Anthology of Japanese Literature (41 page)

The holy images were on display in the two halls of the Ch
Å«
son Temple, known to me already by tales of its wonders. The Sutra Hall contains statues of the three generals of Hiraizumi; in the Golden Hall are their coffins and an enshrined Buddhist trinity. The "seven precious things" had been scattered and lost, the pearl-inlaid doors were broken by the wind, and the pillars fretted with gold were flaked by the frost and snow. Just as I was thinking that soon the temple would crumble and dissolve into grass, I noticed that it had recently been enclosed, and the roof tiled to withstand the wind and rain. A monument of a thousand years will be preserved a while longer.

We lingered to look at the road stretching far off to the north, then stopped at the village of Iwate. We intended to cross into Dewa Province through the Barrier of Shitomae. Few travelers journey this road, and we were looked upon with suspicion by the guards at the border. Only with much trouble did we manage to get through.

By the time we had climbed the big mountain there, the sun had already set. Discovering a guard's house, we asked for a place to sleep. For three days a terrible storm raged, and we had no choice but to remain in the mountains.

Our host told us, "The road to Dewa lies through the mountains, and is so badly marked that you had best get a guide to show the way." "Very well," I said, and hired one, a strong young fellow who wore a scimitar at his side and carried an oak stick. He walked ahead and, thinking uneasily that today we were certain to meet with danger, we followed him. The journey was just as our host had described it—high mountains densely overgrown in which not a single bird-cry was heard. It was dark under the trees, so dark that it was like walking at midnight. Feeling as though dust were raining from the edges of the clouds, we pushed our way through clumps of bamboo, crossed streams, and stumbled over rocks, until we finally reached the town of Mogami, our bodies bathed in a cold sweat.

When our guide left us he said with a smile, "Something unpleasant always happens on this road. I was lucky to have been able to lead you here safely." To hear such words, even after our safe arrival, made our hearts pound.

At Obanasawa I called on Seif
Å«
, a man of noble aspiration, rich though he is. Since he often visits Kyoto, he knew how it feels to be a traveler, and detained us for several days, showering every attention on us, out of sympathy for our long journey.

In the domain of Yamagata is a mountain temple called the Ry
Å«
shaku, a place noted for its tranquillity. People had urged us "just to take a look," and we had turned back at Obanasawa to make the journey, a distance of about fifteen miles. It was still daylight when we arrived. After asking a priest at the foot of the mountain for permission to spend the night, we climbed to the temple at the summit. Boulders piled on rocks had made this mountain, and old pines and cedars grew on its slopes. The earth and stones were worn and slippery with moss. At the summit the doors of the hall were all shut, and not a sound could be heard. Circling around the cliffs and crawling among the rocks we reached the main temple. In the splendor of the scene and the silence I felt a wonderful peace penetrate my heart.

After having seen so many splendid views of both land and sea, my heart was stirred by the thought of Kisagata. From the port of Sakata we journeyed to the northeast, climbing over hills, following along the shore, and plodding through the sand, a distance of about twenty miles in all. As the sun was sinking in the sky, a breeze from the sea stirred up the sand, and a misty rain started to fall, hiding Ch
ō
kai Mountain. We groped ahead in the darkness. I felt sure that if Kisagata were exquisite in the rain, it would prove no less wonderful when it cleared. We squeezed into a fisherman's thatch-covered hut, and waited for the rain to stop.

The next morning the weather cleared beautifully. When the morning sun rose in all its splendor, we took a boat on the lagoon of Kisagata. We put in first at Noin Island, where we visited the remains of the hut where Noin lived in seclusion for three years. On the opposite shore, when we landed from our boat, we saw an old cherry tree, which stands as a memento of Saigyo, who wrote of it:
²

Near the water is a tomb they say is the Empress Jing
Å«
's, and the temple standing near it is called the Ebb-and-Flow-Pearl Temple. I had never before heard that the Empress had come to this region. I wonder if it can be true.

Seated within a little room of the temple, I rolled up the bamboo blinds and took in all at once the whole spectacle of Kisagata. To the south loomed Mount Chokai, supporting the heavens; its image was reflected in the water. I could see the road to the west as far as Muyamuya Barrier, and to the east an embankment along the water, over which the road leads to Akita far in the distance. The sea is to the north. The place where the waves of the sea break into the lagoon is called Tide-crossing. Kisagata is about two miles in either direction.

In appearance Kisagata is much like Matsushima, but there is a difference. Matsushima seems to be smiling, while Kisagata wears a look of sorrow. There is a sadness mingled with the silent calm of Kisagata as though of a troubled soul.

Today we passed through the most dangerous places in the north country, known as "Parents Forget their Children," "Children Forget their Parents," "Dogs Go Back," and "Colts Return." I was so exhausted that I drew my pillow to me and lay down as soon as we reached an inn. I could hear the voices of young women, probably two of them, talking in a room one removed from ours at the western end of the house. The voice of an old man also joined in the conversation, and I gathered from their words that the women were prostitutes from Niigata. They were on their way to visit the shrine at Ise, and the man had escorted them here, as far as the Barrier of Ichifuri. He was to return the next day, and the women were writing letters and giving him little messages to take back.

"We are wandering by the shores that the white waves wash. Daughters of fishermen, we have fallen to this miserable state. What retribution awaits us for our inconstant vows, the sins we daily commit? We are wretched indeed. . . ." These were the words I heard as I fell asleep.

The next morning, when we were about to start on our journey, the two women approached us in tears, saying, "The sadness of a journey to an uncertain destination leaves us very uneasy and depressed—may we follow behind you, even if out of sight? Grant us this great favor, you who wear priest's garments, and help us to attain the way of the Buddha."

I answered, "I am very sorry, but we have a great many places to visit. You would do much better to go along with some ordinary travelers. You are under the protection of the gods, and I am sure that no harm will come to you." With these words we left, but I could not help feeling sorry for them.

TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE

1
From a famous poem by Tu Fu (712-770).

2
See page 192.

3
A famous Chinese beauty (Hsi-shih) known for her mournful expression.

PROSE POEM ON THE UNREAL DWELLING

[
Genj
Å«
an no Fu
]
by Matsuo Bash
ō

My body, now close to fifty years of age, has become an old tree that bears bitter peaches, a snail which has lost its shell, a bagworm separated from its bag; it drifts with the winds and clouds that know no destination. Morning and night I have eaten traveler's fare, and have held out for alms a pilgrim's wallet. On my last journey my face was burnt by the sun of Matsushima, and I wetted my sleeve at the holy mountain. I longed to go as far as that shore where the puffins cry and the Thousand Islands of the Ainu can be seen in the distance, but my companion drew me back, telling how dangerous so long a journey would be with my sickness. I yielded. Then I bruised my heels along the rough coast of the northern sea, where each step in the sand dunes is painful. This year I roamed by the shores of the lake in quest of a place to stay, a single stalk of reed where the floating nest of the grebe might be borne to rest by the current. This is my Unreal Dwelling, and it stands by the mountain called Kokubu. An ancient shrine is near, which so purifies my senses that I feel cleansed of the dust of the world. This abandoned thatched hut was where the uncle of the warrior Suganuma retreated from the world. He went away some eight years ago; his dwelling remains behind at these crossroads of unreality. Indeed it is true that all the delusions of the senses are summed up in the one word
unreality,
and there is no way to forget even for a moment change and its swiftness.

The mountains do not extend to any great depth, but the houses are spaced well apart. Stone Mountain is before my hut, and behind stands Gorge Mountain. From the lofty peaks descends a fragrant wind from the south, and the northern wind steeped in the distant sea is cool. It was the beginning of the fourth moon when I arrived, and the azaleas were still blossoming. Mountain wistaria hung on the pines. Cuckoos frequently flew past, and there were visits from the swallows. Not a peck from a woodpecker disturbed me, and in my joy I called to the wood dove, "Come, bird of solitude, and make me melancholy!" I could not but be happy—the view would not have blushed before the loveliest scenes of China.

Between Hieda Mountain and the peak of Hira, I can see the pine of Karasaki engulfed in mist, and at times a castle glittering in the trees; when the rain clears by the bridge of Seta, sunset lingers in the pine groves. Mikami Mountain looks like Fuji, and reminds me of my old cottage at its foot. Nearby on Tanagami Mountain I have sought the traces of the men of old. Sometimes, wishing to enjoy an uninterrupted view, I climb the peak behind my hut. On the summit I have built a shelf of pine boughs, on which I spread a round straw mat: this I call the "monkey's perch." I am no follower of that eccentric who built a nest in a crab-apple tree where he drank with his friends, for that was in the city and noisy; nor would I give up my perch for the hut which Wang the Sage once tied together. On the lofty summit I sit, picking lice.

Once in a while, when I feel energetic, I gather firewood and dip spring water. I love the drops which fall tok-tok along the green of a single spray of fern, and nothing is so light as my stove.

The man who used to live here had most refined tastes, and did not clutter up the hut even with objects of art. Apart from the household shrine there is just the little alcove for hanging nightclothes. Once, when he heard that the High Priest of Mount Kora was in the capital, he asked him for a plaque to decorate the alcove. The priest nonchalantly took his brush in hand and wrote the words "Unreal Dwelling." On the back he inscribed his name to serve as a memento to later people who might see it.

In this hut where I live as a hermit, as a passing traveler, there is no need to accumulate household possessions. All I have is a broad-brimmed hat of nettle wood and a rush raincoat, which I hang on a post above my pillow. During the day the old gentleman who looks after the shrine or villagers from the foot of the mountain come here and pass the day in stories of a kind to which I am unaccustomed, how boars are grubbing up the rice seedlings, or about rabbits in-testing the bean fields. Or when, as very rarely happens, visitors come from afar, we sit calmly at night, the moonlight our companion, arguing with our shadows.

But I should not have it thought from what I have said that I am devoted to solitude and seek only to hide my traces in the wilderness. Rather, I am like a sick man weary of people, or someone who is tired of the world. What is there to say? I have not led a clerical life, nor have I served in normal pursuits. Ever since I was very young I have been fond of my eccentric ways, and once I had come to make them the source of a livelihood, temporarily I thought, I discovered myself bound for life to the one line of my art, incapable and talentless as I am. I labor without results, am worn of spirit and wrinkled of brow. Now, when autumn is half over, and every morning and each evening brings changes to the scene, I wonder if that is not what is meant by dwelling in unreality. And here too I end my words.

TRANSLATED BY DONALD KEENE