by Donald Keene
. .
[Shimokyō was a very quiet district of Kyoto.]
Shimokyō ya Shimokyō!
Yuki tsumu ue no On the piled-up snow
Yo no ame The night rain.
Bonchō
This verse at first lacked an opening line, and everyone from the Master downward tried to think of one. At length the Master settled on the above line. Bonchō said "yes" to it, but still didn't seem satisfied. The Master said, "Bonchō, why don't you think of a better opening line? If you do, I'll never write another haiku!' Kyorai said, "Anyone can see how good a line it is, but it's not so easy to appreciate that no other line would do. If members of some other school heard what you said, they would think that you were ridiculously pleased with yourself, and they would make up any number of opening lines. But the ones which they considered to be good would seem laughably bad to us."
. .
[The difference in subjects suited to the classical waka and the haiku.]
Inoshishi no Is that the path
Ne ni yuku kata ya The wild boar travels to his lair?
Ake no tsuki The moon at dawning.
Kyorai
When I asked the Master what he thought of this verse, he pondered for a long time without saying whether it was good or bad. I mistakenly thought that, master though he was, he didn't know how hunters wait at night for a boar to return to his lair at dawn, and I explained it all to him in great detail. Then he remarked, "The interest of that sight was familiar even to the poets of former times. That is why we have the waka:
Akenu to te Now that it has dawned
Nobe yori yama ni A wind from the clover
Iru shika no Wafts away the spoor
Ato fukiokuru Of the deer returning
Hagi no uwakaze From the fields to their mountains.
When a subject can be treated even within the elegant framework of the waka, there does not seem to be much point in giving so prosy a description within the freer compass of the haiku. The reason why I stopped to think for a while was that the verse seemed somehow interesting, and I was wondering if something couldn't be done with it. But I fear it's hopeless."
. .
[Kyorai takes Bashō too literally.]
Yūsuzumi The evening cool—
Senki okoshite I got lumbago,
Kaerikeri And went back home.
Kyorai
When I was first studying haiku I asked the Master how to write an opening verse. He replied, "It must be written firmly and clearly." As a test of my abilities I composed the above verse. When I asked his opinion of it, he gave a great laugh and said, "You still haven't got the ideal"
. .
[Bashō's technique in linked-verse demonstrated: by evoking the excitement caused by the blossoming of the cherry tree he gives a most dramatic picture of the arrival of spring in a dark wood.]
Kuromite takaki Somber and tall
Kashi no ki no mori The forest of oaks
Saku hana ni In and out
Chiisaki mon wo Through the little gate
Detsu iritsu To the cherry blossoms.
Bashō
When the former verse was given, I thought how difficult it would be to add a verse about cherry blossoms without destroying the image of the forest of oaks. When I asked the Master to add such a verse, this was how he did it.
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE
HAIKU BY BASHŌ AND HIS SCHOOL
Haranaka ya On the moor: from things
mono ni mo tsukazu detached completely—
nafa hibari how the skylark sings!
Kane tsukanu A village where they ring
mura wa nani wo ka no bells!—oh, what do they do
haru no kare at dusk in spring?
Chō tori no To bird and butterfly
shiranu hana ari it is unknown, this flower here:
aki no sora the autumn sky.
Ara umi ya How rough a sea!
Sado ni yokatau and, stretching over Sado Isle,
ama-no-gawa the Galaxy. . . .
Yagate shinu Very soon they die—
keshiki wa miezu but of that there is no sign
semi no koe in the locust-cry.
Hiya-hiya to How very cool it feels:
kabe wo fumaete taking a noonday nap, to have
hirune kama this wall against my heels.
Invitation to Etsujin
Futari mishi Snow that we two
yuki wa kotoshi mo saw together—this year
furikaru ka is it fallen anew?
Inazuma ya A sudden lightning gleam:
yami no kata yuka off into the darkness goes
got no kae the night heron's scream.
Tabi ni yande On a journey, ill—
yume wa bareno wo and my dreams, on withered fields
kakemeguru are wandering still.
Matsuo Bashō (1644-1694)
. .
Yado no haru My hut, in spring:
nanimo naki koso true, there is nothing in it—
nanimo are there is Everything!
Yamaguchi Sodō (1642-1716)
. .
Kojiki kana There a beggar goes!
Tenchi wo hitaru Heaven and Earth he's wearing
natsugoromo for his summer clothes!
Neko ni kuwareshi wo Eaten by the cat!
semi no tsuma wa Perhaps the cricket's widow
sudakuran is bewailing that.
Meigetsu ya Bright the full moon shines:
tatami no ue ni here upon the matted floor,
matsu no kage shadows of the pines.
Enomoto Kikaku (1661-1707)
. .
No mo yama mo Mountains and plains,
yuki ni torareta all are taken by the snow—
nani mo nashi nothing remains.
Naitō Jōsō (1661-1704)
TRANSLATED BY HAROLD G. HENDERSON
CHIKAMATSU ON THE ART OF THE PUPPET STAGE
[from Naniwa Miyage] by Hozumi Ikan
The art of the puppet stage has probably reached greater heights in Japan than elsewhere in the world, and it was the medium for which Chikamatsu Monzaemon (1653-1725), the greatest Japanese dramatist, wrote his masterpieces. The following account of Chifamatsu's views on the jōruri, or puppet stage, was written after his death, in 1738, by a friend. It is one of the most important examples of dramatic criticism in the literature.
This is what Chikamatsu told me when I visited him many years ago:
Jōruri differs from other forms of fiction in that, since it is primarily concerned with puppets, the words must all be living and full of action. Because jōruri is performed in theatres that operate in close competition with those of the fabuki, which is the art of living actors, the author must impart to lifeless wooden puppets a variety of emotions, and attempt in this way to capture the interest of the audience. It is thus generally very difficult to write a work of great distinction.
Once when I was young and reading a story about the court,1 I came across a passage which told how, on the occasion of a festival, the snow had fallen heavily and piled up. An order was given to a guard to clear away the snow from an orange tree. When this happened, the pine next to it, apparently resentful that its boughs were still bent with snow, recoiled its branches. This was a stroke of the pen which gave life to the inanimate tree. It did so because the spectacle of the pine, resentful that the snow had been cleared from the orange tree, recoiling its branches and shaking off the snow that bends it down, is one which creates the feeling of a living, moving thing. Is that not so?
From this model I learned how to put life into my jōruri. Thus, even descriptive passages like the michiyuki,2 to say nothing of the narrative phrases and dialogue, must be charged with feeling or they will be greeted with scant applause. This is the same thing as what is called evocative power in poetry. For example, if a poet should fail to bring emotion to his praise of even the superb scenery of Matsushima or Miyajima in his poem, it would be like looking at the carelessly drawn port
rait of a beautiful woman. For this reason, it should be borne in mind that feeling is the basis of writing.
When a composition is filled with particles, its literary quality is somehow lowered. Authors of no merit inevitably try to cast their writings exactly in the form of waka or linked-verse, stringing together alternating lines of five and seven syllables. This naturally results in the use of many unnecessary particles. For example, when one should say "Toshi mo yukanu musume wo" they say such things as "Toshiba mo yukanu, musume wo ba." This comes from concerning one's self with the syllable count, and naturally causes the language to sound vulgar. Thus, while verse is generally written by arranging long and short lines in order, the jōruri is basically a musical form, and the length of the lines recited is therefore determined by the melody. If an author adheres implicitly to the rules of metrics, his lines may prove awkward to recite. For this reason I am not concerned with metrics in my writings and I use few particles.
The old jōruri was just like our modern street storytelling,3 and was without either flower or fruit. From the time I first began to write jōruri, I have used care in my works, which was not true of the old jōruri. As a result, the medium was raised considerably. For example, inasmuch as the nobility, the samurai, and the lower classes all have different social stations, it is essential that they be distinguished in their representation from their appearance down to their speech. Similarly, even within the same samurai class, there are both daimyō and retainers, as well as others of lower rank, each rank possessed of its distinct qualities; such differences must be established. This is because it is essential that they be well pictured in the emotions of the reader.
In writing jōruri, one attempts first to describe facts as they really are, but in so doing one writes things which are not true, in the interest of art. In recent plays many things have been said by female characters which real women could not utter. Such things fall under the heading of art; it is because they say what could not come from a real woman's lips that their true emotions are disclosed. If in such cases the author were to model his character on the ways of a real woman and conceal her feelings, such realism, far from being admired, would permit no pleasure in the work. Thus, if one examines a play without paying attention to the question of art, one will certainly criticize it for containing many unpleasant words which are not suitable for women. But such things should be considered art. In addition, there are numerous instances in the portrayal of a villain as excessively cowardly, or of a clown as funny, which are outside the truth and which must be regarded as art. The spectator must bear this consideration in mind.
There are some who, thinking that pathos is essential to a jōruri, make frequent use of such expressions as "It was touching" in their writing, or who when chanting do so in voices thick with tears. This is foreign to my style. I take pathos to be entirely a matter of restraint. It is moving when the whole of a play is controlled by the dramatic situation, and the stronger and firmer the melody and words, the sadder will be the impression created. For this reason, when one says of something which is sad that it is sad, one loses the implications, and in the end, even the impression of sadness is slight. It is essential that one not say of a thing that "it is sad," but that it be sad of itself. For example, when one praises a place renowned for its scenery such as Matsushima by saying, "Ah, what a fine view!" one has said in one phrase all that one can about the sight, but without effect. If one wishes to praise the view, and one says numerous things indirectly about its appearance, the quality of the view may be known of itself, without one's having to say, "It is a fine view." This is true of everything of its kind.
Someone said, "People nowadays will not accept plays unless they are realistic and well reasoned out. There are many things in the old stories which people will not now tolerate. It is thus that such people as kabuki actors are considered skilful to the degree that their acting resembles reality. The first consideration is to have the retainer in the play resemble a real retainer, and to have the daimyō look like a real daimyō. People will not stand for childish nonsense as they did in the past." I answered, "Your view seems plausible, but it is a theory which does not take into account the real methods of art. Art is something which lies in the slender margin between the real and the unreal. Of course it seems desirable, in view of the current taste for realism, to have the retainer in the play copy the gestures and speech of a real retainer, but in that case should a real retainer put rouge and powder on his face like an actor? Or, would it prove entertaining if an actor, on the grounds that real retainers do not make up their faces, were to appear on the stage and perform with his beard growing wild and his head shaven? This is what I mean by the slender margin between the real and the unreal. It is unreal, and yet it is not unreal; it is real, and yet it is not real. Entertainment lies between the two."
In this connection, there is the story of a certain court lady who had a lover. The two loved each other very passionately, but the lady lived far deep in the women's palace, and the man could not visit her quarters. She could see him therefore only very rarely, from between the cracks of her screen of state at the court. She longed for him so desperately that she had a wooden image carved of the man. Its appearance was not like that of an ordinary doll, but did not differ in any particle from the man. It goes without saying that the color of his complexion was perfectly rendered; even the pores of his skin were delineated. The openings in his ears and nostrils were fashioned, and there was no discrepancy even in the number of teeth in the mouth. Since it was made with the man posing beside it, the only difference between the man and this doll was the presence in one, and the absence in the other, of a soul. However, when the lady drew the doll close to her and looked at it, the exactness of the reproduction of the living man chilled her, and she felt unpleasant and rather frightened. Court lady that she was, her love was also chilled, and as she found it distressing to have the doll bv her side, she soon threw it away.
In view of this we can see that if one makes an exact copy of a living being, even if it happened to be Yang Kuei-fei, one will become disgusted with it. If when one paints an image or carves it of wood there are, in the name of artistic license, some stylized parts in a work otherwise resembling the real form; this is, after all, what people love in art. The same is true of literary composition. While bearing resemblance to the original, it should have stylization; this makes it art, and is what delights men's minds. Theatrical dialogue written with this in mind is apt to be worth while.
TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEEN
Footnotes
1 "The Tale of Genji." The particular reference is to a passage in the chapter translated by Wiley as "The Village of Falling Flowers."
2 The journey, such as that of the lovers in "The Love Suicides at Sonezaki." See page 404.
3 These were popular recitations of ballads, gossip, etc., which flourished particularly about this time.
THE LOVE SUICIDES AT SONEZAKI
[Sonezaki Shinju] by Chikamatsu Monzaemon
During the fourth moon of 1703 an assistant in the Osaka firm of Hirano committed suicide with a prostitute named Ohatsu within the grounds of the Sonezaki Shrine. Within a fortnight Chikamatsu's play based on this incident was being performed by puppets at the Takemoto Theatre. This is the first of his plays about love suicides, and one of his greatest works. The poetry of the journey of the two lovers is particularly famous, and is in fact one of the most beautiful passages in all of Japanese literature. In this translation the parts sung by the chanter are rendered in verse with a few minor exceptions, while the parts spoken by him for the puppets are in prose.
Scene I: The Ikutama Shrine
NARRATOR: A graceful young man who had served his term
As an apprentice in the firm of Hirano,
His breast burning with passion concealed
Lest billowing scandal should spread,
Given sometimes to one cup of wine,
And known for his elegant locks,
&nbs
p; Renowned as expert in matters of love,
But now like fragrant wood buried,
A mere clerk selling sauces and oil,
And making the round of his clients
Followed by a boy who bears a dripping cask,
Now comes he to Ikutama Shrine.
From inside a teahouse, a woman's voice
Cries, "Tokubei, Tokubei, is it not you?"
She claps her hands; he nods in recognition.
TOKUBEI: (to the boy) : Chōzō, I'll be following presently, but I want you now to call on the temples in Tera Street, make the round of the uptown mansions, and then go back to the shop. Tell them that I'll be back soon. Don't fail to call at the dyer's in Azuchi Street and collect the money he owes us. And stay away from Dōtombori.1
NARRATOR: He watches as long as the boy remains in sight
Then lifts up the bamboo blinds.
TOKUBEI: Ohatsu, did you call me? What's the matter?
NARRATOR: He starts to remove his bamboo hat.
OHATSU: Please don't take off your hat. I have a customer today from the country, who's making the round of the Thirty-three Temples of Kwannon. He's been telling everyone that he won't stop drinking before night. At the moment he's off at the theatre, but if he should return and find you here, he might cause trouble. Even the chair-bearers all recognize you, so please keep your face covered.
I've been so worried of late, not having had a single word from you. I couldn't very well go to your shop to ask what had happened to you, but I must have called a hundred times at the other teahouses. They didn't have any news of you either, but one of the musicians asked his friends about you, and they told him you had gone back to the country. I couldn't believe it was true. It has really been a terrible experience. Didn't you even wish to learn what had happened to me? Was that the way you wanted things to end between us? I've been sick with worry. If you think I'm making it up, just feel this swelling!