Lotus & Other Tales of Medieval Japan

  Illustrations by Shin Fujihira

  Originally published as Chusei Shosetsu-shu,

  Shinchosha, 1993

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  http://www.tuttle.co.jp/~tuttle/

  Published by the Charles E. Tuttle Company, Inc.

  of Rutland, Vermont & Tokyo, Japan

  with editorial offices at

  Osaki Shinagawa-ku, Tokyo 141-0032.

  © 1996 by Charles E. Tuttle Publishing Co., Inc.

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  LCC Card No. 96-61006

  ISBN 978-1-4629-0111-1

  First edition, 1996

  Printed in Japan

  Contents

  Acknowledgments • 7

  Preface • 9

  Heads • 15

  Haseo's Love • 35

  The Nun Oyo • 55

  A Tale of Luck and Riches • 75

  Lazybones Taro • 97

  Lotus • 119

  How the Gods Came to Kumano • 145

  Sansho Dayu • 171

  Acknowledgments

  This translation is dedicated to the memory of the late Professor Edward Copeland of the University of Minnesota, a man of the broadest culture and a dedicated teacher-scholar under whom I first had the privilege of studying Japanese literature as an undergraduate; and to Professor Amy Matsumoto, formerly of the University of Minnesota, a sensitive poet and skillful mentor to whom I have been indebted over the years as teacher, colleague, and friend. Finally, I want to thank Mr. Donald Richie of Tokyo and Ms. Sachiko Usui of the International Center for Research in Japanese Studies in Kyoto, without whose kind help and encouragement this translation would not have been possible.

  —The Translator

  Preface

  Takeshi Umehara (b. 1925) is a distinguished Japanese scholar, administrator, and writer who began with the study of Western philosophy at Kyoto University (which has a strong tradition of philosophical studies, both Western and Eastern) but found himself gradually drawn more and more toward research in early Japanese history, religious thought, and literature. He has written extensively and provocatively about especially enigmatic aspects of Japan's past: Kakusareta jujika ("The Hidden Cross: A Study of the Hōryū-ji," 1972) deals with the mysterious relation between this hugely important religious institution and cultural monument from the seventh century and the figure of its princely patron, Shotoku Taishi, himself a religious, political, and cultural icon through the ages. Minasoko no uta ("Songs from the Depths: A Study of Kakinomoto-no-Hitomaro," 1973) examines the life and work of the most brilliaht poet of the earliest classical poetic anthology, the Man'yoshu. Other works have probed the nature of the struggle between the Jomon and Yayoi cultures in prehistoric and protohistoric Japan (Nihon bōken, "The Japan Adventure," 1988-89); or the nature of Japanese views on the afterlife, which Umehara believes to be both characteristic and formative of the culture (Jigoku no shiso, "The Idea of Hell," 1967; and Nihonjin no anoyō-kan, "Japanese Views on the Next World," 1989). He is currently at work on a full-scale biography of the medieval Buddhist reformer and saint Hōnen and the founding of the Pure Land pietist movement.

  Over the past few years, Umehara has begun a "second career" as a creative writer. First there was a series of plays: Yamato-takeru (1988), Gilgamesh (1988), and Oguri Hangan (1991), dramatic depictions of the careers of great cultural heroes of ancient Japan, Sumeria, and medieval Japan, respectively. Yamato-takeru and Oguri Hangan were performed as new-style "Super Kabuki" by Ichikawa Ennosuke and his troupe, enjoying long runs and popular acclaim. Now Umehara has attempted a new genre, the tale, which is intimately connected with his scholarly interest in medieval Buddhist Japan. He seems to be seeking to present a more personal vision of Japanese culture and, indeed, of human life through this non-dramatic, more private and reflective literary form. Each of the pieces in Eight Tales of Medieval Japan is based upon a medieval model ("medieval" here covering a very broad time-span, from roughly the twelfth through the sixteenth centuries). The original stories are of various types including setsuwa, otogi-zoshi, and sekkyo-bushi. The precise boundaries of these genres are rather difficult to delimit, but they are in general fictional (or fictionalized) stories combining entertainment (comic, erotic, adventurous, bizarre) with moral-religious instruction. They were popular art forms characteristic of the Middle Ages, as more aristocratic, romantic-aesthetic works like The Tale of Genji were of the earlier Court-centered culture. As such, their literary effects are usually quite direct, requiring relatively little learning for their appreciation. The world they depict is full of religious, supernaturalist elements—ghosts appear, oracles are consulted, miracles are performed; and popular Buddhist ideas like the workings of karma through a chain of lifetimes, the compassionate concern of buddhas and bodhisattvas for their devotees, and the perils of folly, anger, and greed form an essential part of the world-picture that underlies these stories. (Some of the original collections have been translated into English, in whole or in part: see, for example, Marian Ury's Tales of Times Now Past and D. E. Mills' A Collection of Tales from Uji, as well as studies and translations of Muromachi period otogi-zoshi by Barbara Ruch, Margaret H. Childs, and several other scholars.

  Umehara has taken these tales and "fleshed them out" in his own way. The Buddhist (or Shintō, or folk-religious) elements are preserved, though often with touches of irony. The purely entertaining features tend to be expanded and elaborated in a highly individual manner. One thinks, for example, of the literary fun that is had with the "artful farting" at the center of "A Tale of Luck and Riches": the mock-learned references to Zeami's theories of Noh performance, the moral revelations of vanity and covetousness occasioned by rivalry over the new "wind-instrument," etc. If many of the elements of the original have been preserved (folk-religion, didacticism, humorous scatology), other aspects seem new: sympathy for the plight of the defeated Fukutomi almost balances admiration for the successful Takamuku and the wiley wife who is responsible for his rise. (And yet we last glimpse Takamuku, in a final reversal of fortune, literally caught in the jaws of his defeated rival's terrifying wife.) Two characteristic types of the medieval period are the monk and the soldier. They are as representative of the culture of the Middle Ages as the courtier and court-lady are of the Heian period or the townsman of Edo. There had always been military men, of course, but now they dominated political and social life in a new, more direct way Buddhism too had long been an important feature of Japanese life; but during the Kamakura period, the originally foreign faith was fully naturalized, with new sects springing up that appealed to a far broader spectrum of people than the earlier, more scholastic and elitist schools had done. One of the stories in this collection, "Lotus," is an especially good example of the trends of the new age, for its hero is both a soldier and a monk, an actual historical figure who appears in, for example, the Life of Hōnen in forty-eight fascicles, on parts of which this story is based. As the valiant warrior Kumagai Jirō Naozane, he features in the epic military chronicle The Tale of the Heike. As the repentant priest Rensei-bō, he appears in the Noh play Atsumori, calming the angry ghost of the youth he killed in battle many years before. In Umehara's story, he is a monk intent above all on salvation in the form of rebirth in Amida Buddha's Pure Land, attainable through faith and repetition of the Holy Name. But as a warrior, he had always been the one to lead the charge on the enemy camp; and now, as a Pure Land devotee, he wanted only the highest, most difficult "grade" of rebirth. And so we have a tale of double conversion: from proud, fierce warrior to earnest, but still quite arrogant, believer; and from that to a truly humble man of faith, now at last capable of the
highest form of salvation. The large religious concern is typical of much of Umehara's writing, as is the accompanying comic realism of detail, which might seem to undercut it but in fact does not. Indeed, one key to Umehara's literature seems to me to be the successful harmonizing of apparent opposites: of seriousness with comedy, often of a rather broad sort; of Buddhist compassion with unembarrassed accounts of cruelty; of sensitivity to the "religion of beauty" and delight in frankly scatological detail. Almost all of the tales are full of these apparent contradictions—one thinks of the terrible cruelty and crassness of Sansho Dayū's son Saburō toward the innocent children set against the revelation of his love for his reprobate father. And though, unlike Mori Ōgai in his earlymodern version of the story, Umehara refuses to allow the fathers head to stay on his shoulders, he does assure us that even this villain can be saved if he will only recite the Buddha's name with faith before his head is finally separated from his trunk: "Recite the Nembutsu, then, and let the sound of this saw against your flesh and bones be like the sound of gongs and wooden drums in a temple liturgy." Western readers in particular may be startled or offended at such a blending of barbarous cruelty, aesthetic refinement, and religious sensibility. But this kind of shocking juxtaposition is a central feature of Umehara's writings, very evident also in his earlier plays for the Kabuki stage, Yamato-takeru and Oguri Hangan. Umehara generally delights in challenging the conventions and breaking the taboos of contemporary Japanese culture. The Western reader, therefore, must not be too shocked if his or her own taboos are violated, or rather, simply ignored. The grand tradition of liberal humanism, like the lesser canons of "good taste" or "the normal," and contemporary strictures against any arguably value-laden observations based on group differences (whether of gender, ethnicity, or social class) are, none of them, taken as absolute—or, it may be, as very important at all. Thus, Western readers who read attentively should find themselves challenged on several levels by these post-modern medieval Japanese tales.

  —The Translator

  Heads

  When the Steward Nikaido Masakiyo had been assigned to the province of Bizen some twenty years before, he was told that there had been a "Kingdom of Iron" there in former times. If he recalled that story now, it was because of the discovery of a strange old tumulus.

  Since the civil war between the Heike and Genji clans, the world had been in confusion, with robbers impudently going about their business as they liked. They were not content with stealing the possessions of the living; the treasures of the ancient dead who slept in the tumuli were also taken as if by right. And even after the military government was established in Kamakura and a measure of order restored, this particular kind of thievery did not cease.

  The land of Bizen has as many ancient tumuli as the provinces of Yamato and Kawachi. The Steward had heard that one of these had been broken into: the interior of the tomb was now visible, and it seemed to be filled with objects made of iron. The Steward wanted to see for himself.

  Accompanied by his secretary Enkō, whom he had brought from Kamakura when assigned to the Bizen post, he visited the site. It was true: the tomb had been broken open, and various iron objects were visible through the hole the robbers had made. The Steward ordered his retainers to dig away more earth and excavate the tomb. It turned out to be a huge one, centered on a fine stone chamber with helmets, armor, swords, mirrors, and comma-shaped beads of semiprecious stone. Judging from these funerary objects, it seemed clear that it was the tomb of a king who had once ruled over this region. However, around the dead ruler were ranged, to his right, hoes, scythes, ploughshares and other farming implements, and to his left, weapons of war— swords, halberds, and arrowheads. These were placed close together in an orderly fashion.

  Surprised, the Steward asked his secretary, "When was this tomb built? And why are there so many iron objects here?" After pausing to consider, the man answered, "It is a very strange tomb, sir. I've never seen one like it, or read of one either. No doubt the man buried here was the head of the powerful clan who ruled this whole area. He must have held the high rank of omi or muraji and ruled not only this province of Bizen but the whole land of Kibi. I imagine a king wealthy and powerful enough to contest with the great king of Yamato for hegemony. And it would seem that the basis of his power was iron. I have heard that in ancient times Bizen produced large amounts of iron-sand and that methods of smelting were well developed. Given so much iron and advanced techniques, this ruler would have been able to produce iron implements of excellent quality. He'd have made his country rich by selling things made of iron to other countries. At the same time, his own army would have had the latest sort of good sharp weaponry, and been able to launch campaigns against distant Kanto in the east and Kyushu in the southwest. The land of Kibi may well have surpassed even Yamato itself in power. If the man who sleeps here was indeed a ruler of that sort, I suppose it would have been around the time of the Emperor Nintoku, when Kibi is supposed to have been at its richest and strongest. I can say nothing more about it, ignorant person that I am."

  The Steward did not much care for this last "ignorant person that I am" business. No matter what question was put to him, the secretary always ended his reply with this formula, which sounded to the Steward like "I am a learned person—see how much I know! You, I daresay, know very little." But apart from this annoying phrase, the secretary's reply was very satisfactory.

  The Steward thought of this hero of former days who had ruled this land through the power of iron. What had he looked like? How many wives did he have? In the midst of such reflections, one idea in particular flitted through his mind: Might it not be possible to create something new by recasting these farm tools and weapons, which looked to be over a thousand years old? As was always the case with him, no sooner had the idea presented itself than he was determined to see it done. He addressed his secretary: "I like these iron things; you can still feel the old ruler's strength of purpose in them. I want to melt them down and make something new. How about it? Do you think it's possible?"

  The secretary paused to think before replying: "I have never heard of anyone recasting iron that is over a thousand years old and making something new of it, nor have I read of it being done. Yet I think it is technically possible; and indeed, since it is my lord's command, it must be made possible, even if it were not. Fortunately, there are many master swordsmiths in this province of Bizen, and there is one in particular whom I have in mind. He's a bit of an eccentric, but I daresay he'll manage to do the job for us."

  The Steward was overjoyed at this news and promptly sent for the master swordsmith. Hearing it was by order of the Lord Steward, he ran so fast he was out of breath, wondering all the while what on earth this august summons might mean. The secretary explained the problem, and the swordsmith, after carefully handling the ancient objects, said to the Steward, "These are wonderful weapons, wonderful farm tools! There must have been a truly great swordsmith in this area, one none of us could equal nowadays. These things are so well made that even after a thousand years, they are still whole. It should be perfectly possible to make new objects from them."

  The Steward was a bit stunned to discover that the whim that had entered his mind just a few minutes ago was in fact about to be realized.

  "My lord, What is it you wish made from this iron?" asked the swordsmith.

  To tell the truth, the Steward wasn't sure. Discomfited by the suddenness of the question, he gave an unexpected reply. "An iron pillar. An iron pillar as big as a man. A gleaming, solid, heavy-weight iron pillar. ... I leave the exact form to you."

  Now both the secretary and the swordsmith were amazed at this demand for an iron pillar; but no more so, perhaps, than the Steward himself, though the demand was his own. However, an order that once issued from the Steward's mouth was not to be countermanded. That would impair the dignity of his office. Noting that the secretary seemed on the verge of saying something, the Steward said, in a once-and-for-all manner, "Right! You're to
make me an iron pillar. That's what I want!" What could the secretary and the swordsmith do but say "Yes, my lord," and stand in awe?

  The swordsmith began work on the pillar the very next day. First he melted down the old iron. Much of it was in fact corroded, and only a small portion could actually be used. But even so, there was enough remaining from the mass of objects filling the ancient tumulus to make the single iron pillar the Steward desired. The swordsmith carefully considered such matters as what form the pillar should take, and how it ought to be polished. Finally, three months after receiving the order, the swordsmith had the piece done and ready for delivery to the Steward's mansion.

  It was truly a strange work of art. So heavy was it, it could not be moved no matter how hard a person might push against it. This iron pillar had a kingly air of authority, with something of the ancient ruler of Bizen about it, and something too of the present Steward (who enjoyed the complete confidence of the Lord Regent in Kamakura). It gleamed with a dull radiance like old silver.

  The Steward and his secretary were of course impressed with the results of the swordsmith's labors, but they were bothered somewhat by the pillars shape. It was long and thick and rounded at the top, closely resembling the male organ.

  "Very well done indeed, and worthy of your high reputation as a craftsman. But I'm afraid I don't altogether care for the shape. ..."

  The silversmith's response to the Steward's reservation was clever: "Could you be referring to a certain likeness in form to the thing that every man carries on his person? Well, I can't deny there is some resemblance. But, you see, when you're looking for the ideal shape for a pillar, the most beautiful one, this is what you end up with. I didn't intentionally model it on the thing; I just sought out the most perfect form, and it came out looking like this. Now, persons who don't understand about Art might have other ideas of their own, but the truth is that this is the ultimate form achievable in the aesthetic quest!"