gratitude in turn—some frantically kissing or caressing the Pope’s hand in prayer, others weeping as if their very souls might float away.

The nineteenth—a small boy held in his mother’s arms as he sat before the Pope—no sooner stood up than

“Mama.”

“They’re cold! His hands are hard!” he shouted.
The mother immediately pressed the child’s head against her chest and silenced him.

At the same moment, the door quietly opened, and the old farmer spoke in a flustered, unsteady tone.

“Your Holiness, a grand and stern-looking messenger from King Henry IV has arrived,” said the old farmer.

“When I told him of Your Holiness’s illness, he shouted in a loud voice—”

“‘I did not come to hear that!’—and scolded this old man.”

From within the crowd came muttered curses at the mention of Henry IV’s name.

Many peered anxiously at the monks’ faces as if troubled by these developments.

The old monk departed without awaiting the Pope’s counsel, ushering the farmer out in silence while the blessings continued uninterrupted.

After a considerable time had passed, the old monk entered with a bitter, pained expression.

Old Monk: "As Your Holiness has heard, a messenger from the king has arrived."

"I largely understand the king’s heart in sending a messenger now."

“When I informed him that Your Holiness was too fatigued to grant an audience,”
the cunning messenger declared,
“That great Pope would never deign to act like some knight lacking in discipline.”
“It stems from the foolish meddling of those around you,”
he said.
“As I feared acting contrary to Your Holiness’s will, I have had him wait over there.”

Pope Gregory VII: (wearily, yet in a clear, forceful tone) “This way—”

The young monk drew close to the bedside while the people crowded into a corner as much as possible—those standing stood on tiptoe, pressed tightly against the walls.

The children clung tightly to their mothers' and fathers' necks, their unmoving anxious eyes fixed on the door.

The messenger entered with the old monk leading the way.

Messenger: “I humbly deliver His Majesty’s message as envoy of Henry IV.”

“I rejoice that through these recent events, I have gained wisdom far surpassing what my parents bestowed.”
“The December at Canossa first taught me the hardships of poor folk laboring while winter’s bite stung their skin—compelled me to govern without injustice—and made me taste the gall of uttering ‘forgiveness’ to others.”

“The time I stood rooted in snow through three days and three brief nights bestowed upon me wisdom I had never imagined.”

“I rejoice that I obtained this ‘final victory’ I sought even while bowing my head to Your Holiness.”
“I also rejoice at encountering new trials demanding deep contemplation.”

“Through this steadfast faith of believing in myself—this reliable conviction—I brought forth works exactly as I intended.”

“I who cannot believe in these divine miracles Your Holiness proclaims—I wait yearning.”

“The king’s words end here, Your Holiness.”

“And as instructed, I am to present this.”

He placed a rusted-looking iron cross.
The people appeared utterly captivated by the messenger’s uninterrupted delivery, watching as though they’d forgotten their earlier curses.

After a somewhat lengthy silence.

Pope Gregory VII: “I am now about to receive God’s summons.
Though I have become one who will end my days in this humble abode, I feel happiness overflowing within me.
That people rich in heart alone should view me as merely an ‘unfortunate man,’ and should not begrudge granting me this sickbed—this brings me the greatest comfort.
Leaving glory for those who will endure long into the future is also a cause for joy.
Though I may say all matters are now concluded—that I, powerless and unvirtuous as I am, have sown seeds—seeds that must not perish but grow splendidly and healthily in soil unseen by these eyes when their time comes—is what allows me to go peacefully to His Kingdom—”

His voice trailed off thinly, as if breath had failed.

The people, with a mix of dread and lingering expectation, sometimes conversed through gestures, sometimes nodded in understanding, sometimes prayed.

He continued speaking once more.

Pope Gregory VII: “Let me go peacefully to God’s side.”

“I bless you who remain young, that you may endure long and prosper.”

“I shall accept a gift befitting my station.”

"It is my reply—"

Messenger: "I shall certainly convey it."

The messenger departed alone.

Old Monk: "This unexpected matter has caused Your Holiness undue fatigue."

"I shall have the people return."

Pope Gregory VII: "There is no need for that."

“There now.”

Prayers began again.

A small boy came out, led by the hand by his father.

The father told him to kneel, but the child did not.

Child: “Papa, no!”

Father: “You shouldn’t say things like that, you know?”

“Come on, do as you always do at the temple.”

Child: “This isn’t a temple!”

Slipped free from his father’s hand and stood boldly beside the Pope.

The Pope stopped the father trying to restrain him.

Child (innocently): “Hey, Your Holiness—are you really that important?”
“My dad’s so important it’s scary, he says.”

“Because you’re the better child,” said Pope Gregory VII.

“But even when Mom scolds me for being bad, she never scolds Dad even a little bit,” said the child. “And then... Won’t you buy me a wooden horse? Since Santa’s never once come to where you are.”

“There there, dear child,” said the Pope. “If that can be done, I’ll buy it for you then.”

“Yes,” said the child. “I know you will.”

“Goodbye, see you tomorrow.”

He departed after receiving a longer blessing than the others.

The Pope placed his hand on the head of a pale, slender girl of about fifteen.

Outside came the sound of irreverent idlers singing in ragged voices as they passed by:

"A half-yard hunter,
One day by chance—tra-la!—
Caught himself a fox—
Skin it? Boil it? Let's eat!

To Chiesuke who couldn't turn,
While bitter woes did last,
That crafty fox slyly
With cunning words amassed,

Led him round here and there—
West five ri, east three ri they passed—"

When they reached the vast swamp
"You must be weary from your long journey,"
"Go bathe in these waters and continue on your way,"
the fox chuckled as it spoke—or so the tale goes.
Snow went pit-a-pat, sleet came rat-a-tat,
for this was winter's deepest heart.
When he cast off his garments just like that—
there he met his end, done in clean through—
Namu Amida—trala-la——
The crowd seeking blessings swelled ever thicker.
In the square, murmurs blended with voices until the din grew deafening.

Through the hazy gloom-filled air, shadowy figures pressed forward from behind, one after another. The voices of those being pushed and muttering low curses could also be heard.

Surrounded by shadowy figures bearing terrible death, the Pope's life grew ever shorter.

As pain crept upon him, he pressed down on the girl's head.

Girl: (Gazing up at the Pope) "Ah!"
"Ah!"
"Ah!"
(She quivered with a stifled cry)

Second Young Monk: "Master—"

He lunged to the Pope's side.

The old monk stood silent behind him, keeping vigil over the Pontiff's fading life like a guttering lamp.

Pope: "God's—once more—"

The Pope breathed his last.

In the dimly lit room, the dreadfully gathered crowd pressed closer to the center like demonic shadows, soundlessly and inexorably.

A lonely sobbing sound echoed somewhere; the first young monk, who had laid aside the cross, stood at the doorway with a pallid, drawn face, holding commoners' garments in his hands.

The crowd pressed forward still more like shadows toward the center—

Curtain.