奥の細道

The months and days are the travelers of eternity, and the passing years are also wayfarers. Those who float away their lives on boats or meet old age leading horses by the mouth are each day a journey, and they make their home in travel. Many of the ancients also died on the road.

I myself—I cannot recall from which year—was drawn by a spirit like a fragment of cloud blown by the wind, and my thoughts of wandering would not rest. I drifted along the seacoast. Last autumn, I swept the old cobwebs from my tumbledown hut on the river, and shortly the year came to an end. When spring came and the sky was hazy, I thought of crossing the Barrier of Shirakawa. Something of the gods seemed to possess my mind and disturb my heart, and the road gods beckoned to me, so that I could not keep my hands on anything. I mended my torn trousers, replaced the cord on my hat, and from the time I cauterized my legs with moxa at the third acupoint, the moon over Matsushima was already fixed in my heart. I gave up my dwelling to someone else and moved to the villa of Sampu.

The thatched door, too, in this changing world—a doll’s house.

I left these eight verses hanging on a post of the hut. On the last days of the third month, the sky at dawn was hazy, and the moon, though still bright, had lost its light. Yet Mount Fuji appeared faintly, and the cherry blossom tips of Ueno and Yanaka—when would I see them again? My heart grew heavy.

Among all my closest friends, from evening they gathered and came to see me off by boat. At a place called Senju, we stepped ashore. The thought of the three thousand leagues ahead weighed heavily on my heart, and I shed tears of parting in this phantom city.

Spring passes—birds cry, and in the eyes of fish, tears.

This I made the beginning of my writing brush. The road ahead still would not let me move forward. People lined up along the way, and until my back was no longer visible they must have been seeing me off.

This was the year Genroku 2. Had I lightly decided to set off on a long journey through the remote provinces of Ōu? I thought, even as I lamented the white hairs that now piled up against the vast heavens, that what touched my ears I had not yet seen with my eyes. If I should live and come back—such uncertain hopes I hung on. That day I finally managed to reach the inn called Sōka.

On my bony shoulders I carried only what I needed; I myself had prepared to leave, and so a single paper robe served as night protection, along with a summer kimono, rain gear, ink and brush, and various farewell gifts that I could not bring myself to throw away. They became a nuisance along the road.

I prayed at the Muro no Yashima shrine. My companion Sora said, “This god is the god of the flowering princess, and is one with Fuji. Because the god entered the room without a door and burned herself, and from the fire was born Hohodemi no Mikoto, it is called Muro no Yashima. And the practice of composing poems on smoke comes from this legend. It is also said that the fish called this shiro is forbidden, and the cause of this is widely told among men.”

On the thirtieth day we lodged at the foot of Nikkō Mountain. The host said, “My name is Butsu Gozaemon. Because I make honesty my rule, people call me that. Please, rest your head on the grass pillow tonight and relax.” What kind of Buddha had appeared in this defiled world of dust to help a man like a begging monk on a pilgrimage? I watched what the host did carefully, and found him simply ignorant, without discrimination, and stubbornly honest. He was one close to the kind of man who is resolute, simple in speech, and near to true humanity. The pure quality of his nature was especially worthy of respect.

On the first day of the fourth month I went up to worship at the mountain. In ancient times this mountain was written as Futara-yama, but when the great master Kūkai founded the temple, he changed the name to Nikkō—perhaps foreseeing a thousand years to come. Now this light shines across the whole sky, and its blessings overflow the eight corners of the land, and the people are at peace and dwell secure. There are many things too reverent to write, so I have laid down my brush.

How solemn and sacred—the fresh green leaves, the young leaves, bathed in the sunlight of the day!

Mount Kurokami was veiled in mist, and the snow still shone white.

Having shaved my head, I change my robes at Kurokami Mountain—Sora.

Sora was from the Kawai clan, and was called Sōgorō. He had been a neighbor under the same roof as my banana plant, helping me with my daily lot of water and firewood. For this journey he was delighted to share the sights of Matsushima and Kisakata, and to ease the hardships of travel. On the morning of departure, he shaved his head, changed into a black-dyed robe, and from Sōgo he became Sōgon. Hence the verse about Kurokami Mountain. The words “change robes” carry great force.

After climbing the mountain for about two hundred and fifty yards, there was a waterfall. It plunged from the top of a rocky cave, falling a hundred feet into a deep green pool. If you enter the cave and look out from behind the waterfall, it is called the View-from-Behind Waterfall.

A little while—let me stay within the waterfall, in early summer.

At a place known as Kurobane in Nasu, there was an acquaintance I wished to visit. I decided to cross the plain and take the direct road. I spotted a village in the distance and walked toward it, but rain began to fall and the day grew late. I borrowed a night at a farmer’s house. When morning came, I set out again across the plain. There was a horse grazing in the field. I spoke to a grass-cutter, and though he was a simple peasant, he was not without a kind heart. “What can I do? But this plain is crisscrossed in all directions, and a traveler can easily lose the path. It would be a problem. So please follow where this horse stops, and when it stops, send the horse back.” So saying, he lent me the horse. A small child—a girl of about ten—ran along behind the horse. She was called Kasane. Her name, so unusual and gentle, caught my ear.

Kasane—surely that must be the name of the double-petaled carnation.

Soon we reached a village. I tied a small fee to the saddle and sent the horse back.

I visited the deputy of Kurobane, the temple steward of Jōbōji, someone or other. Unexpectedly, the host was delighted, and we talked day and night. His younger brother, named Tōsui, also came to attend on me morning and evening, and even invited me to his own house. I was also received by their relatives. As the days passed, I strolled one day in the outskirts to see the site of the dog-hunting contests, parted the bamboo grass of Nasu, and paid my respects at the ancient tomb of Tamamo no Mae. Then I went to the Hachiman Shrine. When Yoshiie shot the fan target, he specially swore, “Let the patron god of our province, the True Hachiman, be with me”—this, I heard, was at this very shrine. The sacred power felt all the more real to me. As dusk fell, I returned to Tōsui’s house.

I was invited to a Shugendō temple called Kōmyō-ji and worshipped at the ascetic’s hall.

In the summer hills—the first step of my journey, bowing to the clogs of the saint.

In that province, at the far back of Ungan-ji, there was a hermitage once lived in by the priest Butchō. “A grass hut, less than five feet square—I would not bind it together if only it did not rain.” He was said to have written this on a rock with a piece of charcoal. Wanting to see that place, I turned my staff toward Ungan-ji. People eagerly came to invite me along with them. Many young people were noisily chatting on the way, and before I knew it, I had reached the foot of that mountain. The mountain seemed deep; the valley path stretched far away. The pines and cedars were dark, moss was dripping, and even in the fourth month the sky still felt cold. I crossed the bridge to make the ten scenic spots, entered the mountain gate, and asked, “Whereabouts might that hermitage be?” I climbed high up the back mountain, and found a small hut built over a cave on a rocky ledge.

It was like seeing the Death Gate of Myōzen or the stone cell of Hōun. The woodpecker, too, does not break the hut—in the summer grove. He left behind this unfinished verse on a pillar.

From there I went to the Killing Stone. The deputy sent me on a horse. The servant said, “Let me take the short sword as a tip.” How small a favor he wished for!

Across the field, turn the horse—cuckoo!

The Killing Stone lies in the shade of the mountain where the hot spring flows. The poisonous vapor of the stone has not yet vanished. Bees and butterflies pile up so thickly that the sand is not visible, and die. They said there was also a willow where clear water once flowed, left standing at the edge of a rice field in the village of Ashino. The district governor, Tohe of some clan, had often said, “I would like to show you this willow.” I had wondered where it could be, but today I stood in the shade of that very willow.

I plant a single field of rice, then leave the willow behind.

As the anxious days piled up, I finally reached the Barrier of Shirakawa, and my traveler’s heart settled. How natural that I should try to send word to the Capital! Among the three great barriers, this one is especially praised by poets, and it stirs the heart. I kept the sound of the autumn wind in my ears, and the autumn leaves in my memory, but even now, in the green leaves of early summer, the scene is still moving. The white deutzia flowers and the briar roses blooming together made it feel like crossing through snow. The ancients, it is said, adjusted their caps and changed their formal wear here—Kiyosuke has recorded it in his writing.

Deutzia flowers—adorn my hat, in my ceremonial dress at the barrier. Sora.

And so, as we went on, we crossed the Abukuma River. To the left rose the heights of Aizu, to the right were Iwaki, Sōma, Miharu, Hitachi, and Shimotsuke. We passed through a place called Kagenuma, but today the sky was cloudy, and the reflection did not appear. At the post station of Sukagawa, I sought out a man named Tōkyū, who kept me for four or five days. First he asked, “How did you cross the Barrier of Shirakawa?” The long journey had tired me in body and mind. Scenery stole my soul, and nostalgia tore at my heart, so I could not think clearly.

Where does the true spirit of poetry begin? The song of the rice-planters in the deep north.

“To cross it so lightly would be a pity,” we said, and so we continued to add a second and third verse, completing three linked poems.

Near this inn, there was a large chestnut tree, and a priest who had left the world relied on its shade. I thought: in the deep mountains, too, this must be a peaceful place, and I wrote something about it. The character for chestnut is written “west tree,” which is linked to the Western Pure Land. It is said that Gyōgi Bosatsu used this tree for his staff and walking stick all his life.

The world’s people do not see the flower—the chestnut by the eaves.

I left Tōkyū’s house and, after traveling about five miles, I left the post town of Hinoe. Near the road was Mount Asaka. There were many marshes in the area. Since the time for cutting katami reeds was drawing near, I asked people, “Which plant is the katami?” But no one knew. I searched around the marsh, asking everyone, “Katami? Katami?” until the sun had set behind the hills, and I turned off at Nihonmatsu to see the cave of Kurozuka, then lodged at Fukushima.

The next day, I sought the stone for stamping shinobu-zuri cloth in the village of Shinobu. Deep in the mountain’s shadow, there was a small village. The stone was half buried in the earth. A child from the village came and told me: “Long ago, it was on top of this mountain, but travelers would trample the wheat, and people grew angry and rolled it down into this valley. Now the inscribed side of the stone faces downward.” That seemed quite believable.

The hand that plants the young rice—is this the same as the old shinobu-zuri pattern?

I crossed the ferry at Tsukinowa and came out at the post town of Senoue. The old site of Satō Shōji lay about a mile and a half along the left ridge of the mountain. I heard the villages of Iizuka and Sabano and searched my way there. At a place called Maruyama, I found the large gate site and realized this was Shōji’s old mansion. Yielding to what people told me, I wept. At a nearby temple, a monument with the family line remained. Among them, the marks of the two daughters-in-law were especially touching. Though women, their worthy names had spread through the world. The fallen-tear steles were not far away. Entering the temple, I begged for tea; here they kept Yoshitsune’s sword and Benkei’s backpack as treasures.

The backpack and the sword—on the Fifth Day, decorate them with paper streamers.

This was the day of the Fifth Month festival. That night I lodged at Iizuka. There was a hot spring, so I bathed, but the inn was a miserable hovel with a straw mat laid directly on the dirt floor. No lamp. I laid out my bed by the dim firelight and lay down. As night deepened, thunder crashed and rain fell in torrents. The roof leaked above my bedding, and fleas and mosquitoes tormented me so I could not sleep. My chronic illness also returned, and I nearly blacked out. The short night’s sky at last began to lighten, and I rose to travel again. The shadows of the night still clung to my heart. I hired a horse and went out to the post town of Kōri.

The road stretched far ahead, and such illness made everything uncertain. But for a journey into the barbarian frontier, I held to the thoughts of abandoning my body to impermanence. “To die on the road is fate,” I told myself, and rallied what little strength I had. I crossed the Daimon Pass of Date district, passed through Abumi-suri, the castle of Shiroishi, and entered the district of Kasashima. I asked someone, “Where might be the grave of Fujiwara no Sanekata, the middle captain?” They told me, “Far to the right, in the village called Minowa no Kasashima. His wayside shrine still stands, with its thin autumn grass.” I was tired from the heavy rains and the bad roads, so I only looked from a distance and passed by. This fit the season well.

Kasashima—where is it? On the muddy road of the fifth month.

I lodged at Iwanuma. The pine of Takekuma felt as if I were waking from a dream. Its roots split into two trunks above the ground; I could see it had not lost its ancient form. I thought of the poet Nōin Hōshi, who had traveled here as governor of Michinoku. Some said that pine had been cut down for the bridge pillars of the Natori River. Was it because of this that Nōin wrote, “This time, the pine is nowhere to be seen”? Over the ages, some pines may have been cut, others replanted; but now this pine stood unbroken for a thousand years—a magnificent tree.

“O pine of Takekuma, please tell us—the cherry blossoms are late,” said Kyohaku. To this I replied, “Cherry? From the pine, two trunks—in the third month.”