told that since long ago this had been the protocol at gatherings of this sort. While we ate, the four men told stories of catching dolphin in the old days, and most likely such talk had continued throughout their deliberations from five until nine o’clock. If I had been there, I would like to have written down every single one of their stories.
I was up all night that night too, transcribing the account books. Feeling somewhat melancholy, I stepped out into the moonlit night. In front of the house was a bay and across it the distinct line of low, dark mountains. A wind blew across the ocean, and the moonlight was finely chopped by the waves. There, by the shore, an old woman from my lodging was spinning thread all through the night, “Because the moon is beautiful . . . ”
Working, she enjoyed the moonlight and the cool night breeze.
I pressed on with my transcription work during the day too, and in the evening, when I had finally finished, I went to the home of the representative to return the account books. That night while I went to one of the old families in the village and made inquiries there, again the three representatives gathered in the home of the Chiromo representative, placed the account books back in the register box, sealed it, and at around midnight, returned to their respective villages. I had finished my inquiries and was on my way back to my lodgings when I heard voices from the shore and saw the light of a pine torch. I arrived at the shore just as the representatives were getting into a boat to return home. Feeling truly bad for having put these men to such trouble for the past two days, I attempted to hand them money I had wrapped in paper, saying it was to pay for the sake consumed at the meal we had shared. But they refused to take it, explaining, “It was our duty.” When the boat departed I thanked them, calling out, “I’m sorry to have troubled you and thank you very much.” To this, one of the representatives responded, “Now I have performed my duties,” and saying this he rowed off across the sea in the moonlight.
I have written these stories in great detail because I want it to be known in concrete terms how the villages of old appeared, when and under what circumstances a handing down of traditions was necessary, and what it meant for villagers to discuss old conventions. I am not saying that all villages in Japan were this way. But at least in the villages to the west of Kyoto and Osaka, village meetings of this sort have taken place since long ago. At these assemblies it would appear that no distinction was made between rural samurai and farmers. In the order of succession from feudal lords and their retainers down to farmers, the status of farmers was low, but when it came to being a member of a village community, their ideas seem to have been treated equally.
When I was looking at the old documents of a place nearby, also near the north end of Tsushima, I found a passage that was almost three hundred years old. It was a criticism of a rural samurai family in the village that was directly descended from the So clan [who had once controlled Tsushima] saying that it was inexcusable that they sent only their manservant to meetings. This would suggest that the rural samurai himself normally attended such meetings—showing his face and speaking his mind like all others—and that he would have had to listen to what the other villagers had to say as well. When the rural samurai interacted with their retainers and landless younger brothers who had formed branch families, they probably put on airs with them. But when it came to interactions with common villagers, and there was no lord–vassal relationship, it was only natural for villagers to file a grievance when the rural samurai skipped meetings.
Just the same, numerous distinctions remained. Rural samurai and farmers could not intermarry; only the rural samurai could perform a scene from Kabuki on the occasion of the Bon festival [Festival of the Dead]; and so on. When one looks only at such distinctions, the class system appears to have been strong, but when one looks at life in the villages, there were many instances of a rural samurai working a farmer’s land. And this situation was by no means limited to Tsushima.
In this we can see that villages had their own distinct life. I imagine that at village meetings there were many instances where matters were not settled using today’s logic. Rather, people would have told parables and no doubt likened the matter at hand to their own lives and experience in a way that was easy to convey and easy for others to understand. In the middle of the discussion, time was set aside to cool down. If there were objections, fine, and for a time things would be left like that. When, in time, a voice came out in favor, that opinion would be left to stand and everyone would think together about it. In the end the person in charge would make a decision. In this way there were likely few unpleasant feelings, even in a small village where people came face to face with one another every day. At the same time, it is clear that these village meetings held authority.
There was a register box in every village on Tsushima, and these held records of agreements that had been reached. It was in this way that, supported by the passing down of institutions, customs, and beliefs, self-government was effected. And while the opportunity for everyone to speak of their own experiences and observations certainly did serve to strengthen their unity and bring order to village life, it also impeded the village’s forward progress.
Chapter 2
Folksongs
[Tsushima Island, Nagasaki Prefecture, July 1950 and July 1951]
As I had been delayed in the village of Ina, it was after five o’clock when I departed. Even though it was summer when the days are long, the sun was already on its way down. From Ina to the back end of Sago is a little over seven miles. Although I couldn’t be sure, if I hurried I might just be able to arrive with a little daylight left. At any rate, I departed with the thought of hurrying, and then someone from the place where I’d been staying came chasing after me. “Some people came to Ina from Sago to buy wood, and since they’ll be heading back now it would be good to join them.”
When I reached the edge of the village, three men stood there talking, their horses tied to a tree. Seeing me, they said, “So you’re the one that’s going to Sago. If that’s so, how about making the trip on the back of a horse? Today we came here thinking to buy some lumber, but since it hasn’t been cut yet we’re going back light in the rear.” I was grateful, but being poor, after calculating the cost of riding, I declined. “Then we’ll tie your shoulder bag on one of our horses,” they offered, so I had them strap my rucksack on. “You walk on ahead,” one told me. “We have to buy some gasoline to take back, and we’ll catch up with you directly.”
I set off hurriedly, relieved of my burden. After Ina, the village of Shitaru appeared and the evening sun on the ocean inlet there was beautiful. While I was walking on the road along the shore, the three men on horseback came up from behind and passed me, looking gallant. It was just like in the drawing of farmers off to get fish, running their horses, in the legend of Ishiyama Temple. They were dressed in light, short-sleeved kimonos, drawers down to their knees, and straw sandals.
It was all fine and good to look admiringly at their retreating figures, but in almost no time they’d disappeared from view. Relying on my map, I passed through Shitaru and started along a road through the mountains, but the men on horseback were nowhere to be seen. Completely at a loss, I asked someone working in a field if anyone had passed on horseback. “They were going at quite a pace,” he replied.
I had thirty-three pounds of rice in my knapsack, along with a change of clothes. Much like in medieval times, one had to carry rice to travel in Tsushima in 1950. Without this rice, more often than not, I’d have been imposing on the farmers I stayed with, for in Tsushima rice was scarce. That aside, I’d not asked the three men their names, or where in Sago they lived. The valley in Sago runs about two and a half miles north to south, and there are six tiny villages in that stretch. I thought things looked bad, but anyway I’d try walking as far as I could. If I took a wrong turn I could always sleep out in the mountains.
In May of that year, when Izumi Sei-ichi (a professor at the University of Tokyo) had come here to do preliminary research, he’d gotten lost on the road from Sago to Ina. He’d set off from Sago past noon, thinking he’d easily come out in Ina by evening, but he had become utterly lost, and didn’t arrive in Ina until ten that night. Izumi-san had warned me, “In many places in the north of Tsushima, the narrow road is the main one, so you have to