The Nō Plays Of Japan, by Arthur Waley--The Project Gutenberg eBook

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ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

The theatre of the West is the last stronghold of realism. No one treats painting or music as mere transcripts of life. But even pioneers of stage-reform in France and Germany appear to regard the theatre as belonging to life and not to art. The play is an organized piece of human experience which the audience must as far as possible be allowed to share with the actors.

A few people in America and Europe want to go in the opposite direction. They would like to see a theatre that aimed boldly at stylization and simplification, discarding entirely the pretentious lumber of 19th century stageland. That such a theatre exists and has long existed in Japan has been well-known here for some time. But hitherto very few plays have been translated in such a way as to give the Western reader an idea of their literary value. It is only through accurate scholarship that the “soul of Nō” can be known to the West. Given a truthful rendering of the texts the American reader will supply for himself their numerous connotations, a fact which Japanese writers do not always sufficiently realize. The Japanese method of expanding a five-line poem into a long treatise in order to make it intelligible to us is one which obliterates the structure of the original design. Where explanations are necessary they have been given in footnotes. I have not thought it necessary to point out (as a Japanese critic suggested that I ought to have done) that, for example, the “mood” of Komachi is different from the “mood” of Kumasaka. Such differences will be fully apparent to the American reader, who would not be the better off for knowing the technical name of each kurai or class of Nō. Surely the Japanese student of Shakespeare does not need to be told that the kurai of “Hamlet” is different from that of “Measure for Measure”?

It would be possible to burden a book of this kind with as great a mass of unnecessary technicality as irritates us in a smart sale-catalogue of Japanese Prints. I have avoided such terms to a considerable extent, treating the plays as literature, not as some kind of Delphic mystery.

In this short introduction I shall not have space to give a complete description of modern Nō, nor a full history of its origins. But the reader of the translations will find that he needs some information on these points. I have tried to supply it as concisely as possible, sometimes in a schematic rather than a literary form.

These are some of the points about which an American reader may wish to know more:

(1) THE NŌ STAGE.

Something of its modern form may be seen from Plate II and from the plans on pp. 10-13. The actual stage (A) is about 18 feet square. On the boards of the back wall is painted a pine-tree; the other sides are open. A gallery (called hashigakari) leads to the green-room, from which it is separated by a curtain which is raised to admit the actor when he makes his entry. The audience sit either on two or three sides of the stage. The chorus, generally in two rows, sit (or rather squat) in the recess (O). The musicians sit in the recess (J) at the back of the stage, the stick-drum nearest the “gallery,” then the two hand-drums and the flute. A railing runs round the musician’s recess, as also along the gallery. To the latter railing are attached three real pine-branches, marked S in the plan. They will be seen in Plate II. The stage is covered by a roof of its own, imitating in form the roof of a Shintō temple.

(2) THE PERFORMERS.

(a) The Actors.

The first actor who comes on to the stage (approaching from the gallery) is the waki or assistant. His primary business is to explain the circumstances under which the principal actor (called shite or “doer”) came to dance the central dance of the play. Each of these main actors (waki and shite) has “adjuncts” or “companions.”

Some plays need only the two main actors. Others use as many as ten or even twelve. The female rôles are of course taken by men. The waki is always a male rôle.

(b) The Chorus.

This consists of from eight to twelve persons in ordinary native dress seated in two rows at the side of the stage. Their sole function is to sing an actor’s words for him when his dance-movements pre[19]vent him from singing comfortably. They enter by a side-door before the play begins and remain seated till it is over.

Nearest to the gallery sits the “big-drum,” whose instrument rests on the ground and is played with a stick. This stick-drum is not used in all plays.

Next comes a hand-drummer who plays with thimbled finger; next a second who plays with the bare hand.

Finally, the flute. It intervenes only at stated intervals, particularly at the beginning, climax and end of plays.

COSTUME.

Though almost wholly banishing other extrinsic aids, the Nō relies enormously for its effects on gorgeous and elaborate costume. Some references to this will be found in Oswald Sickert’s letters at the end of my book.

Masks are worn only by the shite (principal actor) and his subordinates. The shite always wears a mask if playing the part of a woman or very old man. Young men, particularly warriors, are usually unmasked. In child-parts (played by boy-actors) masks are not worn. The reproduction of a female mask will be found on Plate I. The masks are of wood. Many of those still in use are of great antiquity and rank as important specimens of Japanese sculpture.

PROPERTIES.

The properties of the Nō stage are of a highly conventionalized kind. An open frame-work represents a boat; another differing little from it denotes a chariot. Palace, house, cottage, hovel are all represented by four posts covered with a roof. The fan which the actor usually carries often does duty as a knife, brush or the like. Weapons are more realistically represented. The short-sword, belt-sword, pike, spear and Chinese broad-sword are carried; also bows and arrows.

DANCING AND ACTING.

Every Nō play (with, I think, the sole exception of Hachi no Ki, translated on p. 100) includes a mai or dance, consisting usually of[20] slow steps and solemn gestures, often bearing little resemblance to what is in America associated with the word “dance.” When the shite dances, his dance consists of five “movements” or parts; a “subordinate’s” dance consists of three. Both in the actors’ miming and in the dancing an important element is the stamping of beats with the shoeless foot.

THE PLAYS.

The plays are written partly in prose, partly in verse. The prose portions serve much the same purpose as the iambics in a Greek play. They are in the Court or upper-class colloquial of the 14th century, a language not wholly dead to-day, as it is still the language in which people write formal letters.

The chanting of these portions is far removed from singing; yet they are not “spoken.” The voice falls at the end of each sentence in a monotonous cadence.

A prose passage often gradually heightens into verse. The chanting, which has hitherto resembled the intoning of a Roman Catholic priest, takes on more of the character of “recitativo” in opera, occasionally attaining to actual song. The verse of these portions is sometimes irregular, but on the whole tends to an alternation of lines of five and seven syllables.

The verse of the lyric portions is marked by frequent use of pivot-words [1] and puns, particularly puns on place-names. The 14th century Nō-writer, Seami, insists that pivot-words should be used sparingly and with discretion. Many Nō-writers did not follow this advice; but the use of pivot-words is not in itself a decoration more artificial than rhyme, and I cannot agree with those European writers to whom this device appears puerile and degraded. Each language must use such embellishments as suit its genius.

Another characteristic of the texts is the use of earlier literary material. Many of the plays were adapted from dance-ballads already existing and even new plays made use of such poems as were associated in the minds of the audience with the places or persons named in the play. Often a play is written round a poem or series of poems, as will be seen in the course of this book.

This use of existing material exceeds the practice of Western dramatists; but it must be remembered that if we were to read Webster, for example, in editions annotated as minutely as the Nō-plays, we should discover that he was far more addicted to borrowing than we had been aware. It seems to me that in the finest plays this use of existing material is made with magnificent effect and fully justifies itself.

The reference which I have just made to dance-ballads brings us to another question. What did the Nō-plays grow out of?

ORIGINS.

Nō as we have it to-day dates from about the middle of the 14th century. It was a combination of many elements.

Nō owes its present form to the genius of two men. Kwanami Kiyotsugu (1333-1384 A. D.) and his son Seami Motokiyo (1363-1444 A. D.).[2]

Kwanami was a priest of the Kasuga Temple near Nara. About 1375 the Shōgun Yoshimitsu saw him performing in a Sarugaku no Nō at the New Temple (one of the three great temples of Kumano) and immediately took him under his protection.

This Yoshimitsu had become ruler of Japan in 1367 at the age of ten. His family had seized the Shōgunate in 1338 and wielded absolute power at Kyōto, while two rival Mikados, one in the north and one in the south, held impotent and dwindling courts.

The young Shōgun distinguished himself by patronage of art and letters; and by his devotion to the religion of the Zen Sect.[3] It is probable that when he first saw Kwanami he also became acquainted with the son Seami, then a boy of twelve.

A diary of the period has the following entry for the 7th day of the 6th month, 1368:

From this friendship sprang the art of Nō as it exists to-day. Of Seami we know far more than of his father Kwanami. For Seami left behind him a considerable number of treatises and autobiographical fragments.[4] These were not published till 1908 and have not yet been properly edited. They establish, among other things, the fact that Seami wrote both words and music for most of the plays in which he performed. It had before been supposed that the texts were supplied by the Zen [5] priests. For other information brought to light by the discovery of Seami’s Works see Appendix II.

YŪGEN

It is obvious that Seami was deeply imbued with the teachings of Zen, in which cult his patron Yoshimitsu may have been his master. The difficult term yūgen which occurs constantly in the Works is derived from Zen literature. It means “what lies beneath the surface”; the subtle as opposed to the obvious; the hint, as opposed to the statement. It is applied to the natural grace of a boy’s movements, to the restraint of a nobleman’s speech and bearing. “When notes fall sweetly and flutter delicately to the ear,” that is the yūgen of music. The symbol of yūgen is “a white bird with a flower in its beak.” “To watch the sun sink behind a flower-clad hill, to wander on and on in a huge forest with no thought of return, to stand upon the shore and gaze after a boat that goes hid by far-off islands, to ponder on the journey of wild-geese seen and lost among the clouds”—such are the gates to yūgen.

PATRONS

The actor should not stare straight into the faces of the audience, but look between them. When he looks in the direction of the Daimyōs he must not let his eyes meet theirs, but must slightly avert his gaze.

At Palace-performances or when acting at a banquet, he must not let his eyes meet those of the Shōgun or stare straight into the Honourable Face. When playing in a large enclosure he must take care to keep as close as possible to the side where the Nobles are sitting; if in a small enclosure, as far off as possible. But particularly in Palace-performances and the like he must take the greatest pains to keep as far away as he possibly can from the August Presence.

Again, when the recitations are given at the Palace it is equally essential to begin at the right moment. It is bad to begin too soon and fatal to delay too long.

It sometimes happens that the “noble gentlemen” do not arrive at the theatre until the play has already reached its Development and Climax. In such cases the play is at its climax, but the noble gentlemen’s hearts are ripe only for Introduction. If they, ready only for Introduction, are forced to witness a Climax, they are not likely to get pleasure from it. Finally even the spectators who were there before, awed by the entry of the “exalted ones,” become so quiet that you would not know they were there, so that the whole audience ends by returning to the Introductory mood. At such a moment the Nō cannot possibly be a success. In such circumstances it is best to take Development-Nō and give it a slightly “introductory” turn. Then, if it is played gently, it may win the August Attention.

It also happens that one is suddenly sent for to perform at a Shōgunal feast or the like. The audience is already in a “climax-mood”; but “introductory” Nō must be played. This is a great difficulty. In such circumstances the best plan is to tinge the introduction with a nuance of “development.” But this must be done without “stickiness,” with the lightest possible touch, and the transition to the real Development and Climax must be made as quickly as possible.

In old times there were masters who perfected themselves in Nō without study. But nowadays the nobles and gentlemen have become so critical that they will only look with approbation on what is good and will not give attention to anything bad.

Their honourable eyes have become so keen that they notice the least defect, so that even a masterpiece that is as pearls many times polished or flowers choicely culled will not win the applause of our gentlemen to-day.

At the same time, good actors are becoming few and the Art is[24] gradually sinking towards its decline. For this reason, if very strenuous study is not made, it is bound to disappear altogether.

When summoned to play before the noble gentlemen, we are expected to give the regular “words of good-wish” and to divide our performance into the three parts, Introduction, Development and Climax, so that the pre-arranged order cannot be varied.... But on less formal occasions, when, for example, one is playing not at a Shōgunal banquet but on a common, everyday (yo no tsune) stage, it is obviously unnecessary to limit oneself to the set forms of “happy wish.”

One’s style should be easy and full of graceful yūgen, and the piece [6] selected should be suitable to the audience. A ballad (ko-utai) or dance-song (kuse-mai) of the day will be best. One should have in one’s repertory a stock of such pieces and be ready to vary them according to the character of one’s audience.

In the words and gestures (of a farce, kyōgen) there should be nothing low. The jokes and repartee should be such as suit the august ears of the nobles and gentry. On no account must vulgar words or gestures be introduced, however funny they may be. This advice must be carefully observed.

Introduction, Development and Climax must also be strictly adhered to when dancing at the Palace. If the chanting proceeds from an “introductory-mood,” the dancing must belong to the same mood.... When one is suddenly summoned to perform at a riotous banquet, one must take into consideration the state of the noble gentlemen’s spirits.

IMITATION (Monomane).

In imitation there should be a tinge of the “unlike.” For if imitation be pressed too far it impinges on reality and ceases to give an impression of likeness. If one aims only at the beautiful, the “flower” is sure to appear. For example, in acting the part of an old man, the master actor tries to reproduce in his dance only the refinement and venerability of an old gentleman.[7] If the actor is old himself,[25] he need not think about producing an impression of old age....

The appearance of old age will often be best given by making all movements a little late, so that they come just after the musical beat. If the actor bears this in mind, he may be as lively and energetic as he pleases. For in old age the limbs are heavy and the ears slow; there is the will to move but not the corresponding capacity.

It is in such methods as this that true imitation lies.... Youthful movements made by an old person are, indeed, delightful; they are like flowers blossoming on an old tree.

If, because the actor has noticed that old men walk with bent knees and back and have shrunken frames, he simply imitates these characteristics, he may achieve an appearance of decrepitude, but it will be at the expense of the “flower.” And if the “flower” be lacking there will be no beauty in his impersonation.

Women should be impersonated by a young actor.... It is very difficult to play the part of a Princess or lady-in-waiting, for little opportunity presents itself of studying their august behaviour and appearance. Great pains must be taken to see that robes and cloaks are worn in the correct way. These things do not depend on the actor’s fancy but must be carefully ascertained.

The appearance of ordinary ladies such as one is used to see about one is easy to imitate.... In acting the part of a dancing-girl, mad-woman or the like, whether he carry the fan or some fancy thing (a flowering branch, for instance) the actor must carry it loosely; his skirts must trail low so as to hide his feet; his knees and back must not be bent, his body must be poised gracefully. As regards the way he holds himself—if he bends back, it looks bad when he faces the audience; if he stoops, it looks bad from behind. But he will not look like a woman if he holds his head too stiffly. His sleeves should be as long as possible, so that he never shows his fingers.

APPARITIONS

Such plays are generally in two parts. The beginning, in two or three sections, should be as short as possible. In the second half the shite (who has hitherto appeared to be a man) becomes definitely the ghost of a dead person.

Since no one has ever seen a real ghost [8] from the Nether Regions, the actor may use his fancy, aiming only at the beautiful. To represent real life is far more difficult.

If ghosts are terrifying, they cease to be beautiful. For the terrifying and the beautiful are as far apart as black and white.

CHILD PLAYS

In plays where a lost child is found by its parents, the writer should not introduce a scene where they clutch and cling to one another, sobbing and weeping....

Plays in which child-characters occur, even if well done, are always apt to make the audience exclaim in disgust, “Don’t harrow our feelings in this way!”

RESTRAINT

In representing anger the actor should yet retain some gentleness in his mood, else he will portray not anger but violence.

In representing the mysterious (yūgen) he must not forget the principle of energy.

When the body is in violent action, the hands and feet must move as though by stealth. When the feet are in lively motion, the body must be held in quietness. Such things cannot be explained in writing but must be shown to the actor by actual demonstration.

It is above all in “architecture,” in the relation of parts to the whole, that these poems are supreme.[9] The early writers created a “form” or general pattern which the weakest writing cannot wholly rob of its beauty. The plays are like those carved lamp-bearing angels in the churches at Seville; a type of such beauty was created by a sculptor of the sixteenth century that even the most degraded modern descendant of these masterpieces retains a certain distinction of form.

First comes the jidai or opening-couplet, enigmatic, abrupt. Then in contrast to this vague shadow come the hard outlines of the waki’s exposition, the formal naming of himself, his origin and destination.[27] Then, shadowy again, the “song of travel,” in which picture after picture dissolves almost before it is seen.

But all this has been mere introduction—the imagination has been quickened, the attention grasped in preparation for one thing only—the hero’s entry. In the “first chant,” in the dialogue which follows, in the successive dances and climax, this absolute mastery of construction is what has most struck me in reading the plays.

Again, Nō does not make a frontal attack on the emotions. It creeps at the subject warily. For the action, in the commonest class of play, does not take place before our eyes, but is lived through again in mimic and recital by the ghost of one of the participants in it. Thus we get no possibility of crude realities; a vision of life indeed, but painted with the colours of memory, longing or regret.

In a paper read before the Japan Society in 1919 I tried to illustrate this point by showing, perhaps in too fragmentary and disjointed a manner, how the theme of Webster’s “Duchess of Malfi” would have been treated by a Nō writer. I said then (and the Society kindly allows me to repeat those remarks):

The plot of the play is thus summarized by Rupert Brooke in his “John Webster and the Elizabethan Drama”: “The Duchess of Malfi is a young widow forbidden by her brothers, Ferdinand and the Cardinal, to marry again. They put a creature of theirs, Bosola, into her service as a spy. The Duchess loves and marries Antonio, her steward, and has three children. Bosola ultimately discovers and reports this. Antonio and the Duchess have to fly. The Duchess is captured, imprisoned and mentally tortured and put to death. Ferdinand goes mad. In the last Act he, the Cardinal, Antonio and Bosola are all killed with various confusions and in various horror.”

Just as Webster took his themes from previous works (in this case from Painter’s “Palace of Pleasure”), so the Nō plays took theirs from the Romances or “Monogatari.” Let us reconstruct the “Duchess” as a Nō play, using Webster’s text as our “Monogatari.”

Great simplification is necessary, for the Nō play corresponds in length to one act of our five-act plays, and has no space for divagations. The comic is altogether excluded, being reserved for the kyōgen or farces which are played as interludes between the Nō.

The persons need not be more than two—the Pilgrim, who will act the part of waki, and the Duchess, who will be shite or Protagonist. The chorus takes no part in the action, but speaks for the shite while she is miming the more engrossing parts of her rôle.

The Pilgrim comes on to the stage and first pronounces in his Jidai or preliminary couplet, some Buddhist aphorism appropriate to the subject of the play. He then names himself to the audience thus (in prose):

“I am a pilgrim from Rome. I have visited all the other shrines of Italy, but have never been to Loretto. I will journey once to the shrine of Loretto.”

Then follows (in verse) the “Song of Travel” in which the Pilgrim describes the scenes through which he passes on his way to the shrine. While he is kneeling at the shrine, Shite (the Protagonist) comes on to the stage. She is a young woman dressed, “contrary to the Italian fashion,” in a loose-bodied gown. She carries in her hand an unripe apricot. She calls to the Pilgrim and engages him in conversation. He asks her if it were not at this shrine that the Duchess of Malfi took refuge. The young woman answers with a kind of eager exaltation, her words gradually rising from prose to poetry. She tells the story of the Duchess’s flight, adding certain intimate touches which force the priest to ask abruptly, “Who is it that is speaking to me?”

And the girl shuddering (for it is hateful to a ghost to name itself) answers: “Hazukashi ya! I am the soul of the Duke Ferdinand’s sister, she that was once called Duchess of Malfi. Love still ties my soul to the earth. Toburai tabi-tamaye! Pray for me, oh, pray for my release!”

Here closes the first part of the play. In the second the young ghost, her memory quickened by the Pilgrim’s prayers (and this is part of the medicine of salvation), endures again the memory of her final hours. She mimes the action of kissing the hand (vide Act IV, Scene 1), finds it very cold:

And each successive scene of the torture is so vividly mimed that though it exists only in the Protagonist’s brain, it is as real to the audience as if the figure of dead Antonio lay propped upon the stage, or as if the madmen were actually leaping and screaming before them.

The chorus, taking up the word “quiet,” chant a phrase from the Hokkekyō: Sangai Mu-an, “In the Three Worlds there is no quietness or rest.”

But the Pilgrim’s prayers have been answered. Her soul has broken its bonds: is free to depart. The ghost recedes, grows dimmer and dimmer, till at last

NOTE ON BUDDHISM

The Buddhism of the Nō plays is of the kind called the “Greater Vehicle,” which prevails in China, Japan and Tibet. Primitive Buddhism (the “Lesser Vehicle”), which survives in Ceylon and Burma, centres round the person of Shākyamuni, the historical Buddha, and uses Pāli as its sacred language. The “Greater Vehicle,” which came into being about the same time as Christianity and sprang from the same religious impulses, to a large extent replaces Shākyamuni by a timeless, ideal Buddha named Amida, “Lord of Boundless Light,” perhaps originally a sun-god, like Ormuzd of the Zoroastrians. Primitive Buddhism had taught that the souls of the faithful are absorbed into Nirvāna, in other words into Buddha. The “Greater Vehicle” promised to its adherents an after-life in Amida’s Western Paradise. It produced scriptures in the Sanskrit language, in which Shākyamuni himself describes this Western Land and recommends the worship of Amida; it inculcated too the worship of the Bodhisattvas, half-Buddhas, intermediaries between Buddha and man. These Bodhisattvas are beings who, though fit to receive Buddhahood, have of their own free will renounced it, that they may better alleviate the miseries of mankind.

Chief among them is Kwannon, called in India Avalokiteshvara, who appears in the world both in male and female form, but it is chiefly thought of as a woman in China and Japan; Goddess of Mercy, to whom men pray in war, storm, sickness or travail.

The doctrine of Karma and of the transmigration of souls was common both to the earlier and later forms of Buddhism. Man is born to an endless chain of re-incarnations, each one of which is, as it were, the fruit of seed sown in that which precedes.

The only escape from this “Wheel of Life and Death” lies in satori, “Enlightenment,” the realization that material phenomena are thoughts, not facts.

Each of the four chief sects which existed in medieval Japan had its own method of achieving this Enlightenment.

(1) The Amidists sought to gain satori by the study of the Hokke Kyō, called in Sanskrit Saddharma Pundarika Sūtra or “Scripture of[32] the Lotus of the True Law,” or even by the mere repetition of its complete title “Myōhō Renge Hokke Kyō.” Others of them maintained that the repetition of the formula “Praise to Amida Buddha” (Namu Amida Butsu) was in itself a sufficient means of salvation.

(2) Once when Shākyamuni was preaching before a great multitude, he picked up a flower and twisted it in his fingers. The rest of his hearers saw no significance in the act and made no response; but the disciple Kāshyapa smiled.

In this brief moment a perception of transcendental truth had flashed from Buddha’s mind to the mind of his disciple. Thus Kāshyapa became the patriarch of the Zen Buddhists, who believe that Truth cannot be communicated by speech or writing, but that it lies hidden in the heart of each one of us and can be discovered by “Zen” or contemplative introspection.

At first sight there would not appear to be any possibility of reconciling the religion of the Zen Buddhists with that of the Amidists. Yet many Zen masters strove to combine the two faiths, teaching that Amida and his Western Paradise exist, not in time or space, but mystically enshrined in men’s hearts.

Zen denied the existence of Good and Evil, and was sometimes regarded as a dangerous sophistry by pious Buddhists of other sects, as, for example, in the story of Shunkwan (see p. 229) and in The Hōka Priests (see p. 165), where the murderer’s interest in Zen doctrines is, I think, definitely regarded as a discreditable weakness and is represented as the cause of his undoing.

The only other play, among those I have here translated, which deals much with Zen tenets, is Sotoba Komachi. Here the priests represent the Shingon Shū or Mystic Sect, while Komachi, as becomes a poetess, defends the doctrines of Zen. For Zen was the religion of artists; it had inspired the painters and poets of the Sung dynasty in China; it was the religion of the great art-patrons who ruled Japan in the fifteenth century.[10]

It was in the language of Zen that poetry and painting were discussed; and it was in a style tinged with Zen that Seami wrote of his own art. But the religion of the Nō plays is predominantly Amidist; it is the common, average Buddhism of medieval Japan.

(3) I have said that the priests in Sotoba Komachi represent the Mystic Sect. The followers of this sect sought salvation by means of charms and spells, corruptions of Sanskrit formulae. Their principal[33] Buddha was Dainichi, “The Great Sun.” To this sect belonged the Yamabushi, mountain ascetics referred to in Tanikō and other plays.

(4) Mention must be made of the fusion between Buddhism and Shintō. The Tendai Sect which had its headquarters on Mount Hiyei preached an eclectic doctrine which aimed at becoming the universal religion of Japan. It combined the cults of native gods with a Buddhism tolerant in dogma, but magnificent in outward pomp, with a leaning towards the magical practices of Shingon.

The Little Saint of Yokawa in the play Aoi no Uye is an example of the Tendai ascetic, with his use of magical incantations.

Hatsuyuki appeared in “Poetry,” Chicago, and is here reprinted with the editor’s kind permission.

ATSUMORI, IKUTA, AND TSUNEMASA.

In the eleventh century two powerful clans, the Taira and the Minamoto, contended for mastery. In 1181 Kiyomori the chief of the Tairas died, and from that time their fortunes declined. In 1183 they were forced to flee from Kyōto, carrying with them the infant Emperor. After many hardships and wanderings they camped on the shores of Suma, where they were protected by their fleet.

Early in 1184 the Minamotos attacked and utterly routed them at the Battle of Ichi-no-Tani, near the woods of Ikuta. At this battle fell Atsumori, the nephew of Kiyomori, and his brother Tsunemasa.

When Kumagai, who had slain Atsumori, bent over him to examine the body, he found lying beside him a bamboo-flute wrapped in brocade. He took the flute and gave it to his son.

The bay of Suma is associated in the mind of a Japanese reader not only with this battle but also with the stories of Prince Genji and Prince Yukihira.

ATSUMORI

I am Kumagai no Naozane, a man of the country of Musashi. I have left my home and call myself the priest Rensei; this I have done because of my grief at the death of Atsumori, who fell in battle by my hand. Hence it comes that I am dressed in priestly guise.

And now I am going down to Ichi-no-Tani to pray for the salvation of Atsumori’s soul.

I have come so fast that here I am already at Ichi-no-Tani, in the country of Tsu.

But listen! I hear the sound of a flute coming from a knoll of rising ground. I will wait here till the flute-player passes, and ask him to tell me the story of this place.

It was a pleasant sound, and all the pleasanter because one does not look for such music from men of your condition.

How strange it is! The other reapers have all gone home, but you alone stay loitering here. How is that?

How is it, you ask? I am seeking for a prayer in the voice of the evening waves. Perhaps you will pray the Ten Prayers for me?

Since this is so, I will perform all night the rites of prayer for the dead, and calling upon Amida’s name will pray again for the salvation of Atsumori.

How strange! All this while I have never stopped beating my gong and performing the rites of the Law. I cannot for a moment have dozed, yet I thought that Atsumori was standing before me. Surely it was a dream.

Why need it be a dream? It is to clear the karma of my waking life that I am come here in visible form before you.

Is it not written that one prayer will wipe away ten thousand sins? Ceaselessly I have performed the ritual of the Holy Name that clears all sin away. After such prayers, what evil can be left? Though you should be sunk in sin as deep ...

There is a saying, “Put away from you a wicked friend; summon to your side a virtuous enemy.” For you it was said, and you have proven it true.

And now come tell with us the tale of your confession, while the night is still dark.

IKUTA

I am one that serves Hōnen Shōnin of Kurodani; and as for this child here,—once when Hōnen was on a visit to the Temple of Kamo he saw a box lying under a trailing fir-tree; and when he raised the lid, what should he find inside but a lovely man-child one year old! It did not seem to be more than a common foundling, but my master in his compassion took the infant home with him. Ever since then he has had it in his care, doing all that was needful for it; and now the boy is over ten years old.

But it is a hard thing to have no father or mother, so one day after his preaching the Shōnin told the child’s story. And sure enough a young woman stepped out from among the hearers and said it was her child. And when he took her aside and questioned her, he found that the child’s father was Taira no Atsumori, who had fallen in battle at Ichi-no-Tani years ago. When the boy was told of this, he longed earnestly to see his father’s face, were it but in a dream, and the Shōnin bade him go and pray at the shrine of Kamo. He was to go every day for a week, and this is the last day.

A strange voice spoke to me from within the Treasure Hall, saying, “If you are wanting, though it were but in a dream, to see your father’s face, go down from here to the woods of Ikuta in the country of Settsu.” That is the marvellous dream I had.

It is indeed a wonderful message that the God has sent you. And why should I go back at once to Kurodani? I had best take you straight to the forest of Ikuta. Let us be going.

We have gone so fast that here we are already at the woods of Ikuta in the country of Settsu. I have heard tell in the Capital of the beauty of these woods and the river that runs through them. But what I see now surpasses all that I have heard.

Look! Those meadows must be the Downs of Ikuta. Let us go nearer and admire them.

But while we have been going about looking at one view and another, the day has dusked.

I think I see a light over there. There must be a house. Let us go to it and ask for lodging.

How strange! Inside that grass-hut I see a young soldier dressed in helmet and breastplate. What can he be doing there?

Oh foolish men, was it not to meet me that you came to this place? I am—oh! I am ashamed to say it,—I am the ghost of what once was ... Atsumori.

Can it be Yama’s messenger? He comes to tell me that I have out-stayed my time. The Lord of Hell is angry: he asks why I am late?

TSUNEMASA

I am Gyōkei, priest of the imperial temple Ninnaji. You must know that there was a certain prince of the House of Taira named Tsunemasa, Lord of Tajima, who since his boyhood has enjoyed beyond all precedent the favour of our master the Emperor. But now he has been killed at the Battle of the Western Seas.

It was to this Tsunemasa in his lifetime that the Emperor had given the lute called Green Hill. And now my master bids me take it and dedicate it to Buddha, performing a liturgy of flutes and strings for the salvation of Tsunemasa’s soul. And that was my purpose in gathering these musicians together.

Truly it is said that strangers who shelter under the same tree or draw water from the same pool will be friends in another life. How much the more must intercourse of many years, kindness and favour so deep ...[25]

How strange! Within the flame of our candle that is burning low because the night is far spent, suddenly I seemed to see a man’s shadow dimly appearing. Who can be here?

I am the ghost of Tsunemasa. The sound of your prayers has brought me in visible shape before you.

“I am the ghost of Tsunemasa,” he said, but when I looked to where the voice had sounded nothing was there, neither substance nor shadow!

How strange! When the form of Tsunemasa had vanished, his voice lingered and spoke to me! Am I dreaming or waking? I cannot tell. But this I know,—that by the power of my incantations I have had converse with the dead. Oh! marvellous potency of the Law!

It was long ago that I came to the Palace. I was but a boy then, but all the world knew me; for I was marked with the love of our Lord, with the favour of an Emperor. And, among many gifts, he gave to me once while I was in the World this lute which you have dedicated. My fingers were ever on its strings.

For the dead man’s sake we play upon this lute Green Hill that he loved when he was in the World. We follow the lute-music with a concord of many instruments.

And while they played the dead man stole up behind them. Though he could not be seen by the light of the candle, they felt him pluck the lute-strings....

It is midnight. He is playing Yabanraku, the dance of midnight-revel. And now that we have shaken sleep from our eyes ...

Rain beating carelessly on trees and grasses. What season’s music [29] ought we to play?

For a little while I was back in the World and my heart set on its music, on revels of midnight. But now the hate is rising in me....[35]

CHAPTER II

These three plays deal with the boyhood of the hero Yoshitsune, whose child-name was Ushiwaka.

Eboshi-ori is a genzai-mono, that is to say a play which describes events actually in progress. In Kumasaka these same events are rehearsed by the ghost of one who participated in them. There are two other well-known Yoshitsune plays, Funa-Benkei and Ataka. In the former the phantoms of the dead Taira warriors attack the boat in which Yoshitsune and Benkei are riding; in the latter occurs the famous scene called the Kwanjinchō, in which Benkei pretends to read out from a scroll a long document which he is in reality improvising on the spot. (See Mr. Sansom’s translations of these two plays in the Transactions of the Asiatic Society of Japan, 1911.) The Kwanjinchō was borrowed by the popular stage, and became one of the favourite “turns” of the great Danjūrō (1660-1703) and his successors.

KUMASAKA

I am a priest from the Capital. I have never seen the East country, and now I am minded to go there on pilgrimage.

To-day is some one’s birthday. I beg of you to pray for the salvation of his soul.

I have left the World, and it is my business now to say such prayers; but of whom am I to think when I pray?

There is no need to know his name. He is buried in that tomb over there, among the rushes to this side of the pine-tree. It is because he cannot get free [37] that he needs your prayers.

Pray, none the less. For it is written, “All the creatures of the world shall be profited.

Listen! I thought you were taking me to where there would be a chapel, so that I could begin my prayers. But here I can see no painted picture nor carven image that I could put up. There is nothing on the wall but a great pike,—no handstaff, but only an iron crowbar; and other weapons of war are nailed up. What is the reason of this?

You must know that when I first took the vows of priesthood I went round from village to village here, to Tarui, Auhaka and Akasaka—there is no end to them, but I know all the roads,—through the tall grass at Aono and the thick woods of Koyasu, night or day, rain or fine. For I was a hill-bandit in those days, a thief of the night, tilting baggage from mules’ backs; even stripping servant-girls of their clothes, as they went from farm to farm, and leaving them sobbing.

Then it was that I used to take with me that pike there and waving it in their faces, “Stand and deliver!” I would cry.

But at last a time came when it was not so.[38] And after that time I was glad enough to find shelter even in such a place as this. I yielded my will and was content. For at last I had indeed resolved to leave the hateful World.

“But I must have done, or dawn will find me talking still. Go to your rest, Sir; and I too will doze awhile.” So he spoke, and seemed to go into the bedroom. But suddenly the cottage vanished: nothing was left but the tall grass. It was under the shadow of a pine-tree that he [43] had rested!

I have seen strange things. I cannot sleep, no, not even for a while as little as the space between the antlers of a young stag. Under this autumn-winded pine-tree lying, all night long I will perform a service of chanted prayer.[44]

The wind is rising in the south-east. The clouds of the north-west are shifting; it is a dark night. A wild wind is sweeping the woods under the hill.

The moon does not rise till dawn to-night; and even when she rises she will be covered.

The whole heart divided between bow-hand and rein-hand,—oh the sin of it! For ever seizing another’s treasure! Look, look on my misery, how my heart clings to the World!

There was a merchant, a trafficker in gold, called Kichiji of the Third Ward. Each year he brought together a great store, and loading it in bales carried it up-country. And thinking to waylay him I summoned divers trusty men....

Tell me the names of those that were chosen by you and the countries they came from.

There was Kakujō of Kawachi, and the brothers Surihari that had no rivals in fencing.

There was this Chōhan, the first of them, a great hand at deeds of villainy; and with him seventy men of the band.

On all the roads where Kichiji might be passing, up hill and down dale on every halting-place they spied, till at last

Here at the Inn of Akasaka we found him,—a fine place, with many roads leading from it. We set watch upon the place. The merchants had sent for women. From nightfall they feasted. They roystered the hours away—

He was wounded many times, till the fierce strength of his spirit weakened and weakened. Like dew upon the moss that grows.

EBOSHI-ORI

I am Sanjō no Kichiji. I have now amassed a great store of treasure and with my brother Kichiroku am going to take it down to the East. Ho! Kichiroku, let us get together our bundles and start now.

That is a small thing to ask. Certainly we would take you with us ..., but by the look of you, I fancy you must be an apprentice playing truant from your master. If that is so, I cannot take you.

I have neither father nor mother, and my master has turned me adrift. Please let me go with you.

If that is so, I cannot any longer refuse to take you with me. (Describing his own action.)

We have travelled so fast that we have already reached the Mirror Inn. Let us rest here for a little while.

I am a servant in the Palace of Rokuhara. I have been sent to fetch back young Ushiwaka, Lord Yoshitomo’s son, who has escaped from the Temple of Kurama. It is thought that he has taken service with the merchant Kichiji and has gone up-country with him; so they sent me to bring him back. Why, I believe that is he! But perhaps he is not alone. I cannot be sure. I had better go home and fetch help, for if I were one against many, how could I hope to take him?

I think it is about me that this messenger is speaking. I must not[71] let him know me. I will cut my hair and wear an eboshi[49], so that people may think I am an Eastern boy.

I am afraid I cannot do that. They were worn folded to the left in the time of the Minamotos. But now that the Tairas rule the whole land it would not be possible to wear one folded so.

In spite of that I beg of you to make me one. There is a good reason for my asking.

Well, as you are so young there cannot be much harm in your wearing it. I will make you one.

There is a fine story about these left-folded eboshi and the luck they bring. Shall I tell it you?

Well, I cannot any longer refuse. How glad my wife will be! (Calling.) Are you there?

This young lad asked me to make him an eboshi, and when it was made he gave me this sword as a present. Is it not a noble payment?[74] Here, look at it. (The wife takes the sword and when she has examined it bursts into tears.) Why, I thought you would treasure it like a gift from Heaven. And here you are shedding tears over it! What is the matter?

Oh! I am ashamed. When I try to speak, tears come first and choke the words. I am going to tell you something I have never told you before. I am the sister of Kamada Masakiyo who fell at the Battle of Utsumi in the country of Noma. At the time when Tokiwa bore Ushiwaka, her third son, the lord her husband sent her this weapon as a charm-sword, and I was the messenger whom he charged to carry it. Oh were he in the world again;[53] then would our eyes no longer behold such misery. Oh sorrow, sorrow!

How strange, how strange! I have lived with you all these years and months, and never knew till now. But are you sure that you recognize this weapon?

Ah! I have heard that name. Then this must be the young Lord Ushiwaka from Kurama Temple. Come with me. We must go after him and give him back the sword at once. Why, he is still there! (To USHIWAKA.) Sir, this woman tells me she knows the sword; I beg of you to take it back.

My Lord, forgive us! We did not know you; but now we see in you Lord Ushiwaka, the nursling of Kurama Temple.

I am no other. (To the WIFE.) And you, perhaps, are some kinswoman of Masakiyo?[54]

Oh! it breaks my heart to see him! A boy of noble name walking barefoot with merchants, and nothing on his journey but cloth of Shikama to clothe him. Oh! piteous sight!

Change rules the world for ever, and Man but for a little while. What are fine clothes to me, what life itself while foemen flaunt?

So he spoke and pressed the sword into the young lord’s hands. And the boy could not any longer refuse, but taking it said, “If ever I come into the World [55] again, I will not forget.” And so saying he turned and went on his way in company with the merchants his masters. On they went till at last, weary with travel, they came to the Inn of Akasaka in the country of Mino.

I obey. (Goes towards the hashigakari or actors’ entrance-passage.) May I come in?

Who are you? Ah! it is Master Kichiroku. I am glad to see you back again so soon.

Be on your guard, gentleman. For a desperate gang has got wind of your coming and has sworn to set upon you to-night.

We have heard that robbers may be coming to-night. We were wondering what we should do....

Let them come in what force they will; yet if one stout soldier go[77] to meet them, they will not stand their ground, though they be fifty mounted men.

These are trusty words that you have spoken to us. One and all we look to you....

And while he spoke, evening passed to darkness. “Now is the time,” he cried, “to show the world those arts of war that for many months and years upon the Mountain of Kurama I have rehearsed.”

Then he opened the double-doors and waited there for the slow in-coming of the white waves.[56]

Loud the noise of assault. The lashing of white waves against the rocks, even such is the din of our battle-cry.

How fared those skirmishers I sent to make a sudden breach? Blew wind briskly within?

How can that be? I thought that none were within but the merchants, Kichiji and his brother. Who else is there?

By the light of a rocket [57] I saw a lad of twelve or thirteen years slashing about him with a short-sword; and he was nimble as a butterfly or bird.

But soon there meets them this child I tell of and with a blow at each whisks off their heads from their necks.

Ei! Ei! Those two, and the horsemen that were near a hundred strong,—all smitten! The fellow has bewitched them!

When Takase saw this, thinking perhaps no good would come of this night-attack, he took some seventy horsemen and galloped away with them.

The first torch was slashed in pieces; the second was trampled on till it went out; the third they caught and threw back at us, but it too went out. There are none left.

Then is all lost. For of these torch-diviners they sing that the first torch is the soul of an army, the second torch is the wheel of Fate, and the third torch—Life itself. All three are out, and there is no hope left for this night’s brigandage.

It is as you say. Though we were gods, we could not redeem our plight. Deign to give the word of retreat.

Stay! Shall Kumasaka Chōhan be worsted in to-night’s affray? Never! Where could he then hide his shame? Come, robbers, to the attack!

So with mighty voice he called them to him, and they, raising their war-cry, leapt to the assault.

“Hoho! What a to-do! Himself has come, undaunted by the fate of those he sent before him. Now, Hachiman,[58] look down upon me, for no other help is here.” So he prayed, and stood waiting at the gap.

“Sixty-three years has Kumasaka lived, and to-day shall make his last night-assault.”[59] So he spoke and kicking off his iron-shoes in a twinkling he levelled his great battle-sword that measured five foot three, and as he leapt forward like a great bird pouncing on his prey, no god or demon had dared encounter him.

“Ha, bandit! Be not so confident! These slinking night-assaults displease me”; and leaving him no leisure, the boy dashed in to the attack.

Then, Kumasaka, deeply versed in use of the battle-sword, lunged with his left foot and in succession he executed The Ten-Side Cut, The Eight-Side Sweep, The Body Wheel, The Hanyū Turn, The Wind Roll, The Blade Drop, The Gnashing Lion, The Maple-Leaf Double, The Flower Double.

At last even the great battle-sword has spent its art. Parried by the little belt-sword of Zōshi,[60] it has become no more than a guard-sword.

“This sword-play brings me no advantage; I will close with him and try my strength!”

Then he threw down his battle-sword and spreading out his great hands rushed wildly forward. But Ushiwaka dodged him, and as he passed mowed round at his legs.

BENKEI ON THE BRIDGE
(HASHI-BENKEI)

I am one who lives near the Western Pagoda. My name is Musashi-bō Benkei. In fulfillment of a certain vow I have been going lately by night at the hour of the Ox [61] to worship at the Gojō Temple. To-night is the last time; I ought soon to be starting.

I tremble and listen. But there is a matter that I must bring to your notice. I hear that yesterday there was a boy of twelve or thirteen guarding the Gojō Bridge. They say he was slashing round with his short sword as nimble as a bird or butterfly. I beg that you will not make your pilgrimage to-night. Do not court this peril.

That’s a strange thing to ask! Why, were he demon or hobgoblin, he could not stand alone against many. We will surround him and you shall soon see him on his knees.

They have tried surrounding him, but he always escapes as though by magic, and none is able to lay hands on him.

If this is as you say, I will not go to-night; and yet ... No. It is not to be thought of that such a one as Benkei should be affrighted by a tale. To-night when it is dark I will go to the bridge and humble this arrogant elf.

I am Ushiwaka. I must do as my mother told me; “Go up to the Temple [62] at daybreak,” she said. But it is still night. I will go to[83] Gojō Bridge and wait there till suddenly

Who are you that, so young and frail, possess such daring? Tell us your name and state.

CHAPTER III

KAGEKIYO

I am Hitomaru. I live in the valley of Kamegaye. My father Kagekiyo the Passionate fought for the House of Hei [67] and for this was hated by the Genji.[68] I am told they have banished him to Miyazaki in the country of Hyūga, and there in changed estate he passes the months and years. I must not be downcast at the toil of the journey;[69] for hardship is the lot of all that travel on unfamiliar roads, and I must bear it for my father’s sake.

We have journeyed so fast that I think we must already have come to Miyazaki in the country of Hyūga. It is here you should ask for your father.

How strange! That hut is so old, I cannot think that any one can live there. Yet I heard a voice speaking within. Perhaps some beggar lodges there; I will not go nearer. (She steps back.)

I have heard of him indeed. But I am blind, and have not seen him. I have heard such sad tales of his plight that I needs must pity him. Go further; ask elsewhere.

It does not seem that we shall find him here. Let us go further and ask again. (They pass on.)

Who can it be that is asking for me? What if it should be the child of this blind man? For long ago when I was at Atsuta in Owari I courted a woman and had a child by her. But since the child was a girl, I thought I would get no good of her and left her with the head-man of the valley of Kamegaye. But she was not content to stay with her foster-parents and has come all this way to meet her true father.

Did you not see some one in a thatched hut under the hillside as you came along?

But why does your lady tremble when I tell you that he is Kagekiyo? What is amiss with her?

No wonder that you ask. I will tell you at once; this lady is Kagekiyo’s daughter. She has borne the toil of this journey because she longed to meet her father face to face. Please take her to him.

She is Kagekiyo’s daughter? How strange, how strange! But, lady, calm yourself and listen.

Kagekiyo went blind in both his eyes, and finding himself helpless, shaved his head and called himself the beggar of Hyūga. He begs a little from travellers; and we villagers are sorry for him and see to it that he does not starve. Perhaps he would not tell you his name because he was ashamed of what he has become. But if you will come with me I will shout “Kagekiyo” at him. He will surely answer to his own name. Then you shall go to him and talk of what you will, old times or now. Please come this way.

Silence! I was vexed already. For a while ago there came travellers from my home! Do you think I let them stay? No, no. I could not show them my loathsomeness.... It was hard to let them go,—not tell them my name!

“I was one of them, of those Tairas. If you will listen, I will tell the tale....”

No, no! you are always so! I do not heed you. But tell me, did not some one come before, asking for Kagekiyo?

It is not true. Some one came here saying that she was Kagekiyo’s daughter. Why did you not tell her? I was sorry for her and have brought her back with me.

She tells me that she longs to hear the story of your high deeds at Yashima. Could you not tell us the tale?

That is a strange thing for a girl to ask. Yet since kind love brought her this long, long way to visit me, I cannot but tell her the tale. Promise me that when it is finished you will send her back again to her home.

HACHI NO KI

I am a holy man of no fixed abode. I have been travelling through the land of Shinano; but the snow lies thick. I had best go up to Kamakura now and wait there. When Spring comes I will set out upon my pilgrimage.

I have travelled so fast that I am come to the Ford of Sano in the country of Kōzuke. Ara! It is snowing again. I must seek shelter here. (Goes to the wing and knocks.) Is there anyone in this house?

TSUNEYO’S WIFE (raising the curtain that divides the hashigakari from the stage).

That is a small thing to ask. But since the master is away, you cannot lodge in this house.

That must be as you please. I will go to the corner and watch for him. When he comes I will tell him you are here.

(Enter TSUNEYO from the wing, making the gesture of one who shakes snow from his clothes.)

Ah! How the snow falls! Long ago when I was in the World [76] I loved to see it:

What is this! How comes it that you are waiting here in this great storm of snow?

A pilgrim came this way and begged for a night’s lodging. And when I told him you were not in the house, he asked if he might wait till you returned. That is why I am here.

I am he. Though the day is not far spent, how can I find my way in this great storm of snow? Pray give me shelter for the night.

That is a small thing to ask; but I have no lodging fit for you; I cannot receive you.

No, no. I do not care how poor the lodging may be. Pray let me stay here for one night.

I would gladly ask you to stay, but there is scarce space for us two, that are husband and wife. How can we give you lodging? At the village of Yamamoto yonder, ten furlongs further, you will find a good inn. You had best be on your way before the daylight goes.

Alas, it is because in a former life we neglected the ordinances [79] that we are now come to ruin. And surely it will bring us ill-fortune in our next life, if we give no welcome to such a one as this! If it is by any means possible for him to shelter here, please let him stay.

If you are of that mind, why did you not speak before? (Looking after the PRIEST.) No, he cannot have gone far in this great snowstorm. I will go after him and stop him. Hie, traveller, hie! We will give you lodging. Hie! The snow is falling so thick that he cannot hear me. What a sad plight he is in. Old-fallen snow covers the way he came and snow new-fallen hides the path where he should go. Look, look! He is standing still. He is shaking the snow from his clothes; shaking, shaking. It is like that old song:

Listen. We have given him lodging, but have not laid the least thing before him. Is there nothing we can give?

It happens that we have a little boiled millet;[80] we can give him that if he will take it.

I will tell him. (To the PRIEST.) I have given you lodging, but I have not yet laid anything before you. It happens that we have a little boiled millet. It is coarse food, but pray eat it if you can.

Long ago when I was in the World I knew nothing of this stuff called millet but what I read of it in poems and songs. But now it is the prop of my life.

How cold it is! And as the night passes, each hour the frost grows keener. If I had but fuel to light a fire with, that you might sit by it and warm yourself! Ah! I have thought of something. I have some dwarf trees. I will cut them down and make a fire of them.

Yes, when I was in the World I had a fine show of them; but when my trouble came I had no more heart for tree-fancying, and gave them away. But three of them, I kept,—plum, cherry and pine. Look, there they are, covered with snow. They are precious to me; yet for this night’s entertainment I will gladly set light to them.

No, no, that must not be. I thank you for your kindness, but it[105] is likely that one day you will go back to the World again and need them for your pleasure. Indeed it is not to be thought of.

There is something I must ask you: I would gladly know to what clan my host belongs.

Say what you will, I cannot think you a commoner. The times may change; what harm will you get by telling me your clan?

Indeed I have no reason to conceal it. Know then that Tsuneyo Genzayemon, Lord of Sano, is sunk to this!

Why do you not go up to the Capital and lay your case before the Shikken’s court?

By further mischance it happens that Lord Saimyōji [84] himself is absent upon pilgrimage. And yet not all is lost; for on the wall a tall spear still hangs, and armour with it; while in the stall a steed is tied. And if at any time there came from the City news of peril to our master—

Take courage; you shall not end so. If I live, I will come to you again. Now I go.

We cannot let you go. At first we were ashamed that you should[108] see the misery of our dwelling; but now we ask you to stay with us awhile.

“And should you one day come up to the City, seek for me there. A humble priest can give you no public furtherance, yet can he find ways to bring you into the presence of Authority. Do not give up your suit.” He said no more. He went his way,—he sad to leave them and they to lose him from their sight.

TSUNEYO (standing outside his hut and seeming to watch travellers on the road).

Hie, you travellers! Is it true that the levies are marching to[109] Kamakura? They are marching in great force, you say? So it is true. Barons and knights from the Eight Counties of the East all riding to Kamakura! A fine sight it will be. Tasselled breastplates of beaten silver; swords and daggers fretted with gold. On horses fat with fodder they ride; even the grooms of the relay-horses are magnificently apparelled. And along with them (miming the action of leading a horse) goes Tsuneyo, with horse, armour and sword that scarce seem worthy of such names. They may laugh, yet I am not, I think, a worse man than they; and had I but a steed to match my heart, then valiantly—(making the gesture of cracking a whip) you laggard!

The horse is old, palsied as a willow-bough; it cannot hasten. It is lean and twisted. Not whip or spur can move it. It sticks like a coach in a bog. He follows far behind the rest.

Among them should be a knight in broken armour, carrying a rusty sword, and leading his own lean horse. Find him, and bring him to me.

Oh no, it is you. I was told to fetch the most ill-conditioned of all the soldiers; and I am sure you are he. Come at once.

I understand; too well I understand. Some enemy of mine has called me traitor, and it is to execution that I am summoned before the Throne. Well, there is no help for it. Bring me into the Presence.

Have you forgotten the priest whom once you sheltered from the snowstorm? You have been true to the words that you spoke that night at Sano:

These were not vain words; you have come valiantly. But know that this levy of men was made to this purpose: to test the issue of your words whether they were spoken false or true; and to hear the suits of all those that have obeyed my summons, that if any among them have suffered injury, his wrongs may be righted.

And first in the case of Tsuneyo, I make judgment. To him shall be returned his lawful estate, thirty parishes in the land of Sano.

But above all else one thing shall never be forgotten, that in the great snowstorm he cut down his trees, his treasure, and burnt them for firewood. And now in gratitude for the three trees of that time,—plum, cherry and pine,—we grant to him three fiefs, Plumfield in Kaga, Cherrywell in Etchū and Pine-branch in Kōzuke.

He shall hold them as a perpetual inheritance for himself and for his heirs; in testimony whereof we give this title-deed, by our own hand signed and sealed, together with the safe possession of his former lands.

NOTE ON KOMACHI.

The legend of Komachi is that she had many lovers when she was young but was cruel and mocked at their pain. Among them was one, Shii no Shōshō, who came a long way to court her. She told him that she would not listen to him till he had come on a hundred nights from his house to hers and cut a hundred notches on the shaft-bench of his chariot. And so he came a hundred nights all but one, through rain, hail, snow, and wind. But on the last night he died.

Once, when she was growing old, the poet Yasuhide asked her to go with him to Mikawa. She answered with the poem:

When she grew quite old, both her friends and her wits forsook her. She wandered about in destitution, a tattered, crazy beggar-woman.

As is shown in this play, her madness was a “possession” by the spirit of the lover whom she had tormented. She was released from this “possession” by the virtue of a sacred Stūpa [86] or log carved into five parts, symbolic of the Five Elements, on which she sat down to rest.

In the disputation between Komachi and the priests, she upholds the doctrines of the Zen Sect, which uses neither scriptures nor idols; the priests defend the doctrines of the Shingon Sect, which promises salvation by the use of incantations and the worship of holy images.[87]

There is no doubt about the authorship of this play. Seami (Works, p. 246) gives it as the work of his father, Kwanami Kiyotsugu. Kwanami wrote another play, Shii no Shōshō,[88] in which Shōshō is the principal character and Komachi the tsure or subordinate.

Seami also used the Komachi legend. In his Sekidera Komachi he tells how when she was very old the priests of Sekidera invited her to dance at the festival of Tanabata. She dances, and in rehearsing the splendours of her youth for a moment becomes young again.

SOTOBA KOMACHI

I am a priest of the Kōyasan. I am minded to go up to the Capital to visit the shrines and sanctuaries there.

We have come so fast that we have reached the pine-woods of Abeno, in the country of Tsu. Let us rest in this place.

Come! The sun is sinking; we must hasten on our way. Look, look at that beggar there! It is a holy Stūpa that she is sitting on! I must tell her to come off it.

Now then, what is that you are sitting on? Is it not a holy Stūpa, the worshipful Body of Buddha? Come off it and rest in some other place.

Buddha’s worshipful body, you say? But I could see no writing on it, nor any figure carved. I thought it was only a tree-stump.

Hear then! This Stūpa is the Body of the Diamond Lord.[93] It is the symbol of his incarnation.

“He that has looked once upon the Stūpa, shall escape forever from the Three Paths of Evil.”[94]

Who are you? Pray tell us the name you had, and we will pray for you when you are dead.

Shame covers me when I speak my name; but if you will pray for[120] me, I will try to tell you. This is my name; write it down in your prayer-list: I am the ruins of Komachi, daughter of Ono no Yoshizane, Governor of the land of Dewa.

KOMACHI (thrusting her hat under the PRIESTS’ noses and shrieking at them menacingly).

CHORUS (speaking for KOMACHI, while she, dressed as her lover Shōshō, mimes the night-journey).

CHAPTER IV

Note on Ukai.

Seami tells us (Works, p. 246) that this play was written by Enami no Sayemon. “But as I removed bad passages and added good ones, I consider the play to be really my work” (p. 247).

On p. 245 he points out that the same play on words occurs in Ukai three times, and suggests how one passage might be amended. The text of the play which we possess to-day still contains the passages which Seami ridiculed, so that it must be Enami no Sayemon’s version which has survived, while Seami’s amended text is lost.

It is well known that Buddhism forbids the taking of life, especially by cruel means or for sport. The cormorant-fisher’s trade had long been considered particularly wicked, as is shown by an early folk-song:[109]

This song, which is at least as old as the twelfth century, and may be much earlier, seems to be the seed from which the Nō play Ukai grew.

UKAI
(THE CORMORANT-FISHER)

I am a priest from Kiyosumi in Awa. I have never yet seen the country of Kai, so now I am minded to go there on pilgrimage.

I have heard it told that Yūshi and Hakuyō vowed their love-vows by the moon, and were changed to wedded stars of heaven. And even to-day the high ones of the earth are grieved by moonless nights. Only I grow weary of her shining and welcome nights of darkness. But when the torches on the boats burn low,

I will go up to the chapel as I am wont to do, and give my cormorants rest. (Seeing the PRIESTS.) What, have travellers entered here?

We are pilgrim-priests. We asked for lodging in the village. But they told us that it was not lawful for them to receive us, so we lay down in the shelter of this shrine.

Gladly. I am a cormorant-fisher. While the moon is shining I rest at this shrine; but when the moon sinks, I go to ply my trade.

Then you will not mind our lodging here. But, sir, this work of slaughter ill becomes you; for I see that the years lie heavy on you. Pray leave this trade and find yourself another means of sustenance.

You say well. But this trade has kept me since I was a child. I cannot leave it now.

Listen. The sight of this man has brought back something to my mind. Down this river there is a place they call Rock-tumble. And there, when I passed that way three years ago, I met just such a fisherman as this. And when I told him this cormorant-fishing was reckoned a sin against life, I think he listened; for he brought me back to his house and lodged me with uncommon care.

Following his trade, more shame to him. Listen to his story and give his soul your prayers.

You must know that on this river of Isawa, for a stretch of three leagues up stream and down, the killing of any living creature is forbidden. Now at that Rock-tumble you spoke of there were many cormorant-fishers who every night went secretly to their fishing. And the people of the place, hating the vile trade, made plans to catch them at their task. But he knew nothing of this; and one night he went there secretly and let his cormorants loose.

There was an ambush set for him; in a moment they were upon him. “Kill him!” they cried; “one life for many,” was their plea. Then he pressed palm to palm. “Is the taking of life forbidden in this place? Had I but known it! But now, never again....” So with clasped hands he prayed and wept; but none helped him; and as fishers set their stakes they planted him deep in the stream. He cried, but no[131] sound came. (Turning to the PRIEST suddenly.) I am the ghost of that fisherman.

Oh strange! If that be so, act out before me the tale of your repentance. Show me your sin and I will pray for you tenderly.

I will act before your eyes the sin that binds me, the cormorant-fishing of those days. Oh give my soul your prayer!

FISHER (going to the “flute-pillar” and bending over as if opening a basket).

PRIEST (sings his “machi-utai” or waiting-song, while the actor who has taken the part of the FISHER changes into the mask and costume of the KING OF HELL.)

I am come to proclaim that the sins of this man, who from the days of his boyhood long ago has fished in rivers and streams, were grown so many that they filled the pages of the Iron Book;[114] while on the Golden Leaves there was not a mark to his name. And he was like to have been thrown down into the Deepest Pit; but now, because he once gave lodging to a priest, I am commanded to carry him quickly to Buddha’s Place.

AYA NO TSUZUMI
(THE DAMASK DRUM)

I am a courtier at the Palace of Kinomaru in the country of Chikuzen. You must know that in this place there is a famous pond called the Laurel Pond, where the royal ones often take their walks; so it happened that one day the old man who sweeps the garden here caught sight of the Princess. And from that time he has loved her with a love that gives his heart no rest.

Some one told her of this, and she said, “Love’s equal realm knows no divisions,”[117] and in her pity she said, “By that pond there stands a laurel-tree, and on its branches there hangs a drum. Let him beat the drum, and if the sound is heard in the Palace, he shall see my face again.”

Listen, old Gardener! The worshipful lady has heard of your love and sends you this message: “Go and beat the drum that hangs on the tree by the pond, and if the sound is heard in the Palace, you shall see my face again.” Go quickly now and beat the drum!

They talk of the moon-tree, the laurel that grows in the Garden of the Moon.... But for me there is but one true tree, this laurel by the lake. Oh, may the drum that hangs on its branches give forth a mighty note, a music to bind up my bursting heart.

The drum made no sound, and the aged Gardener in despair has flung himself into the pond by the laurel tree, and died. The soul of such a one may cling to you and do you injury. Go out and look upon him

PRINCESS (speaking wildly, already possessed by the GARDENER’S angry ghost, which speaks through her).[120]

Note on Aoi No Uye.

At the age of twelve Prince Genji went through the ceremony of marriage with Aoi no Uye (Princess Hollyhock), the Prime Minister’s daughter. She continued to live at her father’s house and Genji at his palace. When he was about sixteen he fell in love with Princess Rokujō, the widow of the Emperor’s brother; she was about eight years older than himself. He was not long faithful to her. The lady Yūgao next engaged his affections. He carried her one night to a deserted mansion on the outskirts of the City. “The night was far advanced and they had both fallen asleep. Suddenly the figure of a woman appeared at the bedside. “I have found you!” it cried. “What stranger is this that lies beside you? What treachery is this that you flaunt before my eyes?” And with these words the apparition stooped over the bed, and made as though to drag away the sleeping girl from Genji’s side.”[125]

Before dawn Yūgao was dead, stricken by the “living phantom” of Rokujō, embodiment of her baleful jealousy.

Soon after this, Genji became reconciled with his wife Aoi, but continued to visit Rokujō. One day, at the Kamo Festival, Aoi’s way was blocked by another carriage. She ordered her attendants to drag it aside. A scuffle ensued between her servants and those of Rokujō (for she was the occupant of the second carriage) in which Aoi’s side prevailed. Rokujō’s carriage was broken and Aoi’s pushed into the front place. After the festival was over Aoi returned to the Prime Minister’s house in high spirits.

There is nothing obscure or ambiguous in the situation. Fenollosa seems to have misunderstood the play and read into it complications and confusions which do not exist. He also changes the sex of the Witch, though the Japanese word, miko, always has a feminine meaning. The “Romance of Genji” (Genji Monogatari) was written by Lady Murasaki Shikibu and was finished in the year 1004 A. D. Of its fifty-four chapters only seventeen have been translated.[126] It furnished the plots of many Nō plays, of which Suma Genji (Genji’s exile[144] at Suma), No no Miya (his visit to Rokujō after she became a nun), Tamakatsura (the story of Yūgao’s daughter), and Hajitomi (in which Yūgao’s ghost appears) are the best known.

There is some doubt about the authorship of the play. Seami saw it acted as a Dengaku by his father’s contemporary Inūo. He describes Inūo’s entry on to the stage in the rôle of Rokujō and quotes the first six lines of her opening speech. These lines correspond exactly with the modern text, and it is probable that the play existed in something like its present form in the middle of the fourteenth century. Kwanze Nagatoshi, the great-grandson of Seami, includes it in a list of Seami’s works; while popular tradition ascribes it to Seami’s son-in-law Zenchiku.

AOI NO UYE
(PRINCESS HOLLYHOCK)

I am a courtier in the service of the Emperor Shujaku. You must know that the Prime Minister’s daughter, Princess Aoi, has fallen sick. We have sent for abbots and high-priests of the Greater School and of the Secret School, but they could not cure her.

And now, here at my side, stands the witch of Teruhi,[127] a famous diviner with the bow-string. My lord has been told that by twanging her bow-string she can make visible an evil spirit and tell if it be the spirit of a living man or a dead. So he bade me send for her and let her pluck her string. (Turning to the WITCH, who has been waiting motionless.) Come, sorceress, we are ready!

Though she should stand at the wife-door of the mother-house of the square court ...[131]

How strange! I see a fine lady whom I do not know riding in a broken coach. She clutches at the shafts of another coach from which the oxen have been unyoked. And in the second coach sits one who seems a new wife.[133] The lady of the broken coach is weeping, weeping. It is a piteous sight.

It would not be hard to guess who such a one might be. Come, spirit, tell us your name!

You would know who I am that have come drawn by the twanging of your bow? I am the angry ghost of Rokujō, Lady of the Chamber.

You, Lady Rokujō, you a Lady of the Chamber! Would you lay wait and strike as peasant women do?[136] How can this be? Think and forbear!

Say what you will, I must strike. I must strike now. (Describing her own action.) “And as she said this, she went over to the pillow and struck at it.” (She strikes at the head of the bed with her fan.)

I am come to my broken coach. (She throws down her fan and begins to slip off her embroidered robe.) I will hide you in it and carry you away!

Come quickly, some one! Princess Aoi is worse. Every minute she is worse. Go and fetch the Little Saint of Yokawa.[141]

Who is it that seeks admittance to a room washed by the moonlight of the Three Mysteries, sprinkled with the holy water of Yoga? Who would draw near to a couch of the Ten Vehicles, a window of the Eight Perceptions?

It happens that at this time I am practising particular austerities and go nowhere abroad. But if you are a messenger from the Court, I will follow you.

ROKUJŌ (during the incantation she has cowered at the back of the stage wrapped in her Chinese robe, which she has picked up again.)

Be you what demon you will, do not hope to overcome the Gyōja’s subtle power. I will pray again.

The voice of the Hannya Book! I am afraid. Never again will I come as an angry ghost.

CHAPTER V

Note on Kantan.

A young man, going into the world to make his fortune, stops at an inn on the road and there meets with a sage, who lends him a pillow. While the inn-servant is heating up the millet, the young man dozes on the pillow and dreams that he enters public life, is promoted, degraded, recalled to office, endures the hardship of distant campaigns, is accused of treason, condemned to death, saved at the last moment and finally dies at a great old age. Awaking from his dream, the young man discovers that the millet is not yet cooked. In a moment’s sleep he has lived through the vicissitudes of a long public career. Convinced that in the great world “honour is soon followed by disgrace, and promotion by calumny,” he turns back again towards the village from which he came.

Such, in outline, is the most usual version of the story of Rosei’s dream at Kantan. The earliest form in which we know it is the “Pillow Tale” of the Chinese writer Li Pi, who lived from 722 to 789 A. D.

It is interesting to see how Seami deals with a subject which seems at first sight so impossible to shape into a Nō play. The “sage” is eliminated, and in the dream Rosei immediately becomes Emperor of Central China. This affords an excuse for the Court dances which form the central “ballet” of the piece. In the second half, as in Hagoromo and other plays, the words are merely an accompaniment to the dancing.

Chamberlain’s version loses by the fact that it is made from the ordinary printed text which omits the prologue and all the speeches of the hostess.

The play is usually attributed to Seami, but it is not mentioned in his Works, nor in the list of plays by him drawn up by his great-grandson in 1524.

It is discussed at considerable length in the Later Kwadensho, which was printed c. 1600. The writer of that book must therefore have regarded the play as a work of Seami’s period. It should be mentioned that the geography of the play is absurd. Though both his starting-point and goal lie in the south-western province of Ssechuan, he passes through Hantan,[146] which lay in the northern province of Chih-li.

KANTAN

I who now stand before you am a woman of the village of Kantan in China. A long while ago I gave lodging to one who practised the arts of wizardry; and as payment he left here a famous pillow, called the Pillow of Kantan. He who sleeps on this pillow sees in a moment’s dream the past or future spread out before him, and so awakes illumined. If it should chance that any worshipful travellers arrive to-day, pray send for me.

My name is Rosei, and I have come from the land of Shoku. Though born to man’s estate, I have not sought Buddha’s way, but have drifted from dusk to dawn and dawn to dusk.

They tell me that on the Hill of the Flying Sheep in the land of So [147] there lives a mighty sage; and now I am hastening to visit him that he may tell by what rule I should conduct my life.

I have travelled so fast that I am already come to the village of Kantan. Though the sun is still high, I will lodge here to-night. (Knocking.) May I come in?

Yes, I can give you lodging; pray come this way.... You seem to be travelling all alone. Tell me where you have come from and where you are going.

I come from the land of Shoku. They tell me that on the Hill of the Flying Sheep there lives a sage; and I am visiting him that he may tell me by what rule I should conduct my life.

It is a long way to the Hill of the Flying Sheep. Listen! A wizard once lodged here and gave us a marvellous pillow called the Pillow of Kantan: he who sleeps on it sees all his future in a moment’s dream.

So this is the pillow, the Pillow of Kantan that I have heard such[158] strange tales of? Heaven has guided me to it, that I who came out to learn the secret of life may taste the world in a dream.

(While ROSEI is still chanting these words, the ENVOY enters, followed by two ATTENDANTS who carry a litter. The ENVOY raps on the post of the bed.)

I am come as a messenger to tell you that the Emperor of the Land of So [148] resigns his throne and commands that Rosei shall reign in his stead.

I cannot venture to determine. Doubtless there were found in your Majesty’s countenance auspicious tokens, signs that you must rule the land. Let us lose no time; pray deign to enter this palanquin.

I would address your Majesty. Your Majesty has reigned for fifty years. Deign but to drink this drink and you shall live a thousand years. See! I bring you the nectar and the grail.

THE HŌKA PRIESTS
(HŌKAZŌ)

My name is Kojirō; I am the son of one Makino no Sayemon who lived in the land of Shimotsuke. You must know that my father had a quarrel with Nobutoshi, a man of Sagami, and was done to death by him. So this man was my father’s murderer and I ought to kill him. But he has many bold fellows to stand by him, while I am all alone. So the days and months slip by with nothing done.

A brother indeed I have, but he left home when he was a child, made himself into a priest, and lives at the seminary near by.

I am much puzzled how to act. I think I will go across and speak to my brother of this matter. (He goes to the curtain at the end of the hashigakari.) May I come in?

I will tell you. It is this matter of our father’s murder that has brought me. I have been thinking that I ought to kill his enemy, and would have done so but he has many bold fellows to stand by him[166] and I am all alone. So the days and months slip by and nothing is done.

Brother, what you have said is true enough. But have you forgotten that I left my home when I was but a child and made myself a priest? Since that is so, I cannot help you.

So you are pleased to think; but men say he is a bad son who does not kill his father’s foe.

Can you tell me of any that have ministered to piety by slaying a parent’s foe?

Why, yes. It was in China, I think. There was one whose mother had been taken by a savage tiger. “I will take vengeance,” he cried, and for a hundred days he lay ambushed in the fields waiting for the tiger to come. And once when he was walking on the hillside at dusk, he thought he saw his enemy, and having an arrow already on his bow-string, he shot with all his might. It was nothing but a great rock that he had seen, shaped like a tiger. But his arrow stuck so deep in the stone that blood gushed out from it. If then the strength of piety is such that it can drive an arrow deep into the heart of a stone, take thought, I beseech you, whether you will not resolve to come with me.

You have cited me a notable instance. I am persuaded to resolve with you how this thing may be effected.

A plan has suddenly come into my head. You know that these hōka plays are become the fashion of the day. Why should not I dress up as a hōka and you as a hōka priest? They say that our man is a great lover of the Zen doctrine; so you may talk to him of Zen.

I am called Tone no Nobutoshi. My home is in the land of Sagami. Because for much time past I have been troubled with evil dreams, I have resolved to visit the Three Isles of Seto.

I am Floating Cloud and he is Running Water. And now, pray, tell us your master’s name.

Why, he comes from the land of Sagami, and Nobutoshi ... (here the SERVANT suddenly remembers that he is being indiscreet and stuffs his hand into his mouth) ... is not his name.

That’s no matter. Whoever he is, tell him that we are only two hōka come to speak with him.

It is this. They alone can be called priests round whose fingers is twisted the rosary of Tenfold Power, who are clad in cloak of Forbearance, round whose shoulders hangs the stole of Penitence. Such is everywhere the garb of Buddha’s priests. I know no other habit. But you, I see, carry a round fan tied to your pillar-staff. By what verse do you justify the wearing of a fan?

The fan indeed teaches an agreeable lesson; but one of you carries a bow and arrow at his side. Are these too reckoned fit gear for men of your profession?

Tell me, pray, from which patriarch do the hōka priests derive their doctrine? To what sect do you adhere?

We are of no sect; our doctrine stands apart. It cannot be spoken[171] nor expounded. To frame it in sentences is to degrade our faith; to set it down in writing is to be untrue to our Order; but by the bending of a leaf is the wind’s journey known.

I thank you; your exposition delights me. Pray tell me now, what is the meaning of this word “Zen”?

BROTHER (embarking upon a religious discourse in order to allay NOBUTOSHI’S suspicions).

BROTHER (begins his second dance, while the CHORUS sings the ballad used by the “hōka” players).

Note on Hagoromo.

The story of the mortal who stole an angel’s cloak and so prevented her return to heaven is very widely spread. It exists, with variations and complications, in India, China, Japan, the Liu Chiu Islands and Sweden. The story of Hasan in the Arabian Nights is an elaboration of the same theme.

The Nō play is said to have been written by Seami, but a version of it existed long before. The last half consists merely of chants sung to the dancing. Some of these (e.g. the words to the Suruga Dance) have no relevance to the play, which is chiefly a framework or excuse for the dances. It is thus a Nō of the primitive type, and perhaps belongs, at any rate in its conception, to an earlier period than such unified dramas as Atsumori or Kagekiyo. The words of the dances in Maiguruma are just as irrelevant to the play as those of the Suruga Dance in Hagoromo, but there the plot explains and even demands their intrusion.

The libretto of the second part lends itself very ill to translation, but I have thought it best to give the play in full.

HAGOROMO

Now I have landed at the pine-wood of Mio and am viewing the beauty of the shore. Suddenly there is music in the sky, a rain of flowers, unearthly fragrance wafted on all sides. These are no common things; nor is this beautiful cloak that hangs upon the pine-tree. I come near to it. It is marvellous in form and fragrance. This surely is no common dress. I will take it back with me and show it to the people of my home. It shall be a treasure in my house.

It is an angel’s robe of feathers, a cloak no mortal man may wear. Put it back where you found it.

How? Is the owner of this cloak an angel of the sky? Why, then, I will put it in safe keeping. It shall be a treasure in the land, a marvel to men unborn.[171] I will not give back your cloak.

Listen. Now that I have seen you in your sorrow, I yield and would give you back your mantle.

Wait. I have heard tell of the dances that are danced in heaven. Dance for me now, and I will give back your robe.

Not yet, for if I give back your robe, not a step would you dance, but fly with it straight to the sky.

CHAPTER VI

Note on Tanikō and Ikeniye.

Both of these plays deal with the ruthless exactions of religion; in each the first part lends itself better to translation than the second. Tanikō is still played; but Ikeniye, though printed by both Ōwada and Haga, has probably not been staged for many centuries.

The pilgrims of Tanikō are Yamabushi, “mountaineers,” to whom reference has been made on page 33. They called themselves Shu-genja, “portent-workers,” and claimed to be the knight-errants of Buddhism. But their conduct seems to have differed little from that of the Sōhei (armed monks) who poured down in hordes from Mount Hiyei to terrorize the inhabitants of the surrounding country. Some one in the Genji Monogatari is said to have “collected a crowd of evil-looking Yamabushi, desperate, stick-at-nothing fellows.”

Ikeniye, the title of the second play, means “Pool Sacrifice,” but also “Living Sacrifice,” i. e. human sacrifice.

TANIKŌ
(THE VALLEY-HURLING)

I am a teacher. I keep a school at one of the temples in the City. I have a pupil whose father is dead; he has only his mother to look after him. Now I will go and say good-bye to them, for I am soon starting on a journey to the mountains. (He knocks at the door of the house.) May I come in?

It is a long time since I was here. Your son says you have been ill. Are you better now?

I am glad to hear it. I have come to say good-bye, for I am soon starting on a ritual mountain-climbing.

A mountain-climbing? Yes, indeed; I have heard that it is a dangerous ritual. Shall you take my child with you?

No, no. As I said to your mother, we are going on a difficult and dangerous excursion. You could not possibly come with us. Besides, how could you leave your mother when she is not well? Stay here. It is in every way impossible that you should go with us.

I must speak to your mother again. (He goes back into the inner room.) I have come back,—your son says he is going to come with us. I told him he could not leave you when you were ill and that it would be a difficult and dangerous road. I said it was quite impossible for him to come. But he says he must come to pray for your health. What is to be done?

I have listened to your words. I do not doubt what the boy says,—that he would gladly go with you to the mountains: (to the BOY) but since the day your father left us I have had none but you at my side. I have not had you out of mind or sight for as long a time as it takes a dewdrop to dry! Give back the measure of my love. Let your love keep you with me.

This is all as you say.... Yet nothing shall move me from my purpose. I must climb this difficult path and pray for your health in this life.

We have climbed so fast that we have already reached the first hut. We will stay here a little while.

Stay! Such things may not be said by those who travel on errands like ours. Perhaps you are tired because you are not used to climbing. Lie there and rest.

They are saying that the young boy is ill with climbing. I must ask the Master about it.

I hear that this young boy is ill with climbing. What is the matter with him? Are you anxious about him?

He is not feeling well, but there is nothing wrong with him. He is only tired with climbing.

Listen, you pilgrims. Just now the Master said this boy was only[194] tired with climbing. But now he is looking very strange. Ought we not to follow our Great Custom and hurl him into the valley?

We ought to indeed. I must tell the Master. Sir, when I enquired before about the child you told me he was only tired with climbing; but now he is looking very strange.

Though I say it with dread, there has been from ancient times a Great Custom that those who fail should be cast down. All the pilgrims are asking that he should be thrown into the valley.

It is a Mighty Custom. I cannot gainsay it. But I have great pity in my heart for that creature. I will tell him tenderly of this Great Custom.

Listen carefully to me. It has been the law from ancient times that if any pilgrim falls sick on such journey as these he should be hurled into the valley,—done suddenly to death. If I could take your place, how gladly I would die. But now I cannot help you.

IKENIYE
(THE POOL-SACRIFICE)

I am a man who lives in the Capital. Maybe because of some great wrong I did in a former life ... I have fallen into trouble and cannot go on living here.

I have a friend in the East country. Perhaps he would help me. I will take my wife and child and go at once to the ends of the East.

We are come to the Inn. (Knocks at the door.) We are travellers. Pray give us shelter.

Lodging, do you say? Come in with me. This way. Tell me, where have you come from?

Listen. I am sorry. There is something I must tell you privately. Whoever passes this night at the Inn must go to-morrow to the draw[197]ing of lots at the sacrifice. I am sorry for it, but you would do best to leave the Inn before dawn. Tell no one what I have said, and mind you start early.

I hear that three travellers stayed at the Inn last night and have left before dawn. Go after them and stop them.

He is right. It is not to be wondered at that he should ask the reason. (To the TRAVELLER.) Listen. Each year at this place there is a sacrifice at the Pool. To-day is the festival of this holy rite, and we ask you to join in it.

I understand you. But it is for those that live here, those that were born children of this Deity, to attend his worship. Must a wanderer go with you because he chances to lodge here for a night?

Stay! Sir, we do not wonder that you should think this strange. But listen to me. From ancient times till now no traveller has ever lodged this night of the year at the Inn of Yoshiwara without attending the sacrifice at the Pool. If you are in a hurry, come quickly to the sacrifice, and then with a blessing set out again on your journey.

I understand you. But, as I have said, for such rites as these you should take men born in the place.... No, I still do not understand. Why should a fleeting traveller be summoned to this Pool-Sacrifice?

That may be. I do not question that that is your rule. But I beg you, consider my case and excuse me.

Would you be the first to break a Great Custom that has been observed since ancient times?

No, that is not what I meant. But if we are to discuss this matter, I must be plain with you.... I am a man of the Capital. Perhaps because of some ill deed done in a former life I have suffered many troubles. At last I could no longer build the pathway of my life, so I took my wife and child and set out to seek my friend who lives in the East. Pray let me go on my way.

Call this, if you will, the retribution of a former life. But now come with us quickly to the shores of the Holy Pool.

And the wife and child, crying “Oh what shall we do?” clutched at the father’s sleeve.

Now we are come to the Pool, and by its edge are ranged the Priest, the acolytes, the virgins and dancing-boys.

At last the Priest mounted the daïs, raised the lid of the box and counted the lots to see that there was one for each to take.

Are there not three travellers? They have only drawn two lots. The First Lot is still undrawn. Tell them that one of them must draw it.

I listen and obey. Ho, you travellers, it is to you I am speaking. There are three of you, and you have only drawn two lots. The Priest says one of you must draw the First Lot.

No, I am sure the young girl has not drawn her lot. Look, here it is. Yes, and it is the Doom-lot!

Hoping to rear you to womanhood, we wandered blindly from the City and came down to the unknown country of the East. For your sake we set our hearts on this sad journey. If you are taken, what will become of us? How hideous!

Do not sob so! If you or my father had drawn this lot, what should I have done? But now it has fallen to me, and it is hard for you to let me go.

What brave words! “If you or my father had drawn this lot....” There is great piety in that saying. (To his WIFE.) Come, do not sob so before all these people. We are both parents and must have like feelings. But from the time I set out to this holy lottery something told me that of the three of us one would be taken. Look! I am not crying.

HATSUYUKI
(EARLY SNOW)

I am a servant at the Nyoroku Shrine in the Great Temple of Izumo. My name is Evening Mist. You must know that the Lord Abbot has a daughter, a beautiful lady and gentle as can be. And she keeps a tame bird that was given her a year ago, and because it was a lovely white bird she called it Hatsuyuki, Early Snow; and she loves it dearly.

I have not seen the bird to-day. I think I will go to the bird-cage and have a look at it.

Mercy on us, the bird is not there! Whatever shall I say to my lady? But I shall have to tell her. I think I’ll tell her now. Madam, madam, your dear Snow-bird is not here!

It is true. Early Snow has gone! How can that be? How can it be that my pretty one that was so tame should vanish and leave no trace?

Evening Mist, are you not sad that Hatsuyuki has gone? ... But we must not cry any more. Let us call together the noble ladies of this place and for seven days sit with them praying behind barred doors. Go now and do my bidding.

HAKU RAKUTEN

INTRODUCTION

The Chinese poet Po Chü-i, whom the Japanese call Haku Rakuten, was born in 772 A. D. and died in 847. His works enjoyed immense contemporary popularity in China, Korea and Japan. In the second half of the ninth century the composition of Chinese verse became fashionable at the Japanese Court, and native forms of poetry were for a time threatened with extinction.

The Nō play Haku Rakuten deals with this literary peril. It was written at the end of the fourteenth century, a time when Japanese art and literature were again becoming subject to Chinese influence. Painting and prose ultimately succumbed, but poetry was saved.

Historically, Haku Rakuten never came to Japan. But the danger of his influence was real and actual, as may be deduced from reading the works of Sugawara no Michizane, the greatest Japanese poet of the ninth century. Michizane’s slavish imitations of Po Chü-i show an unparalleled example of literary prostration. The plot of the play is as follows:

Rakuten is sent by the Emperor of China to “subdue” Japan with his art. On arriving at the coast of Bizen, he meets with two Japanese fishermen. One of them is in reality the god of Japanese poetry, Sumiyoshi no Kami. In the second act his identity is revealed. He summons other gods, and a great dancing-scene ensues. Finally the wind from their dancing-sleeves blows the Chinese poet’s ship back to his own country.

Seami, in his plays, frequently quotes Po Chü-i’s poems; and in his lament for the death of his son, Zemparu Motomasa, who died in 1432, he refers to the death of Po Chü-i’s son, A-ts’ui.

I am Haku Rakuten, a courtier of the Prince of China. There is a land in the East called Nippon.[188] Now, at my master’s bidding, I am sent to that land to make proof of the wisdom of its people. I must travel over the paths of the sea.

So swiftly have I passed over the ways of the ocean that I am come already to the shores of Nippon. I will cast anchor here a little while. I would know what manner of land this may be.

I have borne with the billows of a thousand miles of sea and come at last to the land of Nippon. Here is a little ship anchored near me. An old fisherman is in it. Can this be indeed an inhabitant of Nippon?

Aye, so it is. I am an old fisher of Nihon. And your Honour, I think, is Haku Rakuten, of China.

How strange! No sooner am I come to this land than they call me by my name! How can this be?

Although your Honour is a man of China, your name and fame have come before you.

Even though my name be known, yet that you should know my face is strange surely!

It was said everywhere in the Land of Sunrise that your Honour, Rakuten, would come to make trial of the wisdom of Nihon. And when, as we gazed westwards, we saw a boat coming in from the open sea, the hearts of us all thought in a twinkling, “This is he.”

Stay! Answer me one question.[190] Bring your boat closer and tell me, Fisherman, what is your pastime now in Nippon?

And in Nihon, may it please you, we venture on the sport of making “uta.”[191]

You in China make your poems and odes out of the Scriptures of[211] India; and we have made our “uta” out of the poems and odes of China. Since then our poetry is a blend of three lands, we have named it Yamato, the great Blend, and all our songs “Yamato Uta.” But I think you question me only to mock an old man’s simplicity.

No, truly; that was not my purpose. But come, I will sing a Chinese poem about the scene before us.

How strange that a poor fisherman should put my verse into a sweet native measure! Who can he be?

A poor man and unknown. But as for the making of “uta,” it is not only men that make them. “For among things that live there is none that has not the gift of song.”[192]

Truly the fisherman has the ways of Yamato in his heart. Truly, this custom is excellent.

If we speak of the sports of Yamato and sing its songs, we should show too what dances we use; for there are many kinds.

ACT II.

CHAPTER VII
SUMMARIES

Of the plays which are founded on the Ise Monogatari[195] the best known are Izutsu and Kakitsubata, both by Seami. Izutsu is founded on the episode which runs as follows:

Once upon a time a boy and a girl, children of country people, used to meet at a well and play there together. When they grew up they became a little shame-faced towards one another, but he could think of no other woman, nor she of any other man. He would not take the wife his parents had found for him, nor she the husband that her parents had found for her.

So they wrote, and at last their desire was fulfilled. Now after a year or more had passed the girl’s parents died, and they were left without sustenance. They could not go on living together; the man went to and fro between her house and the town of Takayasu in Kawachi, while she stayed at home.

Now when he saw that she let him go gladly and showed no grief in her face, he thought it was because her heart had changed. And one day, instead of going to Kawachi, he hid behind the hedge and watched. Then he heard the girl singing:

In the play a wandering priest meets with a village girl, who turns out to be the ghost of the girl in this story. The text is woven out of the words of the Ise Monogatari.

Kakitsubata is based on the eighth episode. Narihira and his companions come to a place called Yatsuhashi, where, across an iris-covered swamp, zigzags a low footpath of planks.

Narihira bids them compose an anagram on the word Kakitsubata, “iris,” and some one sings:

The first syllables of each line make, when read consecutively, the word Kakitsubata, and the poem, which is a riddle with many meanings, may be translated:

“When he had done singing, they all wept over their dried-rice till it grew soppy.”

In the play, a priest comes to this place and learns its story from a village-girl, who turns out to be the “soul of the iris-flower.” At the end she disappears into the Western Paradise. “Even the souls of flowers can attain to Buddhahood.”

HANAKATAMI
(THE FLOWER BASKET)

Before he came to the throne, the Emperor Keitai [197] loved the Lady Teruhi. On his accession he sent her a letter of farewell and a basket of flowers. In the play the messenger meets her on the road to her home; she reads the letter, which in elaborately ceremonial language announces the Emperor’s accession and departure to the Capital.

Madam, from these creatures we shall get no answer. Yet there is a sign that will guide our steps to the City. Look, yonder the wild-geese are passing!

Then follows the “song of travel,” during which Teruhi and her companion are supposed to be journeying from their home in Echizen to the Capital in Yamato. They halt at last on the hashigakari, announcing that they have “arrived at the City.” Just as a courtier (who together with the boy-Emperor and the two litter-bearers represents the whole coronation procession) is calling: “Clear the way, clear the way! The Imperial procession is approaching,” Teruhi’s maid advances on to the stage and crosses the path of the procession. The courtier pushes her roughly back, and in doing so knocks the flower-basket to the ground.

Oh, look what he has done! O madam, he has dashed your basket to the ground, the Prince’s flower-basket!

Come, mad-woman! Why all this fuss about a basket? You call it your lord’s basket; what lord can you mean?

Then follow a “mad dance” and song. The courtier orders her to come nearer the Imperial litter and dance again, that her follies may divert the Emperor.

She comes forward and dances the story of Wu Ti and Li Fu-jēn.[199] Nothing could console him for her death. He ordered her portrait to be painted on the walls of his palace. But, because the face neither laughed nor grieved, the sight of it increased his sorrow.[223] Many wizards laboured at his command to summon her soul before him. At last one of them projected upon a screen some dim semblance of her face and form. But when the Emperor would have touched it, it vanished, and he stood in the palace alone.

His Majesty has deigned to look at this basket. He says that without doubt it was a possession of his rural days.[200] He bids you forget the hateful letter that is with it and be mad no more. He will take you back with him to the palace.

OMINAMESHI

The play is written round a story and a poem. A man came to the capital and was the lover of a woman there. Suddenly he vanished, and she, in great distress, set out to look for him in the country he came from. She found his house, and asked his servants where he was. They told her he had just married and was with his wife. When she heard this she ran out of the house and leapt into the Hōjō River.

Such is the story upon which the play is founded. The poem is one by Bishop Henjō (816-890):

Hito toki, “one while,” is the refrain of the play. It was for “one while” that they lived together in the Capital; it is for “one while” that men are young, that flowers blossom, that love lasts. In the first part of the play an aged man hovering round a clump of lady-flowers begs the priest not to pluck them. In the second part this aged man turns into the soul of the lover. The soul of the girl also appears, and both are saved by the priest’s prayers from that limbo (half death, half life) where all must linger who die in the coils of shūshin, “heart-attachment.”

MATSUKAZE

Lord Yukihira, brother of Narihira, was banished to the lonely shore of Suma. While he lived there he amused himself by helping two fisher-girls to carry salt water from the sea to the salt-kilns on the shore. Their names were Matsukaze and Murasame.

At this time he wrote two famous poems; the first, while he was crossing the mountains on his way to Suma:

When he had lived a little while at Suma, he sent to the Capital a poem which said:

Long afterwards Prince Genji was banished to the same place. The chapter of the Genji Monogatari called “Suma” says:

It is round these two poems and the prose passage quoted above that the play is written.

A wandering priest comes to the shore of Suma and sees a strange pine-tree standing alone. A “person of the place” (in an interlude not printed in the usual texts) tells him that the tree was planted in memory of two fisher-girls, Matsukaze, and Murasame, and asks him to pray for them. While the priest prays it grows[227] late and he announces that he intends to ask for shelter “in that salt-kiln.” He goes to the “waki’s pillar” and waits there as if waiting for the master of the kiln to return.

Meanwhile Matsukaze and Murasame come on to the stage and perform the “water-carrying” dance which culminates in the famous passage known as “The moon in the water-pails.”

Their work is over and they approach their huts, i. e., the “waki’s pillar,” where the priest is sitting waiting. After refusing for a long while to admit him “because their hovel is too mean to receive him,” they give him shelter, and after the usual questioning, reveal their identities.

In the final ballet Matsukaze dresses in the “court-hat and hunting cloak given her by Lord Yukihira” and dances, among other dances, the “Broken Dance,” which also figures in Hagoromo.

The “motif” of this part of the play is another famous poem by Yukihira, that by which he is represented in the Hyakuninisshu or “Hundred Poems by a Hundred Poets”:

There is a play of words between matsu, “wait,” and matsu, “pine-tree”; Inaba, the name of a mountain, and inaba, “if I go away.”

The play ends with the release of the girls’ souls from the shūshin, “heart-attachment,” which holds them to the earth.

SHUNKWAN

The priest Shunkwan, together with Naritsune and Yasuyori, had plotted the overthrow of the Tairas. They were arrested and banished to Devil’s Island on the shore of Satsuma.

Naritsune and Yasuyori were worshippers of the Gods of Kumano. They brought this worship with them to the place of their exile, constructing on the island an imitation of the road from Kyōto to Kumano with its ninety-nine roadside shrines. This “holy way” they decked with nusa, “paper-festoons,” and carried out, as best they might, the Shintō ceremonies of the three shrines of Kumano.

When the play begins the two exiles are carrying out these rites. Having no albs [202] to wear, they put on the tattered hemp-smocks which they wore on their journey; having no rice to offer, they pour out a libation of sand.

Shunkwan, who had been abbot of the Zen [203] temple Hosshōji, holds aloof from these ceremonies. But when the worshippers return he comes to meet them carrying a bucket of water, which he tells them is the wine for their final libation. They look into the bucket and cry in disgust: Ya! Kore wa mizu nari! “Why, it is water!”

In a long lyrical dialogue which follows, Shunkwan, with the aid of many classical allusions, justifies the identification of chrysanthemum-water and wine.

Suddenly a boat appears carrying a stranger to the shore. This is represented on the stage by an attendant carrying the conventionalized Nō play “boat” on to the hashi gakari. The envoy, whose departure from the Capital forms the opening scene of the play—I have omitted it in my summary—has been standing by the “Waki’s pillar.” He now steps into the boat and announces that a following wind is carrying him swiftly over the sea. He leaves the boat, carrying a Proclamation in his hand.

No; they told me at the Capital to bring back Yasuyori and Naritsune, but to leave Shunkwan upon the island.

(He buries his face in his hands; then after a while begins reading the scroll again.)

Unhappy man, our hearts are not cold. When we reach the City, we will plead unceasingly for your recall. In a little while you shall return. Wait with a good heart.

Were it the Hill King of Hiyei,[208] I would not say no. But as for this God of Kumano, I have no faith in him. (Describing the actions of NARITSUNE and YASUYORI.)

AMA
(THE FISHER-GIRL)

Fujiwara no Fusazaki was the child of a fisher-girl. He was taken from her in infancy and reared at the Capital. When he grew to be a man he went to Shido to look for her. On the shore he met with a fisher-girl who, after speaking for some while with him, gave him a letter, and at once vanished with the words: “I am the ghost of the fisher-girl that was your mother.” The letter said:

Then Fusazaki prayed for his mother’s soul and she appeared before him born again as a Blessed Dragon Lady of Paradise, carrying in her hand the scroll of the Hokkekyō (see Plate II), and danced the Hayamai, the “swift dance,” of thirteen movements. On the Kongō stage the Dragon Lady is dressed as a man; for women have no place in Paradise.

TAKE NO YUKI
(SNOW ON THE BAMBOOS)

My name is Tono-i. I live in the land of Echigo. I had a wife; but for a trifling reason I parted from her and put her to live in the House of the Tall Pines, which is not far distant from here. We had two children; and the girl I sent to live with her mother at the House of the Tall Pines, but the boy, Tsukiwaka, I have here with me, to be the heir of all my fortune.

And this being done, I brought a new wife to my home. Now it happens that in pursuance of a binding vow I must be absent for a while on pilgrimage to a place not far away. I will now give orders for the care of Tsukiwaka, my son. Is my wife there?

I called you to tell you this: in pursuance of a vow I must be absent on pilgrimage for two or three days. While I am away, I beg you to tend my child Tsukiwaka with loving care. Moreover I must tell you that the snow falls very thick in these parts, and when it piles up upon the bamboos that grow along the four walls of the yard, it weighs them down and breaks them to bits.

I don’t know how it will be, but I fancy there is snow in the air now. If it should chance to fall, pray order my servants to brush it from the leaves of the bamboos.

What? A pilgrimage, is it? Why then go in peace, and a blessing on your journey. I will not forget about the snow on the bamboos. But as for Tsukiwaka, there was no need for you to speak. Do you suppose I would neglect him, however far away you went?

Listen, Tsukiwaka! Your father has gone off on a pilgrimage. Before he went, he said something to me about you. “Tend Tsukiwaka with care,” he said. There was no need for him to speak. You must have been telling him tales about me, saying I was not kind to you or the like of that. You are a bad boy. I am angry with you, very angry! (She turns away.)

Where is Tsukiwaka? What can have become of him? (She calls for a servant.) Where has Tsukiwaka gone off to?

Why, of course! I have guessed. He took offence at what I said to him just now and has gone off as usual to the Tall Pines to blab to his mother. How tiresome! Go and tell him that his father has come home and has sent for him; bring him back with you.

I tremble and obey. (He goes to the “hashigakari” and speaks to TSUKIWAKA and the FIRST WIFE.) The master has come back and sent for you, Master Tsukiwaka! Come back quickly!

What? His father has sent for him? What a pity; he comes here so seldom. But if your father has sent for you, you must go to him. Come soon again to give your mother comfort!

What does this mean, Tsukiwaka? Have you been blabbing again at the House of the Tall Pines? Listen! Your father told me before he went away that if it came on to snow, I was to tell some one to brush the snow off the bamboos round the four walls of the yard.

It is snowing very heavily now. So be quick and brush the snow off the bamboos. Come now, take off your coat and do it in your shirt-sleeves.

TORI-OI

A certain lord goes up to the city to settle a lawsuit, leaving his steward in charge of his estate. In his absence the steward grows overbearing in his manner towards his mistress and her little son, Hanawaka, finally compelling them to take part in the arduous labour of “bird-scaring,” rowing up and down the river among the rice-fields, driving away the birds that attack the crop.

YUYA

Taira no Munemori had long detained at the Capital his mistress Yuya, whose aged mother continually besought him to send back her daughter to her for a little while, that she might see her before she died. In the illustration she is shown reading a letter in which her mother begs her to return.

Munemori insisted that Yuya should stay with him till the Spring pageants were over; but all their feasting and flower-viewing turned to sadness, and in the end he let Yuya go home.

TANGO-MONOGURUI

There are several plays which describe the fatal anger of a father on discovering that his child has no aptitude for learning. One of these, Nakamitsu or Manjū, has been translated by Chamberlain. The Tango-Monogurui, a similar play, has usually been ascribed to Seami, but Seami in his Works says that it is by a certain I-ami. The father comes on to the stage and, after the usual opening, announces that he has sent a messenger to fetch his son, whom he has put to school at a neighbouring temple. He wishes to see what progress the boy is making.

I sent some one to bring Master Hanamatsu back from the temple. Has he come yet?

Last night he had drunk a little too much, so we thought it better not to say that he was here.

I sent for you to find out how your studies are progressing. How far have you got?

I have not learnt much of the difficult subjects. Nothing worth[242] mentioning of the Sūtras or Shāstras or moral books. I know a little of the graduses and Eight Collections of Poetry; but in the Hokke Scripture I have not got to the Law-Master Chapter, and in the Gusha-shāstra I have not got as far as the Seventh Book.

This is unthinkable! He says he has not learnt anything worth mentioning. Pray, have you talents in any direction?

Now then, Hanamatsu. Is this true? Very well then; just listen quietly to me. These childish tricks—writing odes, capping verses and the like are not worth anything. They’re no more important than playing ball or shooting toy darts. And as for the chop-sticks and drum—they are the sort of instruments street urchins play on under the Spear [210] at festival-time. But when I ask about your studies, you tell me that in the Hokke you have not got to the Law-Master Chapter, and in the Gusha-shāstra you have not reached the Seventh Book. Might not the time you spent on the chop-sticks have been better employed in studying the Seventh Book? Now then, don’t excuse yourself! Those who talk most do least. But henceforth you are no son of mine. Be off with you now!

In the next scene Hanamatsu enters accompanied by a pious ship’s captain, who relates that he found the lad on the point of drowning[243] himself, but rescued him, and, taking him home, instructed him in the most recondite branches of knowledge, for which he showed uncommon aptitude; now he is taking him back to Tango to reconcile him with his father.

At Tango they learn that the father, stricken with remorse, has become demented and is wandering over the country in search of his son.

Coming to a chapel of Manjushrī, the captain persuades the lad to read a service there, and announces to the people that an eminent and learned divine is about to expound the scriptures. Among the worshippers comes an eccentric character whom the captain is at first unwilling to admit.

Even madmen can school themselves for a while. I will not rave while the service is being read.

So be it. Then sit down here and listen quietly. (To HANAMATSU.) All the worshippers have come. You had better begin the service at once.

There you go! You promised to behave properly, but now are disturbing [211] the whole congregation by your ravings. I never heard such senseless shouting.

Listen, Madman! The Doctor heard you praying for a child’s soul. He wishes you to tell him your story.

IKKAKU SENNIN
(THE ONE-HORNED RISHI)

A Rishi lived in the hills near Benares. Under strange circumstances [212] a roe bore him a son whose form was human, save that a single horn grew on his forehead, and that he had stag’s hoofs instead of feet. He was given the name Ekashringa, “One-horn.”

One day it was raining in the hills. Ekashringa slipped and hurt himself, for his hoofs were ill-suited to his human frame. He cursed the rain, and owing to his great merit and piety his prayer was answered. No rain fell for many months.

The King of Benares saw that the drought would soon bring famine. He called together his counsellors, and one of them told him the cause of the disaster. The King published a proclamation promising half of his kingdom to any who could break the Rishi’s spell. Then the harlot Shāntā came to the King and said, “I will bring you this Rishi riding him pickaback!”

She set out for the mountains, carrying fruit and wine. Having seduced the Rishi, she persuaded him to follow her to Benares. Just outside the town she lay down, saying that she was too tired to go a step further. “Then I will carry you pickaback,” said the Rishi.

In the Nō play (which is by Komparu Zembō Motoyasu 1453-1532) the Rishi has overpowered the Rain-dragons, and shut them up in a cave. Shāntā, a noble lady of Benares, is sent to tempt him. The Rishi yields to her and loses his magic power. There comes a mighty rumbling from the cave.

YAMAUBA
(THE DAME OF THE MOUNTAINS)

Yamauba is the fairy of the mountains, which have been under her care since the world began. She decks them with snow in winter, with blossoms in spring; her task carrying her eternally from hill to valley and valley to hill. She has grown very old. Wild white hair hangs down her shoulders; her face is very thin.

There was a courtesan of the Capital who made a dance representing the wanderings of Yamauba. It had such success that people called this courtesan “Yamauba” though her real name was Hyakuma.

Once when Hyakuma was travelling across the hills to Shinano to visit the Zenkō Temple, she lost her way, and took refuge in the hut of a “mountain-girl,” who was none other than the real Yamauba.

In the second part of the play the aged fairy appears in her true form and tells the story of her eternal wanderings—“round and round, on and on, from hill to hill, from valley to valley.” In spring decking the twigs with blossom, in autumn clothing the hills with moonlight, in winter shaking snow from the heavy clouds. “On and on, round and round, caught in the Wheel of Fate.... Striding to the hill-tops, sweeping through the valleys....”

The hill, says a commentator, is the Hill of Life, where men wander from incarnation to incarnation, never escaping from the Wheel of Life and Death.

HOTOKE NO HARA

Giō was the mistress of Kiyomori (1118-1181), the greatest of the Tairas. One day there arrived at his camp a famous dancing-girl called Hotoke. Kiyomori was for sending her away; but Giō, who had heard wonderful stories of Hotoke’s beauty, was anxious to see her, and persuaded Kiyomori to let Hotoke dance before him.

Kiyomori fell in love with the dancer, and after a while Giō was dismissed. She became a nun, and with her mother and sister lived in a hut in the wilds of Sagano.

Hotoke, full of remorse at her rival’s dismissal, found no pleasure in her new honours, and saying “It was I who brought her to this,” fled in nun’s clothing to the hut at Sagano. Here the four women lived together, singing ceaseless prayers to Buddha.

In the play the ghost of Hotoke appears to a “travelling priest” and tells the story, which is indeed a curious and arresting one.

MARI
(THE FOOTBALL)

A footballer died at the Capital. When the news was brought to his wife, she became demented and performed a sort of football-mass for his soul. “The eight players in a game of football,” she declared, “represent the eight chapters in the Hokke Scripture. If the four goal-posts are added the number obtained is twelve, which is the number of the Causes and Effects which govern life. Do not think of football as a secular game.”

The Journal of the great twelfth century footballer, Fujiwara no Narimichi, contains the following story: “I had brought together the best players of the time to assist me in celebrating the completion of my thousandth game. We set up two altars, and upon the one we placed our footballs, while on the other we arranged all kinds of offerings. Then, holding on to prayer-ribbons which we had tied to them, we worshipped the footballs.

That night I was sitting at home near the lamp, grinding my ink with the intention of recording the day’s proceedings in my journal, when suddenly the football which I had dedicated came bouncing into the room followed by three children of about four years old. Their faces were human, but otherwise they looked like monkeys. “What horrid creatures,” I thought, and asked them roughly who they were.

“We are the Football Sprites,” they said. “And if you want to know our names—” So saying they lifted their hanging locks, and I saw that each of them had his name written on his forehead, as follows: Spring Willow Flower, Quiet Summer Wood, and Autumn Garden. Then they said, “Pray remember our names and deign to become our Mi-mori, ‘Honourable Guardian.’ Your success at Mi-mari, ‘Honourable Football,’ will then continually increase.”

TŌRU

Tōru was a prince who built a great palace at Rokujō-kawara, near Kyōto. In its grounds was a counterfeit of the bay of Naniwa, which was filled and emptied twice a day in imitation of the tides. Labourers toiled up from the sea-shore, which was many miles distant, carrying pails of salt water.

In the play a priest passing through Rokujō-kawara meets an old man carrying salt-water pails. It is the ghost of Tōru. In the second part he rehearses the luxury and splendour of his life at the great palace Rokujō-kawara no In.

MAI-GURUMA [213]
(THE DANCE WAGGONS)

A man of Kamakura went for a year to the Capital and fell in love with a girl there. When it was time for him to return to Kamakura he took her with him. But his parents did not like her, and one day when he was not at home, they turned her out of the house.

Thinking that she would have gone towards the Capital, the man set out in pursuit of her. At dusk he came to a village. He was told that if he lodged there he must take part next day in the waggon-dancing, which was held in the sixth month of each year in honour of the god Gion. He told them that he was heart-sore and foot-sore, and could not dance.

Next day the villagers formed into two parties. The first party mounted the waggon and danced the Bijinzoroye, a ballad about the twelve ladies whom Narihira loved. The second party danced the ballad called Tsumado, the story of which is:

Hosshō, Abbot of the Hiyeizan, was sitting late one summer night by the Window of the Nine Perceptions, near the Couch of the Ten Vehicles, in a room sprinkled with the holy water of Yoga, washed by the moonlight of the Three Mysteries. Suddenly there was a sound of hammering on the double-doors. And when he opened the doors and looked—why, there stood the Chancellor Kwan, who had died on the twenty-fifth day of the second month.

“When I lived in the world foul tongues slandered me. I am come to destroy my enemies with thunder. Only the Home of Meditation [214] shall be spared. But if you will make me one promise, I will not harm you. Swear that you will go no more to Court!”

“I would not go, though they sent twice to fetch me. But if they sent a third time ...”

Then Chancellor Kwan, with a strange look on his face, drew[251] a pomegranate from his sleeve, put it between his lips, crunched it with his teeth, and spat it at the double-doors.

Suddenly the red pomegranate turned into fire; a great flame flickered over the double-doors.

When the Abbot saw it, he twisted his fingers into the Gesture of Libation; he recited the Water-Spell of the Letter Vam, and the flames died down.

And the double-doors still stand before the Abbot’s cell, on the Hill of Hiyei.

When the two dances were over, the master of ceremonies called for a dance from one of those who had been watching. A girl stepped forward and said she would dance the “Dance of Tora Parting from Sukenari.” Then they called across to the man who had lost his wife (he was over by the other waggon). “Come, you must dance now.” “Forgive me, I cannot dance.” “Indeed you must dance.” “Then I will dance the ‘Dance of Tora Parting from Sukenari.’”

“But this dance,” said the master of ceremonies, “is to be danced by a girl on the other side. You must think of another dance.”

Here’s a pretty fix! Ha, I have it! Let’s set the waggons side by side, and the two of them shall dance their dance together.

When they step up on to the waggons, the man finds that his partner is the wife he was seeking for. They begin to dance the “Dance of Tora,” but soon break off to exchange happy greetings. The plays ends with a great ballet of rejoicing.

There is one whole group of plays to which I have hitherto made no reference: those in which a mother seeks for her lost child. Mrs. Stopes has translated Sumidagawa, and Mr. Sansom, Sakuragawa. Another well-known play of this kind is Miidera, a description of which will be found in an appendix at the end of this book (p. 267).

A few other plays, such as Nishikigi, Motomezuka, and Kinuta, I have omitted for lack of space and because it did not seem to me that I could in any important way improve on existing versions of them.

CHAPTER VIII
KYŌGEN

THE BIRD-CATCHER IN HELL [215]
(ESASHI JŪŌ)

My name is Kiyoyori the Bird-Catcher. I was very well known on[256] the Terrestrial Plane. But the span of my years came to its appointed close; I was caught in the Wind of Impermanence; and here I am, marching to the Sunless Land.

Why, here I am already at the meeting of the Six Ways of Existence. I think on the whole I’ll go to Heaven.

Haha! That smells like a man. Why, sure enough here’s a sinner coming. We must report him. (To YAMA.) Please, sir, here’s the first sinner arrived already!

Bird-catcher? That’s bad. Taking life from morning to night. That’s very serious, you know. I am afraid you will have to go to Hell.

Really, I don’t consider I’m as bad as all that. I should be very much obliged if you would let me go to Heaven.

It’s like this. The sinner says that on the Terrestrial Plane he was a well-known bird-catcher. Now that means taking life all the time; it’s a serious matter, and he certainly ought to go to Hell. But when we told him so, he said we’d entirely misjudged him.

Listen to me, you sinner. I understand that when you were in the world you spent your whole time snaring birds. You are a very bad man and must go to Hell at once.

That’s all very well. But the birds I caught were sold to gentlemen to feed their falcons on; so there was really no harm in it.

I see you take my view. It was the falcons who were to blame, not I. That being so, I should be very much obliged if you would allow me to go straight to Heaven.

Oh, thank you! (They eat greedily and snatch.) I want that bit! No, it’s mine! What a flavour!

I never tasted anything so nice. You have given us such a treat that I am going to send you back to the world to go on bird-catching for another three years.

SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY

EUROPEAN

B. H. Chamberlain: The Classical Poetry of the Japanese, 1880 (Rhymed paraphrases of Sesshōseki, Kantan, Nakamitsu and part of Hagoromo; translations of the farces Honekawa and Zazen).

F. W. K. Müller in Festschrift f. Adolf Bastian, pp. 513-537, Ikkaku Sennin, eine mittelalterliche—Oper, 1896.

Aston, History of Japanese Literature, 1899. Osman Edwards: Japanese Plays and Playfellows, 1901. (Refers to performances of Shunkwan, Koi no Omoni, Aoi no Uye, Benkei in the Boat and Tsuchigumo.)

F. Brinkley, Japan, III. 21-60, 1901-2. (Translates Ataka and the farce Sannin Katawa.)

F. Victor Dickins, Japanese Texts, 1906. (Text and Translation of Takasago).

K. Florenz, Geschichte d. Japanischen Literatur, 1906. (Translations of Takasago and Benkei in the Boat; summaries of Ataka, Mochizuki and Hanjo. Translation of the farce Hagi-Daimyō.)

N. Péri: Etudes sur le drame lyrique japonais, in Bulletin de l’Ecole d’Extrême-Orient, 1909-1913. (Includes translations of Oimatsu, Atsumori, Ohara Gokō, Sotoba Komachi and The Damask Drum.)

H. L. Joly: Notes on masks, dances, etc., in Transactions of Japan Society, 1912.

M. Stopes: Plays of Old Japan, 1913. (Translations of Motomezuka, Kagekiyo and Sumidagawa; summary of Tamura.)

E. Fenollosa and Ezra Pound: Noh or Accomplishment, 1916. (Translations by E. F., adapted by E. P. Gives some account of about twenty plays. The versions of E. F. seem to have been fragmentary and inaccurate; but wherever Mr. Pound had adequate material to work upon he has used it admirably.)

See also general articles on the Japanese drama, such as A. Lloyd’s in Trans. of Asiatic Society of Japan, 1908.

JAPANESE

Kwadensho: the Later Kwadensho in 8 vols., first published c. 1600. (The British Museum possesses what is apparently an early eighteenth century reprint.)

Nō no Shiori: by Ōwada Tateki, 6 vols. (Description of the modus operandi of 91 plays), 1903.

Yōkyoku Hyōshaku: edited by Ōwada Tateki, 9 vols., 1907-8. Texts of about 270 plays, with commentary. Referred to by me as “Ōwada.”

Yokyoku Sōsho: edited by Y. Haga and N. Sasaki, 3 vols. (Texts of about 500 plays with short notes. Referred to by me as “Haga.”)

Magazines such as Nōgaku Gwahō, Yōkyokukai, etc.; picture postcards and albums of photographs such as Nōgaku Mandai Kagami, 1916.

Ryōjin Hisshō: Folk-songs collected in 12th century and rediscovered in 1911. [262]

APPENDIX I

MODERN NŌ LETTERS FROM JAPAN

The fact that Nō did not disappear with the overthrow of the Shogun in 1863 was almost solely due to the efforts of Umewaka Minoru (1828-1909), whose ancestors had for generations played tsure parts in the Kwanze theatre. When the Mikado was restored in 1868 Kiyotaka, head of the Kwanze line, was convinced that an art so intimately connected with the Shōgunate must perish with it, and fled to Shizuoka where the fallen Shōgun was living in retreat.

Minoru alone remained behind, built himself a theatre [218] (1869-70) and “manned his lonely rampart.” When confidence was re-established the other “troupes” soon returned, so that henceforward five theatres existed, the four of earlier days and that of Umewaka as a fifth. Minoru was succeeded by his brilliant sons, Mansaburō and Rokurō, who in 1919 opened a new Umewaka theatre. As a compliment to the Umewaka family and a tribute to its services, actors of the three other “schools” took part in the opening ceremony, but the Kwanzes refused to do so. The dispute turns on the right to grant certificates of efficiency (menjō) which, according to the Kwanzes’ claim, belongs only to Motoshige, the head of their school. Such certificates have, in fact, been issued successively by Minoru, his sons and the “renegade” Kwanze Tetsunojō, who sides with the Umewaka. The validity of Minoru’s certificates was, I believe, never disputed during his lifetime.

To complete this note on modern Nō I include the following extracts from letters written in 1916 by Mr. Oswald Sickert to Mr. Charles Ricketts. The sender and recipient of the letters both authorized me to use them, and for this permission I am deeply grateful. But I wish that Mr. Sickert, whose memories of Nō must already be a little dimmed, had had the leisure to write a book of his own on the two dramatic arts that so deeply interested him in Japan, the Nō and the Kabuki.

“It’s odd if people describe the Nō performance as a thing that is simple or unsophisticated or unelaborated. The poem, to begin with,[263] is not simple, but it has a lyrical slenderness which wouldn’t one would say, lead anybody to think of going such lengths as to distribute its recitation among a chorus and actors, thus requiring perhaps eleven men to say the words, with two or three drums and a flute added, and masks and costumes fit for a museum and angelic properties, and special stages, and attendants to wipe, in this hot weather, the sweat from immovable hands and from under chins. The volume of what goes to a performance is large, but it’s all cut down outwardly and bent inwards. As for the recitation, the first necessity is to eliminate direct expressiveness in the saying of the words. This seems obvious in the saying of any good poetry. The chorus chants (it’s rather like a Gregorian chant), the actors intone. Both may come to singing, only not with any tune that might carry you off by itself. Yet, within the limitations of intoning, with some turns, the actor taking the women’s parts will achieve a pitch of pathetic intensity beyond the reach of one who sings words to an air that has an existence of its own, or who recites with meaning. The Nō actor is not directly expressive, it’s always the poem he is doing and throwing you back on.

“I suppose the mask may have originated in a priest’s needing to impersonate an angel or a beautiful girl, or an evil spirit; but its justification, as against make-up, is absolute for the Nō purpose. I saw in the same week Funa Benkei, adapted for the theatre, at the Imperial and on a Nō stage. At the theatre, the part of Shizuka, the mistress whom Yoshitsune the pursued young lord is persuaded to send away, was taken by Baikō. It was one of his nights, and all the evening, as three different women and a ghost, he was so that I shall not again ever so much care about a beautiful woman taken by a beautiful woman. But in the theatre version of Funa Benkei, Shizuka wore no mask, and when she pleaded, Baikō, of course, acted; it was charming; but Heaven knows what words he was saying—certainly he was not turning the mind of his audience in upon any masterpiece of words, rhythm and poetical fancy. He was acting the situation. The Nō performer, on the other hand, is intensifying the poet’s fancy. From sight of the masks hung up alone, I had not imagined how well their mixture of vacancy and realism would do the trick. The masks are not wayward, not extravagant (even the devil’s masks are realistic); but they are undoubtedly masks tied on with a band, and they effect the purpose of achieving an impassive countenance of a cast suited to the character—impassive save that, with a good actor and a mask of a beautiful woman that just hits off the balance between too much and too little physiognomy, I’d[264] swear that at the right moments the mask is affected, its expression intensifies, it lives.

“The costumes are tremendous, elaborate, often priceless heirlooms; but again they are not extravagant, ‘on their own,’ being all distinctly hieratic (as indeed is the whole performance, a feature historically deriving, maybe, from its original source among priests, but just what one would desiderate if one were creating a Nō performance out of the blue), because the hieratic helps to create and maintain a host of restrictions and conventions which good taste alone, even in Japan, could scarcely have preserved against the fatal erosion of reason.

“The masked actors of beautiful women are stuffed out and by some device increase the appearance of height, though all go in socks and apparently with bent knees. The great masked figure, gliding without lifting the heels, but with all the more appearance of swiftness, to the front of the stage, is the most ecstatic thing to sit under, and the most that a man can do to act what people mean by ‘poetical,’ something removed from reality but not remote, fascinating so that you fall in love with it, but more than you would care to trifle with. This movement occurs in the dances which come in some plays—I think always as dances by characters invited to dance—and which are the best moments for the stranger, since then alone does the rhythm of the drums become regular enough for him to recognize it. For that is really, I am sure, the bottom essential of the Nō representation—the rhythm marked by two drums. For quite long intervals nothing else occurs. No actor is on the stage, no word is uttered, but the sharp rap sounds with the thimbled finger as on a box and the stumpy little thud of the bare hands follows, or coincides, from the second drum and both players give a crooning whoop. In some way, which I can’t catch, that rhythm surely plays into the measure of the recitation when it comes and into the movements of the actors when they come. You know how people everywhere will persist in justifying the admirable in an art on the ground of the beautiful ideas it presents. So my friends tell me the drum beats suggest the travelling of the pilgrim who is often the hinge of the episode. I feel like a Japanese who wants to know whether a sonnet has any particular number of lines, and any order for its rhymes and repeats, and gets disquisitions on Shakespeare’s fancy which might also apply to a speech in blank verse. Anyway, it is ever so evident that the musicians do something extremely difficult and tricky. The same musicians don’t seem to play on through the three pieces which make[265] a programme. As they have no book (and don’t even look at each other), they must know the performance by heart, and the stranger’s attention is often called by a friend to one or the other who is specially famous for his skill. Some one tried to explain the relation between the musicians and the actors by saying that a perpetual sort of contest went on between them. Certainly there seems to be in a Nō performance some common goal which has to be strained for every time, immensely practised though the performers are. During the dance this drum rhythm speeds up to a felt time, and at moments of great stress, as when an avenging ghost swims on with a spear, a third drum, played with sticks, comes in with rapid regular beats, louder and softer. Sometimes when the beats are not so followable, but anyway quicker in succession, I seem to make out that they must be involving themselves in some business of syncopation, or the catching up and outstripping of a slow beat by a quicker one. But the ordinary beats are too far apart for me to feel any rhythm yet.

“The best single moment I have seen was the dance of thanks to the fisherman who returns to the divine lady the Hagoromo, the robe without which even an angel cannot fly. It seemed to me an example of the excellent rule in art that, if a right thing is perhaps rather dull or monotonous lasting five minutes, you will not cure the defect by cutting the performance to two and a half minutes; rather give it ten minutes. If it’s still perhaps rather dull, try twenty minutes or an hour. This presupposes that your limitations are right and that you are exploiting them. The thing may seem dull at first because at first it is the limitations the spectator feels; but the more these are exploited the less they are felt to be limitations, and the more they become a medium. The divine lady returned on her steps at great length and fully six times after I had thought I could not bear it another moment. She went on for twenty minutes, perhaps, or an hour or a night; I lost count of time; but I shall not recover from the longing she left when at last she floated backwards and under the fatal uplifted curtain. The movements, even in the dance, are very restricted if one tries to describe or relate them, but it may be true, as they say, that the Nō actor works at an intense and concentrated pitch of all his thoughts and energies, and this tells through his impassive face or mask and all his clothes and his slow movements. Certainly the longer I looked at the divine lady, the more she seemed to me to be in action, though sometimes the action, if indeed there, was so slight that it could be that she had worked us up to the fine edge of noticing her breathing. There was only one memorable[266] quick motion in the dance, the throwing of the stiff deep gauze sleeve over the head, over the crown with its lotus and bell tassels. My wife has no inclination to deceive herself with the fascination of what she can’t explain, and she agreed that this was the most beautiful thing that had ever been seen.

“You will see the two drum players in many of the cards. With them sits the player on the fue, a transverse flute, who joins in at moments with what often is, if you take it down, the same phrase, though it sounds varied as the player is not often exactly on any note that you can take down. The dropping of the flute’s note at the end of the phrase, which before always went up, is the nearest approach to the ‘curtain’ of the theatre. It is very touching. The poem has come to an end. The figures turn and walk off....

“I have been to more Nō performances, always with increasing recognition of the importance attaching to the beat, a subject on which I have got some assurance from an expert kindly directed to me by a friend. From beginning to end, all the words of every Nō play fit into an 8-beat measure, and a performer who sat in the dark, tapping the measure while skilfully weaving in the words, would give a Nō audience the essential ground of its pleasure. If they are not actually being followed on books, in which they are printed as ticks alongside the text, the beats are going on inside (often to the finger tips of) all the people whom I notice to be regular attendants at Nō performances. I saw a play (not a good one) at the Kabukiza in which a Nō master refuses a pupil a secret in his art. For some reason the pupil attaches importance to being shown the way in this difficult point. The master’s daughter takes poison and, in fulfilment of her dying request, the master consents to show the pupil. It was no subtlety of gesture, no matter of voice or mask, that brought things to such straits. The master knelt at his desk, and, beating with his fan, began reciting a passage, showing how the words were distributed in the beat.

“It is very seldom that every beat in the eight is marked by a drum. I don’t think this happens save in those plays where the taiko (the real drum played with sticks) takes part, generally in an important or agitated dance. In the ordinary course, only certain of the eight beats are marked by the two players on the tsuzumi (one held on the knee, the other over the shoulder). The Japanese get much more out of subtleties of rhythm (or, rather, out of playing hide-and-seek with one simple rhythm) than we do and are corre[267]spondingly lax about the interval between one note and another. I don’t believe a European would have thought of dividing the drum beats between two instruments. It must be horribly tricky to do. This division gives variety, for the big tsuzumi yields a clack and the small yields something between a whop and a thud.

“As for masks, one would have to see very many performances, I fancy, and think a lot, before one got on to any philosophy of their fascination and effectiveness. I am always impressed by the realism, the naturalness of the Nō mask. It is not fanciful in any obvious sense. After a few performances, I found I knew when a mask was a particularly good one. My preferences turned out to be precious heirlooms two hundred years old. In one instance when, for a reason I don’t yet understand, Rokurō changed his mask after death for another of the same cast, I could not say why the first was better than the second—certainly not for a pleasanter surface, for it was shining like lacquer; I noticed the features were more pronounced. We were allowed the thrill of being let into the room of the mirror, immediately behind the curtain, and saw Rokurō have his mask fitted and make his entry after a last touch by his brother Mansaburō. These brothers are Umewaka, belong to the Kwanze School, and have a stage of their own. I am told that my preference for them is natural to a beginner and that later one likes as much, or better, the more masculine style of the Hōshō. At present Nagashi (Matsumoto), the chief performer of this school (which has a lovely stage and a very aristocratic clientèle), seems to me like an upright gentleman who has learned his lesson, while Rokurō and Mansaburō are actors. Both brothers have beautiful voices. The Hōshō people speak with a thickness in the throat. But I know it is absurd for me to feel critical about anything. Moreover, Rokurō and Nagashi would not take the same parts.

“MIIDERA. A mother, crazed by the straying away of her little boy, is advised by a neighbour any way to go to Ōtsu, for there stands the temple of Mii which she had seen in a dream.

“The priests of Miidera, with the little boy among them, are out in the temple yard viewing the full autumn moon. The attendant tolls the great bell, whose lovely note wavers long over the lake below. The mad mother appears on the scene, and, drawn to the bell, makes to toll it. The head priest forbids her. There follows an argument full of bell lore, and its effect on troubled hearts. She tolls the bell, and mother and son recognize each other.

“One of the cards I sent shows the mother tolling the bell. She[268] comes on first in a red flowered robe, is advised by the neighbour and goes off. The priests come on. The sounding of the bell is the hinge of everything, a thing of great sentiment. As it is, in reality, one of the most touching things in the world, it seemed to me clever that there was no attempt to represent it. On the contrary, the action centred in the toller, a cheery old gossiper used to the job, who more or less spat on his hands and said Heave ho as he swung the imaginary horizontal beam. Only when he had done so, he continued his Heave ho in a kind of long echoing hum. Then he danced. The mad mother came on in another dress, very strange, light mauve gauze over white, no pattern, and the bough in her hand. Why, when the old man had already tolled, for one’s imagination, a non-existent bell in the real way with a heavy beam, the mother should actually pull a coloured ribbon tied to an elaborate toy, it is hard to say. But it is right.

“I saw this taken by Mansaburō, who, like his brother Rokurō, has a beautiful voice. The singing is so unlike ours, that at first one feels nothing about it. But after three or four performances one notices, and I recognized the beauty of both these brothers’ voices before I knew they were brothers, or, indeed, that they were noted in any way. In fact I was still in the state when I had not yet realized that one might come to discussing the merits of these players hidden in robes and masks as hotly as one discusses the qualities of the favourites on the ordinary theatre.

“I don’t know if you know about the curtain. Every subsidiary detail of the performance possesses, I don’t know how to say, but a solidity. It’s there. God knows how it came there; but there it is, and it’s not a contrivance, not an ‘idea.’ The entry to the stage, as you know, is by a narrow gallery, beside which three little pine-trees rise like mile-stones. This gallery ends with a single heavy curtain, which does not rise as ours do, or draw aside or fall as in the Japanese theatre. It sweeps back, only bellying a little. It is, in fact, as I saw when I was allowed behind, lifted by poles fixed to the bottom corners.

“The poles are raised rapidly by two men kneeling a good way behind. Suddenly the curtain blows back as by a wind, and the expected figure, whom you know must be coming or something, i. e. suspense is prepared by what has already happened, is framed in the opening, and there pauses an instant. I am speaking, not of the first entry, but of the second one, when the person who aroused the pilgrim-visitor’s curiosity as a temple-sweeper or a water-carrier, and vanished, reappears as the great General or princely Prime[269] Minister he once was. The stage-wait necessitated by the change of costume and mask is filled in by an interminable sayer of short lines, with the same number of feet, each line detached from the next as if the speaker were going from one afterthought to another. He is a bystander—perhaps a shepherd in one play and a fisherman in another—who knows something, and dilates on it to fill in time. The musicians lay aside their drums. Everybody just waits. Up sweeps the curtain, and with the re-entry of the revealed personage comes the intenser and quicker second part for which the slow first part was a preparation.”

APPENDIX II

FOOTNOTES

[1] For example in yuku kata shira-yuki ni ... shira does duty twice, meaning both “unknown” and “white.” The meaning is “whither-unknown amid the white snow.”

[2] These dates have only recently been established.

[3] See p. 32.

[4] Not to be confused with the forged book printed in 1600 and used by Fenollosa.

[5] See note on Buddhism, p. 32.

[6] The piece to be used as an introduction. Modern performances are not confined to full Nō. Sometimes actors in plain dress recite without the aid of instrumental music, sitting in a row. Or one actor may recite the piece, with music (this is called Hayashi); or the piece may be mimed without music (this is called Shimai).

[7] An old shirōto, i. e. person not engaged in trade.

[8] This shows that, in Seami’s hands, the device of making an apparition the hero of the play was simply a dramatic convention.

[9] This, too, is the only aspect of them that I can here discuss; no other kind of criticism being possible without quotation of the actual words used by the poet.

[10] See further my Zen Buddhism & its relation to Art. Luzac, 1922.

[11] See p. 226.

[12] Like Yukihira; see p. 227.

[13] Atsumori must have done Kumagai some kindness in a former incarnation. This would account for Kumagai’s remorse.

[14] Buddha.

[15] I have omitted a line the force of which depends upon a play on words.

[16] The Taira evacuated the Capital in the second year of Juyei, 1188.

[17] Ichi-no-Tani means “First Valley.”

[18] The name of so humble a thing was unfamiliar to the Taira lords.

[19] Atsumori. This passage is mimed throughout.

[20] A great preacher; died 1212 A.D.

[21] The name given to streams which flow through temples. In this case the River Kamo.

[22] Tadasu means to “straighten,” “correct.” The shrine of Kamo lay in the forest of Tadasu.

[23] Adapted from a poem in the Shin Kokinshū.

[24] Ikuta means “Field of Life.”

[25] The relation between Tsunemasa and the Emperor is meant.

[26] I. e. the wind sounds like rain; the sands appear to be covered with frost. A couplet from a poem by Po Chü-i.

[27] Part of the poem which Tsunemasa gave to the Emperor before he went to battle.

[28] Goddess of Music, who vowed that she would lead all souls to salvation by the music of her lute.

[29] Different tunes were appropriate to different seasons.

[30] A range of hills to the south of the Ninnaji. The name means the “Row of Hills.”

[31] Quotation from Po Chü-i’s “Lute Girl’s Song”; for paraphrase see Giles’ Chinese Literature, p. 166.

[32] The ghost must return at dawn.

[33] The shēng.

[34] Quotation from Chinese poem in Rōyei Shu.

[35] He had died in battle and was therefore condemned to perpetual war with the demons of Hell.

[36] “The wise man is like the autumn deer crying in the mountains; the fool is like the moth which flies into the candle” (Gempei Seisuiki, chap. viii.).

[37] I. e. he is “attached” to earth and cannot get away to the Western Paradise.

[38] I. e. the time of his encounter with Ushiwaka.

[39] Aizen.

[40] Devadatta, the wicked contemporary of Buddha.

[41] The six paths to Bodisattva-hood, i. e. Almsgiving, Observance of Rules, Forbearance, Meditation, Knowledge and Singleness of Heart.

[42] Actually from the Nirvana Sutra.

[43] The Priest.

[44] Koye-butsuji, “Voice-service.”

[45] Yoshitsune (Ushiwaka) had run away from the temple where he was being educated and joined the merchant’s caravan; see p. 70.

[46] Names of strokes in fencing.

[47] I have thought it better to print these “recitals” as verse, though in the original (as obviously in my translation) they are almost prose.

[48] Semimaru.

[49] A tall, nodding hat.

[50] 1064 A.D.

[51] I. e. Minamoto and Taira.

[52] 1156-1159 A.D.

[53] Yoshi-iye.

[54] Ushiwaka had not heard this conversation between the hatmaker and his wife, which takes place as an “aside.”

[55] I. e. into power.

[56] I. e. robbers. A band of brigands who troubled China in 184 A. D. were known the White Waves, and the phrase was later applied to robbers in general.

[57] Torches were thrown among the enemy to discover their number and defences.

[58] God of War and clan-god of the Minamotos.

[59] He feels that he is too old for the work.

[60] I. e. Ushiwaka.

[61] 1-3 A.M.

[62] The Kurama Temple.

[63] Flowers of the yūgao or calabash. There is a reference to Lady Yugao (see p. 142), who lived at Gojō.

[64] Because he was a priest.

[65] I. e. three incarnations.

[66] Ushiwaka’s home.

[67] The Tairas.

[68] The Minamotos, who came into power at the end of the twelfth century.

[69] The journey to look for her father.

[70] Tōtōmi is written with characters meaning “distant estuary.” The whole passage is full of double-meanings which cannot be rendered.

[71] The Capital.

[72] Quotation from the Parable Chapter of the Hokkekyō.

[73] A Chinese Pegasus. The proverb says, “Even Kirin, when he was old, was outstripped by hacks.” Seami quotes this proverb, Works, p. 9.

[74] “Le vieux guerrier avengle, assis devant sa cabane d’exilé, mime son dernier combat de gestes incertains et tremblants” (Péri).

[75] Yoshitsune.

[76] Po Chü-i’s Works, iii. 13.

[77] Alluding partly to the fact that he is snow-covered, partly to his grey hairs.

[78] Kefu, “to-day.”

[79] Buddhist ordinances, such as hospitality to priests.

[80] Food of the poorest peasants.

[81] After Shākyamuni left the palace, he served the Rishi of the mountains.

[82] Using words from a poem by Michizane (845-903 A.D.).

[83] For Japanese football, see p. 248. A different interpretation has lately been suggested by Mr. Suzuki.

[84] I. e. Tokiyori.

[85] Hōjō no Tokiyori ruled at Kamakura from 1246 till 1256. He then became a priest and travelled through the country incognito in order to acquaint himself with the needs of his subjects.

[86] Sanskrit; Jap. sotoba.

[87] See p. 32.

[88] Now generally called Kayoi Komachi.

[89] The Kōyasan is not so remote as most mountain temples.

[90] See p. 113.

[91] Seami, writing c. 1430, says: “Komachi was once a long play. After the words ‘Who are those,’ etc., there used to be a long lyric passage” (Works, p. 240).

[92] “Heart flowers,” kokoro no hana, is a synonym for “poetry.”

[93] Vajrasattva, himself an emanation of Vairochana, the principal Buddha of the Shingon Sect.

[94] From the Nirvāna Sūtra.

[95] From the Avatamsaka Sūtra.

[96] Lit. “discordant karma.”

[97] A wicked disciple who in the end attained to Illumination. Also called Datta; cp. Kumasaka, p. 63.

[98] The Goddess of Mercy.

[99] A disciple so witless that he could not recite a single verse of Scripture.

[100] God of Wisdom.

[101] From the Nirvāna Sūtra.

[102] The riddle depends on a pun between sotoba and soto wa, “without” “outside.”

[103] The words which follow suggest the plight of her lover Shōshō when he travelled to her house “a hundred nights all but one,” to cut his notch on the bench.

[104] The spirit of her lover Shōshō has now entirely possessed her: this “possession-scene” lasts very much longer on the stage than the brief words would suggest.

[105] Fukagusa the name of his native place, means “deep grass.”

[106] See Hokkekyō, II. 18.

[107] The colour of the saints in heaven.

[108] Her “heart-flower,” i. e. poetic talent.

[109] Ryōjin Hisshō, p. 135.

[110] Or, according to another reading, “tales of Hell.”

[111] The Fisher holds up his torch and looks down as though peering into the water.

[112] I have omitted the line “Though this be not the river of Tamashima,” a reference to the Empress Jingō, who caught an ayu at Tamashima when on her way to fight the Coreans.

[113] A name for Hades.

[114] Good deeds were recorded in a golden book, evil deeds in an iron one.

[115] He vowed that he would come as a ship to those drowning in the Sea of Delusion.

[116] Here follow the twelve concluding lines, too full of Buddhist technicalities to interest a general reader.

[117] A twelfth-century folk-song (Ryōjin Hisshō, p. 126), speaks of “The Way of Love which knows no castes of ‘high’ and ‘low.’”

[118] A story from Huai-nan Tzŭ. What looks like disaster turns out to be good fortune and vice versa. The horse broke away and was lost. A revolution occurred during which the Government seized all horses. When the revolution was over the man of Sai’s horse was rediscovered. If he had not lost it the Government would have taken it.

[119] This simile, which passed into a proverb in China and Japan, occurs first in Chuang Tzŭ, chap. xxii.

[120] Compare the “possession” in Sotoba Komachi.

[121] Adapted from a poem in the Gosenshū.

[122] Adapted from a poem in the Kokinshū.

[123] The names of two of the Cold Hells in the Buddhist Inferno.

[124] There is a legend that the fish who succeed in leaping a certain waterfall turn into dragons. So the Gardener’s attempt to raise himself to the level of the Princess has changed him into an evil demon.

[125] Genji Monogatari (Romance of Genji), chap, iii., Hakubunkwan Edition, p. 87.

[126] By Baron Suyematsu in 1881.

[127] A miko or witch called Teruhi is the subject of the play Sanja Takusen.

[128] Rokujō has left the “Burning House,” i. e. her material body. The “Three Coaches” are those of the famous “Burning House” parable in the Hokkekyō. Some children were in a burning house. Intent on their play, they could not be induced to leave the building; till their father lured them out by the promise that they would find those little toy coaches awaiting them. So Buddha, by partial truth, lures men from the “burning house” of their material lives. Owing to the episode at the Kamo Festival, Rokujō is obsessed by the idea of “carriages,” “wheels” and the like.

[129] One day Rokujō saw a coach from which all badges and distinctive decorations had been purposely stripped (hence, in a sense, a “broken coach”) standing before Yūgao’s door. She found out that it was Genji’s. For Yūgao, see p. 142.

[130] Rokujō went secretly to the Kamo Festival in a closed carriage.

[131] Words from an old dance-song or “saibara.”

[132] “That am a ghost,” but also “that have lost my beauty.”

[133] Alluding to Aoi’s pregnancy.

[134] A Sanskrit name for the “world of appearances.”

[135] I. e. at the Palace.

[136] It was the custom for wives who had been put away to ambush the new wife and strike her “to clear their hate.”

[137] From the Sutrālankära Shāstra (Cat. No. 1182).

[138] Rokujō’s.

[139] Aoi.

[140] I. e. recover.

[141] The hero of the “Finding of Ukifune,” a later episode in the Genji Monogatari.

[142] Founder of the sect of the ascetics called Yamabushi Mountaineers.

[143] Mount Ōmine, near Yoshino, ritual ascents of which were made by Yamabushi.

[144] Known as the Lesser Spell of Fudō. The longer one which follows is the Middle Spell. They consist of corrupt Sanskrit mixed with meaningless magic syllables.

[145] From the Buddhist Sūtra known in Japan as the Hannya Kyō. It was supposed to have a particular influence over female demons, who are also called “Hannyas.”

[146] In Japanese, Kantan.

[147] Corresponds to the modern province Hupeh.

[148] So, Chinese “Ch’u,” was formerly an independent feudal State. The name means “thorn,” as does the Japanese “ibara.” Chamberlain calls it “The Country of Ibara,” but in this case the reading “So” is indicated by both Ōwada and Haga.

[149] Kings and princes are often called “thou above the clouds.”

[150] Palaces of the First Emperor. An attendant has removed the pillow from the “bed.” From this moment the bed becomes a magnificent palace, as described in the verses which follow.

[151] At this point the Boy Dancer enters.

[152] Name of a famous Chinese palace.

[153] Famous Gate in the palace of the T’ang Emperors.

[154] These lines are from a poem by Yasutane, d. 997 A. D. (Chamberlain attributes them to Po Chü-i.)

[155] Here the Boy Dancer begins to dance the Dream-dance.

[156] On the third day of the third month people floated cups in the stream. Each person as the cup passed in front of him, had to compose a poem and drink the contents of the cup.

[157] These words also describe the dancer’s movements.

[158] The Moon.

[159] See Waley, Japanese Poetry, p. 77.

[160] I. e. Buddha, the Law and the Priesthood. A pious exclamation of astonishment like the Spanish “Jesù, Maria José!”

[161] The Sun is male, i. e. fair. The Moon female, i. e. foul.

[162] The demons of Delusion, of the Senses, of the Air and of Death.

[163] The Sun.

[164] The heresy of Nihilism. To say that phenomena do not exist is as untrue as to say that they exist.

[165] He quotes a Zen text.

[166] Iwa, “rock,” also means “not speak.”

[167] Some actors, says Ōwada, here write in the air with their fan; but such detailed miming is vulgar.

[168] An allusion to the cherry-trees at the Kiyomizu-dera.

[169] Bamboo-strips rubbed together to produce a squeaking sound.

[170] A Chinese couplet quoted from the Shih Jēn Yü Hsieh (“Jade-dust of the Poets”), a Sung Dynasty work on poetry which was popular in Japan.

[171] Masse here means, I think, “future generations,” not “this degraded age.”

[172] When an angel is about to die, the flowers of his crown wither, his feather robe is stained with dust, sweat pours from under the arm-pits, the eyelids tremble, he is tired of his place in heaven.

[173] The sacred bird of heaven.

[174] Izanagi and Izanami.

[175] The “Katsura” tree, a kind of laurel supposed to grow in the moon.

[176] Lit. “dividing my body,” an expression used of Buddhist divinities that detach a portion of their godhead and incarnate it in some visible form.

[177] Fuji.

[178] The inner and outer temples at Ise.

[179] Quoting an ancient prayer for the Mikado.

[180] Sumeru is the great mountain at the centre of the universe. Its west side is of rubies, its south side of green stones, its east side of white stones, etc.

[181] Called in Sanskrit Mahāsthāma-prāpta, third person of the Trinity sitting on Amida’s right hand. The Moon-God is an emanation of this deity.

[182] Of Buddha.

[183] Here follows a long lyric passage describing their journey and ascent. The frequent occurrence of place-names and plays of word on such names makes it impossible to translate.

[184] I have only summarized the last chorus. When the pilgrims reach the summit, they pray to their founder, En no Gyōja, and to the God Fudō that the boy may be restored to life. In answer to their prayers a Spirit appears carrying the boy in her arms. She lays him at the Priest’s feet and vanishes again, treading the Invisible Pathway that En no Gyōja trod when he crossed from Mount Katsuragi to the Great Peak without descending into the valley.

[185] The play is given in a list of Seami’s works composed on the authority of his great-grandson, Kwanze Nagatoshi, in 1524. Ōwada gives it as anonymous.

[186] “Wakare no tori,” the bird which warns lovers of the approach of day.

[187] Turn it into a Buddha.

[188] The fact that Haku is a foreigner is conventionally emphasized by his pronunciation of this word. The fishermen, when using the same word later on, called it “Nihon.”

[189] The Chinese call him Fan Li. He lived in China in the fifth century B.C. Having rendered important services to the country of Yüeh (Etsu), he went off with his mistress in a skiff, knowing that if he remained in public life his popularity was bound to decline. The Fishermen are vaguely groping towards the idea of “a Chinaman” and a “boat.” They are not yet consciously aware of the arrival of Rakuten.

[190] Haku throughout omits the honorific turns of speech which civility demands. The Fishermen speak in elaborately deferential and honorific language. The writer wishes to portray Haku as an ill-bred foreigner.

[191] “Uta,” i. e. the thirty-one syllable Japanese stanza.

[192] Quotation from the Preface to the Kokinshū (“Collection of Songs Ancient and Modern”). The fact that Haku continues the quotation shows that he is under a sort of spell and makes it clear for the first time that his interlocutor is not an ordinary mortal. From this point onwards, in fact, the Fisherman gradually becomes a God.

[193] The priest’s acolyte had died. The nightingale was the boy’s soul.

[194] They do not appear on the stage.

[195] The love-adventures of Narihira (825-880 A.D.) in 125 episodes, supposed to have been written by Narihira himself.

[196] The husband puts up the bride’s hair.

[197] Reigned 507-531.

[198] In this play as in all the part of Emperor is played by a young boy or “child-actor.”

[199] A Chinese Emperor of the Han dynasty and his concubine.

[200] The time before his accession.

[201] Ominabeshi (or ominameshi, ominayeshi), “Ladies’ Meal,” but written with Chinese characters meaning “ladies’ flower,” a kind of patrinia.

[202] Ceremonial white vestments, hakuye.

[203] For “Zen” see Introduction, p. 32.

[204] Lit, Kikenjō, one of the Buddhist paradises.

[205] Priest.

[206] Acted by a kyōgen or farce-character.

[207] Sayohime who, when her husband sailed to Korea, stood waving on the cliff till she turned into stone.

[208] The headquarters of the Tendai sect of Buddhism.

[209] The sasara (split bamboos rubbed together) and yatsubachi, “eight-sticks,” a kind of vulgar drum.

[210] A sort of maypole set up at the Gion Festival.

[211] Literally “waking.”

[212] “Il aperçut un cerf et une biche qui s’accouplaient. La passion impure s’excita en lui.... La biche ... se trouva grosse.” Péri, Les Femmes de Çakyamouni, p. 24.

[213] Sometimes called Bijin-zoroye or Bijin-zoroi.

[214] The cell of the Zen priest.

[215] Kyōgen Zenshū, p. 541. This farce is a parody of such Nō-plays as Ukai.

[216] The Buddhist “Six Ways,” Rokudō.

[217] See Ukai, p. 127.

[218] Or, according to Fenollosa, bought a stage belonging to an ex-daimyō.

[219] Or rather “arranger,” for in many instances he adapted already existing Dengaku or Kōwaka.

	PAGE
KEY TO PLANS	12, 14
PLANS	13, 15
INTRODUCTION	17-29
NOTE ON BUDDHISM	30-32
CHAPTER I
ATSUMORI	36-44
IKUTA	45-50
TSUNEMASA	51-56
CHAPTER II
KUMASAKA	60-68
EBOSHI-ORI	69-80
BENKEI ON THE BRIDGE	81-86
CHAPTER III
KAGEKIYO	89-99
HACHI NO KI	100-112
SOTOBA KOMACHI	113-124
CHAPTER IV
UKAI	127-133
AYA NO TSUZUMI	134-141
AOI NO UYE	142-151
CHAPTER V
KANTAN	155-164
THE HŌKA PRIESTS	165-175
[8]HAGOROMO	176-184
CHAPTER VI
TANIKŌ	185-193
IKENIYE	194-200
HATSUYUKI	201-204
HAKU RAKUTEN	205-213
CHAPTER VII
SUMMARIES	217-249
CHAPTER VIII
FARCE (KYOGEN)	253-257
SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY	258-259
APPENDICES	260-268

YOUNG WOMAN’S MASK	Frontispiece
FACING PAGE
YOUNG MAN’S MASK	70
DEMON MASK	152
THE ANGEL IN HAGOROMO	176
IZUTSU	216
THE DRAGON LADY IN AMA	234
YŪYA READING THE LETTER	238
YAMAUBA (THE LADY OF THE MOUNTAINS)	244

TRANSLATIONS BY ARTHUR WALEY

A Hundred and Seventy Chinese Poems

More Translations from the Chinese

THE NŌ PLAYS OF JAPAN

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

KEY TO PLAN I

KEY TO PLAN II

INTRODUCTION

(1) THE NŌ STAGE.

(2) THE PERFORMERS.

(a) The Actors.

(b) The Chorus.

(c) The Musicians.

COSTUME.

PROPERTIES.

DANCING AND ACTING.

THE PLAYS.

ORIGINS.

YŪGEN

PATRONS

IMITATION (Monomane).

APPARITIONS

CHILD PLAYS

RESTRAINT

NOTE ON BUDDHISM

ATSUMORI, IKUTA, AND TSUNEMASA.

ATSUMORI

IKUTA

TSUNEMASA

CHAPTER II

KUMASAKA

EBOSHI-ORI

BENKEI ON THE BRIDGE (HASHI-BENKEI)

CHAPTER III

KAGEKIYO

HACHI NO KI

NOTE ON KOMACHI.

SOTOBA KOMACHI

CHAPTER IV

Note on Ukai.

UKAI (THE CORMORANT-FISHER)

AYA NO TSUZUMI (THE DAMASK DRUM)

Note on Aoi No Uye.

AOI NO UYE (PRINCESS HOLLYHOCK)

CHAPTER V

Note on Kantan.

KANTAN

THE HŌKA PRIESTS (HŌKAZŌ)

Note on Hagoromo.

HAGOROMO

CHAPTER VI

Note on Tanikō and Ikeniye.

TANIKŌ (THE VALLEY-HURLING)

IKENIYE (THE POOL-SACRIFICE)

HATSUYUKI (EARLY SNOW)

HAKU RAKUTEN

INTRODUCTION

ACT II.

CHAPTER VII SUMMARIES

HANAKATAMI (THE FLOWER BASKET)

OMINAMESHI

MATSUKAZE

SHUNKWAN

AMA (THE FISHER-GIRL)

TAKE NO YUKI (SNOW ON THE BAMBOOS)

TORI-OI

YUYA

TANGO-MONOGURUI

IKKAKU SENNIN (THE ONE-HORNED RISHI)

YAMAUBA (THE DAME OF THE MOUNTAINS)

HOTOKE NO HARA

MARI (THE FOOTBALL)

TŌRU

MAI-GURUMA[213] (THE DANCE WAGGONS)

CHAPTER VIII KYŌGEN

THE BIRD-CATCHER IN HELL[215] (ESASHI JŪŌ)

SHORT BIBLIOGRAPHY

EUROPEAN

JAPANESE

THE NŌ PLAYS OF
JAPAN

BENKEI ON THE BRIDGE
(HASHI-BENKEI)

UKAI
(THE CORMORANT-FISHER)

AYA NO TSUZUMI
(THE DAMASK DRUM)

AOI NO UYE
(PRINCESS HOLLYHOCK)

THE HŌKA PRIESTS
(HŌKAZŌ)

TANIKŌ
(THE VALLEY-HURLING)

IKENIYE
(THE POOL-SACRIFICE)

HATSUYUKI
(EARLY SNOW)

CHAPTER VII
SUMMARIES

HANAKATAMI
(THE FLOWER BASKET)

AMA
(THE FISHER-GIRL)

TAKE NO YUKI
(SNOW ON THE BAMBOOS)

IKKAKU SENNIN
(THE ONE-HORNED RISHI)

YAMAUBA
(THE DAME OF THE MOUNTAINS)

MARI
(THE FOOTBALL)

MAI-GURUMA [213]
(THE DANCE WAGGONS)

CHAPTER VIII
KYŌGEN

THE BIRD-CATCHER IN HELL [215]
(ESASHI JŪŌ)