A Tale of Eleventh-Century Japan: Hamamatsu Chunagon Monogatari

by Thomas H. Rohlich (Translator)

Overview

This book is a complete translation of Hamamatsu Chunagon Monogatari, one of the few extant works of monogatari literature of the Heian period.

Originally published in 1983.

The Princeton Legacy Library uses the latest print-on-demand technology to again make available previously out-of-print books from the distinguished backlist of Princeton University Press. These editions preserve the original texts of these important books while presenting them in durable paperback and hardcover editions. The goal of the Princeton Legacy Library is to vastly increase access to the rich scholarly heritage found in the thousands of books published by Princeton University Press since its founding in 1905.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9780691613581
Publisher:	Princeton University Press
Publication date:	07/14/2014
Series:	Princeton Library of Asian Translations , #574
Pages:	262
Product dimensions:	6.10(w) x 9.10(h) x 0.70(d)

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A Tale of Eleventh-Century Japan: Hamamatsu Chunagon Monogatari

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By Thomas H. Rohlich

PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS

Copyright © 1983 Princeton University Press
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-691-05377-6

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CHAPTER 1

The passage to China was not so long and frightening as Chunagon feared. Rather than rough winds and waves, the party seemed to be continually attended by favorable breezes, a consequence perhaps of the deep sense of filial piety with which Chunagon began the journey. On the tenth day of the seventh month, the travelers arrived at a place called Wen Ling in China. Proceeding along the coast, they dropped anchor at Hangchou in a very pleasant harbor in an inlet. The lovely scene, reminiscent of the view from Ishiyama on the shores of Lake Biwa, aroused in Chunagon endless memories of Japan.

    I long for the one who lay with me
    In my distant home
    On the shores of the Nio Sea.

From Hangchou the party went to Hsii Pai T'an, an interesting place with many houses where the townspeople, hearing that some Japanese were passing through, made an unusual commotion trying to view the travelers. The party left its boat at Li Yang and proceeded to Mt. Hua where towering peaks give way to deep valleys. With a lingering sense of uncertainty, Chunagon chanted a verse in the Chinese style,

    "The blue wave path seems distant,
    The clouds a thousand miles."

Scholars accompanying him were moved to tears and responded with the refrain,

    "White mist covers the mountain,
    The lonely cry of a bird."

Near sunset, the party passed over Mt. Hua and arrived at the border gate of Han Kü where they decided to spend the night. Having read that the guards open the gate when they hear the cockcrow, one of Chunagon's party, a lover of practical jokes, decided to test the story. In the middle of the night he cleverly imitated the sound of a distant rooster, whereupon the guards woke up and opened the gate. Some in the group criticized the fellow, calling it a humorless prank, but Chunagon merely laughed at his cleverness in recalling the old story.

The group of officials which gathered the next day at the gate to greet Chunagon looked just like the illustrations in "The Tale of China." They were captivated by his charming, almost shining demeanor as he adjusted his robes with great dignity before passing through the barrier. Arrangements had been made for Chunagon to stay in the mansion Wang Chiao-chiang once occupied, its jeweled fixtures carefully polished to full luster.

When Chunagon was able to settle down and relax, he recalled his homeland; though it lay far beyond the clouds and mist, over mountains and sea, the sorrowful memory of those he had left behind lay heavy on his heart. He was, however, fully consoled by the realization that he would soon see the young Prince.

An Imperial messenger came with an invitation for Chunagon to meet the Emperor at the Cheng Yüan Hall within the Inner Palace. The Emperor was a young man just over thirty, very handsome and dignified, but even he thought Chunagon magnificent beyond compare. With men such as Chunagon, the ministers and counselors mused, Japan must indeed be a remarkable place. They were certain that even P'an Yüeh of the Hoyang District could not have been as charming as this counselor from Japan. And when they tested him at writing poems and playing musical instruments, they discovered no one could excel him. "We should learn from this man. What could we possibly teach him, even of the arts of our own land?" thought the Emperor in amazement. The courtiers found that his constant company assuaged their grief and worry.

The young Prince was living with his mother, the Consort, in a mansion in the Hoyang District near the Imperial Palace. When an invitation came from the Prince, Chunagon was more than happy to visit him.

The estate seemed so much more splendid than all the others; the color of the water, the placement of the rocks, even the branches of the trees were delightful. Chunagon was led inside to meet the Prince, a child of seven or eight, charming, yet so correct with his neatly parted hair and smartly fitting robes. Even though the young man's face had changed from his previous life, Chunagon recognized his father immediately and was soon close to tears. The color of the Prince's face changed slightly, and though he spoke only the usual pleasantries, avoiding more specific subjects, it was clear he had not forgotten their past relationship. When Chunagon read the Prince's note expressing deeply felt sentiments on their meeting, he was so moved that he could not hold back the tears. Chunagon's poem in response spoke of his feelings after having traveled so very far through waves of clouds and mist to seek out his father; how, though the Prince's appearance was different from that Chunagon once knew, the very sight of the boy made him forget his melancholy. These sentiments brought a stream of tears to the Prince's face.

Chunagon recalled the serious misgivings he had when he saw what pain his leaving caused his mother and the others. The long, lonely voyage had been a trying experience, and often Chunagon had wondered what was to become of him; now, as he gazed at the young Prince, he realized how terrible he would have felt had he not come. The Prince was careful not to show his emotions to the others present, even though he was deeply moved by the solace and joyous sense of anticipation reflected in Chunagon's face. Chunagon was impressed by the boy's mature behavior.

The Emperor favored the Prince's mother, the Hoyang Consort, and was also partial to the Prince, but the Emperor's desire to be constantly with the Prince made it difficult for the boy to spend any time at his beloved home in Hoyang. Still, the Prince wanted so much to be with Chunagon, he made frequent excuses to absent himself from Court.

One evening in the middle of the eighth month, as Chunagon sat in his room staring intently at the garden before him, his thoughts drifted to his distant home. His companions resting within the raised blinds began to reminisce about the capital and a particularly sensitive young man recited a poem.

    The insect's cry,
    The flower's fragrance,
    Even the whisper of the wind
    Are no different from the autumn
    We knew in Japan.

Others tried to think of an appropriate response. Their attempts were collected and about to be recited aloud when, after a brief pause, Chunagon smiled and said, "Though what you have said is true, there really are many surprising things here." The young man blushed unwittingly. Among the many poems only Chunagon's was read aloud.

    The morning dew
    And the misty sky,
    The cry of the deer,
    Even the geese in the sky
    Are no different.

On the first day of the tenth month, the Emperor made an Imperial visit to a place west of the palace called Tung-t'ing, the most famous maple-viewing spot in the land. Many people came from faraway provinces in hopes of seeing Chunagon accompany the Emperor. There was hardly a woman who did not feel slightly faint on seeing him. Those too low in rank to be worthy of his affections were sick with disappointment, while those who felt themselves worthy plotted as best they could to capture his attention. No one among the princes and nobles could equal Chunagon in composing Chinese verse. Everyone, including the Emperor, was amazed at his talents; they thought he must be from an unusually splendid land.

The next day Chunagon went to see the Prince, who had returned to Hoyang. It was a dismal, windy evening, and the cold autumn rain made Chunagon forlorn. As he came upon the Prince's estate, he suddenly heard the sound of a kin more beautiful than any he had ever known. Overjoyed, he quietly slipped into a hidden corner of the garden to find where it was coming from. The roof of the building was heavily coated with an indigo paint, unlike the natural cypress roofs in Japan; even the customary furnishings were stained a bright Chinese vermillion, and the blinds were trimmed in brocade. To the southeast, a waterfall descended from a high mountain, and an unusual formation of nearby rocks awaited the gushing mist of the cascade. Near the edge of the billowing stream beautiful chrysanthemums slightly faded by the mist of the waterfall were everywhere to be enjoyed.

Beneath the raised blinds of the mansion perhaps a dozen ladies-in-waiting dressed in splendid garments sat on brocade mats spread on the veranda. Though their faces were hidden behind varicolored fans, he noticed that their beautiful hair was combed up, and colorful shoulder ribbons and waistbands adorned their clothes. The entire scene seemed no different from a cleverly executed Chinese painting. Near the raised blinds, a lady was playing the kin, her decorous ribbons of Chinese weave spread far to one side. A curtain dyed in the faded style, light at the top and gradually darkening to a deep purple near the bottom, was turned back over the arm of its frame. Chunagon stared at her intently, thinking she might be the Consort. She seemed no more than twenty years of age, with a full well-shaped face, neither too thin nor too plump; her lovely complexion seemed to radiate with a beauty so fair and clear as to dim white crystal jade. She was truly without fault: her lips were crimson, her hair carefully coiffed, and her eyebrows seemed much more elegant than those of the other ladies. She gazed intently at the garden while playing the kin. Chunagon was taken aback to find such a lovely lady in this land. He had always thought the familiar fashion of Japan — the long straight hair falling casually over the shoulders and cheeks — held a certain refined attractiveness, and now he realized this beautiful ornamented style with the hair bound up was also quite agreeable. Perhaps, he thought, this beauty was a consequence of high birth. He had never heard such a lovely melody from the kin, and the seven or eight ladies on the veranda were what he imagined maidens from heaven to be. Each held a chrysanthemum as, with vibrant voices, they sang the Chinese verse, "The storm in the orchid garden ...;" others within the room lifted their voices in response, "After this flower has bloomed...."

Chunagon had always thought such verses were sung by men, not women; he wanted to know more about who was chanting these verses while viewing the flowers, but the Consort had the blinds lowered and went inside. The brief glimpse left him dissatisfied, as though he had only seen the half-moon. Unable to bear this uneasiness, he left his secluded spot, picked a chrysanthemum, and brought it to where the ladies sat half-hidden on the veranda. As they showed no sense of shock or alarm at his unexpected appearance, he offered the ladies a poem.

    Seeing this flower tonight
    Has helped me forget
    My yearning for home.

Each lady held a fan before her face and listened to the poem just as ladies in Japan would. He was delighted to find that they were not unable to respond in kind.

    Would that this flower
    Remain fragrant and never fade,
    So that no one need be homesick.

When the young Prince appeared on the veranda, Chunagon turned from the ladies and went to greet him.

"What a splendid evening," said the Prince as he pushed a koto toward Chunagon. The beauty of the Consort's face, even the lingering hint of her perfume, had moved Chunagon deeply. He found it difficult to begin playing the koto, for the sound of her kin still echoed in his ears. Within the blinds she too was lost in thought.

"This man is so wonderfully talented. How sad indeed it will be after his return when we can no longer see him," she thought, weeping secretly.

The Consort's ancestry could, it seems, be traced back to a certain Prince of Ch'in, a descendant of the T'ang Emperor T'ai Tsung. A man of outstanding talents and handsome appearance, this prince was sent as an envoy to Japan to handle some diplomatic matters. In Tsukushi he met the daughter of a Japanese prince who had died in exile there, leaving his daughter with only a poor nursemaid for support. The Prince of Ch'in became intimate with the forlorn lady and, in due course, a beautiful jewel of a baby girl was born. The child was so preciously charming, the Prince felt he could not possibly return to China without her, yet to take her with him involved great risks.

No woman had made the journey since Sasemaro tried to take the Lady Unawashi across. In that instance, the Dragon King of the Sea was captivated by Unawashi and refused to let the boat pass until Sasemaro cast her off on mats thrown on the sea.

The Prince of Ch'in was at a loss over what to do with his lovely daughter. Having spent five years in Japan, he could stay no longer, nor could he bear the thought of leaving her behind. Time and time again he begged permission of the Dragon King of the Sea to allow her to pass. Finally he heard these words in a dream. "Leave immediately. This girl is destined to be a consort in your land. You will pass safely."

The Prince of Ch'in was overjoyed and returned to China with the girl, now five years old. There, under his careful tending, she grew into an unparalleled beauty, finally coming to the attention of the Emperor, who pressed for her hand. The Prince, however, was reluctant to give his daughter to the Emperor, for he feared the Prime Minister, father of the Empress who had borne the Crown Prince and numerous other children. He felt certain that his priceless daughter would meet with danger in such a hostile environment. In spite of his misgivings, he acquiesced to the urgent pleas of the Emperor and, at the age of fourteen, the daughter went to the palace at Yangchou. The Emperor favored her to the exclusion of all others, and her father was raised to the rank of Minister. When, at the age of sixteen, she gave birth to a boy, she was immediately given the rank of Imperial Consort and enjoyed unparalleled favor.

The Prime Minister, father of the First Empress, was greatly angered and resentful of her rapid rise at Court. He cursed the new consort and perpetrated many incidents by which he hoped to destroy the Emperor's affection for her. The other consorts and Imperial concubines joined forces in opposing the newcomer, bringing to mind the well-known fate of Yang Kuei-fei. Her father felt all resistance futile, so he resigned his position, and to the north of the capital, in the mountain temple area of Shu Shan he built a fine villa and retired from public life. Realizing that she could hardly serve the Emperor without any backing at Court, the Consort sought to join her father in his retreat. This upset the Emperor terribly. She was, however, tormented by the machinations of others, frequently ill, even faint on occasion, and was obviously no longer able to continue at Court. The Emperor decided that if he could not have her at Court, at least he might keep her close at hand. He built an imposing mansion in nearby Hoyang District where he quartered the Consort, and every two or three days he had her son, the Prince, come to Court.

Though the Court seemed very ordered and restricted, in fact, the movements of the Emperor of China were not nearly as limited as the Emperor of Japan. In times of inordinate longing he was able to quietly visit the Hoyang Consort, though he had to be careful not to go too often or too conspicuously. The Emperor so lamented the limitations of his position he frequently became ill and seemingly was indifferent whether he lived or died. His attendants remained close, ministering to his every need and offering prayers for his recovery. It was just about this time that the Emperor began visiting various places and engaging in poetic amusements with Chunagon; owing perhaps to the efficacy of everyone's prayers, these amusements successfully diverted the Emperor's sorrow.

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from A Tale of Eleventh-Century Japan: Hamamatsu Chunagon Monogatari by Thomas H. Rohlich. Copyright © 1983 Princeton University Press. Excerpted by permission of PRINCETON UNIVERSITY PRESS.
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Table of Contents

• FrontMatter, pg. i
• Contents, pg. vii
• Preface, pg. ix
• Acknowledgments, pg. xi
• Introduction, pg. 3
• Chapter One, pg. 55
• Chapter Two, pg. 101
• Chapter Three, pg. 133
• Chapter Four, pg. 170
• Chapter Five, pg. 210
• Works Cited, pg. 241
• Index, pg. 245