Traditional Japanese Literature

by Haruo Shirane

  The chamberlain, Tadataka, was informed, and he hurried along from the Table Room.128 “Is it really true?” he asked. “Please let me see for myself.” I sent a maid to him with the following reply: “Alas, I am afraid that this is not the same dog after all.” “Well,” answered Tadataka, “whatever you say, I shall sooner or later have occasion to see the animal. You won’t be able to hide him from me indefinitely.”

  Before long, Okinamaro was granted an imperial pardon and returned to his former happy state. Yet even now, when I remember how he whimpered and trembled in response to our sympathy, it strikes me as a strange and moving scene; when people talk to me about it, I start crying myself.

  The Sliding Screen in the Back of the Hall (11)

  The sliding screen in the back of the hall in the northeast corner of Seiryō Palace is decorated with paintings of the stormy sea and of the terrifying creatures with long arms and long legs that live there.129 When the doors of the empress’s room were open, we could always see this screen. One day we were sitting in the room, laughing at the paintings and remarking how unpleasant they were. By the balustrade of the veranda stood a large celadon vase, full of magnificent cherry branches; some of them were as much as five feet long, and their blossoms overflowed to the very foot of the railing. Toward noon the major counselor, Fujiwara no Korechika,130 arrived. He was dressed in a cherry-color court cloak, sufficiently worn to have lost its stiffness, a white underrobe, and loose trousers of dark purple; from beneath the cloak shone the pattern of another robe of dark red damask. Since His Majesty was present, Korechika knelt on the narrow wooden platform in front of the door and reported to him on official matters.

  A group of ladies-in-waiting was seated behind the bamboo blinds. Their cherry-color Chinese jackets hung loosely over their shoulders with the collars pulled back; they wore robes of wisteria, golden yellow, and other colors, many of which showed beneath the blind covering the half shutter. Presently the noise of the attendants’ feet told us that dinner was about to be served in the Daytime Chamber, and we heard cries of “Make way. Make way.”

  The bright, serene day delighted me. When the chamberlains had brought all the dishes into the chamber, they came to announce that dinner was ready, and His Majesty left by the middle door. After accompanying the emperor, Korechika returned to his previous place on the veranda beside the cherry blossoms. The empress pushed aside her curtain of state and came forward as far as the threshold. We were overwhelmed by the whole delightful scene. It was then that Korechika slowly intoned the words of the old poem,

  The days and the months flow by,

  but Mount Mimoro lasts forever.131

  Deeply impressed, I wished that all this might indeed continue for a thousand years.

  As soon as the ladies serving in the Daytime Chamber had called for the gentlemen-in-waiting to remove the trays, His Majesty returned to the empress’s room. Then he told me to rub some ink on the inkstone. Dazzled, I felt that I should never be able to take my eyes off his radiant countenance. Next he folded a piece of white paper. “I should like each of you,” he said, “to copy down on this paper the first ancient poem that comes into your head.”

  “How am I going to manage this?” I asked Korechika, who was still out on the veranda.

  “Write your poem quickly,” he said, “and show it to His Majesty. We men must not interfere in this.” Ordering an attendant to take the emperor’s inkstone to each of the women in the room, he told us to make haste. “Write down any poem you happen to remember,” he said. “The Naniwazu132 or whatever else you can think of.”

  For some reason I was overcome with timidity; I blushed and had no idea what to do. Some of the other women managed to put down poems about the spring, the blossoms, and such suitable subjects; then they handed me the paper and said, “Now it’s your turn.” Picking up the brush, I wrote the poem that goes,

  The years have passed

  and age has come my way.

  Yet I need only look at this fair flower

  for all my cares to melt away.

  I altered the third line, however, to read, “Yet I need only look upon my lord.”133

  When he had finished reading, the emperor said, “I asked you to write these poems because I wanted to find out how quick you really were.

  “A few years ago,” he continued, “Emperor En’yū ordered all his courtiers to write poems in a notebook. Some excused themselves on the grounds that their handwriting was poor; but the emperor insisted, saying that he did not care in the slightest about their handwriting or even whether their poems were suitable for the season. So they all had to swallow their embarrassment and produce something for the occasion. Among them was His Excellency, our present chancellor, who was then middle captain of the third rank. He wrote down the old poem,

  Like the sea that beats

  upon the shores of Izumo

  as the tide sweeps in,

  deeper it grows and deeper—

  the love I bear for you.

  “But he changed the last line to read, ‘The love I bear my lord!,’ and the emperor was full of praise.”

  When I heard His Majesty tell this story, I was so overcome that I felt myself perspiring. It occurred to me that no younger woman would have been able to use my poem, and I felt very lucky. This sort of test can be a terrible ordeal: it often happens that people who usually write fluently are so overawed that they actually make mistakes in their characters.

  Next the empress placed a notebook of Kokinshū poems in front of her and started reading out the first three lines of each one, asking us to supply the remainder. Among them were several famous poems that we had in our minds day and night; yet for some strange reason we were often unable to fill in the missing lines. Lady Saishō, for example, could manage only ten, which hardly qualified her as knowing her Kokinshū. Some of the other women, even less successful, could remember only about half a dozen poems. They would have done better to tell the empress quite simply that they had forgotten the lines; instead they came out with great lamentations like “Oh dear, how could we have done so badly in answering the questions that Your Majesty was pleased to put to us?”—all of which I found rather absurd.

  When no one could complete a particular poem, the empress continued reading to the end. This produced further wails from the women: “Oh, we all knew that one! How could we be so stupid?”

  “Those of you,” said the empress, “who had taken the trouble to copy out the Kokinshū several times would have been able to complete every single poem I have read. In the reign of Emperor Murakami there was a woman at court known as the Imperial Lady of Sen’yō Palace. She was the daughter of the minister of the left who lived in the Smaller Palace of the First Ward, and of course you all have heard of her. When she was still a young girl, her father gave her this advice: ‘First you must study penmanship. Next you must learn to play the seven-string zither better than anyone else. And also you must memorize all the poems in the twenty volumes of the Kokinshū.’

  “Emperor Murakami,” continued Her Majesty, “had heard this story and remembered it years later when the girl had grown up and become an imperial consort. Once, on a day of abstinence,134 he came into her room, hiding a notebook of Kokinshū poems in the folds of his robe. He surprised her by seating himself behind a curtain of state; then, opening the book, he asked, ‘Tell me the verse written by such-and-such a poet, in such-and-such a year and on such-and-such an occasion.’ The lady understood what was afoot and that it was all in fun, yet the possibility of making a mistake or forgetting one of the poems must have worried her greatly. Before beginning the test, the emperor had summoned a couple of ladies-in-waiting who were particularly adept in poetry and told them to mark each incorrect reply by a go stone. What a splendid scene it must have been! You know, I really envy anyone who attended that emperor even as a lady-in-waiting.

  “Well,” Her Majesty went on, “he then began questioning her. She answered without any hesitation, just gi
ving a few words or phrases to show that she knew each poem. And never once did she make a mistake. After a time the emperor began to resent the lady’s flawless memory and decided to stop as soon as he detected any error or vagueness in her replies. Yet, after he had gone through ten books of the Kokinshū, he had still not caught her out. At this stage he declared that it would be useless to continue. Marking where he had left off, he went to bed. What a triumph for the lady!

  “He slept for some time. On waking, he decided that he must have a final verdict and that if he waited until the following day to examine her on the other ten volumes, she might use the time to refresh her memory. So he would have to settle the matter that very night. Ordering his attendants to bring up the bedroom lamp, he resumed his questions. By the time he had finished all twenty volumes, the night was well advanced; and still the lady had not made a mistake.

  “During all this time His Excellency, the lady’s father, was in a state of great agitation. As soon as he was informed that the emperor was testing his daughter, he sent his attendants to various temples to arrange for special recitations of the scriptures. Then he turned in the direction of the imperial palace and spent a long time in prayer. Such enthusiasm for poetry is really rather moving.”

  The emperor, who had been listening to the whole story, was much impressed. “How can he possibly have read so many poems?” he remarked when Her Majesty had finished. “I doubt whether I could get through three or four volumes. But of course things have changed. In the old days even people of humble station had a taste for the arts and were interested in elegant pastimes. Such a story would hardly be possible nowadays, would it?”

  The ladies in attendance on Her Majesty and the emperor’s own ladies-in-waiting who had been admitted into Her Majesty’s presence began chatting eagerly, and as I listened I felt that my cares had really “melted away.”

  Depressing Things (13)

  A dog howling in the daytime. A wickerwork fishnet in spring.135 A red plum-blossom dress136 in the Third or Fourth Month. A lying-in room when the baby has died. A cold, empty brazier. An ox driver who hates his oxen. A scholar whose wife has one girl child after another.137

  One has gone to a friend’s house to avoid an unlucky direction,138 but nothing is done to entertain one; if this should happen at the time of a seasonal change, it is still more depressing.

  A letter arrives from the provinces, but no gift accompanies it. It would be bad enough if such a letter reached one in the provinces from someone in the capital; but then at least it would have interesting news about goings-on in society, and that would be a consolation.

  One has written a letter, taking pains to make it as attractive as possible, and now one impatiently awaits the reply. “Surely the messenger should be back by now,” one thinks. Just then he returns; but in his hand he carries not a reply but one’s own letter, still twisted or knotted139 as it was sent, but now so dirty and crumpled that even the ink mark on the outside has disappeared. “Not at home,” announces the messenger, or else, “They said they were observing a day of abstinence and would not accept it.” Oh, how depressing!

  Again, one has sent one’s carriage to fetch someone who had said he would definitely pay one a visit on that day. Finally it returns with a great clatter, and the servants hurry out with cries of “Here they come!” But next one hears the carriage being pulled into the coach house, and the unfastened shafts clatter to the ground. “What does this mean?” one asks. “The person was not at home,” replies the driver, “and will not be coming.” So saying, he leads the ox back to its stall, leaving the carriage in the coach house.

  With much bustle and excitement a young man has moved into the house of a certain family as the daughter’s husband. One day he fails to come home, and it turns out that some high-ranking court lady has taken him as her lover. How depressing! “Will he eventually tire of the woman and come back to us?” his wife’s family wonder ruefully.

  The nurse who is looking after a baby leaves the house, saying that she will be back soon. Soon the child starts crying for her. One tries to comfort it with games and other diversions and even sends a message to the nurse telling her to return immediately. Then comes her reply: “I am afraid that I cannot be back this evening.” This is not only depressing; it is no less than hateful. Yet how much more distressed must be the young man who has sent a messenger to fetch a lady friend and who awaits her arrival in vain!

  It is quite late at night and a woman has been expecting a visitor. Hearing finally a stealthy tapping, she sends her maid to open the gate and lies waiting excitedly. But the name announced by the maid is that of someone with whom she has absolutely no connection. Of all the depressing things, this is by far the worst.

  With a look of complete self-confidence on his face an exorcist prepares to expel an evil spirit from his patient. Handing his mace, rosary, and other paraphernalia to the medium who is assisting him, he begins to recite his spells in the special shrill tone that he forces from his throat on such occasions. For all the exorcist’s efforts, the spirit gives no sign of leaving, and the Guardian Demon fails to take possession of the medium.140 The relations and friends of the patient, who are gathered in the room praying, find this rather unfortunate. After he has recited his incantations for the length of an entire watch,141 the exorcist is worn out. “The Guardian Demon is completely inactive,” he tells his medium. “You may leave.” Then, as he takes back his rosary, he adds, “Well, well, it hasn’t worked!” He passes his hand over his forehead, then yawns deeply (he of all people!), and leans back against a pillar for a nap.

  Most depressing is the household of some hopeful candidate who fails to receive a post during the period of official appointments. Hearing that the gentleman was bound to be successful, several people have gathered in his house for the occasion; among them are a number of retainers who served him in the past but who since then have either been engaged elsewhere or moved to some remote province. Now they all are eager to accompany their former master on his visit to the shrines and temples, and their carriages pass to and fro in the courtyard. Indoors there is a great commotion as the hangers-on help themselves to food and drink. Yet the dawn of the last day of the appointments arrives, and still no one has knocked at the gate. The people in the house are nervous and prick up their ears.

  Presently they hear the shouts of forerunners and realize that the high dignitaries are leaving the palace. Some of the servants were sent to the palace on the previous evening to hear the news and have been waiting all night, trembling with cold; now they come trudging back listlessly. The attendants who have remained faithfully in the gentleman’s service year after year cannot bring themselves to ask what has happened. His former retainers, however, are not so diffident. “Tell us,” they say, “what appointment did His Excellency receive?” “Indeed,” murmur the servants, “His Excellency was governor of such-and-such a province.” Everyone was counting on his receiving a new appointment and is desolated by this failure. On the following day the people who had crowded into the house begin to slink away in twos and threes. The old attendants, however, cannot leave so easily. They walk restlessly about the house, counting on their fingers the provincial appointments that will become available in the following year. Pathetic and depressing in the extreme!

  One has sent a friend a verse that turned out fairly well. How depressing when there is no reply poem! Even in the case of love poems, people should at least answer that they were moved at receiving the message or something of the sort; otherwise they will cause the keenest disappointment.

  Someone who lives in a bustling, fashionable household receives a message from an elderly person who is behind the times and has very little to do; the poem, of course, is old-fashioned and dull. How depressing!

  One needs a particularly beautiful fan for some special occasion and instructs an artist, in whose talents one has full confidence, to decorate one with an appropriate painting. When the day comes and the fan is delivered, one
is shocked to see how badly it has been painted. Oh, the dreariness of it!

  A messenger arrives with a present at a house where a child has been born or where someone is about to leave on a journey. How depressing for him if he gets no reward! People should always reward a messenger, though he may bring only herbal balls or hare sticks.142 If he expects nothing, he will be particularly pleased to be rewarded. On the other hand, what a terrible letdown if he arrives with a self-important look on his face, his heart pounding in anticipation of a generous reward, only to have his hopes dashed!

  A man has moved in as a son-in-law; yet even now, after some five years of marriage, the lying-in room has remained as quiet as on the day of his arrival.

  An elderly couple who have several grown-up children, and who may even have some grandchildren crawling about the house, are taking a nap in the daytime. The children who see them in this state are overcome by a forlorn feeling, and for other people it is all very depressing.

  To take a hot bath when one has just woken is not only depressing; it actually puts one in a bad humor.

  Persistent rain on the last day of the year.

  One has been observing a period of fast but neglects it for just one day—most depressing.

  A white underrobe in the Eighth Month.143

  A wet nurse who has run out of milk.

  Hateful Things (14)

  One is in a hurry to leave, but one’s visitor keeps chattering away. If it is someone of no importance, one can get rid of him by saying, “You must tell me all about it next time”; but should it be the sort of visitor whose presence commands one’s best behavior, the situation is hateful indeed.