Anthology of Japanese Literature (9 page)

THE TOSA DIARY

[
Tosa Nikki
]
by Ki no Tsurayuki

The "Tosa Diary," describing the return to Kyoto of a governor of Tosa Province, was probably written in the year 936, from notes taken on the voyage. Although the fiction is maintained throughout that the diary is being written by one of the ladies in the party, it is reasonably certain that the author is the governor himself, the celebrated poet Ki no Tsurayuki.

Tosa Province is the ancient name for the present K
ō
chi Prefecture, in the south of Shikoku Island.

Diaries are things written by men, I am told. Nevertheless I am writing one, to see what a woman can do.

Twenty-first day, twelfth moon
(the year does not matter): Late at night we made our departure from the house. But I must set things down in a little more detail. A certain gentleman, after four or five years in the province, had finished his term of office as governor, and now, with all the usual round of business concluded and papers of release duly received, he set out from the official residence and moved to a place near the point of embarkation. Before he went, however, various people, acquaintances and strangers alike, came to take their leave. The farewells were particularly distressing for those who had been closely associated with him over these years. There was an endless coming and going all day long, and the commotion lasted well into the night.

Twenty-second day:
We offered up prayers for a calm and peaceful voyage—"all the way to Izumi Province." Fujiwara no Tokizane arranged a farewell celebration "for the road" (not very appropriate for a ship, perhaps) at which every one, from master to servant, became disgustingly drunk.

Twenty-third day
: A man called Yagi no Yasunori is here. He appears to have not the remotest connection with the provincial government service, but he nevertheless arranged a farewell celebration for us on a magnificent scale. Perhaps the fault lies in the governor himself, but the general attitude of the people of Tosa is that an ex-governor no longer concerns them and is not worth the trouble of a visit. Still, there are some of the kinder sort who have not allowed this to deter them from paying their respects. In their case it cannot be said that they come in the hope of future advantages, or for the sake of prestige.

Twenty-fourth day:
The provincial overseer of religion arrived to give us a farewell party. Every one, high and low, old and young, was fuddled with drink. Even people who have never learned to write the figure one were merrily dancing figures of eight.

Twenty-fifth day:
A messenger arrived from the official residence, it seems, with an invitation for the ex-governor. The ex-governor accepted. The various entertainments lasted all day and night, and well into the next morning.

Twenty-sixth day:
Today they were still at the new governor's residence, feasting and making merry. Even the servants have received presents, I am told. Chinese verses were declaimed, and the new governor, his guest, and others joined in an exchange of extempore Japanese poems. I cannot write Chinese verse in this diary, but one of the Japanese poems, composed by the new governor, went like this:

For your sake I left Kyoto, and journeyed here to meet you—
I journeyed in vain if I came but to lose you.

Before taking his leave the former governor replied:

Over the white-crested waves I came, and following came another.
Where I return, he shall return—and who is that other but you?

There were more poems, by others, but apparently none of them was particularly well constructed. After exchanging a few more words the former governor and the present governor descended together into the garden. Present and former masters of the house grasped hands, wished each other good fortune—in accents un-steadied by wine—and went their respective ways.

Twenty-seventh day:
Our boats left Otsu, rowing a course for Urado. As they cast off, I thought sadly of my master's young daughter—born in Kyoto, and suddenly taken from us in this remote province. While recording, in these last days, the busy preparations for our departure, I have said nothing on this matter; but now that we are at last under way on the return voyage to Kyoto, my only sensations are of grief and longing for a young girl who is not coming with us. There are others, too, who could not bear the sadness of it. Some one wrote this poem:

Kyoto bound, our thoughts are heavy yet
With grief for one who never shall return.

Later another poem was composed:

Forgetful, "Wherever is that child?" I cry
—And, oh, the sadness of the truth!

Meanwhile we reached a place called Kako Point, where we were overtaken by the brothers of the new governor and other friends, who brought us presents of sake and food. The whole company disembarked onto the beach, and we talked to each other of the sorrows of parting. Of all the people at the governor's residence, these who have now come are said to have shown themselves the most kind and considerate on that occasion. . . . While we were exchanging poems the chief pilot—a man of no sensibility—having taken his fill of sake and thinking it high time to be off, announced: "The tide is full. There should be a wind soon"; and we made ready to re-embark. . . . This evening we anchored at Urado, where we were later overtaken by Fujiwara no Tokizane, Tachibana no Suehira, and others.

Proceeding eastward from Urado along the Pacific coast of Shikoku, they reach a harbor called
Ō
minato the following night. Here they are detained for nine days, waiting for clear weather. After a disappointing New Year's Day, which only serves to increase their general yearning for Kyoto, they occupy themselves in receiving visitors and composing poems.

Ninth day, second moon:
Early in the morning we left Sminato, and made for the anchorage of Naha. A large number of people gathered to see us off, determined not to leave us so long as we remain within the confines of the provincial government district. . . .

From now on we row farther and farther out to sea. It is for this reason that all these people gathered here to see us off. Little by little, at every stroke of the oars, the watchers standing by the shore slip away into the distance, just as we on the boats, too, grow more and more indistinct to them. On the shore, perhaps, there are things they would like to say to us. On the boats there are thoughts we wish to convey to them—but to no avail. Even so, though we can expect no reply, we compose this last poem:

No courier have we, and though with heavy hearts
We leave—perhaps they'll never know we grieved.

Soon we pass the pine-covered beaches of Uta. Pines beyond number! How many tens of centuries have they stood there? Waves wash the roots of each tree, and from each topmost branch a crane soars into the air. We watched in tireless fascination. Someone on the boat recited this poem:

As far as the eye can see, on each pine top there rests a crane
—Each crane to each pine, perhaps, a faithful companion these thousand years!

The poem, however, cannot compare with the sight itself. As we proceed in this manner, absorbed in the scenery, night gradually draws on. The mountains and sea grow dark. Soon it becomes impossible to distinguish east from west, and for warning of a change in the weather we must rely completely on the pilot's judgment. Even the men, unaccustomed to such a situation, show signs of anxiety. With the women it is much worse—we hide our heads in the bottom of the boat and sob. But while we are in this sad condition, the pilot and the boatmen sing songs, completely unconcerned:

In the spring fields lonely I cry.
My hands I have cut, I have cut,
Gathering herbs in the sharp pampas grass.
And will my parents eat these herbs,
Or are they for my husband's mother?
Oh, I wish I had never got married!

or:

Where is that lad who came last night?
I'll ask him for the money.
"I'll pay tomorrow," he said—but he lied.
He's brought no money, of course, but worse—
He hasn't come himself!

There are many others besides, but I shall not write them down. The sea grows rougher, but listening to these songs and to the boatmen's laughter we feel more easy at heart, and at last, after a long day's voyage, we reach harbor. An old gentleman and an old lady have meanwhile fallen sick, and they retire to bed without supper.

Tenth day:
Today we remain at this harbor of Naha.

The following day they proceed to Murotsu, their last stopping place within the province of Tosa. Here they are detained by bad weather for five days.

Seventeenth day:
The clouds have cleared, and in the early hours before dawn there is a fine clear moon. We set out in our boats. A perfect image of the clouds above is reflected in the bottom of the sea—it must have been on a night like this that the ancient poet wrote of "oars piercing the moon on the waves, the boat traversing skies in the sea's depths." At least, those are his words so far as I remember. Someone composed this poem on a similar theme:

As we row over the moon in the sea bottom,
Will our oars be entangled in a Katsura tree?

Hearing this, another said:

Gazing down, we row across a firmament
Beneath the water—how small we feell

As we proceed it grows gradually lighter. "Dark clouds have suddenly appeared!" shouts the pilot. "It will blow, I think. I'm turning the boat back!" We return to the harbor amid rain, feeling miserable.

They wait for several more days at Murotsu, for a chance to round Muroto Cape.

Twenty-first day:
At about the hour of the Hare we set out once more. All the other boats move out at the same time, so that, as we look around us, it seems as if the early spring seas are already dotted with fallen autumn leaves. Perhaps in answer to our constant prayers, the wind no longer blows, and we row along in bright sunshine. ... As we continue on our way, talking of this and that, the master of the boat anxiously scans the seas. It seems that, now that we are leaving the bounds of the province, there is a danger that pirates may seek vengeance on the ex-governor. As we think of this, the sea once more becomes a place of terror. All of us have grown white-haired in these last weeks. Truly, an age of seventy or eighty years is soon reached on the sea!

Tell us, Lord of the Islands, which is the whitest—
The surf on the rocks or the snow on our heads?

Ask him, pilot!

Twenty-second day:
We set out from last night's harbor. Mountains are visible in the far distance. A boy of eight—looking even less than his years—was amazed to discover that, as our boat moves, the mountains appear to move with us. He composed this poem:

Viewed from a moving boat, even mountains move—
But do the mountain pines know this?

It is a fitting poem for a child. Today the sea is rough. Around the rocks the foam is like driving snow, and the waves themselves are flowers in bloom:

A wave is but a single thing, we're told; but from its hue
You'd think it was a mixture—flowers and snow!

Twenty-third day:
The sun appears, but is soon obscured by cloud. Since we have been told that this particular area is infested by pirates, we pray for the protection of the gods and Buddhas. . . .

Twenty-sixth day:
Being told again (with what truth, I do not know) that pirates are on our tracks, we started out at about midnight, and on our way made offerings to the gods. The pilot cast our paper charms into the sea, and as they drifted off to the east he cried: "In the same direction in which these offerings drift, vouchsafe that this vessel may speed!" Hearing this, a young girl made the poem:

Blow steadily, wind, behind our boat, even as you blow
These charms offered to the ocean gods.

At about this time the wind was good, and the pilot—with an air of self-importance, and with evident relief—ordered the sails to be raised. Hearing his words of command we women, young and old alike, were overjoyed, feeling that Kyoto is not far off now. . . .

The next two days are stormy, and the boats remain in harbor—the place is not specified, but it is presumably somewhere in the region of the present city of Tokushima. On the twenty-ninth day of the second moon they move on to Naruto, and the following day they make for Awaji Island and the mainland.

Thirtieth day:
The wind and rain have stopped. Having heard that pirates operate only by day, we started at about midnight, rowing past the Awa whirlpool. It was pitch dark and we could see to neither right nor left. As we passed the whirlpool men and women alike prayed fervently to the gods and Buddhas. Near dawn we passed a place called Nushima, and then Tanagawa. Pressing on in great haste, we arrived at Nada in Izumi Province. Today there has been nothing approaching a wave on the sea—it seems as if the gods and Buddhas have granted us their protection. It is now the thirty-ninth day from when we first embarked. Now that we have reached Izumi Province, there is no need to worry about pirates.