TANGO-MONOGURUI
By I-AMI
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.
FATHER (to his SERVANT).
I sent some one to bring Master Hanamatsu back from the temple. Has he come yet?
SERVANT.
Yes, sir. He was here last night.
FATHER.
What? He came home last night, and I heard nothing about it?
SERVANT.
Last night he had drunk a little too much, so we thought it better not to say that he was here.
FATHER.
Oho! Last night he was tipsy, was he? Send him to me.
(The SERVANT brings HANAMATSU.)
Well, you have grown up mightily since I saw you last.
I sent for you to find out how your studies are progressing. How far have you got?
HANAMATSU.
I have not learnt much of the difficult subjects. Nothing worth 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.
FATHER.
This is unthinkable! He says he has not learnt anything worth mentioning. Pray, have you talents in any direction?
SERVANT (wishing to put in a good word for the boy).
He’s reckoned a wonderful hand at the chop-sticks and drum.[209]
FATHER (angrily).
Be quiet! Is it your child I was talking of?
SERVANT.
No, sir, you were speaking of Master Hanamatsu.
FATHER.
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!
(The boy hesitates, bewildered.)
Well, if you can’t get started by yourself I must help you.
(Seizes him by the arm and thrusts him off the stage.)
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 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.
MADMAN.
Even madmen can school themselves for a while. I will not rave while the service is being read.
CAPTAIN.
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.
HANAMATSU (describing his own actions).
Then because the hour of worship had come
The Doctor mounted the pulpit and struck the silence-bell;
Then reverently prayed:
Let us call on the Sacred Name of Shākyamuni, once incarnate;
On the Buddhas of the Past, the Present and the Time to Come.
To thee we pray, Avalokita, Lord of the Ten Worlds;
And all Spirits of Heaven and Earth we invoke.
Praised be the name of Amida Buddha!
MADMAN (shouting excitedly).
Amida! Praise to Amida!
CAPTAIN.
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.
(A lyrical dialogue follows full of poetical allusions, from which it is apparent that the MADMAN is crying to Amida to save a child’s soul.)
CAPTAIN.
Listen, Madman! The Doctor heard you praying for a child’s soul. He wishes you to tell him your story.
The father and son recognize one another. The son flings himself down from the pulpit and embraces his father. They go home together, attributing their reunion to the intervention of Manjushrī, the God of Wisdom.
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.
And so Shāntā fulfilled her promise.
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.
CHORUS.
Down blows the mountain wind with a wild gust,
The sky grows dark,
The rock-cave quakes,
Huge boulders crash on every side;
The dragons’ forms appear.
IKKAKU.
Then the Rishi in great alarm—
CHORUS.
Then the Rishi in great alarm
Pursued them with a sharp sword.
And the Dragon King
Girt with the armour of wrath,
Waving a demon blade,
Fought with him for a little while.
But the Rishi had lost his magic.
Weaker and weaker he grew, till at last he lay upon the ground.
Then the Dragon King joyfully
Pierced the dark clouds.
Thunder and lightning filled
The pools of Heaven, and fast
The great rain fell; the wide floods were loosed.
Over the white waves flying,
The white waves that rise,
Homeward he hastens
To the Dragon City of the sea.
YAMAUBA
(THE DAME OF THE MOUNTAINS)
REVISED BY KOMPARU ZENCHIKU UJINOBU FROM AN ORIGINAL BY SEAMI
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....”
CHORUS.
On and on, from hill to hill.
Awhile our eyes behold her, but now
She is vanished over the hills,
Vanished we know not where.
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.
YAMAUBA
(The Lady of the Mountains)