Sarashina Diary: Retold in the present tense (3)

 

Our garden is very wide and wild with great, fearful trees not inferior to those in the mountains I have traveled over. The garden does not seem to be one in the city. I cannot feel at home, or keep a settled mind. Even so, I tease my mother into giving me books of stories and tales after which I have been yearning for so many years. Mother sends a messenger with a letter to Emon Myobu (dates unknown, active 11th century), one of our relatives who serves Princess Nagako. She takes interest in my strange passion and willingly sends me some excellent manuscripts in the lid of a writing-box, saying that these copies have been given to her by the Princess. My joy knows no bounds and I read them day and night. I soon begin to wish for more, but, as I am an utter stranger to Kyoto, who will get them for me?

My stepmother used to be a waiting-lady at the Imperial Court, but she chose to go to Kazusa Province with my father. She seems to have something disappointing in life with him. She regrets her marriage, and now she is to leave our home. She takes her own child, who is five years old, and her own servants. She says to me, "The time will never come when I shall forget your sympathetic heart." Pointing to a huge plum tree which grows close to an eave, she says, "When it is in flower, I shall come back," and she leaves. I feel love and pity for her in my mind. As I secretly weep, the year, too, goes by.

"When the plum tree blooms I shall come back," promised she. I ponder over these words and wonder whether she will come. I wait and wait, keeping an eye on the tree. It is all in flower, and yet no tidings from her. I become very anxious and, at last, snap a branch and send it to her with my tanka poem:

Should I still wait, as you once bid me do

And sware on the plum tree?

The plum was withered by the bitter frost,

But has not been left forgotten by the spring.

She writes back affectionate words with a tanka poem:

Still keep your faith and wait for me, my dear;

For people say the high-grown blossom's scent

Will draw a guest unpromised to your door—

An unexpected visitor may come.

During the spring of 1022, the world is troubled by a spreading epidemic. My wet nurse, who filled my heart with pity on that moonlight night at Matsusato Ferry, dies on March 1st. I lament hopelessly, and even forget my passion for romances.

I pass day after day weeping bitterly. When I look out of the window, the evening sun shines brilliantly, and the cherry blossoms have all fallen and scattered.

The cherry blossoms fall,

Yet they will return next spring;

But my beloved nurse,

Gone forever, leaves me in longing.

I hear that one of the daughters of Fujiwara Yukinari (972–1028), a woman married to Fujiwara Nagaie (1005–1064), also passes away. I sympathize deeply with the sorrow of her husband, feeling it as my own.

I take out the examples of her beautiful handwriting given to me when I first arrived in Kyoto to practice my calligraphy. Written within are several poems:

Had I not awakened

Deep in the quiet of night,

I would have heard only from others

The song of the summer cuckoo.

That tanka poem is composed by Mibu Tadami. As I read the other poems, I find this anonymous tanka indescribably ominous:

When you see the smoke

Rising from Toribeyama’s pyre,

Look closely at the shifting sky—

For I shall be gone like a fleeting breath.

The more I gaze upon her beautiful handwriting, the more my tears flow.

I brood so much that my real mother, Fujiwara Chishi (?-1024), troubles herself to console me. She searches for romances and gives them to me, and I become consoled unconsciously. I read a few volumes about Murasaki no Ue in The Tale of Genji and long for the rest, but as I cannot be sociable and my family is still a stranger in Kyoto, I have no way of finding them. I am all impatient and yearning, and in my mind, I am 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 pray for is nothing but The Tale of Genji. I think I can read them all as soon as I leave the temple, but I cannot. I am bitterly frustrated and inconsolable. One day, I visit my aunt, the daughter of Fujiwara Michitaka (953–995), who has recently come up from the country. She says lovingly and amazedly, “You have grown up beautifully.” On my return, she says: "What shall I give you? Something practical will not do. I will give you what you like best." And she gives 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 am when I come home carrying these books in a bag! Until then, I have only read The Tale of Genji partially, and am dissatisfied because I cannot understand the whole story.

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

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

Soon I learn by heart all the names in the books, and I think that is a great thing.

Once, I dream of a holy priest in a yellow Buddhist sash who comes to me and says, "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 do not tell anyone about the dream, and I have no intention of doing so. I continue to bathe in the romances. I think to myself, although I am still ugly and undeveloped, the time will come when I shall be very beautiful, with long, long hair. I should be, like Lady Yugao in The Tale of Genji, loved by the Shining Prince Minamoto no Genji, or, like Lady Ukifune, be a tragic heroine.

How unreliable, how foolish my mind is—indulging in such empty fancies.

Around the first day of the fifth month, the white petals of the tachibana orange tree near the edge of the eaves cover the ground:

If the fragrance of the tachibana blossoms did not rise,

I would surely believe

That a fresh blanket of snow

Had fallen out of season.

In the garden, trees grow as thick as in the deep forest of Ashigara, and, in the tenth month, its autumn foliage is more beautiful than that of the surrounding mountains. A visitor remarks, "On my way here, I passed a place where the red leaves were exceptionally beautiful." I improvise a response:

Nowhere can be more steeped in autumn

Than this secluded dwelling of mine,

Where resides an autumnal person

Who grows weary of this fleeting world.

I still live in the world of romances from morning to night, and for as long as I am awake.

I see another dream: a man says that he is to make a brook in the garden of the Rokkaku-do Hall to entertain Princess Teishi (1013–1094). I ask the reason, and the man replies, "Pray to the Sun Goddess Amaterasu." And yet, I don't tell anyone about the dream or even think of it again. Seriously, how shallow can I be!

Every spring, I enjoy the garden of my next-door neighbor, Imperial Princess Nagako (1029–1077):

Anxiously waiting for the cherry blossoms to bloom,

Grievously lamenting as they begin to fall,

Year after year, I gaze upon the flowers in her garden

As though they were purely my own.

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

Without tiring, I gazed at the blossoms at home,

Yet as Spring closed and they began to fade,

By chance, I found them blooming there in your garden,

And my heart is drawn to their lingering shade.

Whenever the flowers come and go, I can think of nothing but those days when my wet nurse died. Her death alone is sad enough, but my sadness grows deeper when I study the handwriting of the noble daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari (972-1028). It is in May, as far as I can tell, that I am up late reading a romance, and I hear a cat out of nowhere meowing with a long-drawn-out, melting cry. I turn, wondering, and see a most exquisite, adorable cat—oh, look at those perfect little paws! "Where does it come from?" I ask. "Sh," says my sister, "do not tell anybody. It is an absolute darling of a cat, and we will keep it all to ourselves."

The cat takes to us, comes to us, and lies beside us. Someone might be looking for her, so we keep her secretly. She keeps herself aloof from the vulgar servants, always sitting quietly right before us. She turns her face away from unclean food, never eating a single bite. She clings to us and is cherished by us with utmost love.

Once my sister is ill, and our family is rather upset. The cat is kept around the servants' rooms and is never called. She cries loudly and scoldingly, yet I think it better to keep her away. My sister, suddenly awakening, says to me, "Where is the cat kept? Bring her here." I ask why, and my sister answers, "In my dream, the cat comes to my side and says, 'I am the altered form of the late noble daughter of Fujiwara Yukinari. 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 weeps bitterly. She appears to be a noble and beautiful person, and then I awake to hear the cat crying! How pitiful!"

The story moves me deeply, and after this, I never send the cat away to the servants’ rooms, but wait on her lovingly. Once, when I am am sitting alone, she comes and sits before me, and I, stroking her head, address her, "You are the daughter of Lord Yukinari? I wish to let your father know of it." The cat watches my face and mews, lengthening her voice. Maybe it’s just me, but she doesn’t look like a common cat at all—those elegant paws and manners are far too noble. She seems to understand my words, and that makes her even more heart-meltingly adorable.

I hear that there’s supposedly this translation, or like, a lighter rewritten version of Chang Hen Ge (The Song of Everlasting Regret) floating around. I long to borrow it, but I’m too self-conscious to just come out and say so.

On July 7th, I find a connection and send my words:

Upon this day of the Star Festival's grace,

Hoping to glimpse that fabled, wondrous lore,

I row my boat into the Heavenly River,

To seek the book I long for more and more.

The answer is:

Allured by the sweet music of your verse,

I stand along the Milky Way so bright,

Forgetting all the rules of common sense,

To guide your vessel through the starry night.

On the thirteenth night of the month, the moon shines with immense brilliance, chasing away the darkness from every corner of the world. Around midnight, while everyone else is asleep, my sister and I sit together on the veranda. Gazing thoughtfully into the sky, my sister suddenly says, "If I were to fly away right now, with no destination in mind, what would you think?" Seeing that her words shock me, she masterfully talks her way out of it and offers me a gentle smile.

Then, the sound of a carriage accompanied by a runner stops near our house. A high-ranking gentleman in the carriage calls out, "Ogi-no-ha! Ogi-no-ha!" twice, but no woman named after the reed leaves offers a reply. The gentleman cries out in vain until he grows weary. He plays his flute with clear and exquisite beauty, and at last, drives away. Intrigued by this, I compose:

The melody of the flute

Echoes like the autumn wind;

Why does the reed leaf make no reply

When the grass is in her prime?

My sister replies to me:

The notes of the flute

Blow chillingly like the autumn wind;

It leaves without waiting

For the reply of the reed leaf.

We sit side by side, looking up into the vast firmament, and only retire to bed after daybreak.

At midnight in the fourth month of 1024, a fire broke out, and the cat, which we had treated with the same devotion as the noble daughter of Yukinari Fujiwara, was burned to death. The cat used to come mewing whenever I called out, "Princess," as if she completely understood my words. My father remarked that he would relate this matter to Yukinari, as it was such a strange and deeply moving story. I feel an overwhelming, endless sorrow for her.

Our old garden is spacious and remains as wild as the deep mountains. In the seasons of blossoms and crimson leaves, its beauty is never inferior to that of the surrounding peaks. Our new temporary shelter, however, is far narrower than our former home. As I am still deeply attached to the old place, I feel a profound sadness, for here we have only a tiny garden with no trees at all. In the house opposite ours, white and red plum blossoms cover the grounds. Their fragrance drifts upon the wind, filling my heart with longing for our old home:

The fragrance from the neighbor’s garden

Gently touches my sorrowful heart,

Bringing back memories of the plum trees

Blooming under the eaves of my old home.

On the first day of the fifth month, my sister died after giving birth to a child. From my childhood, even the deaths of strangers touch my heart deeply. Compared to the deaths of strangers, the sorrow of my sister’s death is beyond description. I lament, filled with speechless pity and sorrow.

While our mother and others are with the deceased, I lie with the memory-awakening child and baby on either side of me. The moonlight finds its way through the cracks in the roof of our temporary dwelling and illuminates the face of the baby. The sight gives my heart so deep a pang that I cover the baby’s face with my sleeve and draw the other child closer to my side. Thinking of their mother, I sorrow terribly.

After the memorial service on the forty-ninth day, one of my relatives sends me a romance entitled The Prince Yearning after the Corpse, with the following note: "Your late sister 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 answer:

How strange that she yearned for this tale,

A story of a prince seeking his dead love;

Now my sister herself lies deep

Beneath the green and silent moss.

My sister's wet nurse says that, since she has lost her, she has no reason to stay. She goes back to her own home, weeping.

I write to her:

Thus you return to your old home,

Leaving me behind in my despair;

The only thing that separates us now

Is the cruel death that took her away.

"For remembrance of her, I would like you to stay here. The water in the inkstone seems to freeze up, and I cannot write any more," I add, sending another poem:

How can I keep her memory alive

When the winter cold freezes the inkstone,

And I can no longer find the words

To write of my beloved sister?

So I write, and the wet nurse answers:

Like a lonely plover flying away,

Leaving no footprints upon the shore,

I fade into the background now,

My bond of milk broken forever.

As the deceased was cremated in the open air, the wet nurse visits her cremation site and returns sobbing. I wonder:

She has risen as smoke into the sky;

Without that fading trail to guide her,

How did the weeping wet nurse find

The lonely ground where she burned?

My stepmother hears of this and composes:

She must have wandered here and there,

Searching blindly through the fields;

In the end, it was her own falling tears

That showed her where the ashes lay.

The person who sent The Prince Yearning after the Corpse composes:

She must have wandered, seeking in vain,

Through the unfamiliar, rustling bamboo plains,

Weeping and weeping without end,

Lost in her boundless sorrow.

Reading these poems, my brother, who escorted the dead that night, composes a poem:

I watched her burn until the smoke died away;

How then did the nurse trace her steps

Through the mournful bamboo fields

To find the place of funeral fire?

It has been snowing heavily for many days, and I think of my wet nurse who lives on Mount Yoshino as a nun. I write to her:

Deep snow blankets the peaks,

No traveler treads the mountain track;

To your secluded cell in Yoshino,

No visitor will find a way today.

Sei Shonagon (966-1017) once writes, "Most depressing is the household of some hopeful candidate who fails to receive a post during the period of official appointments."

The following year, in the first month, when the appointments of provincial governors are announced, my father stays up through the night, looking forward to his post, only to face disappointment in the morning. A person who shares our anxiety writes to me, "I anxiously waited for the happy news until dawn:"

Waiting solely for the dawn

To bring the joyful news of success,

The night stretched endlessly on—

A hundred times longer than a long autumn night.

I write back:

Why did we fix our hopes

Upon the breaking of the dawn?

The morning temple bell tolls only

To break the illusions of our hearts.