Komachi at Sekidera belongs to the third category.
It was probably written by Zeami, though some authorities hesitate to make
the attribution. The play is considered to be the loftiest and most
difficult of the entire Nō repertory. In the past century only a few
great actors at the close of their careers have ventured to perform it. It
enjoys its high reputation because it celebrates, with the most exquisite
simplicity, the bittersweet delight of being alive. Childhood, maturity,
extreme old age, the pleasure and pain of life, are immediately
communicated. The play conveys a timeless moment in the brief interval
between birth and death. Its subject is poetry. Much of the great poetry
in Nō lies somewhat outside the main Japanese poetic traditions, but
Komachi at Sekidera is at once a superb Nō
play and a splendid expression of the sources of Japanese poetry. The shite
role is considered so difficult because there is
little an actor can add to the text unless he is supremely gifted. During
the first hour of the performance Komachi hardly stirs.
The setting is wonderfully appropriate. The time is the festival of
Tanabata, the seventh night of the seventh month: the one night of the
year when the Cowherd star can cross the River of Heaven to join the
Weaver-girl star. On earth all are celebrating
the lovers' brief reunion. Even at Sekidera, a place of quiet
renunciation, the priests and child acolytes are about to observe the
festival. But while talking about poetry with the aged woman who lives in
a hut nearby, the abbot of the temple discovers she is none other than Ono
no Komachi.
Komachi, a woman of great beauty and literary gifts, lived at the Heian
court during the ninth century. She became a legend in later times, with
many apocryphal stories surrounding the few known biographical facts. Five
Nō plays about Komachi are in the present repertory; Komachi and the Hundred Nights presents another aspect
of the Komachi legend, and Sotoba Komachi
(translated in Keene, Anthology of Japanese
Literature) ranks nearly on a level with Komachi
at Sekidera.
The structure of the play is classic, and remarkable for its economy and
simplicity. Nothing jars, nothing is wasted. The moment when Komachi
admits her identity to the Abbot is particularly touching because so
unaffected.
Sekidera ("The Barrier Temple") still exists at Ōtsu, a city east of
Kyoto; its modern name is Chōanji.
Komachi at Sekidera is in the repertory of all
schools of Nō.
PERSONS
The Abbot of Sekidera (waki)Two Priests (wakizure)A Child (kokata)Ono No Komachi (shite)
PLACE
Sekidera in Ōmi province
TIME
The beginning of autumn: the seventh day of the seventh month
KOMACHI AT SEKIDERA
(SEKIDERA KOMACHI)
The stage assistants bring forward a simple construction representing a
hut with a thatched roof. It is covered with a cloth. The Old Woman is
inside.
As the music begins the Child, the Abbot, and two Priests enter and face
each other onstage. The Abbot and the Priests carry rosaries.
I am the chief priest of Sekidera in Ōmi. Today, the seventh day of the
Seventh month, we come to celebrate the Festival of Stars here in the
temple garden. People say that the old woman who has built her hut at the
foot of the mountain knows all the secrets of the art of poetry. So, on
this festive day dedicated to poetry, I am going to take the young people
to hear her stories.
He turns to the Child.
Three Priests
Early autumn comes and brings a touch of chill.
We feel it in the wind and in our thinning locks.
[2]2
The Abbot and his companions are now at their destination.
Abbot
Here is the hut now. Let us call on the old woman.
To the Child.
But first, please sit down.
All kneel. A stage assistant removes the cloth around the hut, revealing
the Old Woman seated inside. Paper strips inscribed with poems hang from
the crossbars of the hut frame. The Old Woman wears the uba mask.
She weeps. The Abbot and the Child rise, and go to kneel before her.
Abbot
Old woman, we have come to speak with you.
Old Woman
Who are you?
Abbot
I am a priest from Sekidera. These young people are students of poetry.
They have heard of your talent, and I have brought them here to question
you about poetry and to learn something of your life.
Old Woman
This is an unexpected visit! The log buried in the earth has been so long
forgotten you must not expect it will put forth new sprouts.
[6]6
Just remember this: If you will make
your heart the seed and your words the blossoms,
[7]7
if you will steep yourself in the fragrance of the art, you will not fail
to accomplish true poetry. But how praiseworthy that mere boys should
cherish a love of poetry!
Abbot
May I ask you about a poem everyone knows, "The Harbor of Naniwa?"
[8]8
Do you agree that it should be used as a first guide?
Old Woman
Indeed I do. Poetry goes back to the Age of the Gods, but the meters were
then irregular and the meanings difficult to understand. "The Harbor of
Naniwa," however, belongs to the Age of Man. It was composed for the
joyous occasion of an emperor's enthronement, and has long been beloved
for that reason.
[9]9
Abbot
The poem about Mount Asaka, which once soothed the heart of a prince, is
also beautifully written.
[10]10
Old Woman
Truly, you understand the art,
For those two poems are the parents of all poetry.
Abbot
They serve as models for beginners.
Old Woman
Noblemen and peasantry alike,
Abbot
City dwellers and country folk,
Old Woman
Even commoners like ourselves
Abbot
Take pleasure in composing poetry
Old Woman
Following the promptings of our hearts.
Chorus
Though the sands lapped by the waves
Of the lake in Omi should run out,
Though the sands of the shore should melt away,
The Abbot and the Child return to kneel with the Priests.
Thank you for your words of explanation. It is true that countless poems
survive from the past, but they are rarely by
women. Few women know as much as you about poetry. Tell me—the
poem
Yes, that poem was written long ago by Princess Sotori, the consort of
Emperor Ingyo. I tried, if only in form. to master her style.
Abbot
Ah! You have studied the style of Princess Sotori? I have heard that Ono
no Komachi, who's so much talked of these days, wrote in that style.
[13]13
"Wretched that I am—
A floating water weed,
Broken from its roots—
If a stream should beckon,
I would follow it, I think."
That poem is by Komachi.
Old Woman
Yes, once my husband, Oe no Koreaki, took up with another woman, and I
grieved at the fickleness of the world. Then, Funya no Yasuhide
[14]14
invited me to accompany him to Mikawa, where he was to be the governor. I
wrote that poem in response to his urging and to his promises that life in
the country would bring solace.
Alas, memories of the past!
So long forgotten, they rise up again
Before me as I talk to you.
Tears well up from my suffering heart.
She weeps.
Abbot
Strange! This old woman says she wrote the poem "Wretched that I am." And
she says she wrote in the Sotori style, just as Komachi did. She must be
nearly a hundred years old, and if Komachi were still alive today. . . .
And is there any reason why she couldn't be? It must be so!
to the Old Woman.
You are what is left of Ono no Komachi. Do not deny it.
Old Woman
Ah, I burn with shame to be called Komachi, I who wrote
Live on, like flowers fallen, like leaves scattered,
With nothing left but life—dewlike, they always said.
Oh, how I long for the past!
My middle years were spent in yearning
For the distant glory of my youth.
Now even those days of wistful recollection
Have become such ancient history
I find myself wishing, if not for youth,
At least for middle age.
Long ago, wherever I spent a single night
My room would be bright with tortoise shell,
Golden flowers hung from the walls,
And in the door were strings of crystal beads.
[20]20
Brilliant as the Emperor's chair in grand procession
The jewellike gowns I wore, a hundred colors.
I lay on bright brocaded quilts
Within a pillowed bridal chamber.
Look at it now, my mud-daubed hut!
Can this be my resplendent room?
Old Woman
The temple bell of Sekidera
Chorus
Tolls the vanity of all creation—
To ancient ears a needless lesson.
A mountain wind blows down Osaka's slope
To moan the certainty of death;
Its message still eludes me.
Yet, when blossoms scatter and leaves fall,
Still in this hut I find my pleasure:
Grinding ink, I dip my brush and write.
My words are all dry, like seaweed on the shore.
Touching, they once said, but lacking strength
[21]21—
My poems lacked strength because they were a woman's.
Now when I have grown decrepit
My poems are weaker still. Their life is spent.
How wretched it is to be old!
She weeps. The Child turns to the Abbot.
Child
I'm afraid we'll be late for the Festival of Stars. Let's ask the old
lady to come with us.
The Abbot kneels before the Old Woman.
Abbot
Please join us on this Seventh Night, the Festival of Stars.
Old Woman
Alas! An old woman should not intrude on such an occasion. I cannot go.
She takes down the paper poem cards.
Abbot
What harm could come of it? Please come with us.
He goes to the hut and helps the Old Woman to stand.
Chorus
The Seventh Night—
How many years since first I offered the gods
Bamboo tied with colored streamers?
How long has shriveled old Komachi lived?
Assisted by the Abbot and leaning on a staff, the Old Woman leaves the
hut.
Has Ono no Komachi reached a hundred years?
Or even more?
I who used to watch the Festival of Stars,
Familiar of the noblest lords and ladies,
She kneels beside the shite-pillar. The
Abbot goes back beside the others.
Now stand in shameful hempen rags!
A sight too painful for eyes to bear!
The Abbot weeps.
Still, tonight we hold the Festival of Stars,
The Child stands and mimes serving wine to the Old Woman.
Tonight we celebrate the Seventh Night
With multitudes of offerings for the stars.
Prayer streamers hang from bamboo,
While the following lines are being sung the Child goes to the
gazing-pillar, moves clockwise around the stage, then stands at the center
preparatory to beginning his dance.
Music plays and cups of wine go round.
The young dancer-look how gracefully
He twirls his sleeves, like snow
Swirling in the moonlight.
The Old Woman, still seated, watches the Child dance.
We celebrate the Festival of Stars,
Streamers flutter from the bamboos . . .
Old Woman
May it be celebrated through ages as many
As the joints of the bamboo!
The Old Woman, hardly aware of what she does, taps the rhythm with her
fan.
The Child completes his dance, then sits as before.
Old Woman
How gracefully that boy has danced! I remember how, long ago in the
Palace, the Gosechi dancing girls swirled their sleeves five times at the
Harvest Festival. They say that if a madman runs, even the sane will run
after him. But tonight the proverb is reversed! Enticed by the boy's
floating sleeves, see how a madwoman prances!
She stands with the aid of her staff and begins her dance.
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