Part 6

It is important that a lover should know how to make his departure. To begin with, he ought not to be too ready to get up, but should require a little coaxing: ‘Come, it is past daybreak. You don’t want to be found here ...’ and so on. One likes him, too, to behave in such a way, that one is sure he is unhappy at going and would stay longer if he possibly could. He should not pull on his trousers the moment he is up, but should first of all come close to one’s ear and in a whisper finish off whatever was left half-said in the course of the night. But though he may in reality at these moments be doing nothing at all, it will not be amiss that he should appear to be buckling his belt. Then he should raise the shutters, and both lovers should go out together at the double-doors, while he tells her how much he dreads the day that is before him and longs for the approach of night. Then, after he has slipped away, she can stand gazing after him, with charming recollections of those last moments. Indeed, the success of a lover depends greatly on his method of departure. If he springs to his feet with a jerk and at once begins fussing round, tightening in the waist-band of his breeches, or adjusting the sleeves of his Court robe, hunting-jacket or what not, collecting a thousand odds and ends, and thrusting them into the folds of his dress, or pulling in his over-belt—one begins to hate him.

I like to think of a bachelor—an adventurous disposition has left him single—returning at dawn from some amorous excursion. He looks a trifle sleepy; but, as soon as he is home, draws his writing-case towards him, carefully grinds himself some ink and begins to write his next-morning letter—not simply dashing off whatever comes into his head, but spreading himself to the task and taking trouble to write the characters beautifully. He should be clad in an azalea-yellow or vermilion cloak worn over a white robe. Glancing from time to time at the dewdrops that still cling to the thin white fabric of his dress, he finishes his letter, but instead of giving it to one of the ladies who are in attendance upon him at the moment, he gets up and, choosing from among his page-boys one who seems to him exactly appropriate to such a mission, calls the lad to him, and whispering something in his ear puts the letter in his hand; then sits gazing after him as he disappears into the distance. While waiting for the answer he will perhaps quietly murmur to himself this or that passage from the _Sūtras_. Presently he is told that his washing-water and porridge are ready, and goes into the back room, where, seated at the reading-table, he glances at some Chinese poems, now and then reciting out loud some passage that strikes his fancy. When he has washed and got into his Court cloak, which he wears as a dressing-gown (without trousers), he takes the 6th chapter of the Lotus Scripture and reads it silently. Precisely at the most solemn moment of his reading—the place being not far away—the messenger returns, and by his posture it is evident that he expects an instant reply. With an amusing if blasphemous rapidity the lover transfers his attention from the book he is reading to the business of framing his answer.

One day when the Lord Abbot[81] was visiting his sister, the Mistress of the Robes, in her apartment, there came a fellow to her balcony, saying, ‘A terrible thing has happened to me, and I don’t know where to go and complain.’ He seemed to be on the verge of tears. ‘What is the matter?’ we asked him. ‘I was obliged to leave home for a little while,’ he replied, ‘and while I was away my miserable house was burnt to the ground. For days past I have been living on charity, squeezed into other people’s houses, like a _gōna_[82] in an oyster-shell. The fire began in one of the hay-lofts belonging to the Imperial Stables. There is only a thin wall between, and the young lads sleeping in my night-room came near to being roasted alive. They didn’t manage to save a thing.’

The Mistress of the Robes laughed heartily at this, and I, seizing a slip of paper, wrote the poem: ‘If the sunshine of Spring was strong enough to set the royal fodder ablaze, how could you expect your night-room to be spared?’[83] I tossed this to him, amid roars of laughter on the part of the other gentlewomen, one of whom said to the man, ‘Here’s a present from someone who is evidently much upset at your house having been burnt down.’ ‘What’s the use of a poem-slip to me?’ he asked. ‘It won’t go far towards paying for the things I’ve lost.’ ‘Read it first!’ said someone. ‘Read it, indeed!’ he said. ‘I would gladly, if I knew so much as half a letter....’ ‘Well then, get someone to read it to you,’ said the same lady. ‘The Empress has sent for us and we must go to her at once. But with a document such as that in your hands, you may be certain that your troubles are over.’ At this there were roars of laughter. On our way to the Empress’s rooms, we wondered whether he really would show it to anyone, and whether he would be very furious when he heard what it was.

We told her Majesty the story, and there was a lot more laughing, in which the Empress joined. But she said afterwards that we all seemed to her completely mad.

+Pretty Things+

The face of a child that has its teeth dug into a melon.

A baby sparrow hopping towards one when one calls ‘_chu, chu_’ to it; or being fed by its parents with worms or what not, when one has captured it and tied a thread to its foot.

A child of three or so, that scurrying along suddenly catches sight of some small object lying on the ground, and clasping the thing in its pretty little fingers, brings it to show to some grown-up person.

A little girl got up in cloister-fashion[84] tossing back her head to get the hair away from her eyes when she wants to look at something.

+Children+

A child of four or five comes in from a neighbour’s house and gets into mischief, taking hold of one’s things, throwing them about all over the room, and perhaps breaking them. One keeps on scolding the creature and pulling things out of its hands, and at last it is beginning to understand that it cannot have everything its own way, when in comes the mother, and knowing that it will now get its way the child points at something that has taken its fancy, crying ‘Mama, show me this!’ and tugs at the mother’s skirts. ‘I am talking to grown-up people,’ she says, and takes no more notice. Whereupon the child, after pulling everything about, finally extracts the object it coveted. At this the mother just says ‘Naughty!’ without making any attempt to take the thing away and put it into safety; or perhaps, ‘Don’t do that; you’re spoiling it,’ but evidently more amused than angry. One dislikes the parent as much as the child. It is indeed agonizing to stand by and see one’s possessions submitted to such treatment.

Among ‘embarrassing things,’ Shōnagon mentions ‘An unpleasant-looking child being praised and petted by parents who see it not as it is but as they would like it to be. Having to listen while its parents repeat to one the things the child has said, imitating its voice.’

And again, ‘Sometimes when in the course of conversation I have expressed an opinion about someone and perhaps spoken rather severely, a small child has overheard me and repeated the whole thing to the person in question. This may get one into a terrible fix....

I have the same feeling if someone is telling me a sad story. I see the tears in his eyes and do indeed agree that what he says is very sad; but somehow or other my own tears will not flow. It is no use trying to contort one’s face into an expression of woe; in fact, nothing is any good.

Of the gentlewomen’s apartments attached to the Empress’s own quarters, those along the Narrow Gallery are the most agreeable. When the wooden blinds[85] at the top are rolled up, the wind blows in very hard, and it is cool even in summer. In winter, indeed, snow and hail often come along with the wind; but even so, I find it very agreeable. As the rooms have very little depth and boys,[86] even when so near to the Imperial apartments, do not always mind their manners, we generally ensconce ourselves behind screens, where the quiet is delightful, for there is none of the loud talk and laughter that disturb one in other quarters of the Palace.

I like the feeling that one must always be on the alert. And if this is true during the day, how much more so at night, when one must be prepared for something to happen at any moment. All night long one hears the noise of footsteps in the corridor outside. Every now and then the sound will cease in front of some particular door, and there will be a gentle tapping, just with one finger; but one knows that the lady inside will have instantly recognized the knock. Sometimes, this soft tapping lasts a long while; the lady is no doubt pretending to be asleep. But at last comes the rustle of a dress or the sound of someone cautiously turning on her couch, and one knows that she has taken pity on him.

In summer she can hear every movement of his fan, as he stands chafing outside; while in winter, stealthily though it be done, he will hear the sound of someone gently stirring the ashes in the brazier, and will at once begin knocking more resolutely, or even asking out loud for admittance. And while he does so, one can hear him squeezing up closer and closer against the door.

In the fifth month I love driving out to some mountain village. The pools that lie across the road look like patches of green grass; but while the carriage slowly pushes its way right through them, one sees that there is only a scum of some strange, thin weed, with clear, bright water underneath. Though it is quite shallow, great spurts fly up as our horsemen gallop across, making a lovely sight. Then, where the road runs between hedges, a leafy bough will sometimes dart in at the carriage window; but however quickly one snatches at it, one is always too late.

Sometimes a spray of _yomogi_ will get caught in the wheel, and for a moment, as the wheel brings it level, a delicious scent hovers at our window.

I love to cross a river in very bright moonlight and see the trampled water fly up in chips of crystal under the oxen’s feet.

In the second month something happens in the Hall of the Grand Council. I really don’t know exactly what it is, but they call it the Tests.[87] About the same time there is a thing they call the Shakuden. I believe it is then that they hang up Kuji[88] and the rest. They also present something called the Sōmei to the Emperor and Empress. It comes in a stone pot and includes some very queer stuff.

People value sympathy more than anything in the world. This is particularly true of men; but I do not exclude women. One always regrets an unkind remark, even if it was obviously quite unintentional; and it is easy, without entering very deeply into someone else’s sorrow, to say ‘How unfortunate!’ if the situation is indeed unfortunate, or ‘I can imagine what he is going through,’ if the person in question is likely to be much perturbed. And this works even better if one’s remark is made to someone else and repeated than if it is heard at first hand.

One ought always to find some way of letting people know that one has sympathized. With one’s relations and so on, who expect fond inquiries, it is difficult to get any special credit. But a friendly remark to someone who sees no reason to expect it is always certain to give pleasure. This all sounds very easy and obvious; but surprisingly few people put it into practice. It seems as though people with nice feelings must necessarily be silly, and clever people must always be ill-natured, men and women too. But I suppose really there must be lots of nice, clever people, if only one knew them.

Features that one particularly likes continue to give one the same thrill of pleasure every time one looks at a face. With pictures it is different; once we have seen them a certain number of times, they cease to interest us; indeed, the pictures on a screen that stands close to your usual seat, however beautiful they may be, you will never so much as glance at!

Again, an object (such as a fan, mirror, vase) may be ugly in general, but have some particular part which we can look at with pleasure. Faces do not work like this; they affect us disagreeably unless they can be admired as a whole.

[_Plan for a Story_]

A young man, who has lost his mother. The father is very fond of him, but marries again. The stepmother is very disagreeable, and the young man ceases to have any dealings with her part of the house. There is a difficulty about his clothes; they have to be mended by his old nurse or perhaps by a maid who used to be in the mother’s service. He is given quarters in one of the wings, as though he were a guest, with pictures on the screens and panels, by first-rate masters too. At Court he cuts a very good figure and is liked by everyone. The Emperor takes quite a fancy to him and is always sending for him to join in concerts and so on. But the young man is always depressed, feels out of place, and discontented with his mode of life. His nature must be amorous to the verge of eccentricity. He has an only sister, married to one of the highest noblemen in the land, who dotes upon her and gratifies her every whim. To this sister the young man confides all his thoughts, finding in her society his greatest consolation.

+Things that make one Happy+

Getting hold of a lot of stories none of which one has read before.

Or finding Vol. 2 of a story one is in a great state of excitement about, but was previously only able to secure the first volume. However, one is often disappointed.

To pick up a letter that someone has torn up and thrown away, and find that one can fit the pieces together well enough to make sense.

When one has had a very upsetting dream and is sure it means that something disagreeable is going to happen, it is delightful to be told by the interpreter[89] that it does not signify anything in particular.

+Things that give me an Uncomfortable Feeling+

A child that has been brought up by a nasty foster-mother. Of course, this is not its fault. But somehow one always thinks of its connexion with such a person as a disagreeable quality in the child itself. ‘I can’t understand why it is’ (says the foster-mother to the father of the child) ‘that you should be so fond of all the other young gentlemen, and yet seem to take no trouble about this child and even to hate the sight of it.’

She speaks in loud tones of indignation. Probably the child does not understand exactly what is being said; but it runs to the woman’s knees and bursts into tears.

Another thing that makes me feel uncomfortable is when I have said I do not feel well and some girl of whom I am not very fond comes and lies by me, brings me things to eat, pities me, and without any response on my part, begins following me about and continually coming to my assistance.

+Toothache+

A girl of seventeen or eighteen with very beautiful hair, which she wears down her back, spreading in a great, bushy mass; she is just nicely plump, and has a very pale skin. One can see that she is really very pretty; but at the moment she has toothache very badly, her fringe is all drabbled with tears and (though she is quite unconscious of the fact) her long locks are dangling in great disorder. Her cheek, where she has been pressing it with her hand, is flushed crimson, which has a very pretty effect.

+Illness+

It is the eighth month. A girl is wearing an unlined robe of soft white stuff, full trousers, and an aster[90] mantle thrown across her shoulders with very gay effect. But she has some terrible malady of the chest. Her fellow ladies-in-waiting come in turns to sit with her, and outside the room there is a crowd of very young men inquiring about her with great anxiety: ‘How terribly sad!’ ‘Has she ever had such an attack before?’ and so on. With them no doubt is her lover, and he, poor man, is indeed beside himself with distress. But as likely as not it is a secret attachment, and, fearful of giving himself away, he hangs about on the outskirts of the group, trying to pick up news. His misery is a touching sight.

Now the lady binds back her beautiful long hair and raises herself on her couch in order to spit, and harrowing though it is to witness her pain, there is even now a grace in her movements that makes them pleasurable to watch. The Empress hears of her condition and at once sends a famous reciter of the Scriptures, renowned for the beauty of his voice, to read at her bedside. The room is in any case very small, and now to the throng of visitors is added a number of ladies who have simply come to hear the reading. It is impossible to accommodate them all behind the screens-of-state. At this exposed bevy of young women the priest constantly glances while he reads, for which he will certainly suffer in the life to come.

A house with tall pine-trees all round it. The courtyards are spacious, and as all the _kōshi_[91] are raised, the place has a cool, open look. In the main room there is a four-foot screen, with a hassock in front of it, on which is seated a priest about thirty years old or a little more. He himself is by no means ill-looking; but what strikes one most is the extreme elegance of his brown robe and mantle of thin lustrous silk. He is reciting the spells of the Thousand-Handed One, fanning himself meanwhile with a clove-dyed fan.

Within must lie a person gravely afflicted by some kind of possession; for presently there edges her way out from the inner room a rather heavily built girl, who is evidently going to act as ‘medium.’[92] She has fine hair, and is undeniably a handsome creature. She is dressed in an unlined robe of plain silk and light-coloured trousers. When she has seated herself in front of a little three-foot screen placed at right-angles to that of the priest, he wheels round and puts into her hand a minute, brightly polished rod. Then in sudden spasms of sound, with eyes tightly shut, he reads the Spell, which is certainly very impressive. A number of gentlewomen have come out from behind the curtains and stand watching in a group.

Before long a shiver runs through the medium’s limbs and she falls into a trance. It is indeed extraordinary to watch the priest at work and see how stage by stage his incantations take effect. Behind the medium is ... a slim boy in his teens (perhaps her brother), with some of his friends. From time to time they fan her. Their attitude is quiet and reverent; but if she were conscious, how upset she would be to expose herself thus in front of her brother’s friends! Though one knows that she is not really suffering, one cannot help being distressed by her continual wailing and moaning. Indeed, some of the sick woman’s friends, feeling sorry for the medium, creep up to the edge of her screen and try to arrange her disordered clothing in a more decent way.

After a while it is announced that the sick woman is somewhat better. Hot water and other necessaries are brought along from the back of the house by a succession of young maids, who, tray in hand, cannot forbear to cast a hurried glance in the direction of the holy man.... At last, at the hour of the Monkey (4 p.m.), having reduced the possessing spirit to an abject condition, the priest dismisses it. On coming to, the medium is amazed to find herself outside the screen, and asks what has been happening. She feels terribly ashamed and embarrassed, hides her face in her long hair, and glides swiftly towards the women’s quarters. But the priest stops her for a moment, and, having performed a few magic passes, says to her, with a familiar smile that she finds very disconcerting, ‘That’s right! Now you’re quite yourself again, aren’t you?’ Then he turns to the others and says: ‘I would stay a little longer, but I am afraid I am at the end of my free time....’ He is about to leave the house; but they stop him, crying: ‘We should like so much to make an offering. Perhaps you would tell us....’ He takes no notice and is hurrying away, when a lady of good birth, possibly one of the daughters of the house, comes up to the curtains that screen off the women’s quarters and bids her servants tell the holy man that, thanks to his merciful condescension in visiting the house, the sick woman’s sufferings had been much relieved, for which they all wished to thank him from the bottom of their hearts. Would he have time to come again to-morrow? ‘The disorder,’ says he, ‘is of a very obstinate nature, and I do not think it would be safe to leave off. I am very glad that what I have done has already had some effect.’ And without another word he goes away, making everyone feel as though the Lord Buddha himself had been with them in the house.

In the eighth month of 998, at the time of her second confinement, the Empress went to stay with Taira no Narimasa,[93] the Superintendent of her Household, bringing with her Princess Osako, her first child. The Imperial Litter, writes Shōnagon, was carried in at the east gate, which had been rebuilt on purpose. But we ladies were driven round to the small north gate. We did not think there would be anyone on duty at the guard-house, and some of us had let our hair get into great disorder. We had, indeed, taken for granted that we should be brought right up to the house itself, so that it would not matter if we arrived rather untidy. Unfortunately the gate was so small that our carriages, with their high awnings, could not go through. Matting was laid down for us from here to the house, and in a very bad temper we all got out and walked. So far from being deserted, the guard-house was full of courtiers and servants, who stared in a way that was very annoying. I told the Empress about this and she said, laughing, ‘There are people here too with eyes in their heads! I do not know why you should suddenly become so careless.’ ‘But we had the carriages all to ourselves,’ I said, ‘and it would have seemed very odd if we had begun fussing about how we looked. Any way, at a house such as this surely all the gates ought to be big enough to admit a carriage! I shall make fun of him about it when he comes.’ At this moment Narimasa did indeed arrive, carrying an inkstand, which he begged me to accept for her Majesty’s use. ‘We are not best pleased with you,’ I said. ‘Why do you live in a house with such small gates?’ ‘I am a person of small importance,’ he answered, smiling, ‘and my gates are built to match.’ ‘Is there not a story about someone who increased the height of his gate?’ I asked. This seemed to surprise him. ‘I know what you are thinking of,’ he said. ‘The story of Yü Ting-kuo. But pardon me, I thought that only musty old scholars knew of such things. Even I should not have understood you, did I not happen to have strayed a little in those paths myself.’[94] ‘Paths indeed!’ I exclaimed. ‘I do not think much of your paths. The matting got buried in them and we fell about in every direction. An appalling scene....’

‘There has been a lot of rain,’ he said. ‘I am sure you did. Well, well; you’ll be saying something else unpleasant in a minute. I am going,’ and off he went. ‘What happened?’ asked the Empress. ‘You seem to have frightened Narimasa away.’ ‘Oh no,’ I said. ‘I was only telling him how we could not get through the north gate.’ Then I went to my own room.