No More Learning

CLASSICAL POETRY OF JAPAN

Introduction

BALLADS--

The Fisher-Boy Urashima

On Seeing a Dead Body

The Maiden of Unahi

The Grave of the Maiden of Unahi

The Maiden of Katsushika

The Beggar's Complaint

A Soldier's Regrets on Leaving Home


LOVE SONGS--

On Beholding the Mountain

Love is Pain

Hitomaro to His Mistress

No Tidings

Homeward

The Maiden and the Dog

Love is All

Husband and Wife

He Comes Not

He and She

The Pearls

A Damsel Crossing a Bridge

Secret Love

The Omen

A Maiden's Lament

Rain and Snow

Mount Mikash

Evening


ELEGIES--

On the Death of the Mikado Tenji

On the Death of the Poet's Mistress

Elegy on the Poet's Wife

On the Death of Prince Hinami

On the Death of the Nun Riguwan

On the Poet's Son, Furubi

Short Stanza on the Same Occasion


MISCELLANEOUS POEMS--

View from Mount Kago

The Mikado's Bow

Spring and Autumn

Spring

Recollections of My Children

The Brook of Hatsuse

Lines to a Friend

A Very Ancient Ode

The Bridge to Heaven

Ode to the Cuckoo

The Ascent of Mount Tsukuba

Couplet


SHORT STANZAS


THE DRAMA OF JAPAN

Nakamitsu

Abstraction

* * * * *




GENJI MONOGATARI

BY

MURASAKI SHIKIB

[_Translated into English by Suyematz Kenchio_]




INTRODUCTION

BY THE TRANSLATOR


Genji Monogatari,[1] the original of this translation, is one of the
standard works of Japanese literature. It has been regarded for
centuries as a national treasure. The title of the work is by no means
unknown to those Europeans who take an interest in Japanese matters,
for it is mentioned or alluded to in almost every European work
relating to our country. It was written by a lady, who, from her
writings, is considered one of the most talented women that Japan has
ever produced.

She was the daughter of Fujiwara Tametoki, a petty Court noble,
remotely connected with the great family of Fujiwara, in the tenth
century after Christ, and was generally called Murasaki Shikib. About
these names a few remarks are necessary. The word "Shikib" means
"ceremonies," and is more properly a name adopted, with the addition
of certain suffixes, to designate special Court offices. Thus the term
"Shikib-Kio" is synonymous with "master of the ceremonies," and
"Shikib-no-Jio" with "secretary to the master of the ceremonies. "
Hence it might at first sight appear rather peculiar if such an
appellation should happen to be used as the name of a woman. It was,
however, a custom of the period for noble ladies and their attendants
to be often called after such offices, generally with the suffix
"No-Kata," indicating the female sex, and somewhat corresponding to
the word "madam. " This probably originated in the same way as the
practice in America of calling ladies by their husbands' official
titles, such as Mrs. Captain, Mrs. Judge, etc. , only that in the case
of the Japanese custom the official title came in time to be used
without any immediate association with the offices themselves, and
often even as a maiden name. From this custom our authoress came to
be called "Shikib," a name which did not originally apply to a person.
To this another name, Murasaki, was added, in order to distinguish her
from other ladies who may also have been called Shikib. "Murasaki"
means "violet," whether the flower or the color. Concerning the origin
of this appellation there exist two different opinions. Those holding
one, derive it from her family name, Fujiwara; for "Fujiwara"
literally means "the field of Wistaria," and the color of the Wistaria
blossom is violet. Those holding the other, trace it to the fact that
out of several persons introduced into the story, Violet (Murasaki in
the text) is a most modest and gentle woman, whence it is thought that
the admirers of the work transferred the name to the authoress
herself. In her youth she was maid of honor to a daughter of the then
prime minister, who became eventually the wife of the Emperor Ichijio,
better known by her surname, Jioto-Monin, and who is especially famous
as having been the patroness of our authoress. Murasaki Shikib married
a noble, named Nobtaka, to whom she bore a daughter, who, herself,
wrote a work of fiction, called "Sagoromo" (narrow sleeves). She
survived her husband, Nobtaka, some years, and spent her latter days
in quiet retirement, dying in the year 992 after Christ. The diary
which she wrote during her retirement is still in existence, and her
tomb may yet be seen in a Buddhist temple in Kioto, the old capital
where the principal scenes of her story are laid.

The exact date when her story was written is not given in the work,
but her diary proves that it was evidently composed before she arrived
at old age.

The traditional account given of the circumstances which preceded the
writing of the story is this: when the above-mentioned Empress was
asked by the Saigu (the sacred virgin of the temple of Ise) if her
Majesty could not procure an interesting romance for her, because the
older fictions had become too familiar, she requested Shikib to write
a new one, and the result of this request was this story.

The tradition goes on to say that when this request was made Shikib
retired to the Buddhist temple in Ishiyama, situated on hilly ground
at the head of the picturesque river Wooji, looking down on Lake Biwa.
There she betook herself to undergo the "Tooya" (confinement in a
temple throughout the night), a solemn religious observance for the
purpose of obtaining divine help and good success in her undertaking.
It was the evening of the fifteenth of August. Before her eyes the
view extended for miles. In the silver lake below, the pale face of
the full moon was reflected in the calm, mirror-like waters,
displaying itself in indescribable beauty. Her mind became more and
more serene as she gazed on the prospect before her, while her
imagination became more and more lively as she grew calmer and calmer.
The ideas and incidents of the story, which she was about to write,
stole into her mind as if by divine influence. The first topic which
struck her most strongly was that given in the chapters on exile.
These she wrote down immediately, in order not to allow the
inspiration of the moment to be lost, on the back of a roll of
Daihannia (the Chinese translation of Mahaprajnaparamita, one of the
Buddhist Sutras), and formed subsequently two chapters in the text,
the Suma and Akashi, all the remaining parts of the work having been
added one by one. It is said that this idea of exile came naturally to
her mind, because a prince who had been known to her from her
childhood had been an exile at Kiusiu, a little before this period.

It is also said that the authoress afterwards copied the roll of
Daihannia with her own hand, in expiation of her having profanely used
it as a notebook, and that she dedicated it to the Temple, in which
there is still a room where she is alleged to have written down the
story. A roll of Daihannia is there also, which is asserted to be the
very same one copied by her.

How far these traditions are in accordance with fact may be a matter
of question, but thus they have come down to us, and are popularly
believed.

Many Europeans, I daresay, have noticed on our lacquer work and other
art objects, the representation of a lady seated at a writing-desk,
with a pen held in her tiny fingers, gazing at the moon reflected in a
lake. This lady is no other than our authoress.

The number of chapters in the modern text of the story is fifty-four,
one of these having the title only and nothing else. There is some
reason to believe that there might have existed a few additional
chapters.

Of these fifty-four chapters, the first forty-one relate to the life
and adventures of Prince Genji; and those which come after refer
principally to one of his sons. The last ten are supposed to have
been added by another hand, generally presumed to have been that of
her daughter. This is conjectured because the style of these final
chapters is somewhat dissimilar to that of those which precede. The
period of time covered by the entire story is some sixty years, and
this volume of translation comprises the first seventeen chapters.

The aims which the authoress seems always to have kept in view are
revealed to us at some length by the mouth of her hero: "ordinary
histories," he is made to say, "are the mere records of events, and
are generally treated in a one-sided manner. They give no insight into
the true state of society. This, however, is the very sphere on which
romances principally dwell. Romances," he continues, "are indeed
fictions, but they are by no means always pure inventions; their only
peculiarities being these, that in them the writers often trace out,
among numerous real characters, the best, when they wish to represent
the good, and the oddest, when they wish to amuse. "

From these remarks we can plainly see that our authoress fully
understood the true vocation of a romance writer, and has successfully
realized the conception in her writings.

The period to which her story relates is supposed to be the earlier
part of the tenth century after Christ, a time contemporary with her
own life. For some centuries before this period, our country had made
a signal progress in civilization by its own internal development, and
by the external influence of the enlightenment of China, with whom we
had had for some time considerable intercourse. No country could have
been happier than was ours at this epoch. It enjoyed perfect
tranquillity, being alike free from all fears of foreign invasion and
domestic commotions. Such a state of things, however, could not
continue long without producing some evils; and we can hardly be
surprised to find that the Imperial capital became a sort of centre of
comparative luxury and idleness. Society lost sight, to a great
extent, of true morality, and the effeminacy of the people constituted
the chief feature of the age. Men were ever ready to carry on
sentimental adventures whenever they found opportunities, and the
ladies of the time were not disposed to disencourage them altogether.
The Court was the focus of society, and the utmost ambition of ladies
of some birth was to be introduced there. As to the state of politics,
the Emperor, it is true, reigned; but all the real power was
monopolized by members of the Fujiwara families. These, again, vied
among themselves for the possession of this power, and their daughters
were generally used as political instruments, since almost all the
Royal consorts were taken from some of these families. The abdication
of an emperor was a common event, and arose chiefly from the intrigues
of these same families, although partly from the prevailing influence
of Buddhism over the public mind.

Such, then, was the condition of society at the time when the
authoress, Murasaki Shikib, lived; and such was the sphere of her
labors, a description of which she was destined to hand down to
posterity by her writings. In fact, there is no better history than
her story, which so vividly illustrates the society of her time. True
it is that she openly declares in one passage of her story that
politics are not matters which women are supposed to understand; yet,
when we carefully study her writings, we can scarcely fail to
recognize her work as a partly political one. This fact becomes more
vividly interesting when we consider that the unsatisfactory
conditions of both the state and society soon brought about a grievous
weakening of the Imperial authority, and opened wide the gate for the
ascendency of the military class. This was followed by the systematic
formation of feudalism, which, for some seven centuries, totally
changed the face of Japan. For from the first ascendency of this
military system down to our own days everything in society--ambitions,
honors, the very temperament and daily pursuits of men, and political
institutes themselves--became thoroughly unlike those of which our
authoress was an eye-witness. I may almost say that for several
centuries Japan never recovered the ancient civilization which she had
once attained and lost.

Another merit of the work consists in its having been written in pure
classical Japanese; and here it may be mentioned that we had once made
a remarkable progress in our own language quite independently of any
foreign influence, and that when the native literature was at first
founded, its language was identical with that spoken. Though the
predominance of Chinese studies had arrested the progress of the
native literature, it was still extant at the time, and even for some
time after the date of our authoress. But with the ascendency of the
military class, the neglect of all literature became for centuries
universal. The little that has been preserved is an almost unreadable
chaos of mixed Chinese and Japanese. Thus a gulf gradually opened
between the spoken and the written language. It has been only during
the last two hundred and fifty years that our country has once more
enjoyed a long continuance of peace, and has once more renewed its
interest in literature. Still Chinese has occupied the front rank, and
almost monopolized attention. It is true that within the last sixty or
seventy years numerous works of fiction of different schools have been
produced, mostly in the native language, and that these, when judged
as stories, generally excel in their plots those of the classical
period. The status, however, of these writers has never been
recognized by the public, nor have they enjoyed the same degree of
honor as scholars of a different description. Their style of
composition, moreover, has never reached the same degree of refinement
which distinguished the ancient works. This last is a strong reason
for our appreciation of true classical works such as that of our
authoress.

Again, the concise description of scenery, the elegance of which it is
almost impossible to render with due force in another language, and
the true and delicate touches of human nature which everywhere abound
in the work, especially in the long dialogue in Chapter II, are almost
marvellous when we consider the sex of the writer, and the early
period when she wrote.

Yet this work affords fair ground for criticism. The thread of her
story is often diffuse and somewhat disjointed, a fault probably due
to the fact that she had more flights of imagination than power of
equal and systematic condensation: she having been often carried away
by that imagination from points where she ought to have rested. But,
on the other hand, in most parts the dialogue is scanty, which might
have been prolonged to considerable advantage, if it had been framed
on models of modern composition. The work, also, is too voluminous.

In translating I have cut out several passages which appeared
superfluous, though nothing has been added to the original.

The authoress has been by no means exact in following the order of
dates, though this appears to have proceeded from her endeavor to
complete each distinctive group of ideas in each particular chapter.
In fact she had even left the chapters unnumbered, simply contenting
herself with a brief heading, after which each is now called, such as
"Chapter Kiri-Tsubo," etc. , so that the numbering has been undertaken
by the translator for the convenience of the reader. It has no
extraordinarily intricate plot like those which excite the readers of
the sensational romances of the modern western style. It has many
heroines, but only one hero, and this comes no doubt from the peculiar
purpose of the writer to portray different varieties and shades of
female characters at once, as is shadowed in Chapter II, and also to
display the intense fickleness and selfishness of man.

I notice these points beforehand in order to prepare the reader for
the more salient faults of the work. On the whole my principal object
is not so much to amuse my readers as to present them with a study of
human nature, and to give them information on the history of the
social and political condition of my native country nearly a thousand
years ago. They will be able to compare it with the condition of
mediaeval and modern Europe.

Another peculiarity of the work to which I would draw attention is
that, with few exceptions, it does not give proper names to the
personages introduced; for the male characters official titles are
generally employed, and to the principal female ones some appellation
taken from an incident belonging to the history of each; for instance,
a girl is named Violet because the hero once compared her to that
flower, while another is called Yugao because she was found in a
humble dwelling where the flowers of the Yugao covered the hedges with
a mantle of blossom.

I have now only to add that the translation is, perhaps, not always
idiomatic, though in this matter I have availed myself of some
valuable assistance, for which I feel most thankful.

SUYEMATZ KENCHIO.

_Tokyo, Japan. _

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Which means, "The Romance of Genji. "]




GENJI MONOGATARI

CHAPTER I

THE CHAMBER OF KIRI[2]


In the reign of a certain Emperor, whose name is unknown to us, there
was, among the Niogo[76] and Koyi[3] of the Imperial Court, one who,
though she was not of high birth, enjoyed the full tide of Royal
favor. Hence her superiors, each one of whom had always been
thinking--"I shall be the _one_," gazed upon her disdainfully with
malignant eyes, and her equals and inferiors were more indignant
still.

Such being the state of affairs, the anxiety which she had to endure
was great and constant, and this was probably the reason why her
health was at last so much affected, that she was often compelled to
absent herself from Court, and to retire to the residence of her
mother.

Her father, who was a Dainagon,[4] was dead; but her mother, being a
woman of good sense, gave her every possible guidance in the due
performance of Court ceremony, so that in this respect she seemed but
little different from those whose fathers and mothers were still alive
to bring them before public notice, yet, nevertheless, her
friendliness made her oftentimes feel very diffident from the want of
any patron of influence.

These circumstances, however, only tended to make the favor shown to
her by the Emperor wax warmer and warmer, and it was even shown to
such an extent as to become a warning to after-generations. There had
been instances in China in which favoritism such as this had caused
national disturbance and disaster; and thus the matter became a
subject of public animadversion, and it seemed not improbable that
people would begin to allude even to the example of Yo-ki-hi. [5]

In due course, and in consequence, we may suppose, of the Divine
blessing on the sincerity of their affection, a jewel of a little
prince was born to her. The first prince who had been born to the
Emperor was the child of Koki-den-Niogo,[6] the daughter of the
Udaijin (a great officer of State). Not only was he first in point of
age, but his influence on his mother's side was so great that public
opinion had almost unanimously fixed upon him as heir-apparent. Of
this the Emperor was fully conscious, and he only regarded the
new-born child with that affection which one lavishes on a domestic
favorite. Nevertheless, the mother of the first prince had, not
unnaturally, a foreboding that unless matters were managed adroitly
her child might be superseded by the younger one. She, we may observe,
had been established at Court before any other lady, and had more
children than one. The Emperor, therefore, was obliged to treat her
with due respect, and reproaches from her always affected him more
keenly than those of any others.

To return to her rival. Her constitution was extremely delicate, as we
have seen already, and she was surrounded by those who would fain lay
bare, so to say, her hidden scars. Her apartments in the palace were
Kiri-Tsubo (the chamber of Kiri); so called from the trees that were
planted around. In visiting her there the Emperor had to pass before
several other chambers, whose occupants universally chafed when they
saw it. And again, when it was her turn to attend upon the Emperor, it
often happened that they played off mischievous pranks upon her, at
different points in the corridor, which leads to the Imperial
quarters. Sometimes they would soil the skirts of her attendants,
sometimes they would shut against her the door of the covered portico,
where no other passage existed; and thus, in every possible way, they
one and all combined to annoy her.

The Emperor at length became aware of this, and gave her, for her
special chamber, another apartment, which was in the Koro-Den, and
which was quite close to those in which he himself resided. It had
been originally occupied by another lady who was now removed, and thus
fresh resentment was aroused.

When the young Prince was three years old the Hakamagi[7] took place.
It was celebrated with a pomp scarcely inferior to that which adorned
the investiture of the first Prince. In fact, all available treasures
were exhausted on the occasion. And again the public manifested its
disapprobation. In the summer of the same year the Kiri-Tsubo-Koyi
became ill, and wished to retire from the palace. The Emperor,
however, who was accustomed to see her indisposed, strove to induce
her to remain. But her illness increased day by day; and she had
drooped and pined away until she was now but a shadow of her former
self. She made scarcely any response to the affectionate words and
expressions of tenderness which her Royal lover caressingly bestowed
upon her. Her eyes were half-closed: she lay like a fading flower in
the last stage of exhaustion, and she became so much enfeebled that
her mother appeared before the Emperor and entreated with tears that
she might be allowed to leave. Distracted by his vain endeavors to
devise means to aid her, the Emperor at length ordered a Te-gruma[8]
to be in readiness to convey her to her own home, but even then he
went to her apartment and cried despairingly: "Did not we vow that we
would neither of us be either before or after the other even in
travelling the last long journey of life? And can you find it in your
heart to leave me now? " Sadly and tenderly looking up, she thus
replied, with almost failing breath:--

"Since my departure for this dark journey,
Makes you so sad and lonely,
Fain would I stay though weak and weary,
And live for your sake only! "

"Had I but known this before--"

She appeared to have much more to say, but was too weak to continue.
Overpowered with grief, the Emperor at one moment would fain accompany
her himself, and at another moment would have her remain to the end
where she then was.

At the last, her departure was hurried, because the exorcism for the
sick had been appointed to take place on that evening at her home, and
she went. The child Prince, however, had been left in the Palace, as
his mother wished, even at that time, to make her withdrawal as
privately as possible, so as to avoid any invidious observations on
the part of her rivals. To the Emperor the night now became black with
gloom. He sent messenger after messenger to make inquiries, and could
not await their return with patience. Midnight came, and with it the
sound of lamentation. The messenger, who could do nothing else,
hurried back with the sad tidings of the truth. From that moment the
mind of the Emperor was darkened, and he confined himself to his
private apartments.

He would still have kept with himself the young Prince now motherless,
but there was no precedent for this, and it was arranged that he
should be sent to his grandmother for the mourning. The child, who
understood nothing, looked with amazement at the sad countenances of
the Emperor, and of those around him. All separations have their
sting, but sharp indeed was the sting in a case like this.

Now the funeral took place. The weeping and wailing mother, who might
have longed to mingle in the same flames,[9] entered a carriage,
accompanied by female mourners. The procession arrived at the cemetery
of Otagi, and the solemn rites commenced. What were then the thoughts
of the desolate mother? The image of her dead daughter was still
vividly present to her--still seemed animated with life. She must see
her remains become ashes to convince herself that she was really dead.
During the ceremony, an Imperial messenger came from the Palace, and
invested the dead with the title of Sammi. The letters patent were
read, and listened to in solemn silence. The Emperor conferred this
title now in regret that during her lifetime he had not even promoted
her position from a Koyi to a Niogo, and wishing at this last moment
to raise her title at least one step higher. Once more several tokens
of disapprobation were manifested against the proceeding. But, in
other respects, the beauty of the departed, and her gracious bearing,
which had ever commanded admiration, made people begin to think of her
with sympathy. It was the excess of the Emperor's favor which had
created so many detractors during her lifetime; but now even rivals
felt pity for her; and if any did not, it was in the Koki-den. "When
one is no more, the memory becomes so dear," may be an illustration of
a case such as this.

Some days passed, and due requiem services were carefully performed.
The Emperor was still plunged in thought, and no society had
attractions for him. His constant consolation was to send messengers
to the grandmother of the child, and to make inquiries after them. It
was now autumn, and the evening winds blew chill and cold. The
Emperor--who, when he saw the first Prince, could not refrain from
thinking of the younger one--became more thoughtful than ever; and, on
this evening, he sent Yugei-no Miobu[10] to repeat his inquiries. She
went as the new moon just rose, and the Emperor stood and contemplated
from his veranda the prospect spread before him. At such moments he
had usually been surrounded by a few chosen friends, one of whom was
almost invariably his lost love. Now she was no more. The thrilling
notes of her music, the touching strains of her melodies, stole over
him in his dark and dreary reverie.

The Miobu arrived at her destination; and, as she drove in, a sense of
sadness seized upon her.

The owner of the house had long been a widow; but the residence, in
former times, had been made beautiful for the pleasure of her only
daughter. Now, bereaved of this daughter, she dwelt alone; and the
grounds were overgrown with weeds, which here and there lay prostrated
by the violence of the winds; while over them, fair as elsewhere,
gleamed the mild lustre of the impartial moon. The Miobu entered, and
was led into a front room in the southern part of the building. At
first the hostess and the messenger were equally at a loss for words.
At length the silence was broken by the hostess, who said:--

"Already have I felt that I have lived too long, but doubly do I feel
it now that I am visited by such a messenger as you. " Here she paused,
and seemed unable to contend with her emotion.

"When Naishi-no-Ske returned from you," said the Miobu, "she reported
to the Emperor that when she saw you, face to face, her sympathy for
you was irresistible. I, too, see now how true it is! " A moment's
hesitation, and she proceeded to deliver the Imperial message:--

"The Emperor commanded me to say that for some time he had wandered in
his fancy, and imagined he was but in a dream; and that, though he was
now more tranquil, he could not find that it was only a dream. Again,
that there is no one who can really sympathize with him; and he hopes
that you will come to the Palace, and talk with him. His Majesty said
also that the absence of the Prince made him anxious, and that he is
desirous that you should speedily make up your mind. In giving me this
message, he did not speak with readiness. He seemed to fear to be
considered unmanly, and strove to exercise reserve. I could not help
experiencing sympathy with him, and hurried away here, almost fearing
that, perhaps, I had not quite caught his full meaning. "

So saying, she presented to her a letter from the Emperor. The lady's
sight was dim and indistinct. Taking it, therefore, to the lamp, she
said, "Perhaps the light will help me to decipher," and then read as
follows, much in unison with the oral message: "I thought that time
only would assuage my grief; but time only brings before me more
vividly my recollection of the lost one. Yet, it is inevitable. How is
my boy? Of him, too, I am always thinking. Time once was when we both
hoped to bring him up together. May he still be to you a memento of
his mother! "

Such was the brief outline of the letter, and it contained the
following:--

"The sound of the wind is dull and drear
Across Miyagi's[11] dewy lea,
And makes me mourn for the motherless deer
That sleeps beneath the Hagi tree. "

She put gently the letter aside, and said, "Life and the world are
irksome to me; and you can see, then, how reluctantly I should present
myself at the Palace. I cannot go myself, though it is painful to me
to seem to neglect the honored command. As for the little Prince, I
know not why he thought of it, but he seems quite willing to go. This
is very natural. Please to inform his Majesty that this is our
position. Very possibly, when one remembers the birth of the young
Prince, it would not be well for him to spend too much of his time as
he does now. "

Then she wrote quickly a short answer, and handed it to the Miobu. At
this time her grandson was sleeping soundly.

"I should like to see the boy awake, and to tell the Emperor all about
him, but he will already be impatiently awaiting my return," said the
messenger.
Another merit of the work consists in its having been written in pure
classical Japanese; and here it may be mentioned that we had once made
a remarkable progress in our own language quite independently of any
foreign influence, and that when the native literature was at first
founded, its language was identical with that spoken. Though the
predominance of Chinese studies had arrested the progress of the
native literature, it was still extant at the time, and even for some
time after the date of our authoress. But with the ascendency of the
military class, the neglect of all literature became for centuries
universal. The little that has been preserved is an almost unreadable
chaos of mixed Chinese and Japanese. Thus a gulf gradually opened
between the spoken and the written language. It has been only during
the last two hundred and fifty years that our country has once more
enjoyed a long continuance of peace, and has once more renewed its
interest in literature. Still Chinese has occupied the front rank, and
almost monopolized attention. It is true that within the last sixty or
seventy years numerous works of fiction of different schools have been
produced, mostly in the native language, and that these, when judged
as stories, generally excel in their plots those of the classical
period. The status, however, of these writers has never been
recognized by the public, nor have they enjoyed the same degree of
honor as scholars of a different description. Their style of
composition, moreover, has never reached the same degree of refinement
which distinguished the ancient works. This last is a strong reason
for our appreciation of true classical works such as that of our
authoress.

Again, the concise description of scenery, the elegance of which it is
almost impossible to render with due force in another language, and
the true and delicate touches of human nature which everywhere abound
in the work, especially in the long dialogue in Chapter II, are almost
marvellous when we consider the sex of the writer, and the early
period when she wrote.

Yet this work affords fair ground for criticism. The thread of her
story is often diffuse and somewhat disjointed, a fault probably due
to the fact that she had more flights of imagination than power of
equal and systematic condensation: she having been often carried away
by that imagination from points where she ought to have rested. But,
on the other hand, in most parts the dialogue is scanty, which might
have been prolonged to considerable advantage, if it had been framed
on models of modern composition. The work, also, is too voluminous.

In translating I have cut out several passages which appeared
superfluous, though nothing has been added to the original.

The authoress has been by no means exact in following the order of
dates, though this appears to have proceeded from her endeavor to
complete each distinctive group of ideas in each particular chapter.
In fact she had even left the chapters unnumbered, simply contenting
herself with a brief heading, after which each is now called, such as
"Chapter Kiri-Tsubo," etc. , so that the numbering has been undertaken
by the translator for the convenience of the reader. It has no
extraordinarily intricate plot like those which excite the readers of
the sensational romances of the modern western style. It has many
heroines, but only one hero, and this comes no doubt from the peculiar
purpose of the writer to portray different varieties and shades of
female characters at once, as is shadowed in Chapter II, and also to
display the intense fickleness and selfishness of man.

I notice these points beforehand in order to prepare the reader for
the more salient faults of the work. On the whole my principal object
is not so much to amuse my readers as to present them with a study of
human nature, and to give them information on the history of the
social and political condition of my native country nearly a thousand
years ago. They will be able to compare it with the condition of
mediaeval and modern Europe.

Another peculiarity of the work to which I would draw attention is
that, with few exceptions, it does not give proper names to the
personages introduced; for the male characters official titles are
generally employed, and to the principal female ones some appellation
taken from an incident belonging to the history of each; for instance,
a girl is named Violet because the hero once compared her to that
flower, while another is called Yugao because she was found in a
humble dwelling where the flowers of the Yugao covered the hedges with
a mantle of blossom.

I have now only to add that the translation is, perhaps, not always
idiomatic, though in this matter I have availed myself of some
valuable assistance, for which I feel most thankful.

SUYEMATZ KENCHIO.

_Tokyo, Japan. _

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 1: Which means, "The Romance of Genji. "]




GENJI MONOGATARI

CHAPTER I

THE CHAMBER OF KIRI[2]


In the reign of a certain Emperor, whose name is unknown to us, there
was, among the Niogo[76] and Koyi[3] of the Imperial Court, one who,
though she was not of high birth, enjoyed the full tide of Royal
favor. Hence her superiors, each one of whom had always been
thinking--"I shall be the _one_," gazed upon her disdainfully with
malignant eyes, and her equals and inferiors were more indignant
still.

Such being the state of affairs, the anxiety which she had to endure
was great and constant, and this was probably the reason why her
health was at last so much affected, that she was often compelled to
absent herself from Court, and to retire to the residence of her
mother.

Her father, who was a Dainagon,[4] was dead; but her mother, being a
woman of good sense, gave her every possible guidance in the due
performance of Court ceremony, so that in this respect she seemed but
little different from those whose fathers and mothers were still alive
to bring them before public notice, yet, nevertheless, her
friendliness made her oftentimes feel very diffident from the want of
any patron of influence.

These circumstances, however, only tended to make the favor shown to
her by the Emperor wax warmer and warmer, and it was even shown to
such an extent as to become a warning to after-generations. There had
been instances in China in which favoritism such as this had caused
national disturbance and disaster; and thus the matter became a
subject of public animadversion, and it seemed not improbable that
people would begin to allude even to the example of Yo-ki-hi. [5]

In due course, and in consequence, we may suppose, of the Divine
blessing on the sincerity of their affection, a jewel of a little
prince was born to her. The first prince who had been born to the
Emperor was the child of Koki-den-Niogo,[6] the daughter of the
Udaijin (a great officer of State). Not only was he first in point of
age, but his influence on his mother's side was so great that public
opinion had almost unanimously fixed upon him as heir-apparent. Of
this the Emperor was fully conscious, and he only regarded the
new-born child with that affection which one lavishes on a domestic
favorite. Nevertheless, the mother of the first prince had, not
unnaturally, a foreboding that unless matters were managed adroitly
her child might be superseded by the younger one. She, we may observe,
had been established at Court before any other lady, and had more
children than one. The Emperor, therefore, was obliged to treat her
with due respect, and reproaches from her always affected him more
keenly than those of any others.

To return to her rival. Her constitution was extremely delicate, as we
have seen already, and she was surrounded by those who would fain lay
bare, so to say, her hidden scars. Her apartments in the palace were
Kiri-Tsubo (the chamber of Kiri); so called from the trees that were
planted around. In visiting her there the Emperor had to pass before
several other chambers, whose occupants universally chafed when they
saw it. And again, when it was her turn to attend upon the Emperor, it
often happened that they played off mischievous pranks upon her, at
different points in the corridor, which leads to the Imperial
quarters. Sometimes they would soil the skirts of her attendants,
sometimes they would shut against her the door of the covered portico,
where no other passage existed; and thus, in every possible way, they
one and all combined to annoy her.

The Emperor at length became aware of this, and gave her, for her
special chamber, another apartment, which was in the Koro-Den, and
which was quite close to those in which he himself resided. It had
been originally occupied by another lady who was now removed, and thus
fresh resentment was aroused.

When the young Prince was three years old the Hakamagi[7] took place.
It was celebrated with a pomp scarcely inferior to that which adorned
the investiture of the first Prince. In fact, all available treasures
were exhausted on the occasion. And again the public manifested its
disapprobation. In the summer of the same year the Kiri-Tsubo-Koyi
became ill, and wished to retire from the palace. The Emperor,
however, who was accustomed to see her indisposed, strove to induce
her to remain. But her illness increased day by day; and she had
drooped and pined away until she was now but a shadow of her former
self. She made scarcely any response to the affectionate words and
expressions of tenderness which her Royal lover caressingly bestowed
upon her. Her eyes were half-closed: she lay like a fading flower in
the last stage of exhaustion, and she became so much enfeebled that
her mother appeared before the Emperor and entreated with tears that
she might be allowed to leave. Distracted by his vain endeavors to
devise means to aid her, the Emperor at length ordered a Te-gruma[8]
to be in readiness to convey her to her own home, but even then he
went to her apartment and cried despairingly: "Did not we vow that we
would neither of us be either before or after the other even in
travelling the last long journey of life? And can you find it in your
heart to leave me now? " Sadly and tenderly looking up, she thus
replied, with almost failing breath:--

"Since my departure for this dark journey,
Makes you so sad and lonely,
Fain would I stay though weak and weary,
And live for your sake only! "

"Had I but known this before--"

She appeared to have much more to say, but was too weak to continue.
Overpowered with grief, the Emperor at one moment would fain accompany
her himself, and at another moment would have her remain to the end
where she then was.

At the last, her departure was hurried, because the exorcism for the
sick had been appointed to take place on that evening at her home, and
she went. The child Prince, however, had been left in the Palace, as
his mother wished, even at that time, to make her withdrawal as
privately as possible, so as to avoid any invidious observations on
the part of her rivals. To the Emperor the night now became black with
gloom. He sent messenger after messenger to make inquiries, and could
not await their return with patience. Midnight came, and with it the
sound of lamentation. The messenger, who could do nothing else,
hurried back with the sad tidings of the truth. From that moment the
mind of the Emperor was darkened, and he confined himself to his
private apartments.

He would still have kept with himself the young Prince now motherless,
but there was no precedent for this, and it was arranged that he
should be sent to his grandmother for the mourning. The child, who
understood nothing, looked with amazement at the sad countenances of
the Emperor, and of those around him. All separations have their
sting, but sharp indeed was the sting in a case like this.

Now the funeral took place. The weeping and wailing mother, who might
have longed to mingle in the same flames,[9] entered a carriage,
accompanied by female mourners. The procession arrived at the cemetery
of Otagi, and the solemn rites commenced. What were then the thoughts
of the desolate mother? The image of her dead daughter was still
vividly present to her--still seemed animated with life. She must see
her remains become ashes to convince herself that she was really dead.
During the ceremony, an Imperial messenger came from the Palace, and
invested the dead with the title of Sammi. The letters patent were
read, and listened to in solemn silence. The Emperor conferred this
title now in regret that during her lifetime he had not even promoted
her position from a Koyi to a Niogo, and wishing at this last moment
to raise her title at least one step higher. Once more several tokens
of disapprobation were manifested against the proceeding. But, in
other respects, the beauty of the departed, and her gracious bearing,
which had ever commanded admiration, made people begin to think of her
with sympathy. It was the excess of the Emperor's favor which had
created so many detractors during her lifetime; but now even rivals
felt pity for her; and if any did not, it was in the Koki-den. "When
one is no more, the memory becomes so dear," may be an illustration of
a case such as this.

Some days passed, and due requiem services were carefully performed.
The Emperor was still plunged in thought, and no society had
attractions for him. His constant consolation was to send messengers
to the grandmother of the child, and to make inquiries after them. It
was now autumn, and the evening winds blew chill and cold. The
Emperor--who, when he saw the first Prince, could not refrain from
thinking of the younger one--became more thoughtful than ever; and, on
this evening, he sent Yugei-no Miobu[10] to repeat his inquiries. She
went as the new moon just rose, and the Emperor stood and contemplated
from his veranda the prospect spread before him. At such moments he
had usually been surrounded by a few chosen friends, one of whom was
almost invariably his lost love. Now she was no more. The thrilling
notes of her music, the touching strains of her melodies, stole over
him in his dark and dreary reverie.

The Miobu arrived at her destination; and, as she drove in, a sense of
sadness seized upon her.

The owner of the house had long been a widow; but the residence, in
former times, had been made beautiful for the pleasure of her only
daughter. Now, bereaved of this daughter, she dwelt alone; and the
grounds were overgrown with weeds, which here and there lay prostrated
by the violence of the winds; while over them, fair as elsewhere,
gleamed the mild lustre of the impartial moon. The Miobu entered, and
was led into a front room in the southern part of the building. At
first the hostess and the messenger were equally at a loss for words.
At length the silence was broken by the hostess, who said:--

"Already have I felt that I have lived too long, but doubly do I feel
it now that I am visited by such a messenger as you. " Here she paused,
and seemed unable to contend with her emotion.

"When Naishi-no-Ske returned from you," said the Miobu, "she reported
to the Emperor that when she saw you, face to face, her sympathy for
you was irresistible. I, too, see now how true it is! " A moment's
hesitation, and she proceeded to deliver the Imperial message:--

"The Emperor commanded me to say that for some time he had wandered in
his fancy, and imagined he was but in a dream; and that, though he was
now more tranquil, he could not find that it was only a dream. Again,
that there is no one who can really sympathize with him; and he hopes
that you will come to the Palace, and talk with him. His Majesty said
also that the absence of the Prince made him anxious, and that he is
desirous that you should speedily make up your mind. In giving me this
message, he did not speak with readiness. He seemed to fear to be
considered unmanly, and strove to exercise reserve. I could not help
experiencing sympathy with him, and hurried away here, almost fearing
that, perhaps, I had not quite caught his full meaning. "

So saying, she presented to her a letter from the Emperor. The lady's
sight was dim and indistinct. Taking it, therefore, to the lamp, she
said, "Perhaps the light will help me to decipher," and then read as
follows, much in unison with the oral message: "I thought that time
only would assuage my grief; but time only brings before me more
vividly my recollection of the lost one. Yet, it is inevitable. How is
my boy? Of him, too, I am always thinking. Time once was when we both
hoped to bring him up together. May he still be to you a memento of
his mother! "

Such was the brief outline of the letter, and it contained the
following:--

"The sound of the wind is dull and drear
Across Miyagi's[11] dewy lea,
And makes me mourn for the motherless deer
That sleeps beneath the Hagi tree. "

She put gently the letter aside, and said, "Life and the world are
irksome to me; and you can see, then, how reluctantly I should present
myself at the Palace. I cannot go myself, though it is painful to me
to seem to neglect the honored command. As for the little Prince, I
know not why he thought of it, but he seems quite willing to go. This
is very natural. Please to inform his Majesty that this is our
position. Very possibly, when one remembers the birth of the young
Prince, it would not be well for him to spend too much of his time as
he does now. "

Then she wrote quickly a short answer, and handed it to the Miobu. At
this time her grandson was sleeping soundly.

"I should like to see the boy awake, and to tell the Emperor all about
him, but he will already be impatiently awaiting my return," said the
messenger. And she prepared to depart.

"It would be a relief to me to tell you how a mother laments over her
departed child. Visit me, then, sometimes, if you can, as a friend,
when you are not engaged or pressed for time. Formerly, when you came
here, your visit was ever glad and welcome; now I see in you the
messenger of woe. More and more my life seems aimless to me. From the
time of my child's birth, her father always looked forward to her
being presented at Court, and when dying he repeatedly enjoined me to
carry out that wish. You know that my daughter had no patron to watch
over her, and I well knew how difficult would be her position among
her fellow-maidens. Yet, I did not disobey her father's request, and
she went to Court. There the Emperor showed her a kindness beyond our
hopes. For the sake of that kindness she uncomplainingly endured all
the cruel taunts of envious companions. But their envy ever deepening,
and her troubles ever increasing, at last she passed away, worn out,
as it were, with care. When I think of the matter in that light, the
kindest favors seem to me fraught with misfortune. Ah! that the blind
affection of a mother should make me talk in this way! "

"The thoughts of his Majesty may be even as your own," said the Miobu.
"Often when he alluded to his overpowering affection for her, he said
that perhaps all this might have been because their love was destined
not to last long. And that though he ever strove not to injure any
subject, yet for Kiri-Tsubo, and for her alone, he had sometimes
caused the ill-will of others; that when all this has been done, she
was no more! All this he told me in deep gloom, and added that it made
him ponder on their previous existence. "

The night was now far advanced, and again the Miobu rose to take
leave. The moon was sailing down westward and the cool breeze was
waving the herbage to and fro, in which numerous _mushi_ were
plaintively singing. [12] The messenger, being still somehow unready to
start, hummed--

"Fain would one weep the whole night long,
As weeps the Sudu-Mushi's song,
Who chants her melancholy lay,
Till night and darkness pass away. "

As she still lingered, the lady took up the refrain--

"To the heath where the Sudu-Mushi sings,
From beyond the clouds[13] one comes from on high
And more dews on the grass around she flings,
And adds her own, to the night wind's sigh. "

A Court dress and a set of beautiful ornamental hairpins, which had
belonged to Kiri-Tsubo, were presented to the Miobu by her hostess,
who thought that these things, which her daughter had left to be
available on such occasions, would be a more suitable gift, under
present circumstances, than any other.

On the return of the Miobu she found that the Emperor had not yet
retired to rest. He was really awaiting her return, but was apparently
engaged in admiring the Tsubo-Senzai--or stands of flowers--which were
placed in front of the palaces, and in which the flowers were in full
bloom. With him were four or five ladies, his intimate friends, with
whom he was conversing. In these days his favorite topic of
conversation was the "Long Regret. "[14] Nothing pleased him more than
to gaze upon the picture of that poem, which had been painted by
Prince Teishi-In, or to talk about the native poems on the same
subject, which had been composed, at the Royal command, by Ise, the
poetess, and by Tsurayuki, the poet. And it was in this way that he
was engaged on this particular evening.

To him the Miobu now went immediately, and she faithfully reported to
him all that she had seen, and she gave to him also the answer to his
letter. That letter stated that the mother of Kiri-Tsubo felt honored
by his gracious inquiries, and that she was so truly grateful that she
scarcely knew how to express herself. She proceeded to say that his
condescension made her feel at liberty to offer to him the
following:--

"Since now no fostering love is found,
And the Hagi tree is dead and sere,
The motherless deer lies on the ground,
Helpless and weak, no shelter near. "

The Emperor strove in vain to repress his own emotion; and old
memories, dating from the time when he first saw his favorite, rose up
before him fast and thick. "How precious has been each moment to me,
but yet what a long time has elapsed since then," thought he, and he
said to the Miobu, "How often have I, too, desired to see the daughter
of the Dainagon in such a position as her father would have desired to
see her. 'Tis in vain to speak of that now! "

A pause, and he continued, "The child, however, may survive, and
fortune may have some boon in store for him; and his grandmother's
prayer should rather be for long life. "

The presents were then shown to him. "Ah," thought he, "could they be
the souvenirs sent by the once lost love," as he murmured--

"Oh, could I find some wizard sprite,
To bear my words to her I love,
Beyond the shades of envious night,
To where she dwells in realms above! "

Now the picture of beautiful Yo-ki-hi, however skilful the painter may
have been, is after all only a picture. It lacks life and animation.
Her features may have been worthily compared to the lotus and to the
willow of the Imperial gardens, but the style after all was Chinese,
and to the Emperor his lost love was all in all, nor, in his eyes, was
any other object comparable to her. Who doubts that they, too, had
vowed to unite wings, and intertwine branches! But to what end? The
murmur of winds, the music of insects, now only served to cause him
melancholy.

In the meantime, in the Koki-Den was heard the sound of music. She who
dwelt there, and who had not now for a long time been with the
Emperor, was heedlessly protracting her strains until this late hour
of the evening.

How painfully must these have sounded to the Emperor!

"Moonlight is gone, and darkness reigns
E'en in the realms 'above the clouds,'
Ah! how can light, or tranquil peace,
Shine o'er that lone and lowly home! "

Thus thought the Emperor, and he did not retire until "the lamps were
trimmed to the end! " The sound of the night watch of the right
guard[15] was now heard. It was five o'clock in the morning. So, to
avoid notice, he withdrew to his bedroom, but calm slumber hardly
visited his eyes. This now became a common occurrence.

When he rose in the morning he would reflect on the time gone by when
"they knew not even that the casement was bright. " But now, too, he
would neglect "Morning Court. " His appetite failed him. The delicacies
of the so-called "great table" had no temptation for him. Men pitied
him much. "There must have been some divine mystery that predetermined
the course of their love," said they, "for in matters in which she is
concerned he is powerless to reason, and wisdom deserts him. The
welfare of the State ceases to interest him. " And now people actually
began to quote instances that had occurred in a foreign Court.

Weeks and months had elapsed, and the son of Kiri-Tsubo was again at
the Palace. In the spring of the following year the first Prince was
proclaimed heir-apparent to the throne. Had the Emperor consulted his
private feelings, he would have substituted the younger Prince for the
elder one. But this was not possible, and, especially for this
reason:--There was no influential party to support him, and, moreover,
public opinion would also have been strongly opposed to such a
measure, which, if effected by arbitrary power, would have become a
source of danger. The Emperor, therefore, betrayed no such desire, and
repressed all outward appearance of it. And now the public expressed
its satisfaction at the self-restraint of the Emperor, and the mother
of the first Prince felt at ease.

In this year, the mother of Kiri-Tsubo departed this life. She may not
improbably have longed to follow her daughter at an earlier period;
and the only regret to which she gave utterance, was that she was
forced to leave her grandson, whom she had so tenderly loved.

From this time the young Prince took up his residence in the Imperial
palace; and next year, at the age of seven, he began to learn to read
and write under the personal superintendence of the Emperor.