Japanese Tales

by Royall Tyler

  Practically any body of water in Japan may harbor a Dragon King. Mano Pond (no. 35) may be imposing; but Sarusawa Pond (nos. 37, 183), which practically every visitor to Nara has seen, is unimpressive; and the pool at Kōzen (no. 183), the site of rainmaking rites even into the twentieth century, is tiny. In fact the Dragon King of no. 183 lives in a cave on a mountainside, where the waters begin their journey to the fields below.

  A proper Dragon King lives in a splendid palace. The dragon of no. 183 has his inside a cave, but a dragon with a pond will have his palace at the bottom of the pond. No. 184 provides a fine example. The Dragon Palace at the bottom of the sea, well known in Japanese lore, does not figure directly in these stories, but it is probably related to the Eternal Mountain of no. 106.

  Snakes, the most ambiguous of all “real” creatures, can be gods or at least supernatural powers; can embody sinful, especially lustful thoughts; and can be a form of Kannon (no. 137). Their lack of dignity in comparison with dragons no doubt has to do with their familiarity in normal life.

  No. 187 features a snake god who resembles a dragon in many ways, but who lacks a dragon’s philosophical or poetic aura. He controls a fruitful island, and lives high up on the island for the same reason that dragons often live on mountains. (A related god still lives high on a small sacred island in Lake Biwa.) The snakes of several other stories are more plainly water-beings. In no. 98 a mass of snakes even looks like water, and in no. 136 a snake tries for no particular reason to drag a wrestler into a deep pool.

  Snakes are easily recognizable even to us as an image for evil, deluded, or lustful thoughts. In these stories a snake seems sometimes to be lust itself. The woman in no. 111, frantic with frustrated sexual desire, turns into a huge snake and pursues the man she wants. In no. 109 a young man dreams a girl makes love to him, then wakes up to discover that a snake has made him ejaculate; while in no. 110 a young woman ends up mesmerized by a snake that has accidentally seen between her legs. Four stories associate the snake motif with a young girl’s sexual fantasies (nos. 107, 108, 112, and 185).

  An avowedly Buddhist context may give snakes a wider, moral significance. In no. 139, a young girl’s only sin is to love her plum tree’s blossoms so much that she cannot forget them even after death. As a result of this clinging to the pleasures of her past life, she is reborn as a little snake that wraps itself around the plum tree. The story makes a pretty Buddhist sermon againt attachment to the things of this world, but it too, of course, may allude silently to sexual fantasies.

  The last animal to mention is the turtle. The immortal lady of no. 106 is a turtle. Marine turtles are magic creatures who stand for immortality and who seem related, like dragons and snakes, to ideas of spiritual transformation (nos. 103, 104, and 105).

  THE SOURCES

  Japanese scholars distinguish a body of writing they call setsuwa bungaku. The term just means “tale literature,” but it refers specifically to about forty-five collections (they vary greatly in language, quality, and intent) put together between A.D. 822 and roughly 1350. Of the 220 stories in this book, 210 come from ten of the more important of these medieval collections, while the remaining 10 are from other medieval works outside “tale literature.” (All the sources are listed in “The Works These Tales Come From,” in the back of the book.) However, 165 of the stories, far more than a two-thirds majority, are from two collections, the masterpieces of the genre: Uji shūi monogatari (“A Later Collection of Uji Tales,” early thirteenth century) with 54, and Konjaku monogatari shū (“Tales of Times Now Past,” ca. 1100) with 111.

  What are the subjects of “tale literature”? One category of stories deals with China and India. Konjaku, for instance, devotes the first 185 of its more than 1,000 tales to India, and the second 181 to China. Needless to say, I left such tales out because they are about the wrong country.

  The second and by far the largest category deals with Buddhist topics. If I had kept the same proportion of Buddhist stories as in my sources, Japanese Tales would be a far more pious book, for the medieval collections include many more Buddhist stories than any other kind. A good many, like nos. 115 and 137, must have been used in preaching; while others evoke the miraculous origins of famous temples (no. 26) or images (no. 27), or the deeds of great monks (nos. 182, 213).

  The third category of stories concerns the court and its world. Some of these tales are very good (nos. 7 and 191, for example), but I found many others unsuitable: brief items about court manners or about the doings of great lords; scenes of court life interesting only to the initiated; curious incidents in history and politics; a few accounts of battles; moments of triumph for master artists, craftsmen, horsemen, wrestlers, players of court football (kemari), etc.; and numerous anecdotes about particularly successful, moving, or unusual poems. Many of these items can hardly be called stories at all. They interested compilers and readers less as entertainment than as examples of conduct, judgment, or skill.

  The fourth category, from which I have drawn the most heavily, consists of legends and popular tales. However, this category is the smallest of the four, and for this reason alone Uji shūi, Konjaku, and the other sources should not be thought of primarily as folktale collections.

  What is the relationship between “tale literature” and the modern folktale? A comparison with Ancient Tales in Modern Japan, a recently published volume of folktales told by village storytellers in the twentieth century (see Bibliography), can serve as an illustration. Fanny Hagin Mayer’s work shares five stories with Japanese Tales: no. 127 (my no. 3); no. 183j (my no. 17); no. 140 (my no. 169); no. 69 (my no. 174); and no. 164 (my no. 217). A few of its stories also include parts of tales present in this book — for example, no. 99 (my no. 75), no. 30 (my no. 107), and no. 311 (my no. 219). The two works also share various motifs. This is remarkable in a way, since six hundred to eight hundred years separate the sources for each. On the other hand, Ancient Tales in Modern Japan represents fairly the range of the modern Japanese folktale, whereas Japanese Tales exaggerates the folktale content of the medieval collections. Seen in this light, the resemblances are not necessarily impressive. However ancient the recently collected folktales may be, many things have changed in the last eight hundred years. For instance, nos. 3 and 169 in this book follow the symmetrical “good old man/bad old man” pattern well known in modern folktales, and well represented in Fanny Hagin Mayer’s book; yet they are the only examples of this pattern in all my sources. The kappa, a water-goblin that has become almost the emblem of Japanese folklore, is not to be found in medieval tale literature at all. Above all, farmers and their preoccupations, so basic to the modern folktale, are rare in the older literature.

  Although they do include popular elements, the medieval collections are not folk literature. The compilers and their readers were highly literate, and particularly conscious of history. Of course educated people were bound to be interested in history anyway, but the Chinese tradition of meticulous record-keeping influenced the Japanese, who also valued detailed records. In this spirit, many stories give precise information by which they can be dated. (I have indicated these dates whenever possible in the notes, usually with the help of the modern Japanese commentators.) The compilers’ interest in accuracy is only emphasized by occasional gaps in the sources, especially in Konjaku. Here the compiler seems to have left a blank when he found he was missing a name, so that he could fill it in later. The stories were supposed to be true, and it was the transmitter’s responsibility to situate them correctly in his and his reader’s world.

  Where did the compilers get their tales? The preface to Uji shūi monogatari gives a fascinating glimpse of a compiler at work on an important collection, now unfortunately lost. This was Uji no Dainagon monogatari (“The Uji Major Counselor’s Tales”), put together by a high-ranking courtier named Minamoto no Takakuni (d. 1077) who retired to Uji, between Kyoto and Nara. There he would “enjoy the cool reclining on a mat and fanning himself with a great big fan. He would
call over any passerby, high or low, and get the person to tell him a story, which he would take down in a big notebook, straight from the teller’s lips.” The anonymous author of the preface surmises that the equally unknown Uji shūi compiler meant to continue Takakuni’s work.

  Perhaps Takakuni used written sources as well; later compilers surely did. Anyway, written and oral sources probably did not exclude each other even for a single tale. In cases where an earlier, written version certainly existed, a compiler still might not use it, at least not directly. He might rely instead on an intermediate written version; on his own familiarity with several versions, written or oral; or on someone else’s telling. In fact the distinction between “written” and “oral” may not be very useful for Japanese Tales. Take the example of Takakuni noting down tales from “any passerby, high or low.” A “high” passerby would have been someone whose thinking had been formed largely by the written word, whether poetry (which was essential then) or prose; and Takakuni would still have edited his telling. A “low” passerby might have been illiterate or semiliterate, and Takakuni would have tidied up his words even more.

  Every compiler put his mark on his work. Some seem to have reduced a lot of material to skeleton notes, while others developed stories lovingly. At the very least, there was the question of choosing the kind of language to write in.

  Writing in medieval Japan could vary between classical Chinese and pure, natural Japanese. These and many transitional styles are present in “tale literature.” (People then wrote in Chinese rather as the medieval Europeans wrote in Latin, though they could not speak it.) Written language was not the same as speech. Even the pure Japanese of Uji shūi probably does not simply transcribe speech, for Japanese was a literary language too, with many masterpeices to its credit by the time the Uji shūi compiler lived. His stories evoke natural speech thanks to the writer’s craft, and their consistency of tone could only have been imposed on them by a fine writer.

  Who were the “compilers” I keep mentioning? There is not much to say about them. Most collections, like Uji shūi, are anonymous. No one knows who put together Konjaku, although scholars make one conjecture or another. Perhaps the man was a monk; and perhaps several people worked on it. At any rate all the compilers, whether monks or laymen, must have been educated men with some knowledge of court society. Takakuni, for his part, was a former member of the Council of State.

  Among my ten source collections normally classified as “tale literature,” the compilers are known only for the following works, from which I got thirty tales: Hosshinshū (“Those Who Awoke to Faith,” early thirteenth century); Kojidan (“Anecdotes of the Past,” ca. 1215); Kokonchomonjū (“Things Seen and Heard, Old and New,” 1254); Shasekishū (“A Book of Sand and Pebbles,” 1287); and Tsurezuregusa (“Essays in Idleness,” ca. 1330). Three more tales are from Kasuga Gongen genki (“The Miracles of the Kasuga God,” 1309), which, though not counted as part of “tale literature,” is a fine collection of miracle stories. Some of these compilers were monks and some laymen, and all except perhaps the Shasekishū compiler were of distinguished birth and knew the world of the Capital. I name and describe them in “The Works These Tales Come From.”

  TRANSLATION AND EDITING

  All my translations are edited, more or less so depending on the character of the original. Of course studiously faithful translations are valuable, but I felt they would be out of place in this book. These are very old stories, after all, from a distant country. If their genius is to shine for us, in our time, they need a little combing and brushing to rid them of small idiosyncrasies which might turn our attention from what matters. I have taken no casual liberties, however, and have not denatured the stories in any way. It is true, though, that in a few instances I combined elements from different sources into a single tale — the outstanding example is no. 213. Throughout, I worked especially on four problems: the titles of the stories, their style, the large amount of unfamiliar information many contain, and their form.

  Although nearly every tale has a title in the original, I made up all the titles in this book. The old ones sound like this: “How Retired Emperor Uda Revealed the Ghost of Minister of the Left Tōru, of Riverside Palace” (no. 190), and this: “How the Fox of Kōya River Changed into a Woman and Rode on the Croups of Horses” (no. 207). Old-fashioned titles like these are usefully descriptive, but they seem awfully poker-faced.

  As for style, I have already noted the variety of languages in the sources. Classical Chinese (no. 101) produces a very different effect from pure conversational Japanese (no. 150). There are also differences of tone, since some originals sound light, others serious or stiff. The style of Konjaku is often rather plodding. I tried to blend all these variations into about the same sort of English. Occasionally I found I had to change the order of the statements in the narration so as to make a story sound natural in English — an interesting discovery. The medieval Japanese did not value forward movement in a story as much as we do.

  The originals often supply information that for the uninitiated modern reader makes the text unnecessarily obscure. Names and titles of historical people, and the names of precise locations, are displayed prominently; while elsewhere details of architecture, costume, equipment, etc. are carefully recorded. I have toned down the identifications of people and places, often simplifying and occasionally even suppressing them; and I have also simplified some descriptions, or replaced technical terms with more familiar approximations — like “veranda.” Sometimes I have inserted short definitions or explanations into the text.

  The problem of form has to do with the beginnings and the endings of the stories. First, while most collections set the tales out pretty plainly, the Konjaku compiler carefully began each tale with a set formula resembling “once upon a time,” and ended it with an editorial comment, a little moral or bit of sage advice, and a set closing formula. I left out all these formulas and kept parts of the comments only when I thought they were amusing or particularly appropriate. Beginnings could present another sort of problem. This is where many stories cram in a particularly large amount of background information, and sometimes rhetorical ornaments that the modern reader may not admire. In such cases, I simplified.

  The conclusions of the stories are the last thing to mention. Japanese writing has always avoided snappy endings. Even modern novels may seem to fade out gradually, or even to break off in mid-thought. Most of these tales end softly, too. This approach does not produce punch lines, but it has its own virtues and I have not tried to change it.

  THE PATTERN OF THE BOOK

  The 220 tales are grouped in sets of five, with a few irregular sets of four or six, and each set has its own thematic heading. This arrangement is meant to make convenient units for reading and to allow interesting juxtapositions of stories. The normal pattern for a set — and there are many exceptions — is to start with a short tale, continue with two of medium length, feature a longer story in fourth position, and close with another short piece.

  Do not be held back by the themes suggested. Some are very specific, others catch-all. Most stories could easily have been put under other headings, including ones I did not mention at all. In any case, few headings exhaust their announced subject. The presence of two sets on foxes, for example, does not mean that are no fox stories in other sets; and the book is even more full of snakes than of foxes, though there is only one set entitled “Snakes.”

  1.

  THE GIANT OAK

  In Kurita county of Ōmi province there once grew a giant oak tree. Since the trunk was five hundred fathoms around, the height and the spread of its branches can easily be imagined. In the morning its shade reached Tamba province, and lay over Ise in the afternoon. No storm could move it and no typhoon could set it swaying.

  On the other hand, the farmers of Shiga, Kurita, and Kōga counties could not grow anything because the tree blocked the sunshine from their fields. They presented a complaint to the emperor, who sent a p
arty to cut the oak down. The farmers got good harvests once it was gone, and their descendants are working those fields still.

  2.

  MELON MAGIC

  Late one summer a train of pack horses was on its way up from Yamato province toward the Capital, loaded with melons. North of Uji the drivers stopped to rest under a persimmon tree. They took the melon baskets off the horses and loafed in the shade, eating some melons of their own which they had brought along.

  An old man shuffled up to them, leaning on a cane, and stood there while they ate, weakly fanning himself and staring greedily at their melons. Finally he said he was thirsty and asked for one. The drivers said he would be welcome to a melon but unfortunately the ones in their load weren’t theirs to give away — they were just delivering them to the city.

  “You boys are mean,” the old man complained. “You should be kinder to old people. Well, all right, I’ll grow my own.”

  While the drivers laughed, the old man picked up a stick and began to work a tiny patch of earth into a miniature field. Next he planted some melon seeds the drivers had scattered. The drivers looked on with growing amazement as the seeds sprouted before their eyes and melon vines began snaking everywhere. Soon the flowers had bloomed and the fruit swelled into big, ripe melons.

  By now a dread had come over the drivers — the old man surely must be a god. The old man helped himself to a melon. “See?” he said. “The melons you wouldn’t share have grown me my own!” He passed out melons to all the drivers and even to people passing by. When all the melons had been eaten he got up. “Well, I’ll be going now,” he said and wandered out of sight.