by Arthur Waley
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.* About the same time there is a thing they call the Shakuden. I believe it is then that they hang up Kuji† 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* 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* 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* 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.”* She has fine hair, and is undeniably a handsome creature. She is dressed in an unlined robe of plain silk and light-colored 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 offthe 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 tomorrow? “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,* 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 guardhouse, 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 kid 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 guardhouse 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.”* “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 offhe 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* . . .” 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 color 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* 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 ad
vised.”
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,* 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.”