The Sarashina Diary: the Literary Diary of the Daughter of Sugawara Takasue from 1020 to 1059 (2)

 

     Our garden was very wide and wild with great, fearful trees not inferior to those in the mountains I had traveled over.  The garden didn’t seem to be the one in the city.  I could not feel at home, or keep a settled mind.  Even then, I teased mother into giving me books of stories, after which I had been yearning for so many years.  Mother sent a messenger with a letter to Emon-no-Myobu, one of our relatives who served Princess Nagako (997-1049).  She took interest in my strange passion and willingly sent me some excellent manuscripts in the lid of a writing-box, saying that these copies had been given to her by the Princess.  My joy knew no bounds and I read them day and night.  I soon began to wish for more, but as I was an utter stranger to Kyoto, who would get them for me?

     My stepmother had once been a lady-in-waiting at the Imperial Court, but she chose to go to Kazusa Province with my father.  She seemed to have had something disappointing in life with my father.  She regretted her marriage, and now she was to leave our home.  She took her own child, who was five years old, and her own servants.  She said to me, "The time will never come when I shall forget your sympathetic heart."  Pointing to a huge plum-tree which grew close to an eave, she said, "When it is in flower, I shall come back," and she left.  I felt love and pity for her in my mind.  As I secretly wept, the year, too, went by.

     "When the plum-tree blooms I shall come back," promised she.  I pondered over these words and wondered whether she would come.  I waited and waited, keeping an eye on the tree.  It was all in flower, and yet no tidings from her.  I became very anxious and, at last, snapped a branch and sent it to her with my tanka poem:

Spring remembered to visit plum-trees.

Am I remembered by you,

Who gave me your words to come?

     She wrote back affectionate words with a tanka poem:

When you picked the plum branch,

Didn't it give you its words

That someone would visit you unexpectedly?

     During the spring of 1022, the world was troubled with the spread of an epidemic.  My wet nurse, who had filled my heart with pity on that moonlight night at Matsusato Ferry Port, died on March 1st.  I lamented hopelessly, and even forgot my passion for romances.

     I passed day after day weeping bitterly.  When I looked out of the windows, I saw the evening sun shining brilliantly and cherry blossoms all fell off and scattered.

Cherry blossoms have fallen,

Yet I will see them again next spring.

I miss my nurse who has gone forever.

     I heard one of the daughters of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028), who had married Fujiwara Nagaie (1005-1064), also passed away.  I could sympathize deeply with the sorrow of her husband, for I felt my own sorrow.

     I took out her beautiful handwriting which had been given to me, when I had first arrived at Kyoto, as good examples to copy.  In it were written copies of several poems:

Had I not woke up in the middle of the night,

I would've known secondhand

That cuckoos sang.

     That tanka poem had been composed by Mibu Tadami.  As I read other tanka poems, I found this anonymous tanka poem indescribably ominous:

When you see the smoke floating up

The crematorium in Toribeyama,

Then you will see me fleetingly gone.

     The more I looked at her beautiful handwriting, the more I shed tears.

     I brooded so much that my real mother troubled herself to console me.  She searched for romances and gave them to me, and I became consoled unconsciously.  I read a few volumes about Murasaki no Ue of the Tale of Genji and longed for the rest, but as I couldn’t be sociable and my family was still a stranger in Kyoto, I had no way of finding them.  I was all impatient and yearning, and in my mind was always praying, “Let me read all the volumes of the Tale of Genji from the very first one.”

     When my parents and I shut ourselves up in Koryu-ji Temple in Uzumasa, all I prayed for was nothing but the Tale of Genji.  I thought I could read them all as soon as I left the temple, but I couldn’t.  I was bitterly frustrated and inconsolable.  One day, I visited my aunt, who had recently come up from the country.  She said lovingly and amazedly, “You have grown up beautifully.”  On my return, she said: "What shall I give you?  Something practical wouldn’t do.  I will give you what you like best."  And she gave me the Tale of Genji, more than 50 volumes of it, in a case, as well as the Tale of Ise, Tohogimi, Serikawa, Shirara, and Asauzu.  How happy I was when I came home carrying these books in a bag!  Until then I had only read the Tale of Genji partially, and was dissatisfied because I could not understand the whole story.

     Now, I could be absorbed in these stories, taking them out one by one, shutting myself in my room.  To be an Empress would be nothing compared to this!

     All day and all night, as late as I could keep my eyes open, I did nothing but read the books, setting a lamp close beside me.

     Soon I learnt by heart all the names in the books, and I thought that was a great thing.

     Once, I dreamt of a holy priest in a yellow Buddhist sash who came to me and said, "Learn the 5th volume of the Lotus Sutra at once."  The volume contains Chapter 12: “Devadatta,” in which Buddha teaches that women can become enlightened.

     I did not tell anyone about the dream, nor had I any mind to learn it.  I continued to bathe in the romances.  I thought to myself, although I was still ugly and undeveloped, the time would come when I should be very beautiful, with long, long hair.  I should be, like the Lady Yugao in the Tale of Genji, loved by the Shining Prince Genji, or, like the Lady Ukifune, be a tragic heroine.  My mind that indulged in such fancy was empty and regrettable.

     Around May 1st,  I saw the white petals of the Tachibana orange tree near the edge of an eave covering the ground:

If the scent of Tachibana flowers doesn’t arise,

I should’ve thought snow’s newly fallen

unseasonably.

     In our garden, trees grew as thick as in the dark forest of Ashigara, and, in October, its red leaves were more beautiful than those of the surrounding mountains.  A visitor said, "On my way here, I passed a place where red leaves were beautiful."  I improvised:

Nowhere can be more autumnal than my house

Which is dwelled by the autumnal person

Who is weary of the world.

     I still dwelt in the romances from morning to night, and as long as I was awake.

     I had another dream: a man said that he was to make a brook in the garden of the Rokkaku-do Hall to entertain Princess Teishi (1013-1094).  I asked the reason, and the man said, "Pray to the Goddess Amaterasu."  I did not tell anyone about the dream or even think of it again.  How shallow I was!

     Every Spring, I enjoyed the Princess's garden:

Waiting for cherry-blossoms to broom,

Lamenting over cherry-blossoms to fall,

I see the flowers in her garden as if they were mine.

     Around March 30th, 1023, I moved to a certain person's house to avoid the evil influence of the earth god.  There, I saw delightful cherry-blossoms still on the tree and the day after my return I sent this poem:

Without tiring, I gazed at the cherry-blossoms of my house.

When the Spring was closing, and they were about to fall,

I happened to see cherry blossoms in your garden.

     Whenever the flowers came and went, I could think of nothing but those days when my wet nurse died.  Her death alone was sad enough, but my sadness grew deeper when I studied the handwriting of the daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028).  It was in May, as far as I remember, that I was up late reading a romance, and I heard a cat out of nowhere meowing with a long-drawn-out cry.  I turned, wondering, and saw a very lovely cat.  "Where does it come from?" I asked.  "Sh," said my sister, "do not tell anybody.  It is a darling cat and we will keep it."

     The cat took to us, came to us, and lay beside us.  Someone might be looking for her, and we kept her secretly.  She kept herself aloof from the vulgar servants, always sitting quietly before us.  She turned her face away from unclean food, never eating it.  She clung to us and was cherished by us. 

     Once my sister was ill, and our family was rather upset.  The cat was kept around servants' rooms, and never was called.  She cried loudly and scoldingly, yet I thought it better to keep her away.  My sister, suddenly awakening, said to me, "Where is the cat kept?  Bring her here."  I asked why, and my sister answered: "In my dream, the cat came to my side and said, 'I am the altered form of the late daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028).  We have a slight fate.  Your sister has been thinking of me affectionately, so I am here for a while, but now I am among the servants.  O, how dreary I am!'  So saying, she wept bitterly.  She appeared to be a noble and beautiful person and then I awoke to hear the cat crying!  How pitiful!"

     The story moved me deeply and, after this, I never sent the cat away to the servants’ rooms, but waited on her lovingly.  Once, when I was sitting alone, she came and sat before me, and, stroking her head, I addressed her: "You are the daughter of Sir Yukinari?  I wish to let your father know of it."  The cat watched my face and mewed, lengthening her voice.  Maybe it’s just me, but she didn’t look like a common cat.  She seemed to understand my words, and that made her more adorable.

     I had heard that there is a text called Chang Hen Ge or the Song of Everlasting Regret, and that there is a translation or something of the story.   I longed to borrow it, but was reluctant to say so.

     On July 7th, I found a connection and sent my words:

On the Double Seventh Festival Day,

On such a promising day,

I row out to the River of Heaven to see the famous book.

     The answer was:

Allured by your poem,

I stand along the Heavenly River,

Forgetting common sense and practical wisdom.

     On the 13th night of the month, the moon shone very brightly.  Darkness was chased away even from every corner of the world.  It was about midnight and all were asleep.  My sister and I were sitting on the veranda.  My sister, who was gazing at the sky thoughtfully, said, "If I flew away now, without a destination; what would you think of it?"  She saw that her words shocked me.  She talked her way out of it and gave me a smile.

     Then I heard a carriage with a runner before it stop near the house.  The high-ranking man in the carriage called out, "Ogi-no-ha! Ogi-no-ha!" twice, but no woman with the name of a silver grass made a reply.  The man cried in vain until he was tired of it.  He played his flute clearly and beautifully, and at last drove away.  I composed:

Flute music sounds like Autumn wind.

Why does the silver grass make no reply

When the grass is in her prime?

My sister answered to me:

The flute tone was as icy

As the autumn winds.

It didn’t wait for the reply of the silver grass.

     We sat together looking up into the firmament, and went to bed after daybreak.

     At midnight in April, 1024, a fire broke out, and the cat which had been waited on as the daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028) was burned to death.  She had come mewing whenever I called, “Princess,” as if she had understood me.  My father said that he would tell the matter to Yukinari, for it is a strange and heartfelt story.  I was very, very sorry for her.

     Our old garden was spacious and was as wild as deep in the mountains.  In time of flowers and red leaves, the sight of it was never inferior to the surrounding mountains.  Our new temporary shelter was far narrower than our old one.  As I was familiar with the old one, I was sad, for we had a very small garden and no trees.  In the opposite house, white and red plum-blossoms covered the garden.  Their perfume came on the winds and filled me with thoughts of our old home.

The perfume-laden air from the neighbour

Touches my heart and reminds me of

My beloved plum-trees blooming under the eaves.

     On May 1st in the year, my sister died after giving birth to a child.  From my childhood, even strangers' deaths had touched my heart deeply.  This time, I lamented, filled with speechless pity and sorrow.

     While our mother and others were with the dead, I lay with the memory-awakening children one on either side of me.  The moonlight found its way through the cracks of the roof of our temporary dwelling and illuminated the face of the baby.  The sight gave my heart so deep a pang that I covered the baby’s face with my sleeve, and drew the other child closer to my side.  Thinking of their mother, I sorrowed terribly.

     After the memorial service on the 49th day, one of my relatives sent me a romance entitled "The Prince Yearning after the Corpse," with the following note: "Your late sister had asked me to find her this romance.  I looked for the story but couldn’t find it at that time.  Now, to add to my sorrow, someone has just sent it to me."

     I answered:

Why did my sister yearn for the story

In which the hero seeks the dead body of the heroine?

My sister herself is deep under the mosses now.

     My sister's wet nurse said that, since she had lost her, she had no reason to stay.  She went back to her own home, weeping.

     I wrote to her:

Thus, you have returned to your home.

What separates you and me is

The death of my sister which parted her from me.

     "For remembrance of her, I’d like you to stay here.  Ink seems to have frozen up, I cannot write any more," and added another tanka poem:

What will remind me of my sister

When the inkstone water has been frozen

So that I can’t write about my sister?

     So I wrote, and the wet nurse answered:

Like an alone plover flying away,

With no mark left on the beach,

I’ve retired with no milk kinship left.

     As the dead were cremated in the open air, the wet nurse visited my sister’s site and returned sobbing.  I wondered:

My sister became smoke rising up into heaven.

Without the smoke, could her wet nurse

Find her cremation site?

     My stepmother heard of this and composed:

She must have visited here and there.

In the end, however,

Her tears must have told her where the site was.

     The person who had sent me "The Prince Yearning after the Corpse" composed:

She must have wandered seeking the unfindable

In the unfamiliar fields of bamboo grasses,

Weeping and weeping.

     Reading these tanka poems, my brother, who had sent the dead that night, composed a tanka poem:

As I see it, my sister burned and the smoke died.

How did her wet nurse look for the site

In the funeral  bamboo fields?

     It snowed for many days, and I thought of the wet nurse who lived on Mount Yoshino as a nun.  I wrote to her:

Snow has fallen and you can rarely see visitors

Who go along the precipitous path

In the Yoshino Mountains.