SEVEN TALES OF YAMATO

TRANSLATED BY GERALD B. MATHIAS

INTRODUCTION

THE Yamato-monogatari, Yamato tales (Yamato is an ancient name for Japan), is one of a mere handful of prose works surviving from before the turn of the millennium; it dates from the middle of the tenth century, about the time that classical Japanese culture was reaching its peak.

For a few hundred years the Japanese elite had been enthusiastically importing and adapting the culture of China. Everything, from styles of clothing, art, and architecture to religion and political structure, was imported and modified to fit the traditional values or the more limited economic means of the Japanese. But most important of all the new elements to the scriptless nation was the Chinese written language.

Although the individual symbols of the Chinese script stand for words or morphemes rather than sounds (much as we use 4 for “four” but not for “for”), the Japanese soon learned to make phonetic use of the characters (as if 4 were used for “four,” “for,” and “fore”) for the transcription of untranslatable proper nouns and so forth. In other words, they developed a native script which they might freely have used to write in their native tongue. Unfortunately the conviction that the Chinese language was the only proper one for serious writing had taken firm root even more quickly. Virtually all artistic or scholarly writing was done in Chinese, and the ability to read and write Chinese was the minimum criterion of an educated man.

Only in the waka, the native poetic form, was the sound of the Japanese language revered and allowed to develop. The waka was an essential part of Japanese culture. The form consisted of five lines of five, seven, five, seven, and seven syllables respectively. The cultured Japanese used the delicacy, the euphemism, and the discipline of the waka in every kind of communication, from courtship to consolatory messages. An exceptionally skillful creation by a sensitive person was an object to be recorded and cherished, and many collections of waka of this period are extant.

Native language prose was a different matter. Although a large amount of prose fiction is known to have been in circulation by the tenth century, it was not esteemed as literature, but considered frivolous women’s stuff. It was not valued enough to make it worth recopying faster than the originals wore out or were lost, and almost none of it survives. The Yamato-monogatari owes its survival largely to the honor it pays the waka, since more than anything else it serves to place the waka in the context of the events that occasioned their creation.

The standard text of the Yamato-monogatari comprises 173 tales, according to the accepted enumeration (in the oldest texts there is no formal separation of one tale from the next). The majority are probably based on fact, for the dramatis personae are largely identifiable historical persons, and most of them were contemporaries of the unknown compiler of the tales.

Perhaps two-thirds of the tales are but short anecodtes with waka as punch-lines, while the rest, many of which seem to be of oral tradition, are more story-like in length and plot. I have chosen seven of the relatively story-like tales for translation here. However, the purpose of the tales was not so much to relate events as to hint at the delight or pathos evoked in the aesthetically sensitive person by the events or situations depicted, and the endings may seem flat or anti-climactic to the modern reader.

My translation of the prose tends to be literal, with two general exceptions. Where literal translation might raise questions that have no bearing on the story, the translation has been simplified. Thus seusyau “Lesser Captain” is rendered “Captain” to obviate explanation of the rank system. Where annotation is essential, it has been blended into the text unmarked. For example, “Ono no Komachi” is expanded to “Ono no Komachi, the famed beauty and poet.” As for the poems, which are as complex as they are brief, a full exegesis would be inordinately lengthy and literal translation is impossible; they have accordingly been paraphrased in a prose compromise between what the poem says and what it means, with occasional bracketed notes. The originals are provided in a transliteration of the ancient spelling; Italian values for the vowels and English values for the consonants result in a rough approximation of what is believed to have been the pronunciation of the period.

The text translated is that edited by Abe Toshiko and Imai Gen’ei in Nippon koten bungaku taikei, vol. 9 (Tokyo: Iwanami shoten, 1961), pp. 216-398.

TALES OF YAMATO

(27) A person called Kaishö became a Buddhist priest. There was no one there to do his laundry while he was living on the mountain, and so he used to send it to his parents. Once when they became disgruntled (what can have occasioned it?) and asked, “How can a person who becomes a priest against the advice of his parents and brothers make such annoying demands of them?” Kaishō wrote this poem and sent it to them:

(103) Heichū, at the height of his amorousness, went to the market place. (In those days noble persons went to the market in pursuit of amorous pleasures.) And it was a day when the Ladies in the service of the late Consort were out to market. Heichū set to flirting with them and he fell in love as never before. Afterwards he sent a letter. The women sent back to ask whom the letter was for, as there had been many in the carriage. Therefore the man said:

This meant the daughter of the Governor of Musashi. She was the one who had been wearing a very deeply colored red silk garment. It was she who was the object of his fancy. And so it was this Musashi who answered his letter and whom he won over. Fair of features and long haired, she was a pretty girl. Many had been in love with her, but she thought highly of herself and had remained chaste. Nevertheless, since Heichū courted her single-heartedly, she gave herself to him. The next morning he did not even send the customary letter. By night he still had sent no word. She was awake and miserable all night, and she waited all the next day, yet he still did not so much as send her a letter. She waited in anticipation that night, and yet . .. The next morning her servants were saying to each other, “After all this time she has given herself to another, and to a man who we have heard acts in a most irresponsible manner. Even if he cannot find time to come in person, he could at least send a letter! A miserable affair indeed!’’ Upon hearing her own inner thoughts spoken by others, she cried in misery and frustration. She waited again that night on the slim hope that he would come, but he did not. Nor did he send a letter the next day. In all, five or six days passed with no word from him. The woman did nothing but weep, and she ate not a thing. Her servants told her, “Now just do not think about it. This small matter cannot be the end of things for one of your station. Just do not let anyone know about it, and marry someone else.”

She secluded herself without a word, and out of sight of her own servants she snipped off her very long hair and became a nun at her own hand. Her servants gathered around and cried, but they could do nothing about it. “I want to die, miserable person that I am, but I cannot die,” she said. “At least I can do this and follow the religious life. Do not make such a loud commotion.”

As to how this had all come about, Heichū had intended to send a messenger to her early in the morning after he left her that night, but his office chief had come by, with a sudden plan to go somewhere, and found him sleeping. He aroused him with a remark about sleeping so late and took him off for a long walk and would not let him return home as they drank and caroused. No sooner had he finally gotten home again than he was escorted to Ōi in the company of the Teiji Mikado. There he attended the Mikado a further two nights and became terribly intoxicated. When they headed back, late at night, he intended to go to the lady’s place, but the direction was impeded by a star of ill omen, and the people with the Mikado all went off together in an entirely different direction.

He thought longingly of Musashi and how uneasy and suspicious she must be. “If only night would fall,” he thought, as his intoxication faded, “I will go myself and explain the situation. What is more, I will send a letter too.” At that moment someone came and knocked on his door.

“Who is it?” he inquired.

“One with a message for the Second Assistant.”

Heichū peeked out and saw that it was a woman from Musashi’s house. He invited her in and took the letter she handed him to read, whereupon he found that the very fragrant paper was wrapped around a little of Musashi’s hair, done up in a ring. He read, with foreboding, what was written there:

He saw, in a play on words, that this must mean that she had become a nun, and his very eyes dimmed.

Frantically he questioned the messenger. When she answered, crying, she said, “She has already cut off her hair. The Ladies of her household have been crying and terribly upset these two days because of it. It is heartbreaking even to my lowly servant’s mind. Such long hair it was . . .”

He was stunned. He could only wonder why such a flirtation should bring about so sorry a result. Tearfully he wrote an answer:

“I am so taken aback that I am quite speechless. I shall go there myself, at once,” he said. And he went forthwith.

Meanwhile, Musashi had secluded herself in the plastered storehouse. Heichū told the servants how things were, and of his obstacles, and there were no bounds to his crying.

“I only want to speak to you. At least say something,” he told her, but she made not the slightest answer. It seemed to him that she must still think, not knowing what obstacles had beset him, that he was just speaking out of pity, and it was a most terrible experience for him.

(142) A sister of the late Royal Concubine, the one who was the eldest daughter, was very talented and her poetry excelled even that of her younger brothers and sisters including the Concubine herself. Her mother had died when she was young. Since she was placed in the care of a stepmother, there were times when things did not go in accord with her feelings. And she composed this poem:

Another time she plucked a plum blossom and composed this:

Since she was a very well-bred and delightful person there were a great many people courting her, but she did not respond to them. Her father and stepmother both told her that there was more to being a woman and that she should respond occasionally. Thus badgered, she sent this poem to one man:

Her letter said only this, and nothing more.

What she meant was that, though her parents wanted to marry her to someone, she would never marry; she always said so, and precisely as she said, she passed away at twenty-nine, never having married.

(149) Once there were a man and a woman who lived in Kataragi District, Yamato Province. The woman’s face and features were very fair. They had been in love and he had lived with her for years, when this woman became very poor. Because of that, the man, tormented and loving her boundlessly all the while, found a second wife elsewhere. The new wife was a rich woman. He did not love her especially, but when he went to see her she took great pains for him and kept his personal effects clean. He grew accustomed to that prosperous place, and when he would come back his first wife seemed very poor. And because she did not seem at all jealous even though he kept going to the other place, he found it very touching. The truth was that she kept her feelings of boundless jealousy and misery to herself.

Since she still said “Go” even on nights when he thought he would stay, he wondered in his heart if, instead of being jealous of his travels, she was seeing someone else in his absence—otherwise she should resent his going. Then he made a show of going out, but hid in the shrubbery in front of the house to see if a man would come. She came out on the veranda and remained there combing her hair under a very pleasant moon. Since she stayed up very late and lingered there very wistfully, it looked to him as if she were waiting for someone. Then she said to her servant, who was in front of her:

When she had composed this, the man realized that she had been thinking of him and he was sorrow-stricken. His other wife’s house was on the road that goes over Tatsuta Mountain.

Then, as he continued to watch, the woman threw herself down, crying, and she filled a metal bowl with water and set it on her breast. “What on earth can she be doing?” the man wondered, still watching. Then the water began to steam and boil, and she poured it out. Again she filled the bowl. It was too sad to watch, and he ran out. “What feelings can make you do such a thing?” he asked, and sweeping her into his arms, he lay down with her. After that he stayed with her and did not go to the other woman any more.

Much time passed and then the man thought, “I have found that a woman can be feeling terrible things even though she wears an indifferent expression. I wonder how my other wife feels about my not going there anymore?” He went to the other woman’s house. He had not gone there for so long that he was hesitant about going in. He peeked in and saw that although she had always looked her best for him, she was wearing clothing of very shabby appearance, she had a large comb holding the hair from her forehead in the manner of common folk, and she was dishing up her food with her own hand. He was shocked by this, and he came back never to go there again. This man was a scion of the royal family.

(157) A man and a woman lived in Shimotsuke Province. After living with her for years, the man established another wife and his feelings for the first one changed completely. He swept up all of the things that he had in her house and carried them to his new wife’s place. Though she was miserable about it, the first wife let him have his way and just watched. He went away with everything, leaving not so much as a speck of dust. The only thing he left was just a horse’s drinking vessel. And the man even sent his retainer, a lad named Makaji, to get the vessel. The woman remarked to the lad that she would not see him there anymore either, but he stood there and said that he did not see why he could not call on her even if his master was no longer there. Then the woman said, “Would you give your master a message for me? He would never read a letter. Just tell him aloud.” When the lad said that he certainly would, she said to tell him this:

When the lad told the man, this man who had gone off with all those things carried back every single thing and stayed with the woman as before, never looking at another woman.

(168) During the reign of the Fukakusa Mikado, Captain Yoshimine was extremely influential. [. . .] At a time when he was considered a man of faculty by the world at large and boundlessly esteemed by the Mikado he served, this same Mikado passed away. On the night of the Royal Funeral, while everybody was in attendance, this Captain Yoshimine disappeared. His friends and wives wondered what had happened to him and searched everywhere for some time, but there was no sign of him. They thought that he might have become a Buddhist monk or he might have drowned himself, but if he had become a monk they should have had some word of it; therefore he must have drowned himself. The whole world felt sorrow at this thought, to say nothing of his wives and children. They performed purifications and ritual abstentions day and night and frantically offered devotions to the Buddhas and gods of the world, but nothing was heard of him. Yoshimine had three wives. To the two of whom he was only moderately fond he had said, “I do not think I care to go on living in the world.” He gave not the slightest hint of such feelings to the wife he loved boundlessly and who had borne his children. He was afraid that if he told her, he would not be able to carry out his plan in the face of her distress, so he vanished without even coming to see her. This wife thought that it had been terrible of him not to have told her how he felt, no matter what, and crying and fuming about it all the while, she went to Hatsuse Temple. This was at a time when the Captain happened to be at the Temple, for he had indeed become a monk and had traveled throughout the land practicing his religion with only a mino on his back. He overheard his wife tell the priest in charge of memorial services, “. . . and that is the last we heard of him. If he is still among the living, let us see each other once more. If he has killed himself, let me see, in reality or dream, how he is.” She was offering all the Captain’s clothing, even his formal attire, girdles and swords, in return for sutra chanting, and her speech gave way to anguished sobbing.

At first the Captain had been listening to discover who might have come to worship, but now sorrow overwhelmed him as she spoke of his affairs like this and gave away his clothing. “Might I run out to her?” he wondered a thousand times, but each time he thought better of it and stayed where he was, in tears all night long. He could still hear his wife and children speaking. His distress was profound. But he endured the night, crying until morning, and then he saw that the tears that had fallen on his mino and elsewhere were tears of blood. “So there really are such things, the ⁴tears of blood’ from intense crying!” he said. He was to remark later that he had felt he just had to run out to them at that juncture.

Try as she would, the woman was unable to learn anything of her husband. Presently the period of mourning for the Mikado ended. A great crowd of people from the Palace had gone out to the river for the ablutions necessary when removing mourning clothes, when an odd-looking boy came up carrying a piece of oak with writing on it. Someone took it and read:

The handwriting was recognized as that of Captain Yoshimine. They wanted to question the boy who had brought the poem, but though they searched far and wide, he was nowhere to be found.

With this, people realized that the Captain must have become a monk. Nevertheless, no one had any idea where he was. The Consort heard that he was still alive, and she sent a Court valet to search for him in the many monasteries. Whenever the valet heard that the Captain was at a certain place and went there to see, the Captain had vanished again. The valet was unable to meet him. At long last the valet chanced upon the place where the Captain was hiding. Unable to remain hidden, he came out to see the valet. The valet told him that he had come as a messenger from the Consort and related her message: “Since the Mikado is gone and all that remains to me are those persons for whom he had affection, I am grieved that you have vanished and hidden yourself away from the world. Why is it that, even though you are engaging in religious practices in the wilderness, you give us no tidings? I hear that they are weeping and Ianguishing at the place that was your home for lack of news from you. What kind of man are you to cause such anguish?” The monk, weeping, said, “I respectfully acknowledge the royal message. The Mikado’s sacred presence was so much a part of my world that I felt I could no longer live in it after he had departed. I came away to the end of the earth, alone, and waited to die, but strangely enough I still live on. I am deeply grateful that the Consort deigned to inquire after me. And I have never for a moment forgotten my family. Please report that I said:

The valet felt an unparalleled sadness on seeing the present condition of the priest. He had become but a shadow of his former self, and he was wearing only a mino. The valet remembered how impeccable his appearance had been when he was a Captain, and he could not restrain his tears. Yet sad though he was, he could not waste a moment if he was to get out of the mountain depths and back to Court, and he bade the priest a tearful farewell. When he got back he had it reported to the Consort how he had found the monk and what the monk had said. The Consort cried with much anguish, and so did those serving her weep fretfully and feel deeply touched. She tried to send him an answer together with messages from many others, but he was no longer where he had been.

Ono no Komachi, the famed beauty and poet, went to worship, at the beginning of a certain year, at Kiyomizu. She was saying her prayers when she heard an unusually refined priest’s voice reading sutras and dharanis. She was suspicious and, in a casual manner, sent someone to see. She was told that it was a monk wearing only a mino with a flint-box tied on at the waist. The more she listened, the more noble and well-favored the voice sounded, making her think, “This could never be a commoner; I wonder if it is the Captain monk?” To find out what he would reply she sent someone to tell him, “I am cold here at the temple. Please lend me something to wear”:

To this he replied:

At this she was all the more certain that it was the Captain, and she decided, since they had been on speaking terms, to go and talk with him. But when she went, he had vanished without a trace. She made search for him throughout the temple, but he had fled and vanished completely.

(173) Captain Yoshimine no Munesada was going somewhere when, because it began to rain heavily about the time he was passing Fifth Avenue, he took shelter in a dilapidated gateway and peered inside. There was a bark-thatched house five spans square with a godown attached, but there was no person in sight. He walked in and saw a plum tree in very delightful bloom near the steps; a warbler was singing there as well. Behind blinds where he would not have expected anyone to be, someone wearing a light violet robe over a dark red one, a person of good height, whose hair seemed as long as herself, said to herself:

The Captain said in a pleasant tone:

The woman was startled. She had thought no one was there, and feeling that she had let herself be seen at her worst, she fell silent. The man went up onto the veranda. “Why do you not speak?” he said. “It is raining altogether too hard, and I thought that until it ceased . . .” She replied, “It leaks considerably more in here than in the street, I fear.” The time was about the tenth day of the first month. She thrust a cushion out through the blinds, and he pulled it to him and sat down. The borders of the blinds had been nibbled on by bats and were missing here and there. He looked in at the furnishings. The matting had been good in its day, but was now less than satisfactory.

It had begun to grow dark, and he slid silently inside and would not let the woman go into the back part of the house. The woman was vexed, but she had no way to restrain him, and what happened was inevitable. It rained all night long, and then the sky cleared a little early in the morning. When the woman tried to go into the back part of the house, he told her to stay just as she was and he would not let her go.

When the sun was high, the woman’s parents, lacking the means to give their guest the Captain a proper feast, gave to the young valet he had kept with him rock salt to eat and sake to drink, and for the Captain they picked some of the herbs that were growing in the large yard and prepared them by steaming. They served them to him in a bowl, and for chopsticks they broke off blossom-covered branches of the plum tree. On the petals of the blossoms this was written in a very delightful feminine hand:

The man felt very moved on reading this, and pulling the food to him, he ate. The woman was immoderately self-conscious and knelt with her face turned low. The Captain got up and sent his young valet running on an errand. The valet returned shortly with a wagonload of various practical articles. Then, since someone had come to get him, the Captain said he would come again soon and he left.

After that he incessantly visited her in person. He had eaten a myriad kinds of food, but he thought that the food at Fifth Avenue was more wonderful and admirable than any.

Years later the Captain was bereft of the Lord whom he served, and not wanting to see the succeeding reign, he became a monk. He once sent his monk’s stole to the woman of this story for washing, and with it this poem: