When I make videos—kinda when I do anything, actually—I do it in binges. Once started, I can’t stop until I get to the stopping place I like. These binges can last 24 hours or more—this last one was at least that—and my record is just over 48 (years ago; I can’t do that anymore).
Then I sleep for 12 or 16 hours and chill for a day or two. While I chill, I read. So recently I read two tales I want to share. They come from different times, far distant places—from us and from each other—and from two cultures that were (and are) about as different as they can be and, at the time, had no idea the other existed.
One tale is true and the other one ought to be (I think, anyway). To me, they’re a testament to two things: 1) people are people and always have been and we’re much more the same than we’re different, and 2) ancient people were really smart, fun, awesome and wise and we can learn so much for them if we’d just pay attention!
Ok, with that editorial comment outta the way, I’m gonna start with the true story.
It’s from Sei Shōnagon’s The Pillow Book (my read after this last video). You can read more about her and her work in this post I wrote. Here goes…
One day, Sei Shōnagon received a package for one Yukinari, who was the “Controller 1st Secretary” at the time (a modest government post, I think?). It was beautifully wrapped and decorated with a “magnificent” branch of plum blossoms (her word).
Inside were two “square cakes”: cold rice cakes stuffed with delicacies. Sounds like the forerunner of sushi? (My love of sushi is second only to my love of pizza and at times it’s a tie.) Yukinari included note addressed to “Lady Shōnagon” that read (in part):
A Presentation:
One packet of Square Cakes.
The aforesaid packet being herewith respectfully presented by established precedent.
This is a joke. The form Yukinari used was one used for official documents submitted by a bureau or lower office to a higher authority at the capital.
Yukinari signed Mimana no Nariyuki. This is a joke too. Yukinari is reversing the characters of his name and the Mimana clan was descended from Korean royalty and were once exalted but had fallen in hard times. Yukinari is presenting himself as person of noble lineage who’s now in reduced circumstances and making an offering to a higher authority (Lady Shōnagon).
Then he added: “Your humble servant would have liked to present this in person but, fearing lest he be too ill-favored to show himself by daylight, he has forborne from coming.”
So Yukinari is saying that in addition to being humble, he’s too ugly to show his face when the sun is up.
Shōnagon showed the package and the note to her empress and she (the empress) remarked on how beautiful the package was and how excellent the calligraphy. Yukinari was in fact a distinguished poet and one the greatest calligraphers of his time. (The empress kept his note as outstanding example of the art.)
They had a good laugh over the jokes Yukinari was making and Shōnagon sent back a note on bright red paper with its own beautiful branch of plum blossoms, but all her note said is: “The servant who would not present the cold cakes in person strikes me as very cold himself.”
Yukinari got the note, was delighted, and immediately came over, sending in a message the read “Your humble servant presents himself.” When Shōnagon went out to meet him he expressed his admiration for her “splendid” reply. (Her word, again.)
As usual with Heian communications, there’s a more going on here than it may first appear. Aside from changing his name with a historical reference (rank being pretty much everything in Heian aristocratic society, so him making a joke about it was fun and daring), Yukinari’s quip about being too ugly show up is a reference to a legend about a minor good who was supposed to build a bridge between two mountains.
He lagged and when the senior gods asked why it was taking so long, he (the minor god) said he was too ugly to appear in the daylight and so could only work at night. Therefore, the bridge was never finished and the other gods got annoyed and stuck him in the bottom of a deep valley. So Yukinari is having fun with self-deprecating humor alluding to banished gods and history.
Shōnagon’s having her own fun, because Heian custom demanded she reply to his package with a poem. She didn’t. She replied with a pun: “cold square cakes” is heidan and reitan is “cold” or “indifferent” so by combining them in her note, she’s making a snarky pun and deliberately going against the “rules” of Heian flirting.
Because, yup, they were totally flirting! (Even if scholars won’t say that out loud.)
And Yukinari was really happy Shōnagon hadn’t done the ordinary, expected thing. It showed what a fun, interesting and (in some ways) unconventional lady she was.
What happened to the cakes and afterwards is not reported. (There’s a pretty good indication the cakes were eaten. Anything else is mere speculation.) 😊
But Yukinari told the story later to the chancellor (Fujiwara no Michinaga) and some high-ranking nobles who were in a small group of people noted for not liking poetry much (there were a few), and they all thought it was hilarious.
I don’t know about anybody else but it tickles me no end (Shōnagon might’ve said okashi, “delightful”) to read about people flirting 1,000 years ago with self-deprecating humor, history and puns! 😄
BTW: all the information and quotes above are from Ivan Morris’ translation of Sei Shōnagon’s The Pillow Book.
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The second story I want to tell is a legend from the Caucasus. I was inspired to reread it by Riley Rose’s super-awesome Laia Rios video and second book in her series, which is set in the Caucasus. You absolutely need to check that out if you haven’t already!!!
In the legends and sagas of the people of the Caucasus, there’s a woman who appears over and over. She is Setenaya. Setenaya was supremely beautiful (Circassian woman have always been famous their beauty: Circe, who entertained Odysseus for a year was Circassian; her name means “the Circassian), was extremely wise—they called her the “far-seeing”—and she never aged.
In fact, the word for “rose” in Circassian is “Setenaya blossom” which I think is outstandingly awesome!
Anyway, Setenaya lived in a bygone heroic age when everything and everyone was bigger and grander and better, much like the age of the Homeric heroes (with which there are interesting links). She married a great hero and chieftain named Warazmeg.
Warazmeg was famous for his stature, for protecting his clan and providing for them, which he did mostly by going out and acquiring great herds of cattle.
That is, raiding—cattle raiding being a big deal among us Indo-Europeans for as long as there’ve been Indo-Europeans and (apparently) proto-Indo-Europeans.
A lot of people acclaimed Warazmeg has a great man and hero, but some didn’t. They said all the good things he did were actually because he was married to Setenaya and without her, he was nothing. Warazmeg knew all about the carping, but he did his best to ignore it and they lived happily for several years.
But then, after another great feat Warazmeg pulled off and people said, “That Warazmeg is sure a great guy,” more people rose up and said, “Nope. He’s no better than us. It’s all Setenaya and without her, he ain’t worth shit.”
Or words to that effect.
Warazmeg had been patient with all this crap, but now it really got to him. Still, he didn’t do anything at first. He just went home and when they sat down to dinner, he wouldn’t eat or say much. After some prodding as to what the problem was, he said, “Setenaya, we can’t be together. I have to let you go.” (The actual translation is “give you your freedom.”)
Setenaya asked: had she done something to upset him?
He said no, not at all. It was that the people refused to recognize his great feats and brave deeds, and everything he did, they credited to her. He needed to show people that wasn’t true—he’d still be able to all the great stuff he’d been doing if she wasn’t with him.
Setenaya understood instantly. She said, “Oh, that sucks! Totally uncool! You must divorce me.”
Or words to that effect.
Warazmeg wasn’t thrilled by all this but there wasn’t any help for it. He needed people to understand he wasn’t just some dude dependent on his wife, even if his wife was Setenaya.
So, to show he wasn’t angry and that there were no hard feelings, he told to take anything she wanted with her—whatever was “dear to heart.”
If she wanted horses and cattle, she could have them.
If she wanted furnishings or other things from their house, she could take them.
If she wanted wealth, it was there in that chest.
Setenaya replied that all she really wanted was to throw a big party so she could bid farewell to all her friends in the clan.
Warazmeg immediately agreed. Of course, she should throw a big party! It was only right! Besides, the people of those days loved to party hard.
So Setenaya planned and held this huge party for everyone she liked and it lasted three days. Her guests partied for two days, eating and drinking the whole time. Over a hundred people got shitfaced and had to helped home.
But Warazmeg was not among them. Despite eating and drinking as much as the rest, Warazmeg didn’t get drunk.
So on the third day, Setenaya went to her closest friends and asked, “Why isn’t Warazmeg drunk yet?”
They said, “Are you kidding? Dude’s a hero! He’s massive! He’s drinking the whole damn clan under table!”
And she replied, “I need you to get him hammered for me. Every time there’s a toast, say, ‘Hey Warazmeg! Bro! Have another horn or two for me!’ He won’t be able to say no. It’s impolite.”
So the word got out and that day every time a toast was proposed, they got Warazmeg to drink at least twice as much as usual.
It worked. By that evening, Warazmeg was thoroughly hammered and passed out. Setenaya went to everyone, thanked them for coming, said the party was over and she was going and they could all leave whenever they wished.
Then she went out, hitched up wagon and filled it with bedding. She got a good friend to help her put Warazmeg in the wagon and drove off. She drove all night, heading back to the lands of her family.
At dawn, she crossed over into her family’s territory and Warazmeg woke up, disoriented. He looked around, dazed and confused.
“Hey! Where am I?” he asked Setenaya. “What happened to me?”
“Nothing at all happened to you,” she replied with a soft smile. “You said I could take as my very own, anything that was dear to my heart. What would I do with wealth and possessions? The only thing that I wanted was you. So I took you.”
“Wow…” Warazmeg said. (Or words to that effect.) “If I lost you, I’d lose everything. You are even smarter than they say you are and I was being stupid.” He climbed up on the wagon’s bench beside her. “Turn this thing around. Let’s go home.”
And side-by-side, they did.
And lived happily ever after.
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I think that’s the sweetest and most wonderful legend ever! We’re so used to legends and sagas being about tragedy and loss, but here the people of the Caucasus—which is a hard place to live—created a beautiful story about pride, envy and concern for status losing out to true love. And it has an HEA.
How old is this story? We don’t exactly know. But we do know the sagas of the Caucasus were known to Homer when he composed the Iliad, and they probably go back ever farther.
How do we know that? From another saga, and it is a tragedy. It might go back to the Bronze Age and it gave us a name we all know: Amazon.
But I want to end on a happy note, so I’ll leave that one for later.
You can read this saga (which I paraphrased a teensy bit) and a lot of others in Nart Sagas: Ancient Myths and Legends of the Circassians and Abkhazians, by John Colarusso and Adrienne Mayor.
Thank you for being here. It means the world to me!