Anthology of Japanese Literature (27 page)

I suppose we all feel, when we hear stories of ancient times, that the houses were more or less the same as people's houses nowadays, and think of the people as like people we see about us. And am I alone in having sometimes within me a feeling that words I have just heard, or things I have just seen, have happened once before—
when,
I cannot recollect, but none the less certainly have happened.

. .

When in the presence of a new acquaintance, to carry on a conversation in fragments, laughing and exchanging meaningful looks with a companion who knows the phrases and names of things you commonly use, makes the stranger feel as if he understood nothing—this is ignorant behavior, and a sure sign of ill breeding.

. .

One should never make a show of having a deep knowledge of any subject. Well-bred people do not talk in a superior way even about things they have a good knowledge of. It is people who come from the country who offer opinions unasked, as though versed in all manner of accomplishments. Of course some among them do have a really enviable knowledge, and it is their air of self-conceit which is so stupid.

It is a fine thing when a man who thoroughly understands a subject is unwilling to open his mouth, and only speaks when he is questioned.

. .

Are we only to look at flowers in full bloom, at the moon when it is clear?

Nay, to look out on the rain and long for the moon, to draw the blinds and not to be aware of the passing of the spring—these arouse even deeper feelings. There is much to be seen in young boughs about to flower, in gardens strewn with withered blossom.

Men arc wont to regret that the moon has waned or that the blossoms have fallen, and this must be so; but they must be perverse indeed who will say, "This branch, that bough is withered, now there is nought to see."

In all things it is the Beginning and End that are interesting. The love of men and women—is it only when they meet face to face? To feel sorrow at an unaccomplished meeting, to grieve over empty vows, to spend the long night sleepless and alone, to yearn for distant skies, in a neglected house to think fondly of the past—this is what love is.

Rather than to see the moon shining over a thousand leagues, it sinks deeper into the heart to watch it when at last it appears toward the dawn. It never moves one so much as when seen in gaps between the trees, pale green over the tops of the cedars on distant hills, or behind the clustering clouds after showers of rain. When it shines bright on the leaves of oak and evergreen, and they look wet, the sight sinks deeply into one's being, and one feels "Oh! for a friend with whom to share this!" and longs for the capital.

And must we always look upon the moon and the blossoms with the eye alone? Nay, in the very thought thereof, in the spring though we do not go abroad, on moonlit nights though we keep our chamber, there is great comfort and delight.

A well-bred man does not show strong likings. His enjoyment appears careless. It is rustic boors who take all pleasures grossly. They squirm and struggle to get under the blossoms, they stare intently, they drink wine, they link verses, and at last they heartlessly break off great branches. They dip their hands and feet in springs; they get down and step on the snow, leaving footmarks; there is nothing they do not regard as their own.

. .

A man who would follow the world must first of all be a judge of moods, for untimely speeches will offend the ears and hurt the feelings of others, and so fail in their purpose. He has to beware of such occasions.

But falling sick and bearing children and dying—these things take no account of moods. They do not cease because they are untimely. The shifting changes of Birth, Life, Sickness, and Death, the real great matters—these are like the surging flow of a fierce torrent, which delays not for an instant but straightway pursues its course.

And so, for both priest and layman, there must be no talk of
moods
in things they must needs accomplish. They must be free from this care and that, they must not let their feet linger.

It does not turn to summer after spring has closed, nor does the fall come when the summer ends. The spring betimes puts on a summer air, already in the summer is the fall abroad, and anon the fall grows cold. In the tenth month comes a brief space of spring weather. Grass grows green, plum blossoms bud. So with the falling of leaves from the trees. It is not that the trees bud, once the leaves have fallen, but that because they are budding from beneath, the leaves, unable to withstand the strain, perforce must fall. An onward-urging influence is at work within, so that stage presses on stage with exceeding haste.

This again is exceeded by the changes of birth, age, sickness, and death. The four seasons have still an appointed order. The Hour of Death waits for no order. Death does not even come from the front. It is ever pressing on from behind. All men know of death, but they do not expect it of a sudden, and it comes upon them unawares. So, though the dry flats extend far out, anon the tide comes and floods the strand.

TRANSLATED BY G. B. SANSOM

1
Adashino and Toribeyama were places of cremation.

THE EXILE OF GODAIGO

[
Masukagami, Book XVI
]

The "Masukagami"—variously translated as "Mirror of Increase" or "Mirror of Clarity"—is an historical romance based on events which took place between 1184 and It begins with the accession of the Emperor Gotoba (1180-1239) and ends with the return from exile of the Emperor Godaigo (1288-1339). These were two of the most energetic and literarily gifted of the Japanese emperors. Both attempted to assert themselves against the military class, and both were defeated and sent to exile on the remote island of Oki.

The selection given here covers Godaigo's journey from Kyoto to 0ki, and the life he led in lonely exile. Godaigo was more fortunate than Gotoba (who is the "former emperor" of the translation) in that he was able to return from exile thanks to his supporters. Once back in power, however, he continued to make the mistakes that had caused his first exile, and it was not long before his forces were driven from Kyoto again, this time to the mountains of Yoshino where for some sixty years the "Southern Court" held sway.

Neither the date nor the author of the "Masukagami" is known, but it is believed to have been written about 1370, possibly by Nijd Yoshimoto (1320-1388) the famous poet of linked-verse.

The spring of 1332 had come. The beginning of the first year of the new reign was surprisingly festive. The new Emperor, being young and handsome, lent a special brilliance to everything, and the palace ceremonies were performed in exact observance of tradition. On the occasions of official functions, and even on quite ordinary days, there was so dense a press of carriages before the palace and the residences of the cloistered sovereigns,
¹
which were situated within the same area, that it was scarcely possible to move, but among all those who thronged to the court, there was not a single familiar face.

The Emperor Godaigo was still held captive at Rokuhara. Along about the second moon, when the skies were serene and lightly veiled in mist, and the gendy blowing spring breezes brought from the eaves the nostalgic fragrance of plum blossoms, so melancholy was his cast of mind that even the clear notes of the thrush sounded harshly in his ears. Their situations were different, of course, but one could not help thinking of some neglected court lady in the women's palace at the Chinese court. Perhaps it was with the intent of consoling him, now that the lengthening of the days made it all the harder for him to pass his time, that the Empress sent him his lute, together with this poem written on a scrap of paper:

The Emperor, understanding that these must have been her actual feelings, was deeply saddened, and the tears coursed down his face like raindrops. He wrote in reply:

Just at this time there arrived in Kyoto an emissary from Kamakura named Nagai Takafuyu. His family had been important samurai in Kamakura since the days of General Yoshitomo, and although he was still young he was chosen for the important mission of informing the Emperor that the time had at last come for him to remove to Oki; on the seventh day of the third moon he must depart from the capital. It may well be imagined how great was the Emperor's consternation when he learned that the dreaded moment was now at hand. Great were the lamentations also of the Empress and the princes, and those who were in attendance on him could not control their grief. He attempted to keep others from seeing how greatly distressed he was, but in spite of himself tears welled up, which he concealed as best he could. Whenever he recollected what had happened to that former emperor, he realized how unlikely it was that he himself would ever return to govern the country again. He lived in the conviction that everything had now come to an end, and he ceaselessly lamented that his sorrows were due not to the wickedness of others, but had all been imposed on him
from
a previous existence.

The Emperor set out about ten o'clock in the morning. He rode in the split-bamboo Imperial carriage. The outriders consisted of all those still alive who had served at the court since the reign of the late Emperor Go-uda.
²
The Middle Counselor Saionji served as carriage attendant. The Emperor wore the Imperial crown, an ordinary court robe and trousers, and an unlined cloak of white damask. He recalled with sorrow that on the same day a year before he had held a cherry-blossom party in the northern hills, and one after another of the happy events of that day came back to him. The robes which he then had presented to the different gentlemen to celebrate the occasion were today altered into traveling garments, and this thought made him lament all the more bitterly the fickle usages of the world. Just before he left his prison to enter the carriage, he wrote on the paper-door beside which he always used to sit:

He was accompanied by several court dames and by just two men, Yukifusa and Tadaaki. No words could express the sorrow that each one felt as the moment of departure approached. The officers who were selected to escort him from Rokuhara, or who were engaged in other duties commensurate with their great fame, included ten of the most distinguished men of the realm. They were attired in magnificent brocade cloaks and robes of various hues, woven and dyed in contrasting patterns, and presented a rare and splendid sight even in these unhappy circumstances. From Rokuhara they proceeded westward along the Seventh Ward, and then turned southward at Omiya. The Imperial carriage halted in front of the Eastern Temple, apparently to permit the Emperor a brief moment of prayer. The carriages of spectators jammed the streets. Even ladies of quality, in wide-brimmed hats and turned-up robes, mingled with the pedestrians. Young and old, nuns, priests, and even wretched wood-cutters and hunters from the mountains thronged the place, as thick as bamboos in a forest. Just to see them all wiping their eyes and sniffling made one feel that no worse calamity could occur in this sorrowful world. It must have been thus when the Emperor Gotoba was exiled to Oki, but of that event I know only by report, not having witnessed it myself. It seemed to me then that so appalling a moment had never before been known. Even the insignificant or base people who normally could never have approached the Imperial presence were bewildered and dumbfounded by the pathos of today's leave-taking. The Emperor lifted the blinds of his carriage a little and gazed around him as though not to let a blade of grass or a tree escape his eyes. The soldiers of the escort, not being made of stone or wood, could be seen to wet the sleeves of their armor with their tears. The Emperor looked back until the treetops of the capital disappeared from sight. He still wondered if it might after all be just a dream.

When they arrived at the Toba Palace, His Majesty changed his apparel, and for appearance's sake partook of lunch, although he barely touched the food. From this place onward he was to travel by palanquin. The outriders and other courtiers wept as they returned to the capital with the empty carriage, and he was most touched by their distraction. In this manner the Emperor departed for his distant destination.

At the crossing of the Yodo River he recalled how when, long ago, he had paid a state visit to the Hachiman Shrine, his commissioner at the bridge-crossing had been Sasaki, the Lord of Sado, who had since entered the priesthood and was this day serving as one of his escorts. The recollection was difficult to bear.

The Emperor next crossed the Cape of Wada and the Karumo River, and was approaching the Barrier of Suma. The place "where the wind from the bay blows across the pass," of Yukihira's poem, must have been far inland from the bay which now the Emperor gazed on, lost in emotion. He felt as if even now the waves of which Genji had said, "they are lost in the sound of my weeping," were splashing on his sleeves, and they brought tears for many things. The Emperor next came to the province of Harima. Struck by the charm of the villages he saw, he asked what they were called, and they told him "Salt-House" and "Dripping Brine." "Just to ask the names makes the journey all the more bitter," he said. When he lifted the blinds of his palanquin and looked out, his face was young and handsome, so that all who were in attendance thought how splendid he looked. Just beyond the valley of Okura was the tomb of Hitomaro. And when he passed the bay of Akashi, how moving it was.
³

When he looked on the Springs of Nonaka, the Bay of Futami, and the Pine of Takasago, all celebrated in poetry, he thought how delighted he would be were it not this sort of journey, but in his present distraught frame of mind, which everything served only to deepen, he could only shut his eyes to them. "I must be in a terrible state," he thought. Clustered cherry trees were in blossom on a lofty peak, and he felt as though he were making his way through white clouds. But the very charm of the scene brought up memory on memory of the capital.

On the twelfth, when he was stopping at a place on the Kako River, he was informed that his son, the Prince Soncho, about to sail for exile in Sanuki, had arrived at Noguchi, east of the river, although the route he had taken differed somewhat from the Emperor's. Much moved by the news, the Emperor asked to meet his son, but his escorts refused permission, and the Prince passed on without a glimpse of him. What unbearable agitation must he have experienced then! It hardly need be stated here, but there is no man but would feel unspeakable bitterness and rancor toward a world where even so small a thing could not be granted.

On the seventeenth he reached the province of Mimasaka where he rested for two or three days on account of an indisposition. Since his lodgings here were only temporary, they were not very spacious, and the soldiers on duty were all able to see him from quite close up. His majestic appearance stirred them profoundly, and he looked at them filled with many thoughts.

At the sight of smoke rising from the eaves of the house adjoining his, the Emperor recited the verse, "Brushwood burning in a mountain hut" in a touching way.