Bashō's Journey: The Literary Prose of Matsuo Bashō

5. The Narrow Road to the Deep North

CHAPTER 5 T h e n a r r o w R o a d t o t h e D e e p N o r t h O k u n o h o s o m i c h i Months and days are the wayfarers of a hundred generations, the years too, going and coming, are wanderers.1 For those who drift life away on a boat, for those who meet age leading a horse by the mouth, each day is a journey, the journey itself home. Among Ancients, too, many died on a journey. And so I too— for how many years—drawn by a cloud wisp wind, have been unable to stop thoughts of rambling. I roamed the coast, then last fall brushed cobwebs off my river hut. The year too gradually passed, and with a sky of spring’s rising mist came thoughts of crossing the Shirakawa Barrier. Possessed by the spirits of roving which wrenched the heart, beckoned by Dōsojin,2 unable to settle hand on anything, I mended a tear in my pants, replaced a cord in my hat, burned my shins with moxa, and then with the moon of Matsushima rising in my mind, I handed on my hut to another and moved to Sanpū’s85 cottage. a grass hut too has a season of moving: a doll’s house4 kusa no to mo / sumikawaru yo zo / hina no ie I set this and the rest of the first eight links5 on the pillar of the hut. 49 27th day of Yayoi:6 the daybreak sky was hazy, the light of the dawn moon fading and Fuji’s peak faint in the distance. The crowns of cherry blossoms at Ueno and Yanaka—heart torn with wondering, when might they be seen again? All my friends gathered the night before and joined us on the boat so they could see us off. As we landed at a place called Senju, thoughts of the three thousand leagues before me dammed up in my heart, and at the crossroads of unreality, tears of departure flowed. departing spring— birds cry, in the fishes’ eyes are tears yuku haru ya / tori naki uo no / me wa namida So my inkset began, but I could barely push forward on the journey ahead. People lined the road behind, watching until our backs were mere shadow. This year—the second of Genroku?—a determination arose to take up a distant pilgrimage to the Deep North. “The sorrow of white hair piles up under the skies of Wu,”7 yet there were places ears had heard of but eyes had not seen—would I return alive, everything hanging on an uncertain future—and that night we finally made it the post town of Sōka. The pack straining my scrawny shoulders hurt most. I had planned to set forth with body alone, but paper clothing for night’s chill, a light summer robe, raingear, some brush and ink, and those farewell gifts so hard to refuse: they were all too difficult to discard, inevitable burdens of the road. We paid homage at Muro no Yashima.8 Sora, my fellow pilgrim, said, “The deity here is called Princess of the Blossoming Trees, the same as at Mount Fuji.9 To prove herself, she entered a doorless chamber and set fire to it, giving birth to Prince Born Out of Fire.10 So the place is called Doorless Caldron . And that’s why poetry about it usually mentions smoke.”11 Also the fish konoshiro12 is prohibited here. The shrine’s legends are well known. The 30th: stopped over at the foot of Mount Nikkō.13 The innkeeper said, “My name’s Buddha Gozaemon. My principle is to be honest in all things—that’s why people call me that. So make yourself at home and rest up, even if it’s just for a night.” 5 0 B a s h ō’ s J o u r n e y What sort of Buddha is this, appearing in a mean and muddy world to aid beggar-monk pilgrims like us? I observed him closely: free of cleverness or calculation,14 he was a man of unswerving honesty. It’s said: “One of sturdy character and steadfast sincerity approaches true humanity.”15 And this man’s natural purity of heart is admirable indeed. 1st day of Deutzia Month:16...