Traditional Japanese Literature

by Haruo Shirane

  They continued walking. And then they arrived at a path that led from one side of a certain valley to another, tracing the edge of a cliff so steep it was entirely beyond description. It was as if someone had set up an enormous folding screen. A giant waterfall plunged from the precipitous heights of the rock face, and way down at the bottom there was a pool of water. The white waves of water seemed to stream up from the bottom, falling backward, and when you tried to peer across to the other side your gaze got lost in a thick tide of fog and mist. There was really no way the woman would be able to get across this, not unless she grew wings or flew across on a dragon’s back. And so when they arrived at this point, the woman called to the holy man. I’m not going to be able to make it. I get dizzy just looking—I can’t even think. How on earth am I supposed to walk out there? Whereas you—you come here all the time, you’re used to it. Please, oh please, you must carry me across! Since the holy man was so infatuated with her, he found it hard to say no to anything she suggested. Yes, that’s all quite true, he replied. Let me carry you across.

  The holy man’s legs were so frail it looked like they would snap if you pinched them, and the fear that he might drop her left her even more terrified than she had been when she imagined crossing on her own, but still she let herself be carried. And though they made it across, the woman told him to keep carrying her a little farther, just a bit farther. In fact she ended up getting carried all the way to the palace.

  People on the streets and everyone else who caught a glimpse of them started spreading the word that the One-Horned Immortal who lived in the mountains was heading for the palace with a kekara-woman on his back, and so people of all stations, high and low, both women and men, came from every corner of the vast land of India to see the sight. There the man was, a single horn protruding from his forehead, his hair so white it looked like a cap of snow on his head, his legs as skinny as pins. He held his walking stick under the woman’s bottom, using it to wiggle her up again whenever she started to slip. Not one of the people who saw the sight refrained from laughing and jeering at the One-Horned Immortal.

  When they had arrived at the palace, the king treated the One-Horned Immortal with great respect and even awe, since—though the old man looked like an ass—the king had heard he was a venerable saint. Feel free to return to your mountain right away, commanded the king, and though the holy man had felt as if he were walking on clouds all the way to the palace, he went back tottering and stumbling.

  People say there really was a holy man as ridiculous as that.

  [Translated by Michael Emmerich]

  Tales from China

  HOW WANG ZHAOJUN, CONSORT OF THE HAN EMPEROR YUAN, WENT TO THE LAND OF HU (10:5)

  The source for this story is the early-twelfth-century poetic treatise Toshiyori zuinō, although it seems likely that other texts were consulted as well.

  The time is now long past—it was in Han-dynasty China, during the reign of Emperor Yuan318—when His Majesty looked over the daughters of his ministers and the rest of the nobles and selected those with beautiful features and lovely figures and commanded that they be brought to the palace so he could get to know them intimately, and gave each of them a place to stay at court, so that the number of women quickly reached four or five hundred and ultimately climbed so extremely high that it was no longer always possible for him to get to know them as intimately as he should.

  That’s how things were when men from the land of Hu appeared in the capital.319 They were barbarians—people rather like the Ebisu.320 So everyone from the emperor down to the ministers and the ordinary officials started debating the issue, trying to decide how these men should be dealt with, although without coming up with any acceptable plans. Except, that is to say, for one wise minister who was able to come up with a plan, which he explained to the emperor. It really doesn’t bode at all well for our land that these men have come here from Hu, he said. It seems to me that we ought to find some way to send them back to the place from which they have come. You might accomplish this by choosing one of the less attractive women among the uselessly large population you’ve got at the palace now to present to these ruffians. I figure if you do that, they’re bound to go back, and in the best of spirits. I doubt there could be a better plan than this. That’s what the minister said.

  The emperor thought it a very good idea when he heard it. He decided he had better go himself to take a look at these women and make up his mind which of them to send away. Except there were such huge crowds of them that just considering the task made his head ache. And then the emperor happened upon an idea of his own: He would summon crowds of painters and let them see the women and have them paint the women’s portraits, and then he would compare these portraits and pick one of the less attractive of the women to present to the men from Hu! This was his idea. So he summoned the painters and showed them the women and gave them his orders. You must paint these women as they are, he said, and then give the pictures to me. The painters began painting, and the women—saddened and distressed at the notion that they might end up the plaything of barbarians and have to go off to some distant and unknown land—began competing with one another, each trying to load her own painter more heavily with gold and silver than anyone else or to give him more of all sorts of other treasures, and the painters got so swept up in the gift giving that they painted even the uglier women in such a way as to give them an air of great beauty, and they gave these paintings to the emperor. Now among all these women there was one named Wang Zhaojun.321 Since her features were more beautiful than those of the other women, she figured there was really no need for her to give her painter anything at all, she would just let her beauty work its magic. So her painter didn’t portray her as she really was but made her look dreadfully vulgar, and he gave this ugly painting to the emperor, who then promptly made up his mind. This woman, he announced, this woman here is the one to send!

  Still, something about all this struck the emperor as strange. He commanded the woman to appear before him, and when he saw her … this Wang Zhaojun … why, she seemed to shoot out rays of light, that’s how lovely she was. She was like a jewel, and the rest of the women were like dirt! The emperor was stunned and went about feeling terribly distressed because it was this woman he was going to have to present to the barbarians, and then after a few days the barbarians got wind of the fact that they were to be given—of all the emperor’s women—Wang Zhaojun! So they came to the palace and asked the emperor to hand her over, and since he couldn’t very well go through the whole process again and pick someone else, in the end he presented Wang Zhaojun to the men from Hu, who sat her on a horse and led her off.

  Wang Zhaojun could weep and sigh, but that wouldn’t help anything now. The emperor, too, was filled with pity and longing for Wang Zhaojun, but each time the extremity of his suffering drove him to go and look around the place she had lived, he found nothing but the willows of spring swaying in the wind, nightingales singing their sad songs, fallen leaves of autumn carpeting the garden, and the blossoms of the flower of forgetting clustered in tight profusion at the edge of the veranda, and all of these things moved him so profoundly he couldn’t even have begun to describe the way he felt, and his pity and longing for Wang Zhaojun only increased.

  The men from Hu were thrilled to have been given Wang Zhaojun, and as they led her away they played all sorts of songs on their lutes. And even though Wang Zhaojun continued to weep and sigh, listening to the music did make her feel a little bit better. The men arrived back in the land from which they had come, and they made Wang Zhaojun an empress and lavished infinite care and attention on her. Yet even so, you have to wonder whether Wang Zhaojun ever really enjoyed herself there.

  People say that at the time all this happened, everyone heaped curses on Wang Zhaojun. They said it had all happened because she set too much store by her beauty and refused to give her painter any treasures.

  [Translated by Michael Emmerich]

  Buddhist Tales
from Japan

  HOW A MONK OF THE DŌJŌJI IN THE PROVINCE OF KII COPIED THE LOTUS SUTRA AND BROUGHT SALVATION TO SERPENTS (14:3)

  Volume 14 describes miracles associated with the Lotus Sutra. At the end of this story, the aged monk copies the Lotus Sutra and dreams of the dead man and woman who have been freed of their serpent bodies and reborn in heaven. The tale claims to prove the efficacy and power of the Lotus Sutra, to reveal the compassion of the aged monk, and to demonstrate the “strength of the evil in the female heart.” In typical Mahayana fashion, the story stresses the need for intermediaries (such as the Lotus Sutra) and the fact that even the most evil can be saved by Buddhism. But the actual interest of the story extends far beyond this didactic ending.

  At a time now past, there were two monks on pilgrimage to Kumano. One was well along in years; the other was young and extraordinarily good-looking. When they came to Muro District, the two of them rented lodgings and settled down for the night. The owner of the house was a widow and young, with two or three maids her only companions. When this woman saw the handsome young monk who had taken lodgings with her, her lustful desires were deeply aroused. She tended assiduously to his comfort. Night fell, and the monks went to bed. At midnight she secretly crept to where the young monk was sleeping, covered him with her dress, and lay down beside him. She nudged him awake; he opened his eyes in fright and confusion. “I never give lodging to travelers,” said the woman, “but I let you stay here tonight because from the time I first saw you, this afternoon, I have longed to make you my spouse. I thought that by taking you in for the night I would achieve my aim, and now I have come to you. My husband is dead and I am a widow. Take pity on me!” Hearing her, the monk got up, terrified. He replied, “I have a longstanding vow; in accordance with it, in recent days I have purified myself in mind and body and set out on the distant journey to present myself before the deity of Kumano.322 Should I carelessly break my vow here, the consequences would be dreadful for both of us. Abandon all such thoughts at once.” He refused with all the strength at his command. The woman was greatly vexed, and all night long she kept embracing him and teasing and fondling him. The monk tried this argument and that argument to soothe her. “It is not that I refuse, my lady. But just now I’m on a pilgrimage to Kumano. I’ll spend a few days there offering lamps and paper strips. Then, when I’ve turned homeward, I will do as you ask,” he promised. The woman believed him and went back to her own bed. At daybreak the monks left the house and set out for Kumano.

  The woman reckoned up the day of his promised return. She could think of nothing but her love for the monk and made all sorts of preparations in anticipation. But turning homeward, he stayed away for fear of her; he took a road she did not expect him to take and thus slipped past. She waited until she was weary, but he did not come; and she went to the side of the road and questioned passing travelers. Among them was a monk who had set out from Kumano. “There was a young monk and an old one, dressed in robes of such-and-such a color”—and she described them. “Have they started homeward?” “It is three days now since those two went home,” said the monk. Hearing this, she struck her hands together. “He’s taken another road and fled!” she thought. In great rage she returned to her house and shut herself into her bedroom. She stayed there a little while without making a sound; and then she died. Her maidservants, who witnessed this, were weeping and wailing, when a poisonous snake forty feet long suddenly issued from her bedroom. It went out of the house and toward the road; then it slithered rapidly down the road by which pilgrims return from Kumano. People saw it and were filled with terror.

  The two monks had had a head start, but someone came up to them unasked and said, “Behind you a strange thing is happening. A serpent has appeared that is forty feet long. It crosses mountains and fields and is coming rapidly closer.” At this the two monks thought, “Undoubtedly, because the promise to her was broken, the mistress of that house let evil passions arise within her heart and became a poisonous snake and pursues us.” Taking to their heels, they ran as fast as they could to a temple called Dōjōji and went in through the gate. “Why have you run here?” asked the monks of the temple. The two told them the story in detail and begged to be saved. The monks of the temple took counsel together; then they lowered a bell, concealed the young monk inside it, and shut the gate. The old monk hid himself in company with the monks of the temple.

  After a little while, the serpent came to the temple. The gates were shut—no matter, she crossed over them and entered the compound. She went all around the halls once, twice; and when she came to the door of the bell-hall where the monk was sheltering, she rapped on it a hundred times with her tail. In the end, she smashed the leaves of the door and entered. She encircled the bell and beat upon the dragon head at its top with her tail; this lasted five or six hours. For all their fear, the monks were so amazed that they opened the doors on all four sides and gathered to watch. Tears of blood flowed from her eyes; raising her head, she licked her lips and slithered rapidly away whence she had come. Before the eyes of the monks, the great bell of the temple blazed and was burned in the poisonous hot breath of the serpent. It was too hot to come near. But they threw water on it to cool it, and when they lifted it away to look at the monk, they saw that fire had consumed him utterly. Not even his skeleton remained. All that there was, was a little ash. Upon seeing this, the old monk returned home amid his tears.

  Later, an aged monk, who was a senior monk of the temple, had a dream in which a serpent even larger than the one before came straight to him and addressed him face to face: “Do you know who I am? I am the monk who was hidden inside the bell. The evil woman became a poisonous snake; in the end, I was made her captive and became her husband. I have been reborn in this vile, filthy body and suffer measureless torment. I now hope to free myself of this pain, but my own powers are insufficient—even though I honored the Lotus Sutra while I was alive. I thought that if only you, holy sir, would bestow on us the vastness of your mercy, I might escape this pain. I beseech you, on our account let limitless compassion arise within your heart; in purity copy the chapter of the Lotus Sutra called ‘The Limitless Life of the Tathagata.’ Dedicate its merit to us two serpents and free us thereby from our torments. Except by the power of the Lotus Sutra, how are we to escape them?” Thus he spoke, and departed. The monk awoke from his dream.

  When the monk pondered this afterward, his piety was at once aroused. He himself copied out the chapter; and discarding his robe and bowl,323 he invited a great many monks to celebrate a full day’s Dharma assembly and dedicated its merit that the two serpents might be freed of their torments. Later, he dreamed that a monk and a woman, their happy faces wreathed in smiles, came to the Dōjōji and saluted him reverently. “Because you have cultivated the roots of enlightenment, we two were instantly rid of our snakes’ bodies and set on the path of felicitous rebirth. The woman was reborn in the Trayastrimsa heaven, and the monk has ascended to the Tusita heaven.” Having spoken, they departed separately, ascending into the sky. The monk awoke from his dream.

  The aged monk rejoiced deeply, and he revered all the more the miraculous power of the Lotus Sutra. In truth, the Sutra’s wonder-working powers are uncanny. That the serpents cast off their serpents’ bodies and were reborn afresh in the heavens is due solely to the Lotus Sutra. Everyone who witnessed this affair or heard of it was moved to belief in the Lotus Sutra and copied and chanted it. Rare, too, was the heart of the aged monk. To have done such a compassionate deed, he must in a previous life have been their wise and good friend. Now think, that evil woman’s passion for the young monk must also have come from a bond formed in a previous life.

  You see, therefore, the strength of the evil in the female heart. It is for this reason that the Buddha strictly forbids approaching women. Know this, and avoid them. So the tale’s been told, and so it’s been handed down.

  [Translated by Marian Ury]

  HOW KAYA NO YOSHIFUJI, OF BITCHŪ PROVINCE, BECAME
THE HUSBAND OF A FOX AND WAS SAVED BY KANNON (16:17)

  Volume 16 focuses on miracles of Kannon, the bodhisattva of mercy. In this story, a layman with a cane, who is a transformation of the Kannon bodhisattva, appears and brings out a “strange, black, monkeylike creature” that turns out to be Yoshifuji, who has been seduced by a fox. The story reveals the power of Kannon and takes up the theme of attachment, which is blinding and deceiving. Here, as elsewhere, Buddhism evinces profound skepticism about external appearances and warns us not to be deluded.

  At a time now past, in the village of Ashimori in Kaya District of Bitchū Province, there lived a man named Kaya no Yoshifuji. His household had gotten rich through the trade in coins.324 He had a weakness for women and was prey to lustful thoughts.

  Now, in autumn of the eighth year of Kanpei [896], while his wife was away in the capital and he, left by himself in his household, was a temporary widower, he went out for a stroll just at nightfall and suddenly caught sight of a beautiful young woman. She was someone he had never seen before. His lustful feelings were aroused, but the woman looked as though she would flee if he tried to touch her. He went up to her and took her by the hand. “Who are you?” he asked. She was brilliantly dressed, but she said, “I’m no one.” How charming she looked as she said that! “Come to my house,” said Yoshifuji. “That would be unseemly,” she said, and tried to draw away. “Where do you live, then?” said Yoshifuji; “I’ll go with you.” “Just over there,” she said, walking on. Yoshifuji walked with her, holding her hand.