So you see, you should never be jealous of other people.
[Translated by Douglas E. Mills]
TALES OF RENUNCIATION (SENJŪSHŌ , EARLY THIRTEENTH CENTURY)
Tales of Renunciation is a collection of 121 Buddhist setsuwa divided into nine volumes. Although the date of 1183 is given in its colophon, it probably was composed about a century later. The collection has been popularly attributed to Saigyō (1189–1190), a noted late Heian monk and waka poet, probably because Saigyō figures prominently in the collection. He appears as the first-person narrator in one of the tales, and poems from Sankashū, Saigyō’s poetry collection, are incorporated into several tales, whereas several other tales appear to be based on headnotes from Sankashū. But it is clear that Saigyō was not the author or compiler.
The collection is unified by the theme of renunciation. The tales in Senjūshō usually begin with an anecdote, followed by an exposition or a commentary on the main theme of the anecdote. The first tale, which is included here, is representative of the tales’ format. The commentary, which is almost as long as the anecdote itself, argues that attachment to worldly possessions and reputation leads to sin and must be overcome, which Zōga does in an extreme fashion. Significantly, the eccentric Zōga is inspired by Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess, whose presence reflects the Shinto–Buddhistic syncretism typical of the medieval period. The second example, Saigyō’s encounter with a prostitute at Eguchi, is the most famous of the Saigyō episodes and became the source for the nō play Eguchi.
The Venerable Zōga (1:1)
Long ago there lived a man known as the Venerable Zōga who had been deeply religious from an early age.114 For a thousand nights he kept vigil in the Main Hall on Mount Tendai,115 praying that he might attain perfect sincerity of heart, but he still found this difficult to accomplish. Once, when he had gone alone to the Great Shrine of Ise and was praying, he received, as if in a dream, this revelation: “If you would give rise to a heart that follows the Way, you must not regard your body as a body.”
Zōga was astonished and thought, “This means, ‘Rid yourself of all desire for fame and fortune.’ Well then, I shall do just that.” So he took off his priestly robes and gave them all away to beggars. He did not keep even his unlined underrobe but left the shrine completely naked.
Those who saw him were amazed. They crowded around to look at him, exclaiming, “He’s going mad. What a sad and dreadful sight!” But Zōga was not at all disturbed. He set out on his travels, begging as he went, and on the fourth day of the month again climbed the mountain to the chambers of Master Jie, where he had once lived.116 It is said that some of his fellow monks watched him, thinking, “The son of the consultant has gone mad,” while others viewed him with pity.
When no one was watching, the Master, who was Zōga’s teacher, invited him in and admonished him, “You have learned that a person should disregard fame and fortune. Still, you shouldn’t go to such extremes. Just behave properly, without desiring fame and fortune.”
But Zōga replied, “This is the way that a person who has long ago completely abandoned desire for fame and fortune should behave.” Then he cried out, “Oh, oh, I’m so happy,” and ran off.
The Master, too, went out the gate and wept as he watched Zōga disappear in the distance.
Zōga wandered until at last he reached Tōnomine in Yamato. There he lived in the ruins of the hermitage in which Zen Master Chirō had dwelt.
Ambition for fame and fortune is fearful indeed. Grave troubles also result from the three poisons of greed, anger, and ignorance. We believe that our bodies really exist, and so we create many other fictions to support them. Men born into military families wage war; fitting arrows to the bowstring in quick succession and wielding their long swords, they lose their lives in quest of the glory and gain that come from overpowering others. Women paint on fine, willow-leaf brows and perfume their robes with orchid and musk, calculating that their appearance will dispel the last traces of the autumn breezes of their lovers’ fickleness, and they, too, do this for no other reason than glory and fortune.
Furthermore, there are those who don the drab, dark robes of a priest and, fingering their rosary beads, preach to people as a way of supporting themselves. Or else they aspire to the highest rank and office in the hope that they will sit with nobles at religious assemblies and be honored by three thousand disciples. They, too, are not free from the desire for fame and profit.
But in addition to those who are not aware of this truth, there also are people who have seen the Yuishiki and Shikan texts117 and have the capacity to understand the ultimate truths of the scriptures. Despite this, they do not reject fame and fortune and so remain drifting in the ocean of birth and death. Everyone who tries to discard his reputation finds it difficult to change a habit of many lifetimes. It is truly wonderful that the Venerable Zōga was finally able to discard all longing for fame and fortune. How could he have ever reached that resolve without the aid of the Great Shrine of Ise? How impressive and awesome it is that a man in the eternal night of worldly desires was cleansed by the waves of the Isuzu River118 and that the clustered clouds of greed, anger, and ignorance vanished in the light of Amaterasu, the Sun Goddess. This incident should never be forgotten.
[Translated by Jean Moore]
The Woman of Pleasure at Eguchi (9:8)
Once around the twentieth of the Ninth Month, as I passed by a place called Eguchi, the sight of houses squeezed together on the north and south banks of the river and the hearts of the pleasure women set on the comings and goings of travelers made me think, “How pitiful and hopeless!” As I was thus gazing at the scene, an unseasonably wintry shower suddenly darkened the skies, so I approached the dwelling of one of these unseemly folk and asked for shelter until the skies cleared, but because the woman of pleasure of the house showed no sign of letting me in, I casually recited the following:
yo no naka o It may be difficult
itou made koso for you to despise
katakarame this fleeting world,
kari no yadori o but you begrudge me
oshimu kimi kana even momentary lodging!
The woman of pleasure of the house then replied despairingly:
ie o izuru Because I heard
hito to shi kikeba that you had taken vows
kari no yado my only thought was:
kokoro tomu na to do not set your heart
omou bakari zo on this momentary lodging!119
She then quickly let me in.
Although I had intended to seek shelter only during the rain, this poem was so wonderful that I stayed through the night. This woman of pleasure must have been more than forty at the time. Her appearance and manner were quite elegant and graceful. As we talked throughout the night about this and that, the woman of pleasure said: “I became a pleasure girl when I was quite young, and although I’ve carried on for many years this way, I still find it piteous. I’ve heard that women are particularly sinful, and the fact that on top of that I have carried on in this way makes me think that it must have been the result of karma from a previous existence, and that leaves me very depressed. But in the last two or three years my feelings have greatly deepened, and furthermore, since I’ve grown old, I don’t engage in such practices at all any more. Even though the same bell sounds each night from the temple in the fields, tonight I am filled with sorrow, and for some reason I am blinded by tears. When I wonder how long I might linger in this impermanent world of sorrows, how fleeting it all seems! At dawn my heart is clear, and I am deeply moved by the voices of birds bidding their fond farewells. Likewise in the evening I think to myself, ‘What will become of me when this night passes?’ And with the break of dawn I think, ‘Once this night has passed I’ll take on a nun’s appearance and make my resolve,’ but for years now I’ve grown accustomed to this world and its ways, and I feel like a bird in snowy mountains. What sorrow it is to have so helplessly fretted all this time!”
So saying, she wept uncon
trollably. When I heard this, I was deeply moved and found it so rare and wonderful that I was unable to wring the tears from my own darkly dyed sleeves.120 When the night had turned to dawn, though with great regret, we promised to meet again and parted.
Now, on the road back, I thought several times of how noble she was and shed more tears. Even now my heart is moved, and even at the sight of grasses or trees, I feel as though surrounded by darkness.121 Is this perhaps what is meant by “the amusement of wild words and decorative phrases is the cause for praise of the Dharma”?122 If I had not recited my poem, “but you begrudge me even momentary lodging,” this woman of pleasure probably would not have given me shelter. And so how else should I have met this wonderful person? How glad I was, for thanks to this lady my heart was inspired in a small way for a moment, and why shouldn’t this, in some small way, cause the seed of unsurpassed enlightenment to sprout?
Now, in the promised month, just as I was thinking I should visit her, a certain holy man came from the capital, and so I was completely distracted. Disappointed at my failed intentions, I related the situation to someone I could trust and then wrote a letter to send with which I included the following:
karisome no “Don’t leave any
yo ni wa omoi o thoughts behind
nokosu na to in this fleeting world!”
kikishi koto no ha These words I heard
wasurare mo sezu have not been forgotten.
After sending this, the following reply came with her letter:
wasurezu to “Not forgotten,”
mazu kiku kara ni as soon as I heard this
sode nurete my sleeves were wet.
waga mi mo itou I too despise
yume no yo no naka this world of dreams.
At the end she had also written, “I have changed my appearance,123 and yet my heart remains unchanged,” to which she added:
kami oroshi I’ve cut my hair
koromo no iro wa and the color of my robes
somenuredo has changed.124
nao tsurenaki wa What remains the same, though,
kokoro narikeri is my heart.
When I read this, for some reason the tears flowed so freely that my sleeves could not absorb them all. Such a remarkable woman of pleasure she was! Such women of pleasure usually hope to become familiar with someone who would love them, but she distanced herself from such desires and devoted herself with all her heart to the next world—how could this not be rare and wonderful? Surely this was not the result of just a little good karma here and there. Although her many observations of the precepts had accumulated over many lives and had been blessed by the waters of Eguchi, even her poetry was remarkable. “In the evening I think, when the night has passed … and at dawn I weep, thinking, when the day comes …” So she told me, and yet I wonder whether those sentiments continue? No, for she has become a nun!125 I wanted to visit her after she had taken vows, but when I heard that she no longer lived in Eguchi after becoming a nun, my hopes in the end were in vain. Quite often I can’t help but wonder what that woman of pleasure’s final moments must have been like.
[Translated by Jack Stoneman]
WARRIOR TALES (GUNKI-MONO)
Warrior tales or chronicles (gunki or gunki-mono) are one of the main genres of medieval literature. In Notes on Foolish Views (Gukanshō), written in the early Kamakura period, Jien (1155–1225) distinguishes between historical chronicles like The Great Mirror (Ōkagami) and those that describe the world of warriors and battle.
The first period of warrior tales is the mid-Heian, beginning with the Record of Masakado (Shōmonki, ca. 940) and the Record of the Deep North (Mutsuwaki, ca. 1062), both written in kanbun by Buddhist monks or middle-rank intellectuals. Shōmonki describes the uprising by Taira no Masakado (d. 940) and reveals the attempt to save his spirit from hell.
The second period began with texts like The Tales of Heiji (Heiji monogatari, 1221?), The Tales of Hōgen (Hōgen monogatari, 1221?), and The Tales of the Heike (Heike monogatari, mid-thirteenth century), marking the transition from the early period to medieval warrior society. Both Hōgen monogatari and Heiji monogatari, which describe military conflicts leading up to the Genpei war, resemble Shōmonki and Mutsuwaki as narratives about warriors who caused major disturbances. But in contrast to Shōmonki and Mutsuwaki, which are “records” (ki) written in kanbun (Chinese prose) with a documentary focus, Hōgen monogatari and Heiji monogatari have the quality of Heian monogatari in trying to re-create the interior life of the participants. The perspective of Shōmonki and Mutsuwaki was of those at the center looking out at the rebels in the provinces, whereas the military narratives in the second period (such as The Tales of the Heike) were written or recited from the perspective of those who had sometimes experienced the war at first hand or who sympathized with the fate of the defeated warriors. These texts were written in the so-called mixed Japanese–Chinese style, which combines Japanese prose and Chinese compounds and phrases, including allusions to Chinese classics and history.
The Rise and Fall of the Genji and the Heike (Genpei seisuiki or Genpei jōsuiki) describes Hōgen monogatari and Heiji monogatari as “diaries [nikki] of the Hōgen and Heiji periods,” revealing that in the Kamakura period they were still considered to be reliable records of events, despite their monogatari character. Like other military narratives, Hōgen monogatari and Heiji monogatari include setsuwa, following a tradition that goes back to the late Heian Collection of Tales of Times Now Past (Konjaku monogatari shū), which devotes one volume to warrior stories. Most of the military narratives have three parts, describing the causes of the military conflict, the conflict itself, and the aftermath, a structure apparent in The Tales of Hōgen and The Tales of Heiji.
The second period climaxed with the Record of the Jōkyū Disturbance (Jōkyūki), which describes the failed attempt in 1221 (Jōkyū 3) by the retired emperor GoToba (r. 1183–1198) to seize power from the Kamakura bakufu, and the Taiheiki (Chronicle of Great Peace, 1340s–1371), which describes the collapse of the Kamakura bakufu in 1333 and the subsequent rule by the Ashikaga clan.
The military narratives in the second period were heavily influenced by the Heian monogatari but differed in that they reveal the impact of various forms of recitation or oral performance practices (katari). These practices had an important ritual function: to celebrate (shūgen) the preservation or restoration of order and to pacify the souls (chinkon) of those warriors who had died terrible deaths on the battlefield. In the former capacity, the warrior tales affirmed those who had established or preserved order and peace, and in the latter capacity, they tried to console the spirits of the defeated, hoping to calm their angry and sometimes vengeful spirits, and to offer them salvation, thereby incorporating them into the new social order.
During the third period, in the late medieval period, were written such works as The Record of the Meitoku Disturbance (Meitokuki), on the Meitoku disturbance (1390–1394); The Record of the Ōnin War (Ōnin-ki), about the Ōnin war (1467–1477); and The Tale of Mikawa (Mikawa monogatari, 1622). The third period also produced texts that, though about war, focused on the fate of a single warrior or small group. The Story of Yoshitsune (Gikeiki, early fifteenth century?) describes Yoshitsune’s flight to the Tōhoku region and Yoshitsune himself, his family, and his retainers. The Tales of the Soga Brothers (Soga monogatari, mid-fourteenth century), which was recited by goze (blind female singer-musicians), likewise is centered on the life of the Soga brothers as they avenge their father’s death. In contrast to The Story of Yoshitsune, which reflects the interests of Kyoto urban audiences, The Tales of the Soga Brothers reflects the interests of those who lived in the east.
Traditional Japanese Literature Page 49