wrestlers, meals and clothes cost a lot, and it’s a struggle to make ends meet. But how else can we earn a living?”
The jesters worried about the annual reckoning, which was not yet near, and thought, “Better to run away from all this, or hang yourself and be done with it.” They dropped their game of capping humorous verses. “It’s a miserable life,” they sighed. “We jesters have to drink when we’d rather not; we have to praise the tiresome little songs of our patrons, hear ourselves called fools by real blockheads, force a smile if we’re offended, and tell a roomful of people what even a woman would keep secret. No, there’s nothing so bitter as to entertain for a living. If you happen to please, you may be hired five times and get only one piece of silver, or two at most. In this wide world, is there no country where it rains hard cash?” Enlacing their fingers, they contemplated the vanity of things.
Even the staunchly avaricious proprietor and his wife were somehow or other seized by an extraordinary fit of conscience. “If only we could do business without lying!” A single note had scattered their wits and they shed unexpected tears.
Just then several guests appeared at a doorway leading from an inner room. “I’ve always found it gay here,” one of them commented, “but today is very odd—you might as well be marooned on Demon Island.” He exchanged a few inappropriate family inquiries with a courtesan (hired out of his own pocket), compassionately handed her an extra coin, wiped his eyes, and left the teahouse at once.
Translated by Howard Hibbett
