Traditional Japanese Literature

by Haruo Shirane

  THREE POETS AT MINASE (MINASE SANGIN HYAKUIN, 1488)

  In the spring of 1488, three renga masters—Sōgi (1421–1502) and his disciples Sōchō (1448–1532) and Shōhaku (1443–1527)—met at Minase, in Settsu Province (present-day Osaka) to compose a hundred-verse renga sequence. When completed, the sequence was presented to the nearby Minase Shrine as a votive offering in memory of Emperor GoToba (1180–1239), who had built a noted detached imperial villa in that area centuries earlier. As the emperor whose court had produced the Shinkokinshū and countless other poetic masterpieces, GoToba was one of the most honored literary sovereigns.

  Although Sōgi was clearly the leader in the group, Sōchō and Shōhaku also were mature and experienced poets. Even though they were from radically different backgrounds—Sōgi from a military family, Shōhaku from an aristocratic lineage (the Nakanoin), and Sōchō from a provincial family of swordsmiths—the men shared an education in the classical canon and a dedication to linked verse as a courtly art form. The work they produced together soon became a model text for younger poets trying to improve their skills in linking. The sequence obeys all the complex and detailed rules of renga, thereby enforcing the idea of variety and constant change. All the major thematic categories of the courtly tradition—the four seasons, love, travel, Buddhism, Shinto, and lamentation—are represented, but none is allowed to dominate the sequence. The most prominent images of the imperial anthologies—cherry blossoms and the moon—are used as well but are spaced to keep them from overpowering the whole. In this way, the three poets worked together to create a sequence that formed a seamless aesthetic whole. Many forms of linking technique (from the simple expansion of a scene to a complete recasting) and many different personae (travelers, old men, lovers, and the like) create a dialectical movement that is the essence of the genre.

  Translated here are three sections of the hundred-verse sequence: the first six verses, five verses from the middle, and the four verses with which it concludes. The comments on the links begin with an old commentary that appeared very early in the text’s history, written by an unidentified renga master.

  1

  yukinagara

  yamamoto kasumu

  yūbe kana

  Some snow still remains

  as mist covers the foothills

  toward evening.154

  Sōgi

  2

  yuku mizu tōku

  ume niou sato

  Flowing water, far away—

  and a plum-scented village.155

  Shōhaku

  3

  kawakaze ni

  hitomura yanagi

  haru miete

  Wind off the river

  blows through a clump of willows—

  and spring appears.156

  Sōchō

  4

  fune sasu oto mo

  shiruku akegata

  A boat being poled along,

  sounding clear at the break of dawn.157

  Sōgi

  5

  tsuki ya nao

  kiri wataru yo ni

  nokoruran

  Still there, somewhere:

  the moon off behind the fog

  traversing the night.158

  Shōhaku

  6

  shimo oku nohara

  aki wa kurekeri

  Out on frost-laden fields

  autumn has come to its end.159

  Sōchō

  37

  kimi o okite

  akazu mo tare o

  omouran

  While I have you,

  why tire of you and think

  of anyone else?160

  Sōchō

  38

  sono omokage ni

  No resemblance do I see

  nitaru dani nashi

  to that other countenance.161

  Shōhaku

  39

  kusaki sae

  Shrubs and grasses—

  furuki miyako no

  urami nite

  even these make me long bitterly

  for the old capital.162

  Sōgi

  40

  mi no uki yado mo

  Even here in my house of pain

  nagori koso are

  I still have some attachments.163

  Sōchō

  41

  tarachine no

  Before time passes,

  tōkaranu ato ni

  nagusameyo

  remember your parent fondly—

  and take comfort now.164

  Shōhaku

  97

  yama wa kesa

  Mountains at morning—

  iku shimoyo ni ka

  how many nights of frost

  kasumuran

  preceded the mist?165

  Sōchō

  98

  keburi nodoka ni

  Smoke rises quietly

  miyuru kariio

  around a makeshift hut.166

  Shōhaku

  99

  iyashiki mo

  Among the lowborn, too,

  mi o osamuru wa

  must be some who live

  aritsubeshi

  in prosperity.167

  Sōgi

  100

  hito ni oshinabe

  For people everywhere

  michi zo tadashiki

  the Way lies straight ahead.168

  Sōchō

  [Introductions and translations by Steven Carter]

  MUROMACHI TALES (OTOGI-ZŌSHI)

  Muromachi tales (otogi-zōshi, sometimes translated as “companion books”) constitute an extremely diverse genre of short to middle-length narratives dating from the early fourteenth to the early seventeenth century (Northern and Southern Courts, Muromachi, and early Tokugawa periods).169 Alternatively referred to as Muromachi monogatari (Muromachi tales) and chūsei shōsetsu (medieval novels), otogi-zōshi differ from their Heian and neoclassical antecedents in their thematic variety, their abundant and often vibrant illustrations, their plot-centered narratives, and their broad popular appeal. Since the early twentieth century, bibliographers have identified more than four hundred separate otogi-zōshi, most of which survive in numerous manuscripts in multiple textual lines. The Tale of Bunshō (Bunshō sōshi), for example, is preserved in at least eighty-two manuscripts in ten textual lines, and Little One-Inch (Issun bōshi) survives in a mere three manuscripts in a single textual line.170 Of largely unknown authorship, otogi-zōshi incorporate a seemingly endless range of characters, from buddhas, nobles, warriors, and commoners to monsters, fish, and sentient plants, all set in a variety of domestic, foreign, and imagined locales.

  The Northern and Southern Courts period (1336–1392), when court traditions dramatically declined and those of commoners came to the fore, marks the great divide between the early medieval and the late medieval age. Even though Heian literary genres—imperial anthologies, diaries of court women, and neoclassical monogatari—survived and even flourished during the Kamakura period, they began to disappear around the fourteenth century.

  The editing and collecting of setsuwa, one of the principal cultural phenomena of the late Heian and Kamakura periods, declined precipitously at this time as well. But the earlier literary forms were reborn as otogi-zōshi, many of which—particularly the commoner tales—embraced elements of both setsuwa, with their focus on commoner life, and Heian monogatari, with their emphases on waka (classical poetry) and the refinements of court culture. Indeed, the otogi-zōshi absorbed a wide range of earlier narrative forms, including stories about the origins of shrines and temples (engi-mono) and warrior tales (gunki-mono). Viewed historically, otogi-zōshi thus bridge the gap between the Heian aristocratic and Tokugawa popular literary forms, the latter represented by the kana-zōshi and ukiyo-zōshi (tales of the floating world) that emerged in the seventeenth century.

  As noted earlier, one of the main differences between early medieval culture and late medieval culture was the new audience, epitomized in
the term gekokujō (overthrowing of the upper by the lower). This term applies most appropriately to the period from the Kenmu restoration (1333–1334), when Emperor GoDaigo tried to restore direct imperial rule, through the Warring States period (1467–1573). Gekokujō could be found on a number of levels: social, political, economic, and military. In the provinces, for example, the shugo daimyō (military governors) became daimyō (semiautonomous warlords ruling over one or more provinces), and it was people like them who may have sponsored the production of the many lavishly illustrated otogi-zōshi martial tales that survive today, including the numerous Demon Shuten Dōji and Little Atsumori picture scrolls. Like the protagonists often found in kyōgen, some of the characters in otogi-zōshi reflect this spirit of gekokujō, in which individuals of lower status rise above or otherwise get the better of their superiors.

  In the Heian and Kamakura periods, the aristocrats and the clergy, many of whom were of aristocratic origin, produced the texts. But as a result of various wars, particularly during the Northern and Southern Courts period, the nobility lost its power, the capital was damaged, and many cultural treasures were lost. With the decline of the capital and its surrounding culture, new authors and audiences appeared, and otogi-zōshi were subsequently produced by what seems to have been a wide range of social groups: fallen nobility, Buddhist priests, renga masters, literate samurai, recluses, and well-to-do urban commoners. The new, largely commoner audiences for whom they wrote had diverse interests and ambitions. Some, having suddenly risen in social status or attained material wealth, were especially interested in culture—classical aristocratic culture—but lacked the means to acquire a classical education. Otogi-zōshi, particularly the tales of the nobility, likely functioned for them as popular digests of the classics, providing a means of enjoying formerly aristocratic mores without the necessity of requiring a formal education.

  The otogi-zōshi encompass an astonishing range of subject matter. One type derives from Heian monogatari, particularly The Tale of Genji, and includes such evil stepmother tales as Head Bowl (Hachikazuki).171 This category also covers tales about poetry and famous waka poets. Another prominent category is priest tales, which include tales of awakening (hosshin) and confession, such as The Three Priests (Sannin hōshi), and stories about relationships between an older Buddhist priest and a young boy acolyte (chigo), in which love is often presented as a means to help the priest achieve enlightenment. The most famous of these is A Long Tale for an Autumn Night (Aki no yo no naga monogatari), in which a priest from Mount Hiei and a chigo from Mii-dera temple are caught in a tragic struggle between the two temples.172 Another subgenre is the “breaking of vows” stories (hakaidan), in which a priest violates monastic rules, as in Errand Nun (Oyō no ama).173

  Otogi-zōshi also encompass a number of tales about samurai, which can be considered offshoots of the earlier warrior tales (gunki-mono). Here the most popular figure by far is Yoshitsune. The otogi-zōshi warrior tales recount legends about struggles with monsters and villains such as The Demon Shuten Dōji (Shuten Dōji) as well as many tales of commoners, which often involve courtship and social climbing. The most notable of these are The Tale of Bunshō (Bunshō sōshi); Lazy Tarō (Monogusa Tarō), which is included here; and Little One-Inch (Issun bōshi). Otogi-zōshi also may be about nonhumans or animals (irui mono), like Urashima tarō, The Clam’s Tale (Hamaguri no sōshi), and The Tale of Mice (Nezumi no sōshi).

  A recurrent characteristic of otogi-zōshi is their didacticism, often in the form of heavy-handed lessons revealing how readers’ spiritual and material ambitions might best be attained. Except for all-too-typical cases in which characters find themselves torn between duty to their families and aspirations to the Buddhist Way, as in Chūjōhime (Chūjōhime no honji), internal moral conflicts are rare. Characters are usually depicted as either inherently good or bad, in some cases alternating between the two. The apparently overriding purpose of many otogi-zōshi is to encourage the cultivation of specific virtues or devotional practices by depicting exemplary lives and promising grandiose rewards; but the purpose of others is to simply entertain. Some audiences may have believed that by merely reading or listening to these texts, they could achieve the things described in them. Thus Lazy Tarō concludes with the line “The god has vowed that those who daily read this story or tell it to others will be filled with riches and achieve their hearts’ desires. How wonderfully blessed!” The Story of Bunshō was similarly read by young women at New Year’s in the hope that they, too, would receive auspicious returns.

  LAZY TARŌ (MONOGUSA TARŌ)

  Like a number of the commoner tales in otogi-zoshi, such as The Tale of Bunshō (Bunshō sōshi) and Little One-Inch (Issun bōshi), Lazy Tarō is a story of upward social mobility and ends on a celebratory note. And like these other two otogi-zōshi, it also is a tale of courtship. In a manner typical of the gekokujō (overcoming the higher by the lower) spirit of the late medieval period, there are a number of inversions: from outsider to insider, from low to high, and from profane to sacred. The protagonist, who looks repulsive and is from the lowest order, turns out to be very good at poetry, a sign of high culture and a key to his successful courtship. Much of the humor and interest of the narrative derives from these various paradoxes.

  Lazy Tarō represents a popular form of the “exile of the young noble” found in earlier narratives such as the Kojiki and The Tale of Genji. The important difference here is that in contrast to the earlier exiles, in which the hero is already of high status, the protagonist begins in a low social position and ends with wealth and high social status. Significantly, Lazy Tarō attains success as a result of his own efforts, but his spectacular success is reinforced by the revelation that he is a god. Often the protagonist has a patron god, as Little One-Inch (Sumiyoshi) and Bunshō the Salt-maker (Kashima) do, but here they are united in the body of Tarō, who turns out to be a god of longevity. In this sense, Lazy Tarō may be seen as a variation on the honji-mono (tale of a god’s origins), in which a male protagonist typically encounters great difficulties, is exiled from his parents and familiar surroundings, reveals his strength, and is recognized as a deity who provides benefit to the people. Lazy Tarō brings considerable humor to this plot paradigm, suggesting that it may even be a parody of that convention.

  At the furthest reaches of the Tōsen route, in a place called Atarashi village, in Tsukama, one of the ten districts of Shinano Province, lived a peculiar man called Lazy Tarō Hijikasu,174 so dubbed because no one in the province could equal him in sheer laziness. He may have been called lazy, but he had a wonderful idea for building a house. He would construct a clay enclosure with a gate in three of the four sides. Inside, to the north, south, east, and west, he would create ponds and islands planted with pines and cedars. Arched bridges, their pillars crowned in shining ornamentation, would link the islands to the garden. It was truly a marvelous plan! There would be a retainers’ quarters twelve ken wide, connecting corridors nine ken175 long, a water-viewing pavilion, galleries, and plum, paulownia, and bamboo courtyards abloom with myriad varieties of flowers. There would be a main chamber of twelve ken, roofed in cypress bark, with damask-covered ceilings, gold- and silver-studded beam ends and rafters, and splendid woven hanging blinds. Everything would be magnificent, right down to the stables and servants’ quarters. If only he could build such a fine mansion! But he utterly lacked the means, and so he was obliged to make do with a straw mat upheld by four bamboo poles—a most uncomfortable residence in either rain or shine. As if the lean-to wasn’t wretched enough, Tarō had more than his due share of chilblains, fleas, lice, and even elbow grime. He had no assets, so he couldn’t set up shop; he tilled no land, so he had no food. For days on end he would lie there without rising once.

  On one occasion, a kind soul said to him, “Here, take this, you must be hungry,” and gave him five rice cakes left over from a wedding feast. Tarō received food so rarely that he immediately devoured four of them. As for the last, however
, if he kept it and didn’t eat it, he could rely on it later; if he ate it now and left nothing, his stomach might be full, but then he could not expect more later. Just looking at that rice cake provided a certain solace, so he decided to keep it until he received something else. Lazy Tarō would lie there playing with it, rolling it around on his chest, polishing it with oil blotted from his nose, wetting it with spit, and balancing it on his head. While he was thus amusing himself, the rice cake slipped from his grasp and rolled over to the side of the road. Tarō looked at it and pondered. He was too lazy to get up and retrieve it. Figuring that sooner or later someone was bound to come by, he waited for three days, waving around a bamboo stick to ward off the dogs and crows who came to nibble at it, but not one person came along.

  Finally, on the third day, there came the awaited passerby, none other than the local Land Steward, Saemon no jō Nobuyori,176 off on an autumn hunting expedition accompanied by a host of some fifty to sixty mounted retainers carrying white-eyed falcons. When Tarō spotted him, he craned his neck and called, “Hey you! Excuse me, but there’s a rice cake over there. Would you mind fetching it for me?”