house,[58] and she was with him in the western wing, to which he had
retired in order to make room for her, we gentlewomen found ourselves
herded together in the central building with very little to occupy us.
We were romping and idling in the corridors, when someone came from the
Empress, saying: ‘This dress is wanted in a hurry. Please get together
and do it immediately. Her Majesty wants it back within the hour.’[59]
What we were to make up was a piece of plain, undamasked silk.[60]
We all collected along the front of the main hall, the work was given
out piecemeal, and there was a wild race to see who could get her bit
finished first. It was a maddening business, for one was not near
enough to some of the others to see what they were doing.
Nurse Myōbu got hers done in no time, and laid it down in front of
her. She had been told to sew the shoulders of the bodice, but had
carelessly put the stuff inside out and without finishing off the work
in any way had just slammed it down and gone off to amuse herself. When
we came to put the dress together, the back seams did not fit properly,
and it was clear there had been some mistake. There was a great deal of
laughing and scolding. It was clearly Myōbu’s fault and everyone said
she must do her seam over again.
‘I should first like to know who has sewn anything wrong,’ she burst
out. ‘If anyone had sewn a piece of damask inside out, so that the
pattern was wrong, of course she would have to do it again. But with
plain silk, what difference can it make? If anyone has got to do
it all over again, I should think it had better be one of the girls
who did not do her share the first time.’ ‘How can anyone have the
face to suggest such a thing?’ the others cried. But Myōbu could not
be prevailed upon, and in the end Gen Shōnagon and some others were
obliged to unpick the stitches and put the thing right. It was amusing
to watch the expression on their faces while they did so.
This all happened because her Majesty was to wait upon the Emperor at
dusk and wanted the dress to be ready in time. ‘I shall know that the
one who gets her work done quickest really loves me,’ she had said.
It is particularly annoying if a letter goes astray and gets delivered
to someone to whom one would never have dreamt of showing it. If the
messenger would simply say straight out that he has made a mistake, one
could put up with it. But he always begins arguing and trying to prove
that he only did as he was told. It is this that is so trying, and if
there was not always someone looking on, I am sure I should rush at him
and strike him.
To plant a nice _hagi_[61] or _susuki_[62] and then find someone with a
long-box and gardening tools who has dug them up and is carrying them
away—is a painful and annoying experience. The provoking part of it is
that if a male even of the humblest description were on the spot, the
wretch would never dare to do so. When one stops him and expostulates,
he pretends he has only thinned them out a bit, and hurries off. I
really cannot tell you how annoying it is.
One is staying with a provincial Governor or some small official of
that kind, and a servant comes from some grand house. He speaks and
behaves with the utmost rudeness and an air as much as to say ‘I know I
am being rude; but people like you can’t punish me for it, so what do I
care?’ I find that very annoying.
A man picks up a letter that one does not want him to see and takes
it with him into the courtyard, where he stands reading it. At the
first moment one rushes after him in rage and desperation; but at the
curtains one is obliged to stop, and while one watches him reading one
can hardly prevent oneself from swooping down upon him and snatching
it away.
A lady is out of humour about some trifle, and leaving her lover’s side
goes and establishes herself on another couch. He creeps over to her
and tries to bring her back, but she is still cross, and he, feeling
that this time she has really gone too far, says: ‘As you please,’ and
returns to the big bed, where he ensconces himself comfortably and goes
to sleep. It is a very cold night and the lady, having only an unlined
wrap to cover herself with, soon begins to suffer. She thinks of
getting up; but everyone else in the house is asleep and she does not
know what to do or where to go. If she must needs have this quarrel,
it would have been better, she thinks, to start it a little earlier in
the evening. Then she begins to hear strange noises both in the women’s
quarters and outside. She becomes frightened and softly creeps towards
her lover, plucks at the bedclothes, and raises them. But he vexingly
pretends to be fast asleep; or merely says: ‘I advise you to go on
sulking a little longer.’
Small children and babies ought to be fat. So ought provincial
governors, or one suspects them of being bad-tempered. As regards
appearance, it is most essential of all that the boys who feed the
carriage-oxen should be presentable. If one’s other servants are not
fit to be seen, they can be stowed away behind the carriage. But
outriders or the like, who are bound to catch the eye, make a painful
impression if they are not perfectly trim. However, if it is too
obvious that one’s menservants have been lumped together behind the
carriage in order to escape notice, this in itself looks very bad.
It is a mistake to choose slim, elegant youths on purpose that they may
look well as footmen, and then let them wear trousers that are grimy at
the ends and hunting-cloaks or the like that have seen too much wear.
The best that can be hoped is that people will think they are walking
beside your carriage by chance and have nothing to do with you.
But it is a great convenience that all one’s servants should be
handsome. Then if they should happen to tear their clothes or make
themselves in any way shabby or untidy, it is more likely to be
overlooked.
Officers of State, who have official attendants allotted to them,
sometimes spoil the effect by allowing their page-boys to go about
dirty and ill-kempt.
Whether a gentleman is at home or on an official mission or staying
with friends he ought always to have round him quantities of handsome
page-boys.
For secret meetings summer is best. It is true that the nights are
terribly short and it begins to grow light before one has had a wink of
sleep. But it is delightful to have all the shutters open, so that the
cool air comes in and one can see into the garden. At last comes the
time of parting, and just as the lovers are trying to finish off all
the small things that remain to be said, they are suddenly startled by
a loud noise just outside the window. For a moment they make certain
they are betrayed; but it turns out only to be a crow that cried as it
flew past.
But it is pleasant, too, on very cold nights to lie with one’s lover,
buried under a great pile of bed-clothes. Noises such as the tolling
of a bell sound so strange. It seems as though they came up from the
bottom of a deep pit. Strange, too, is the first cry of the birds,
sounding so muffled and distant that one feels sure their beaks are
still tucked under their wings. Then each fresh note gets shriller and
nearer.
+Very Tiresome Things+
When a poem of one’s own, that one has allowed someone else to use as
his, is singled out for praise.
Someone who is going a long journey wants introductions to people in
the various places through which he will pass, and asks you for a
letter. You write a really nice letter of recommendation for him to
present to one of your friends who lives at some place through which he
will pass. But your friend is cross at being bothered and ignores the
letter. To be thus shown up as having no influence is very humiliating.
+Miscellaneous+
There is nothing in the whole world so painful as feeling that one
is not liked. It always seems to me that people who hate me must be
suffering from some strange form of lunacy. However, it is bound to
happen, whether at Court or in one’s home, that some people like one
and some don’t; which I find very distressing. Even for a child of
the servant-class (and much more for one of good-breeding) it is very
painful, after having always been petted at home, to find itself the
object of a disapproving stare. If the girl in question has anything
to recommend her, one thinks it quite reasonable that she should have
been made a fuss of. But if she is without attractions of any kind,
she knows that everybody is saying, ‘Fancy anyone making a pet of a
creature like that! Really, parents are very odd!’ Yes, at home or at
Court the one thing that matters is to be liked by everyone, from their
Majesties downward!
Shōnagon elsewhere tells us that she used often to say to the Empress:
‘I must always come first in people’s affections. Otherwise, I would
far rather be hated or even actually maltreated. In fact, I would
rather die than be loved but come second or third.’
Writing is an ordinary enough thing; yet how precious it is! When
someone is in a far corner of the world and one is terribly anxious
about him, suddenly there comes a letter, and one feels as though the
person were actually in the room. It is really very amazing. And,
strangely enough, to put down one’s thoughts in a letter, even if one
knows that it will probably never reach its destination, is an immense
comfort. If writing did not exist, what terrible depressions we should
suffer from! And if it is a relief to put down, once and for all, the
things that have been weighing on one’s mind, with a vague idea that
the person in question may one day read what one has written, it is no
exaggeration to say that the arrival of an answer can sometimes work
like a real Elixir of Life!
The boys employed by magicians are extraordinarily clever. When their
master is sent for to perform a ceremony of purification, these boys
are expected to read the invocations,[63] and no one thinks anything
of it. But to see them dash up at exactly the right moment, without
a word from their master, and sprinkle cold water on the face of the
patient, really makes one envious. I wish I could get hold of boys like
that to wait upon me!
If one hears a servant girl say about anyone, ‘He’s an awfully nice
gentleman,’ one at once feels a slight contempt for the person in
question. One would really think better of him if she abused him. Even
a lady can lose by being too much praised in the wrong quarters; and,
considering how much one is certain to suffer by being decried, it
seems a pity that even the praise one gets should only do one harm!
+Narinobu+
Captain Narinobu[64] is a son of His Highness the Reverend President of
the Board of War. He is not only very handsome, but also exceedingly
intelligent. How that poor daughter of Kanesuke’s must have suffered
at the time he broke with her, and she was obliged to go off with her
father to Iyo, where he had been appointed Governor! One imagines
her being due to start at dawn, and his coming to say good-bye the
night before. I see him wrapped in a Court cloak, standing in the pale
moonlight of dawn, as she must then have seen him for the last time.
In old days he used frequently to come and see me. He talked with
considerable freedom, never hesitating to say the most disagreeable
things about those of whom he disapproved.
There was in those days a certain gentlewoman of her Majesty’s, rather
a tiresome person who made a great fuss about her penances, and the
like. She was known by her surname, which was Taira or something grand
of that sort. But she had really only been adopted by these people, and
among the other girls it was considered amusing always to refer to her
by her original name.
She was not at all good-looking—this Taira girl—nor had she any other
quality to recommend her. But she seemed entirely unaware of her
defects and always pushed herself forward when there was company at the
Palace, in a way that her Majesty particularly disliked, though no one
had the strength of mind to tell her so....
Once, when the Empress said that Shikibu no Omoto and I were to sleep
in her apartments instead of going back to our own room, we settled
down for the night in the southern ante-room. After a while there was
a tremendous banging on our door. We decided it would be a nuisance to
have anyone coming in, and pretended to be asleep. But the knocking
was followed by violent shouting, and I heard her Majesty say: ‘Go and
wake her up, one of you. She is only pretending to be asleep.’ The
‘Taira’ girl then came in and tried to wake me; but she found that I
was very fast asleep indeed, and saying that if I would not stir she
must open the door herself, she went out and began a conversation with
the visitor. I kept on thinking she would come back, but midnight came
and still she did not appear. I was fairly certain that the visitor was
my lord Narinobu....
Next morning she heard us talking in our ante-room, and joining us,
said to me: ‘I do think that when a man comes through such storms of
rain as there were last night, you ought to treat him better. I know
that he has been behaving very badly lately, and that you had almost
lost sight of him. But I think you ought to forgive anyone who arrives
with his clothes as wet as that.’
I cannot follow that line of argument. It seems to me that if a man who
comes regularly every night is not put off even by a heavy shower of
rain, that is something to his credit. But if, after absenting himself
for weeks on end, he is fool enough to choose such weather as this for
coming back, then all I can say is I would rather he showed more sense
and less devotion. But I suppose that is a matter of taste.
The case is this. Narinobu likes sometimes to have dealings with a
woman who has observed and reflected sufficiently to acquire a mind of
her own. But he has many other attachments to keep up, not to mention
his main responsibility, and it would be quite impossible for him to
see me often. His object in choosing so atrocious a night for his visit
was chiefly that other people might be impressed by his devotion and
point out to me how much beholden I ought to feel. However, I suppose
if he did not care for me at all, he would not think it worth while to
indulge even in such stratagems as these.
When it is raining I fall into complete gloom, and even if only a few
hours ago the sun was shining brightly I cannot in the least remember
what things looked like when it was fine. Everything looks equally
disagreeable, so that it makes no difference to me whether I am in
the loveliest corner of the Palace arcades or in the most ordinary of
houses; so long as it is raining I can think of nothing else but how
long the rain is going to last.
But if anyone comes on a night when the moon is up and there is a
clear sky, even if it is ten days, twenty days, a month, a year, yes,
even seven or eight years since his last visit, I can look back with
pleasure on his visit; and even if the place is not very convenient for
meeting and one must be prepared for interruption at any moment—even
if, at the worst, nothing more happens than a few remarks exchanged at
a respectful distance—one feels that next time, if circumstances are
favourable, one will allow him to stay the night.
+The Storm+
Among ‘deceptive things’ Shōnagon mentions boating excursions and tells
the following story: The sun was shining brightly; so calm was the lake
that it looked as though it was tightly covered from corner to corner
with a sheet of light green, glossy silk. Never can day have seemed
more safe. We young girls had thrown off our mantles and were helping
at the oars (we had brought some lads to wait upon us and manage the
boat), and singing one song after another—really the whole excursion
was so delightful we wished a thousand times that the Empress or some
of her family were with us—when a violent gale sprang up, the lake all
of a sudden became terribly rough, and soon our only thought was how to
get into shelter as quickly as possible. It seemed impossible that this
lake, whose waves now hung over us as we rowed with all our might to
the shore, was the same that a little while ago had been so sleepy and
harmless.
When one thinks of it, to be in a boat at all is a terrible thing!
It is bad enough, even in reasonably shallow water, to trust oneself
to such a conveyance; but where the water may be any depth—perhaps
a thousand fathoms—to embark upon a thing loaded up with goods and
baggage of all kinds, with only an inch or two of wood between oneself
and the water! However, the low-class people who manage the boat do not
seem to be in the least frightened, but run up and down unconcernedly
in places where a single false step would lose them their lives.
Even the loading of a ship, when they bang down into the hold huge
pine-trees two or three feet in circumference, sometimes half a dozen
of them at a time, is an amazing thing. Rich people of course go in
ships with cabins, and those who are lucky enough to be in the middle
of the ship do not get on so badly. But those who are near the sides
get very dizzy. It is extraordinary how little strength there looks to
be in those things they call thongs, which keep the oars in place. If
one of those were to snap, the oarsman would be drowned in a minute;
yet they are always quite thin.
Our cabin was a very lovely one, with fringed curtains, double doors,
and sliding shutters. Of course, it would not have done for it to be
so heavy as the cabins on ships such as I have been talking about; but
all the same, it was like a complete little house. What frightened me
most was looking at the other ships. Those in the distance, scattered
here and there across the waters, looked like the bamboo leaves that
one sometimes makes into toy boats. When at last we got back into
the harbour it was full of ships with lighted torches on board, a
wonderful sight. How sorry one was for the people whom one saw toiling
along in those very small rowing-boats that they call _hashi_...! I
can understand why it is that some quite ordinary people absolutely
refuse to go in boats. It is true that travelling on land is also very
dangerous; but, whatever may happen, it is always some comfort to have
firm ground under one’s feet.
+Pilgrimage to the Hasedera+[65]
While they were seeing about our rooms, the carriage (from which the
oxen had been unyoked) was pulled up to the foot of the log stairway
by which one climbs up to the temple. Young priests, with nothing but
body-belts under their cassocks, and those clogs they call _ashida_
on their feet, were all the while hurrying up and down the stairway
without seeming to take any notice where they stepped, and reciting,
as they went, scraps of the _Sūtras_ or stray verses from the
rhythmic portion of the _Abhidharma Kośa_,[66] in a manner pleasantly
appropriate to such a place. Our own ascent of the steps was very much
less secure; indeed, we crept up at the side, never daring to let go of
the railings, in places where these young priests walked as comfortably
as on a board-floor.
‘Your rooms are ready; you can come at once,’ someone said to us, and
providing overshoes for the whole party he led us in. The place was
already full of pilgrims; some, too poor to buy new coats, were wearing
them with the lining outside, others in Court robes and cloaks of
Chinese brocade were decked out with almost too obtrusive a splendour.
The sight of so many soft-boots[67] and slippers shuffling along the
corridor was very amusing, and indeed reminded me of the Emperor’s
apartments in the Palace.
Several young men who seemed thoroughly at home in the place (probably
retainers attached to the temple) accompanied us, saying, ‘Now up a
few steps,’ ‘Now down!’ and so on, to prevent us falling in the dark.
There was another party (I don’t know who they were) close behind us.
Some of them tried to push past, but our guides asked them to stand
back, saying we were a party from the Palace and they must keep clear
of us. Most of them said ‘Indeed!’ and at once drew back. But there
were others who took no notice and rushed on as though all they had
come for was to see who could get to the chapel first. On the way to
our rooms we had to pass between rows of people, and it was not very
pleasant. But once arrived, we got a view right up to the centre of
the altar.[68] The sight was so strangely moving that I wondered why I
had allowed so many months to go by without once coming here; the old
feeling had woken again within me.
The altar was not lit by the ordinary lamps of the outer chapel,
but by lamps that pilgrims had laid as offerings within the shrine
itself; and in this terrifying furnace of light the Buddha flashed and
sparkled with the most magnificent effect. Priest after priest came
up to the lectern in front of the altar and, holding up his scroll in
both hands, read out his prayer.[69] But so many people were moving
about that it was impossible to make out what any particular priest was
saying. All we could catch was an occasional phrase, when one voice
for a moment pressed up from among the rest, such as ‘These thousand
lamps ... offered on behalf of ...’; but the names one could not make
out. While with the streamers of my dress hung back over my shoulders
I was prostrating myself towards the altar, a priest came up, saying
‘I have brought you these,’ and I saw that he was carrying a bough
of anise,[70] a courtesy which though merely pious in intention was
very agreeable. Presently another priest came from the direction of
the altar and said he had recited our prayers for us ‘very well,’ and
wanted to know how long we were staying. We got him to tell us the
names of some of the other people who were in retreat at the temple,
and hardly had he left us when another priest came with braziers,
food, and so on. Our washing-water was in a pot with a spout and our
washing-tub had no handles! ‘I have given your servants that cell over
there,’ the priest said; and he called them up one at a time to show
them where they had been quartered. A recitation of the Scriptures
was about to begin, and the temple bell was ringing. ‘Ringing for our
good,’ so we felt, which gave us a great sense of security.[71]
Next door to us was an ordinary sort of man who all the while was
quietly prostrating himself till his head bumped against the floor.
I thought at first that he must be doing it for show. But it soon
became apparent that he was completely absorbed in his devotions.
How wonderful that anyone can go on like this hour after hour without
falling asleep! When for a short time he rested from these devotions,
we heard him reciting the _Sūtras_ in a low voice, so that we could not
hear what he was reading, but with a very solemn intonation. We were
just wishing he would read a little louder, when he broke off, and we
heard him sniffing, not loudly enough to be disagreeable, but gently
and secretly. I wondered what sort of trouble he was in and longed that
his prayers might be answered.
When we had been at the temple several days, the mornings became very
quiet and uneventful. The gentlemen and boys in attendance upon us
usually went off to visit one or other of the priests in his cell, and
we were left with very little to amuse us. Then suddenly, from quite
close at hand would come the sound of the conch-shell,[72] taking us
always completely by surprise. Or a messenger would come bringing an
elegant _tatebumi_[73] or stuffs in payment for some ritual or service,
and laying the things down, would shout for the temple-servants to
come and take them away, shriller and shriller, till his voice echoed
among the hills. Sometimes the din of the temple gongs would suddenly
rise to an unwonted pitch, and in answer to our question as to what was
afoot, they would mention the name of some great mansion, saying ‘It is
a service[74] for her Ladyship’s safe delivery.’ An anxious time for
my Lord. No wonder he could not rest content till the priests were at
their task!
But all this applies only to ordinary times at the temple. At New
Year, for example, there is a never-ending throng of sightseers and
pilgrims, who cause so much disturbance that the services have often to
be abandoned.
One evening a large party arrived from the City—so late that we were
sure they were going to stay the night. Such tall screens were put
up round their quarters that the little acolytes staggered under the
weight of them. We could hear mats being flopped down, and everyone
seemed to be scurrying about getting things in order. They were taken
straight to their quarters and great rustling curtains were hung upon
the railings that separated their rooms from the chapel-enclosure.
People, evidently, who were used to being waited upon and made
comfortable. Presently there was a great rustling of skirts, which
gradually died away in the distance. It seemed to proceed from a party
of elderly gentlewomen, very respectable and discreet. No doubt their
services had been required only for the journey, and they were now
going home. ‘Don’t be careless about fire,’ we heard someone say,
‘these rooms are very dangerous.’ Among the party was a boy of seven
or eight, rather spoilt and conceited we thought, judging from his
voice. It amused us to hear him calling out for the valets and grooms,
and carrying on long conversations with them. There was also a darling
baby of three or thereabouts that we could hear gurgling to itself in
the way that drowsy children do. We kept on hoping that the mother or
someone else would call to the nurse by name; then we should have had
some chance of guessing who the people were.
That night the services went on uninterruptedly till daybreak and
the noise was so great that we got no sleep. After the _Goya_,[75] I
dozed off for a while, but was soon woken by a sound of coarse, noisy
chanting, that seemed intentionally to avoid any kind of beauty or
holiness. We recognized the _Sūtra_ as that of the Temple Patron.[76]
These rough voices no doubt belonged to mountain-hermits from far
away, and bursting in upon us thus unexpectedly, they were strangely
moving....
During retreats of this kind, or indeed whenever I am away from home, I
do not find it sufficient merely to have grooms and servants with me.
One needs several companions of one’s own class, who are pleased by the
same things as oneself—indeed, it is as well to bring with one as many
friends as possible. There may among one’s maids be some who are less
tiresome than the rest. But on the whole one knows all their opinions
too well.
Gentlemen appear to share my feelings about this question; for I notice
they always make up an agreeable party beforehand, when they are going
on pilgrimage to a temple....
Often the common people who come to Hasedera show a gross lack of
respect for the better sort of visitors, lining up in front of one’s
pew (_tsubone_) so close that they brush one with the tails of their
coats. There comes on me sometimes a strong desire to make this
pilgrimage, and then when I have braved the terrifying noise of the
waters, struggled up the dangerous causeway, and pressed into my seat,
impatient to gaze at last upon the glorious countenance of Buddha,
it is exasperating to find my view barred by a parcel of common
white-robed priests and country-people, swarming like caterpillars, who
plant themselves there without the slightest regard for those behind
them. Often, while they were performing their prostrations, I have come
near to rolling them over sideways!
When very grand people come, steps are taken to keep a clear space in
front of them. But, of course, for ordinary people they won’t take the
trouble to interfere. If one sends for some priest with whom one has
influence and asks him to speak, he will sometimes go so far as to
say, ‘Would you mind making a little more room there, please?’ But the
moment his back is turned, it is as bad as before.
Shōnagon records that once when she was attending a great service at
the Bodai Temple, someone sent her a note saying, ‘Come back at once.
I am very lonely.’ ‘As a matter of fact,’ she tells us, ‘I was at the
moment so much worked up by what was going on around me, that I had
quite made up my mind never to quit the place again (to become a nun);
and I cared as little as old Hsiang Chung[77] whether people at home
were waiting for me.
A Recitant[78] ought to be good-looking. It is only if it is a pleasure
to keep one’s eyes on him all the time that there is any chance of
religious feeling (_tōtosa_) being aroused. Otherwise one begins
looking at something else and soon one’s attention wanders from what he
is reading; in which case ugliness becomes an actual cause of sin.
(_Written later_)
The time has come for me to stop putting down ideas of this kind. Now
that I am getting to be a good[79] age, and so on, it frightens me to
discover that I ever wrote such blasphemous stuff. I remember that
whenever any priest was reported to be of particular piety I would
rush off immediately to the house where he was giving his readings. If
this was the state of mind in which I arrived, I see now that I should
have done better to stay away.
Retired Chancellors ... finding time lie heavy on their hands, often
go once or twice to services of this kind. Soon the habit grows upon
them, and they will come even in the hottest days of summer, vaunting
conspicuous under-jackets and light purple or blue-grey trousers; and
often one will see one of them there with a taboo-ticket[80] in his
cap, apparently in the belief that the sanctity of the performance
he is attending is such as to excuse him from any of the observances
proper to this particular day. He bustles in, makes some remark to
the holy man who is occupied with the service, but even while he is
doing so continually casts back glances at some ladies who are just
being deposited from their carriage, and indeed seems ready to take
an interest in anything that turns up. Presently he discovers in
the audience some friend whom he has not seen for a long time, and
with many exclamations of astonishment and delight comes across and
sits next to him. Here he chats, nods, tells funny stories, opens
his fan wide and titters behind it, rattles a string of dandified
beads, fiddles with his hands, and all the while looks round in every
direction. He discusses what sort of carriages the people come in,
finding fault with some and praising others, compares the services
held recently at various houses—an Eight Recitations at so-and-so’s,
a Dedication of Scriptures given by someone else—and all this while
he does not hear a word of what the priest is reading. And indeed, it
would not interest him much if he did; for he has heard it all so often
that it could no longer possibly make any impression upon him.
+Stray Notes+
One writes a letter, taking particular trouble to get it up as prettily
as possible; then waits for the answer, making sure every moment that
it cannot be much longer before something comes. At last, frightfully
late, is brought in—one’s own note, still folded or tied exactly as
one sent it, but so finger-marked and smudged that even the address is
barely legible. ‘The family is not in residence,’ the messenger says,
giving one back the note. Or ‘It is his day of observance and they said
they could not take any letters in.’ Such experiences are dismally
depressing.
One has been expecting someone, and rather late at night there is a
stealthy tapping at the door. One sends a maid to see who it is, and
lies waiting, with some slight flutter of the breast. But the name one
hears when she returns is that of someone completely different, who
does not concern one at all. Of all depressing experiences, this is by
far the worst.
Someone comes, with whom one has decided not to have further dealings.
One pretends to be fast asleep, but some servant or person connected
with one comes to wake one up, and pulls one about, with a face as much
as to say ‘What a sleep-hog!’ This is always exceedingly irritating.
If someone with whom one is having an affair keeps on mentioning some
woman whom he knew in the past, however long ago it is since they
separated, one is always irritated.
It is very tiresome when a lover who is leaving one at dawn says
that he must look for a fan or pocket-book that he left somewhere
about the room last night. As it is still too dark to see anything,
he goes fumbling about all over the place, knocking into everything
and muttering to himself, ‘How very odd!’ When at last he finds the
pocket-book he crams it into his dress with a great rustling of the
pages; or if it is a fan he has lost, he swishes it open and begins
flapping it about, so that when he finally takes his departure, instead
of experiencing the feelings of regret proper to such an occasion, one
merely feels irritated at his clumsiness....
It is important that a lover should know how to make his departure.
To begin with, he ought not to be too ready to get up, but should
require a little coaxing: ‘Come, it is past daybreak. You don’t want
to be found here ...’ and so on. One likes him, too, to behave in such
a way, that one is sure he is unhappy at going and would stay longer
if he possibly could. He should not pull on his trousers the moment
he is up, but should first of all come close to one’s ear and in a
whisper finish off whatever was left half-said in the course of the
night. But though he may in reality at these moments be doing nothing
at all, it will not be amiss that he should appear to be buckling
his belt. Then he should raise the shutters, and both lovers should
go out together at the double-doors, while he tells her how much he
dreads the day that is before him and longs for the approach of night.
Then, after he has slipped away, she can stand gazing after him, with
charming recollections of those last moments. Indeed, the success of
a lover depends greatly on his method of departure. If he springs to
his feet with a jerk and at once begins fussing round, tightening in
the waist-band of his breeches, or adjusting the sleeves of his Court
robe, hunting-jacket or what not, collecting a thousand odds and ends,
and thrusting them into the folds of his dress, or pulling in his
over-belt—one begins to hate him.
I like to think of a bachelor—an adventurous disposition has left
him single—returning at dawn from some amorous excursion. He looks
a trifle sleepy; but, as soon as he is home, draws his writing-case
towards him, carefully grinds himself some ink and begins to write his
next-morning letter—not simply dashing off whatever comes into his
head, but spreading himself to the task and taking trouble to write
the characters beautifully. He should be clad in an azalea-yellow or
vermilion cloak worn over a white robe. Glancing from time to time at
the dewdrops that still cling to the thin white fabric of his dress, he
finishes his letter, but instead of giving it to one of the ladies who
are in attendance upon him at the moment, he gets up and, choosing from
among his page-boys one who seems to him exactly appropriate to such a
mission, calls the lad to him, and whispering something in his ear puts
the letter in his hand; then sits gazing after him as he disappears
into the distance. While waiting for the answer he will perhaps quietly
murmur to himself this or that passage from the _Sūtras_. Presently he
is told that his washing-water and porridge are ready, and goes into
the back room, where, seated at the reading-table, he glances at some
Chinese poems, now and then reciting out loud some passage that strikes
his fancy. When he has washed and got into his Court cloak, which he
wears as a dressing-gown (without trousers), he takes the 6th chapter
of the Lotus Scripture and reads it silently. Precisely at the most
solemn moment of his reading—the place being not far away—the messenger
returns, and by his posture it is evident that he expects an instant
reply. With an amusing if blasphemous rapidity the lover transfers his
attention from the book he is reading to the business of framing his
answer.
One day when the Lord Abbot[81] was visiting his sister, the Mistress
of the Robes, in her apartment, there came a fellow to her balcony,
saying, ‘A terrible thing has happened to me, and I don’t know where
to go and complain.’ He seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘What is
the matter?’ we asked him. ‘I was obliged to leave home for a little
while,’ he replied, ‘and while I was away my miserable house was burnt
to the ground. For days past I have been living on charity, squeezed
into other people’s houses, like a _gōna_[82] in an oyster-shell. The
fire began in one of the hay-lofts belonging to the Imperial Stables.
There is only a thin wall between, and the young lads sleeping in my
night-room came near to being roasted alive. They didn’t manage to save
a thing.’
The Mistress of the Robes laughed heartily at this, and I, seizing a
slip of paper, wrote the poem: ‘If the sunshine of Spring was strong
enough to set the royal fodder ablaze, how could you expect your
night-room to be spared?’[83] I tossed this to him, amid roars of
laughter on the part of the other gentlewomen, one of whom said to
the man, ‘Here’s a present from someone who is evidently much upset
at your house having been burnt down.’ ‘What’s the use of a poem-slip
to me?’ he asked. ‘It won’t go far towards paying for the things I’ve
lost.’ ‘Read it first!’ said someone. ‘Read it, indeed!’ he said. ‘I
would gladly, if I knew so much as half a letter....’ ‘Well then, get
someone to read it to you,’ said the same lady. ‘The Empress has sent
for us and we must go to her at once. But with a document such as that
in your hands, you may be certain that your troubles are over.’ At
this there were roars of laughter. On our way to the Empress’s rooms,
we wondered whether he really would show it to anyone, and whether he
would be very furious when he heard what it was.
We told her Majesty the story, and there was a lot more laughing, in
which the Empress joined. But she said afterwards that we all seemed to
her completely mad.
+Pretty Things+
The face of a child that has its teeth dug into a melon.
A baby sparrow hopping towards one when one calls ‘_chu, chu_’ to
it; or being fed by its parents with worms or what not, when one has
captured it and tied a thread to its foot.
A child of three or so, that scurrying along suddenly catches sight of
some small object lying on the ground, and clasping the thing in its
pretty little fingers, brings it to show to some grown-up person.
A little girl got up in cloister-fashion[84] tossing back her head to
get the hair away from her eyes when she wants to look at something.
+Children+
A child of four or five comes in from a neighbour’s house and gets into
mischief, taking hold of one’s things, throwing them about all over the
room, and perhaps breaking them. One keeps on scolding the creature
and pulling things out of its hands, and at last it is beginning to
understand that it cannot have everything its own way, when in comes
the mother, and knowing that it will now get its way the child points
at something that has taken its fancy, crying ‘Mama, show me this!’
and tugs at the mother’s skirts. ‘I am talking to grown-up people,’
she says, and takes no more notice. Whereupon the child, after pulling
everything about, finally extracts the object it coveted. At this the
mother just says ‘Naughty!’ without making any attempt to take the
thing away and put it into safety; or perhaps, ‘Don’t do that; you’re
spoiling it,’ but evidently more amused than angry. One dislikes the
parent as much as the child. It is indeed agonizing to stand by and see
one’s possessions submitted to such treatment.
Among ‘embarrassing things,’ Shōnagon mentions ‘An unpleasant-looking
child being praised and petted by parents who see it not as it is but
as they would like it to be. Having to listen while its parents repeat
to one the things the child has said, imitating its voice.’
And again, ‘Sometimes when in the course of conversation I have
expressed an opinion about someone and perhaps spoken rather severely,
a small child has overheard me and repeated the whole thing to the
person in question. This may get one into a terrible fix....
I have the same feeling if someone is telling me a sad story. I see the
tears in his eyes and do indeed agree that what he says is very sad;
but somehow or other my own tears will not flow. It is no use trying to
contort one’s face into an expression of woe; in fact, nothing is any
good.
Of the gentlewomen’s apartments attached to the Empress’s own quarters,
those along the Narrow Gallery are the most agreeable. When the wooden
blinds[85] at the top are rolled up, the wind blows in very hard, and
it is cool even in summer. In winter, indeed, snow and hail often come
along with the wind; but even so, I find it very agreeable. As the
rooms have very little depth and boys,[86] even when so near to the
Imperial apartments, do not always mind their manners, we generally
ensconce ourselves behind screens, where the quiet is delightful, for
there is none of the loud talk and laughter that disturb one in other
quarters of the Palace.
I like the feeling that one must always be on the alert. And if this
is true during the day, how much more so at night, when one must be
prepared for something to happen at any moment. All night long one
hears the noise of footsteps in the corridor outside. Every now and
then the sound will cease in front of some particular door, and there
will be a gentle tapping, just with one finger; but one knows that the
lady inside will have instantly recognized the knock. Sometimes, this
soft tapping lasts a long while; the lady is no doubt pretending to be
asleep. But at last comes the rustle of a dress or the sound of someone
cautiously turning on her couch, and one knows that she has taken pity
on him.
In summer she can hear every movement of his fan, as he stands chafing
outside; while in winter, stealthily though it be done, he will hear
the sound of someone gently stirring the ashes in the brazier, and will
at once begin knocking more resolutely, or even asking out loud for
admittance. And while he does so, one can hear him squeezing up closer
and closer against the door.
In the fifth month I love driving out to some mountain village. The
pools that lie across the road look like patches of green grass; but
while the carriage slowly pushes its way right through them, one sees
that there is only a scum of some strange, thin weed, with clear,
bright water underneath. Though it is quite shallow, great spurts fly
up as our horsemen gallop across, making a lovely sight. Then, where
the road runs between hedges, a leafy bough will sometimes dart in at
the carriage window; but however quickly one snatches at it, one is
always too late.
Sometimes a spray of _yomogi_ will get caught in the wheel, and for a
moment, as the wheel brings it level, a delicious scent hovers at our
window.
I love to cross a river in very bright moonlight and see the trampled
water fly up in chips of crystal under the oxen’s feet.
In the second month something happens in the Hall of the Grand Council.
I really don’t know exactly what it is, but they call it the Tests.[87]
About the same time there is a thing they call the Shakuden. I believe
it is then that they hang up Kuji[88] and the rest. They also present
something called the Sōmei to the Emperor and Empress. It comes in a
stone pot and includes some very queer stuff.
People value sympathy more than anything in the world. This is
particularly true of men; but I do not exclude women. One always
regrets an unkind remark, even if it was obviously quite unintentional;
and it is easy, without entering very deeply into someone else’s
sorrow, to say ‘How unfortunate!’ if the situation is indeed
unfortunate, or ‘I can imagine what he is going through,’ if the person
in question is likely to be much perturbed. And this works even better
if one’s remark is made to someone else and repeated than if it is
heard at first hand.
One ought always to find some way of letting people know that one has
sympathized. With one’s relations and so on, who expect fond inquiries,
it is difficult to get any special credit. But a friendly remark to
someone who sees no reason to expect it is always certain to give
pleasure. This all sounds very easy and obvious; but surprisingly
few people put it into practice. It seems as though people with nice
feelings must necessarily be silly, and clever people must always be
ill-natured, men and women too. But I suppose really there must be lots
of nice, clever people, if only one knew them.
Features that one particularly likes continue to give one the same
thrill of pleasure every time one looks at a face. With pictures it is
different; once we have seen them a certain number of times, they cease
to interest us; indeed, the pictures on a screen that stands close to
your usual seat, however beautiful they may be, you will never so much
as glance at!
Again, an object (such as a fan, mirror, vase) may be ugly in general,
but have some particular part which we can look at with pleasure. Faces
do not work like this; they affect us disagreeably unless they can be
admired as a whole.
[_Plan for a Story_]
A young man, who has lost his mother. The father is very fond of him,
but marries again. The stepmother is very disagreeable, and the young
man ceases to have any dealings with her part of the house. There is a
difficulty about his clothes; they have to be mended by his old nurse
or perhaps by a maid who used to be in the mother’s service. He is
given quarters in one of the wings, as though he were a guest, with
pictures on the screens and panels, by first-rate masters too. At Court
he cuts a very good figure and is liked by everyone. The Emperor takes
quite a fancy to him and is always sending for him to join in concerts
and so on. But the young man is always depressed, feels out of place,
and discontented with his mode of life. His nature must be amorous to
the verge of eccentricity. He has an only sister, married to one of
the highest noblemen in the land, who dotes upon her and gratifies her
every whim. To this sister the young man confides all his thoughts,
finding in her society his greatest consolation.
+Things that make one Happy+
Getting hold of a lot of stories none of which one has read before.
Or finding Vol. 2 of a story one is in a great state of excitement
about, but was previously only able to secure the first volume.
However, one is often disappointed.
To pick up a letter that someone has torn up and thrown away, and find
that one can fit the pieces together well enough to make sense.
When one has had a very upsetting dream and is sure it means that
something disagreeable is going to happen, it is delightful to be told
by the interpreter[89] that it does not signify anything in particular.
+Things that give me an Uncomfortable Feeling+
A child that has been brought up by a nasty foster-mother. Of course,
this is not its fault. But somehow one always thinks of its connexion
with such a person as a disagreeable quality in the child itself. ‘I
can’t understand why it is’ (says the foster-mother to the father
of the child) ‘that you should be so fond of all the other young
gentlemen, and yet seem to take no trouble about this child and even to
hate the sight of it.’
She speaks in loud tones of indignation. Probably the child does not
understand exactly what is being said; but it runs to the woman’s
knees and bursts into tears.
Another thing that makes me feel uncomfortable is when I have said I do
not feel well and some girl of whom I am not very fond comes and lies
by me, brings me things to eat, pities me, and without any response
on my part, begins following me about and continually coming to my
assistance.
+Toothache+
A girl of seventeen or eighteen with very beautiful hair, which she
wears down her back, spreading in a great, bushy mass; she is just
nicely plump, and has a very pale skin. One can see that she is really
very pretty; but at the moment she has toothache very badly, her fringe
is all drabbled with tears and (though she is quite unconscious of the
fact) her long locks are dangling in great disorder. Her cheek, where
she has been pressing it with her hand, is flushed crimson, which has a
very pretty effect.
+Illness+
It is the eighth month. A girl is wearing an unlined robe of soft
white stuff, full trousers, and an aster[90] mantle thrown across
her shoulders with very gay effect. But she has some terrible malady
of the chest. Her fellow ladies-in-waiting come in turns to sit with
her, and outside the room there is a crowd of very young men inquiring
about her with great anxiety: ‘How terribly sad!’ ‘Has she ever had
such an attack before?’ and so on. With them no doubt is her lover, and
he, poor man, is indeed beside himself with distress. But as likely as
not it is a secret attachment, and, fearful of giving himself away, he
hangs about on the outskirts of the group, trying to pick up news. His
misery is a touching sight.
Now the lady binds back her beautiful long hair and raises herself
on her couch in order to spit, and harrowing though it is to witness
her pain, there is even now a grace in her movements that makes them
pleasurable to watch. The Empress hears of her condition and at once
sends a famous reciter of the Scriptures, renowned for the beauty of
his voice, to read at her bedside. The room is in any case very small,
and now to the throng of visitors is added a number of ladies who
have simply come to hear the reading. It is impossible to accommodate
them all behind the screens-of-state. At this exposed bevy of young
women the priest constantly glances while he reads, for which he will
certainly suffer in the life to come.
A house with tall pine-trees all round it. The courtyards are spacious,
and as all the _kōshi_[91] are raised, the place has a cool, open look.
In the main room there is a four-foot screen, with a hassock in front
of it, on which is seated a priest about thirty years old or a little
more. He himself is by no means ill-looking; but what strikes one most
is the extreme elegance of his brown robe and mantle of thin lustrous
silk. He is reciting the spells of the Thousand-Handed One, fanning
himself meanwhile with a clove-dyed fan.
Within must lie a person gravely afflicted by some kind of possession;
for presently there edges her way out from the inner room a rather
heavily built girl, who is evidently going to act as ‘medium.’[92] She
has fine hair, and is undeniably a handsome creature. She is dressed
in an unlined robe of plain silk and light-coloured trousers. When
she has seated herself in front of a little three-foot screen placed
at right-angles to that of the priest, he wheels round and puts into
her hand a minute, brightly polished rod. Then in sudden spasms of
sound, with eyes tightly shut, he reads the Spell, which is certainly
very impressive. A number of gentlewomen have come out from behind the
curtains and stand watching in a group.
Before long a shiver runs through the medium’s limbs and she falls into
a trance. It is indeed extraordinary to watch the priest at work and
see how stage by stage his incantations take effect. Behind the medium
is ... a slim boy in his teens (perhaps her brother), with some of his
friends. From time to time they fan her. Their attitude is quiet and
reverent; but if she were conscious, how upset she would be to expose
herself thus in front of her brother’s friends! Though one knows
that she is not really suffering, one cannot help being distressed by
her continual wailing and moaning. Indeed, some of the sick woman’s
friends, feeling sorry for the medium, creep up to the edge of her
screen and try to arrange her disordered clothing in a more decent way.
After a while it is announced that the sick woman is somewhat better.
Hot water and other necessaries are brought along from the back of the
house by a succession of young maids, who, tray in hand, cannot forbear
to cast a hurried glance in the direction of the holy man.... At last,
at the hour of the Monkey (4 p.m.), having reduced the possessing
spirit to an abject condition, the priest dismisses it. On coming to,
the medium is amazed to find herself outside the screen, and asks what
has been happening. She feels terribly ashamed and embarrassed, hides
her face in her long hair, and glides swiftly towards the women’s
quarters. But the priest stops her for a moment, and, having performed
a few magic passes, says to her, with a familiar smile that she finds
very disconcerting, ‘That’s right! Now you’re quite yourself again,
aren’t you?’ Then he turns to the others and says: ‘I would stay a
little longer, but I am afraid I am at the end of my free time....’ He
is about to leave the house; but they stop him, crying: ‘We should like
so much to make an offering. Perhaps you would tell us....’ He takes no
notice and is hurrying away, when a lady of good birth, possibly one
of the daughters of the house, comes up to the curtains that screen
off the women’s quarters and bids her servants tell the holy man that,
thanks to his merciful condescension in visiting the house, the sick
woman’s sufferings had been much relieved, for which they all wished
to thank him from the bottom of their hearts. Would he have time to
come again to-morrow? ‘The disorder,’ says he, ‘is of a very obstinate
nature, and I do not think it would be safe to leave off. I am very
glad that what I have done has already had some effect.’ And without
another word he goes away, making everyone feel as though the Lord
Buddha himself had been with them in the house.
In the eighth month of 998, at the time of her second confinement, the
Empress went to stay with Taira no Narimasa,[93] the Superintendent
of her Household, bringing with her Princess Osako, her first child.
The Imperial Litter, writes Shōnagon, was carried in at the east gate,
which had been rebuilt on purpose. But we ladies were driven round
to the small north gate. We did not think there would be anyone on
duty at the guard-house, and some of us had let our hair get into
great disorder. We had, indeed, taken for granted that we should be
brought right up to the house itself, so that it would not matter if
we arrived rather untidy. Unfortunately the gate was so small that our
carriages, with their high awnings, could not go through. Matting was
laid down for us from here to the house, and in a very bad temper we
all got out and walked. So far from being deserted, the guard-house
was full of courtiers and servants, who stared in a way that was very
annoying. I told the Empress about this and she said, laughing, ‘There
are people here too with eyes in their heads! I do not know why you
should suddenly become so careless.’ ‘But we had the carriages all
to ourselves,’ I said, ‘and it would have seemed very odd if we had
begun fussing about how we looked. Any way, at a house such as this
surely all the gates ought to be big enough to admit a carriage! I
shall make fun of him about it when he comes.’ At this moment Narimasa
did indeed arrive, carrying an inkstand, which he begged me to accept
for her Majesty’s use. ‘We are not best pleased with you,’ I said.
‘Why do you live in a house with such small gates?’ ‘I am a person of
small importance,’ he answered, smiling, ‘and my gates are built to
match.’ ‘Is there not a story about someone who increased the height
of his gate?’ I asked. This seemed to surprise him. ‘I know what you
are thinking of,’ he said. ‘The story of Yü Ting-kuo. But pardon me, I
thought that only musty old scholars knew of such things. Even I should
not have understood you, did I not happen to have strayed a little in
those paths myself.’[94] ‘Paths indeed!’ I exclaimed. ‘I do not think
much of your paths. The matting got buried in them and we fell about in
every direction. An appalling scene....’
‘There has been a lot of rain,’ he said. ‘I am sure you did. Well,
well; you’ll be saying something else unpleasant in a minute. I am
going,’ and off he went. ‘What happened?’ asked the Empress. ‘You seem
to have frightened Narimasa away.’ ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I was only telling
him how we could not get through the north gate.’ Then I went to my own
room.
I shared it with several of the younger girls. We were all so tired
that we did not bother about anything, and went straight to sleep. Our
room was in the east wing, and had a sliding door leading into the
passage under the eaves at the back of the building. The bolt of this
door was missing, but we did not notice it. Our host, however, who was
naturally familiar with the peculiarities of the house, presently came
to the door, and, pushing it open an inch or two, said in a queer,
hollow voice: ‘May one venture?’ This he repeated several times. I
opened my eyes, and there he was, standing behind a chink that was
now about five inches wide. No doubt about who it was, for he happened
to be in the full glare of a lamp we had put behind our screen. It was
really very funny. In an ordinary way he was the last person in the
world to take liberties; but he apparently had some curious idea that
having the Empress in his house entitled him to treat the other guests
as he pleased. ‘Look what is there!’ I cried, waking the girl next to
me. ‘Would you ever have expected it?’ At this they all raised their
heads, and, seeing him still standing at the door, burst into fits of
laughter. ‘Who goes there?’ I challenged him at last. ‘Show yourself!’
‘It’s the master of the house,’ he answered, ‘come to have a word
with the lady in charge.’ ‘It was your gate I complained of,’ I said.
‘I never suggested that our door needed attention.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ he
answered, ‘it is just that business of the gate that I have come about.
Might I venture for one moment...?’ ‘No, of course he cannot,’ said all
the girls in chorus. ‘Just look at the state we are in!’ ‘Ah well, if
there are young persons[95]...’ and he disappeared, closing the door
behind him, amid loud laughter.
Really, if a man finds the door open, the best thing he can do is
to walk in. If he solemnly announces himself he can hardly expect
encouragement.
Next day when I was with the Empress I told her about this. ‘It sounds
very unlike him,’ she said, laughing. ‘It must have been your exploit
yesterday (the allusion to the story of Yü Kung) that interested him
in you. But he is a kind fellow, and I am sorry you are always so hard
upon him.’
Her Majesty had been giving orders about the costumes for the little
girls who were to wait upon Princess Osako. Suddenly (and this time I
really think one could hardly be expected not to smile) Narimasa came
to ask whether her Majesty had decided—what colour the facings of the
children’s vests were to be! He was also worried about the Princess’s
meals. ‘If they are served in the ordinary way,’ he said, ‘it won’t
look well. To my mind, she ought to have a _tayny_[96] platter and
a _tayny_ dish-stand....’ ‘And be waited upon by the little girls
for whom you have designed such lovely underclothes,’ I added. ‘You
should not laugh at Narimasa,’ the Empress said to me afterwards. ‘I
know everyone does it; but he is such a straightforward, unpretentious
creature ...’ and I was glad of this scolding.
One day when I was with her Majesty and nothing particular was going
on, someone came and said that the Superintendent wished to see me.
Her Majesty overheard this and said, laughing: ‘I wonder how he means
to make a butt of himself this time! You’d better go and see.’ I found
him waiting for me outside. ‘I mentioned that unfortunate business
about the gate to my brother Korenaka,’ he said, ‘and he thought it
was very serious. “I should advise you to obtain an interview with the
lady at an hour when she has leisure to discuss the matter in all its
bearings.” That was what my brother advised.’
How very interesting! I was wondering whether he would not make some
reference to his strange visit the other night. But he merely added:
‘So I trust you will allow me to wait upon you in your room. At some
spare moment when you have nothing better to do ...’ and with a bow he
took his leave.
When I went back into the room the Empress asked me what was the
matter. I told her what he had said, adding: ‘I don’t understand why
he sent for me, specially when I was on duty too. Surely he might have
come round to my room later on.’ ‘He thought,’ replied the Empress,
‘that it would give you pleasure to hear what a respect Korenaka has
for you; that is why he was in a hurry to tell you. You must remember
that Korenaka is a tremendous figure in his eyes.’ She looked so
charming while she was saying this!
Three months later, the Empress’s second child, Prince Atsuyasu,[97]
was born. In the second month of the next year (A.D. 1000) she was
raised to the rank of Imperial Consort, that is to say, was made of
equal importance with the Emperor himself, having previously been
merely a sort of chief Queen. In the fourth month she returned to the
Palace, and in the eighth fell seriously ill.
Meanwhile the Emperor’s attention was concentrated chiefly upon his new
concubine, Akiko (daughter of the Prime Minister, Michinaga), who had
arrived at the Palace just a year ago, at the age of eleven.
Speaking of this time, the _Eigwa Monogatari_ (Chapter 7) contrasts the
gloom of the sick Empress’s quarters with the scenes of winter-carnival
that went on in the Emperor’s apartments.
‘Certain princes, still faithful to the Empress, came constantly to
inquire after her, and in conversation with her ladies-in-waiting
described how the _gosechi_ festival had been kept in various great
houses of the Capital. These gentlemen were received by Sei Shōnagon or
some other of her Majesty’s ladies.’
On the 29th day of the twelfth month (A.D. 1000) the Empress Sadako
died, having a few hours previously given birth to a daughter, the
Princess Yoshiko.
What became of Sei Shōnagon after her mistress’s death we do not know.
We hear no more of her till 1009, when Murasaki Shikibu, author of
_The Tale of Genji_, writes in her _Diary_: ‘Sei Shōnagon’s most marked
characteristic is her extraordinary self-satisfaction. But examine
the pretentious compositions in Chinese script which she scatters so
liberally over the Court, and you will find them to be a mere patchwork
of blunders. Her chief pleasure consists in shocking people; and as
each new eccentricity becomes only too painfully familiar, she gets
driven on to more and more outrageous methods of attracting notice.
She was once a person of great taste and refinement; but now she
can no longer restrain herself from indulging, even under the most
inappropriate circumstances, in any outburst that the fancy of the
moment suggests. She will soon have forfeited all claim to be regarded
as a serious character, and what will become of her when she is too old
for her present duties I really cannot imagine.’
And what did become of her? There is a tradition (_Kojidan_, vol. ii)
that when some courtiers were out one day they passed a dilapidated
hovel. One of them mentioned a rumour that Sei Shōnagon, a wit of the
last reign, was now living in this place. Whereupon an incredibly lean
hag shot her head out of the door, crying: ‘Won’t you buy old bones?’
This, if we are to accept the story, was the last of Shōnagon’s famous
‘literary allusions’; for there is here a reference to the story of Kuo
Wei, who maintained that there were racehorses so precious that even
their bones were worth procuring.
There is, too, in the _Zoku Senzaishū_ (Book 18) a poem sent by
Shōnagon ‘when she was old and living in retirement to someone who
tried to visit her’:
Tou hito ni If to those who visit me
‘Ari’ to wa e koso ‘She is at home’
Ii-hatene I cannot bring myself to say
Ware ya wa ware to Do not wonder, for often in consternation
Odorokare-tsutsu. I ask myself whether I am I.
The character of Shōnagon appears in her book as a series of
contradictions. She is desperately anxious not merely to be liked, but
to occupy the foremost place in the affections of all whom she knows.
Yet her behaviour, as she herself records it, seems consistently
calculated to inspire fear rather than affection. Again, she seems at
some moments wholly sceptical, at others profoundly religious; now
unusually tender-hearted, now egotistical and cold. Yet all this does
not imply that her character was in reality complicated to an unusual
degree, but comes from the fact that she reveals herself to us entirely
and, as it were, from every facet, whereas most writers of diaries
and the like, however little conscious intention they may have of
publishing their confessions, instinctively present themselves always
in the same light. Her detachment about herself is paralleled by a
curious aloofness from all the associated emotions of a scene, so that
she can describe a sick-bed as though it were a sunset, without the
slightest attempt to arouse pity, or for that matter the least fear of
provoking disgust.
Perhaps the strongest impression we get is of her extreme
fastidiousness and irritability, which must have made her a formidable
companion. She probably got on better with the Empress than with anyone
else because her reverence for the Imperial Family compelled her in
the August Presence to keep her nerves in check.
As a writer she is incomparably the best poet of her time, a fact which
is apparent only in her prose and not at all in the conventional _uta_
for which she is also famous. Passages such as that about the stormy
lake or the few lines about crossing a moonlit river show a beauty of
phrasing that Murasaki, a much more deliberate writer, certainly never
surpassed. As for Shōnagon’s anecdotes, their vivacity is apparent
even in translation. Neither in them nor in her more lyrical passages
is there any hint of a search for literary effect. She gives back in
her pages, with apparently as little effort of her own as a gong that
sounds when it is struck, the whole warmth and glitter of the life that
surrounded her; and the delicate precision of her perceptions makes
diarists such as Lady Anne Clifford (whose name occurs to me at random)
seem mere purblind Hottentots.
This gift manifests itself incidentally in her extraordinary power of
conveying character. Yukinari, Masahiro and Narimasa, despite their
uniform absurdity, live with extraordinary distinctness; as does the
Empress herself, the only other woman whom the authoress allows to
figure in her pages.
Her style is very much less ‘architected’ than Murasaki’s; but there
are moments when she begins building up a huge network of dependent
clauses in a manner extremely close to _Genji_, and often one feels
that the earlier book leads us, so to speak, to the brink of the other.
This fits in with the presumed dates. _Genji_ was probably begun in
1001, when Murasaki lost her husband, and the _Pillow-Book_ seems, with
the possible exception of two or three entries, to have been written
before the twelfth month of 1000, when the Empress Sadako died.
Shōnagon has often been spoken of as learned. Our only source of
information on the subject is her own book. In it she shows signs
of having read the _Mēng-ch’iu_, a collection of edifying Chinese
anecdotes, much studied by Japanese children from the ninth to the
nineteenth century. She knows too some poems by Po Chü-i (the easiest
of Chinese writers) and refers once to the Analects of Confucius.
In Japanese literature she knows the usual round of poems from the
_Kokinshū_ and _Gosenshū_. To speak, as European writers have done,
of her vast acquaintance with Chinese literature, is an anachronism;
for in her time only fragments of this literature had reached Japan.
The great poets of the eighth century, for example, were entirely
unknown. But the term ‘learned’ is in any case a relative one. A modern
lady-in-waiting who had read a little Greek (or even only a little
Gilbert Murray) would certainly pass as learned in her own circle;
while at Girton no one would be impressed. And it is likely enough
that the attainments by which Shōnagon dazzled the Palace would at the
Fujiwara Academy have passed quite unnoticed.
It is, in fact, her extreme readiness of wit rather than her erudition
that makes Shōnagon remarkable. I have not been able in my extracts to
do her full justice in this respect, because in order to appreciate
her allusions and repartees one must be in a position to grasp them
immediately. Wit, more often than not, evaporates in the process of
explanation.
But the brilliance of an allusion such as that to the Analects[98]
may perhaps be vaguely surmised. That anyone possessed of such a gift
should enjoy using it seems natural enough. Almost every anecdote
in her book centres round some clever repartee or happy quotation
of her own. For this she has been reproached, and Murasaki has made
her colleague’s _shitari-gao_ (‘have done it!’ look, i.e. air of
self-satisfaction) proverbial. In life Shōnagon may indeed have been as
insupportable as Murasaki evidently found her; but in the _Pillow-Book_
her famous _shitari-gao_ makes no disagreeable effect. We feel that
Shōnagon displays her agile wits with the same delight as an athlete
takes in running or leaping.
The Japanese excelled at portraiture. But the portraits that survive
are those of statesmen and priests. The ‘Yoritomo,’ by Takanobu (the
obstinate-looking man in black triangular garments squatting with a
white tablet hugged to his breast[99]), and the Shōichi Kokushi (that
old one-eyed priest spread out over a great armchair), by Chō Densu,
are among the greatest products of Japanese art. But I recollect no
portraits of women till a much later date. Murasaki and Shōnagon we
know only as posterity imagined them—that is to say, as conventional
Court beauties of the Heian period. One does not, however, in reading
the _Pillow-Book_, get the impression of a woman in whose life her own
appearance figured in any very important way. Had she, on the other
hand, been downright ugly, it would have been impossible to secure her
a post as lady-in-waiting. We may suppose then that her looks were
moderate. We certainly cannot accept the argument of M. Revon: ‘Si elle
n’avait pas été distinguée de sa personne elle n’aurait pas raillé
comme elle fait, les types vulgaires’—reasoning which shows a fortunate
unfamiliarity with the conversation of plain women. But we have no
reason to doubt that Shōnagon had many lovers. Stress is usually laid
on her affairs with Tadanobu, to which, however, she devotes only
some few, rather insipid pages. I imagine that her real lovers were
for the most part people of her own rank; whereas Tadanobu, rather
circuitously (it was owing to his sister’s marriage with the Empress’s
brother) soon became a _pezzo grosso_. But in the ’eighties of the
tenth century he was well within Shōnagon’s reach, and if they were
ever lovers, it may have been before her arrival at Court.
Here is the longest passage which deals with their relationship:
Tadanobu, having heard and believed some absurd rumour about me, began
saying the most violent things—for example, that I wasn’t fit to be
called a human being at all and he couldn’t imagine how he had been so
foolish as to treat me like one. I was told that he was saying horrible
things about me even in the Imperial apartments. I felt uncomfortable
about it, but I only said, laughing: ‘If these reports are true, then
that’s what I’m like and there is nothing more to be done. But if they
are not true, he will eventually find out that he has been deceived.
Let us leave it at that....’ Henceforward, if he passed through the
Black Door room and heard my voice from behind the screens he would
bury his face in his sleeve, as though the merest glimpse of me would
disgust him. I did not attempt to explain matters, but got in the habit
of always looking in some other direction.
Two months later matters had advanced some way towards a
reconciliation, for Shōnagon writes:
He sent for me to come out to him, and (though I did not respond)
we met later by accident. ‘Darling,’ he said, ‘why have we given
up being lovers? You know now that I have stopped believing those
stories about you. I cannot conceive what is the obstacle. Are two
people who have been friends for so many years really to drift apart
in this way? As it is, my duties bring me constantly in and out of
their Majesties’ apartments. But if that were to stop, our friendship
would simply vanish, with nothing to show for all that has taken place
between us.’ ‘I have no objection to our coming together again,’ I
said. ‘In fact, there is only one thing I should be sorry for. If
we were seeing one another in the way you mean, I should certainly
stop praising you[100]—as I constantly do at present—in her Majesty’s
hearing, with all the other gentlewomen sitting by. You won’t, I am
sure, misunderstand me. One is embarrassed under such circumstances,
something inside one sticks and one remains tongue-tied.’ He laughed.
‘Am I then never to be praised except by people who know nothing about
me?’ he asked. ‘You may be certain,’ I said, ‘that if we become good
friends again I shall never praise you. I cannot bear people, men or
women, who are prejudiced in favour of someone they are intimate with
or get into a rage if the mildest criticism of someone they are fond of
is made in their presence.’ ‘Oh, I can trust you not to do that!’ he
exclaimed.
I will end with a more general question. Women, it will have struck the
reader, seem to play an inordinately large rôle in the literary life of
the Heian period. How came they here to secure a position that their
sex has nowhere else been able to achieve?
As far as the production of literature went, women did not, in fact,
enjoy so complete a monopoly as European accounts of the period would
suggest. But convention obliged men to write in Chinese,[101] and not
merely to use the Chinese language, but to compose essays and poems the
whole attitude and content of which were derived from China. It may be
objected that a potentially great writer would not have submitted to
these restrictions—that he would have broken out into the vernacular,
like Dante or Paracelsus. But this is to demand that a literary genius
should also possess the many qualities essential to a successful
reformer. The use of the native _kana_ (the only form of character in
which the Japanese language could be written with reasonable facility)
was considered unmanly, and to use it would have made a writer as
self-conscious as a London clubman would feel if he were to walk down
Bond Street in skirts.
Women, anthropologists tell us, are often the repositories of a
vanishing or discarded culture. And their conservatism becomes more
marked where the mastering of a new script is involved; for women,
though quick at acquiring spoken languages, have seldom shown much
aptitude for the study of difficult scripts. To a minor degree, the
same phenomenon was repeated in Japan a thousand years later. While
the energy of male writers was largely absorbed in acquiring a foreign
culture, and their output was still too completely derivative to be
of much significance, there arose a woman[102] whose work, hitching
straight on to the popular novelettes of the eighteenth century, has
outlived the pseudo-European experimentations of her contemporaries.
The fact that the men of the ’nineties in Japan were absorbed in
imitating Turgenev does not, however, explain the occurrence of such
a prodigy as Ichyō (a working seamstress who in the years between
nineteen and twenty-four produced twenty-five longish stories, forty
volumes of diary, and six of critical essays); nor does the convention
which obliged men to write in Chinese explain the appearance during the
Heian period of such female geniuses as Ono no Komachi, Michitsuna’s
mother, Izumi Shikibu, Sei Shōnagon and Murasaki—a state of affairs
all the more remarkable seeing that from the fourteenth to the end of
the nineteenth century not a single woman writer of any note made her
appearance in Japan.
The following tables will facilitate comparison with the original:
+Translation+ +Original+
_Page_ _Section_
24 301[103]
25 160
32 32
34 3
35 20
37 86
56 124
58 75
62 45
68 72
73 156
77 194
78 94
80 46
82 46
83 286, 291
84 89
88 82
90 48
92 60
93 66, 230
94 87, 200
95 257, 268
96 252
101 263
103 103
112 287
113 31
114 30
116 21
118 24 A & B
119 295
121 270
123 132, 133
125 83, 109, 63
127 183
128 187, 113
129 232
130 234, 271
131 235
132 285
133 284
135 297
139 6
155 116
+Original+ +Translation+
_Section_ _Page_
3 34
6 138
20 35
21 116
24 118
30 114
31 113
32 32
45 62
46 82
48 90
60 92
63 126
66 93
72, 82 74, 88
83 125, 90
86 37
87 94
89 84
94 78
103 101
113 128
116 155
124 56
132, 133 123
156 73
183, 187 127
194 77
200 94
232 129
234 130
235 131
252, 257 96, 95
263 101
268 95
270 121
271 130
284, 285 133, 132
286 83
287 112
295 119
297 135
301 24
_Other Translations by Arthur Waley_
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