The Pillow Book of Sei Shonagon: The Diary of a Courtesan in Tenth Century Japan

by Arthur Waley

  But all this applies only to ordinary times at the temple. At New Year, for example, there is a never-ending throng of sightseers and pilgrims, who cause so much disturbance that the services have often to be abandoned.

  One evening a large party arrived from the City—so late that we were sure they were going to stay the night. Such tall screens were put up round their quarters that the little acolytes staggered under the weight of them. We could hear mats being flopped down, and everyone seemed to be scurrying about getting things in order. They were taken straight to their quarters and great rustling curtains were hung upon the railings that separated their rooms from the chapel-enclosure. People, evidently, who were used to being waited upon and made comfortable. Presently there was a great rustling of skirts, which gradually died away in the distance. It seemed to proceed from a party of elderly gentlewomen, very respectable and discreet. No doubt their services had been required only for the journey, and they were now going home. “Don’t be careless about fire,” we heard someone say, “these rooms are very dangerous.” Among the party was a boy of seven or eight, rather spoilt and conceited we thought, judging from his voice. It amused us to hear him calling out for the valets and grooms, and carrying on long conversations with them. There was also a darling baby of three or thereabouts that we could hear gurgling to itself in the way that drowsy children do. We kept on hoping that the mother or someone else would call to the nurse by name; then we should have had some chance of guessing who the people were.

  That night the services went on uninterruptedly until daybreak and the noise was so great that we got no sleep. After the Goya,* I dozed offfor a while, but was soon woken by a sound of coarse, noisy chanting, that seemed intentionally to avoid any kind of beauty or holiness. We recognized the Sūtra as that of the Temple Patron.† These rough voices no doubt belonged to mountain-hermits from far away, and bursting in upon us thus unexpectedly, they were strangely moving. . . .

  During retreats of this kind, or indeed whenever I am away from home, I do not find it sufficient merely to have grooms and servants with me. One needs several companions of one’s own class, who are pleased by the same things as oneself—indeed, it is as well to bring with one as many friends as possible. There may among one’s maids be some who are less tiresome than the rest. But on the whole one knows all their opinions too well.

  Gentlemen appear to share my feelings about this question; for I notice they always make up an agreeable party beforehand, when they are going on pilgrimage to a temple. . . .

  Often the common people who come to Hasedera show a gross lack of respect for the better sort of visitors, lining up in front of one’s pew (tsubone) so close that they brush one with the tails of their coats. There comes on me sometimes a strong desire to make this pilgrimage, and then when I have braved the terrifying noise of the waters, struggled up the dangerous causeway, and pressed into my seat, impatient to gaze at last upon the glorious countenance of Buddha, it is exasperating to find my view barred by a parcel of common white-robed priests and country-people, swarming like caterpillars, who plant themselves there without the slightest regard for those behind them. Often, while they were performing their prostrations, I have come near to rolling them over sideways!

  When very grand people come, steps are taken to keep a clear space in front of them. But, of course, for ordinary people they won’t take the trouble to interfere. If one sends for some priest with whom one has influence and asks him to speak, he will sometimes go so far as to say, “Would you mind making a little more room there, please?” But the moment his back is turned, it is as bad as before.

  Shōnagon records that once when she was attending a great service at the Bodai Temple, someone sent her a note saying, “Come back at once. I am very lonely.” “As a matter of fact,” she tells us, “I was at the moment so much worked up by what was going on around me, that I had quite made up my mind never to quit the place again (to become a nun); and I cared as little as old Hsiang Chung* whether people at home were waiting for me.”

  A Recitant† ought to be good-looking. It is only if it is a pleasure to keep one’s eyes on him all the time that there is any chance of religious feeling (tōtosa) being aroused. Otherwise one begins looking at something else and soon one’s attention wanders from what he is reading; in which case ugliness becomes an actual cause of sin.

  (Written later)

  The time has come for me to stop putting down ideas of this kind. Now that I am getting to be a good‡ age, and so on, it frightens me to discover that I ever wrote such blasphemous stuff. I remember that whenever any priest was reported to be of particular piety I would rush off immediately to the house where he was giving his readings. If this was the state of mind in which I arrived, I see now that I should have done better to stay away.

  Retired Chancellors . . . finding time lie heavy on their hands, often go once or twice to services of this kind. Soon the habit grows upon them, and they will come even in the hottest days of summer, vaunting conspicuous under-jackets and light purple or blue-grey trousers; and often one will see one of them there with a taboo-ticket* in his cap, apparently in the belief that the sanctity of the performance he is attending is such as to excuse him from any of the observances proper to this particular day. He bustles in, makes some remark to the holy man who is occupied with the service, but even while he is doing so continually casts back glances at some ladies who are just being deposited from their carriage, and indeed seems ready to take an interest in anything that turns up. Presently he discovers in the audience some friend whom he has not seen for a long time, and with many exclamations of astonishment and delight comes across and sits next to him. Here he chats, nods, tells funny stories, opens his fan wide and titters behind it, rattles a string of dandified beads, fiddles with his hands, and all the while looks round in every direction. He discusses what sort of carriages the people come in, finding fault with some and praising others, compares the services held recently at various houses— an Eight Recitations at so-and-so’s, a Dedication of Scriptures given by someone else—and all this while he does not hear a word of what the priest is reading. And indeed, it would not interest him much if he did; for he has heard it all so often that it could no longer possibly make any impression upon him.

  STRAY NOTES

  One writes a letter, taking particular trouble to get it up as prettily as possible; then waits for the answer, making sure every moment that it cannot be much longer before something comes. At last, frightfully late, is brought in—one’s own note, still folded or tied exactly as one sent it, but so finger-marked and smudged that even the address is barely legible. “The family is not in residence,” the messenger says, giving one back the note. Or “It is his day of observance and they said they could not take any letters in.” Such experiences are dismally depressing.

  One has been expecting someone, and rather late at night there is a stealthy tapping at the door. One sends a maid to see who it is, and lies waiting, with some slight flutter of the breast. But the name one hears when she returns is that of someone completely different, who does not concern one at all. Of all depressing experiences, this is by far the worst.

  Someone comes, with whom one has decided not to have further dealings. One pretends to be fast asleep, but some servant or person connected with one comes to wake one up, and pulls one about, with a face as much as to say “What a sleep-hog!” This is always exceedingly irritating.

  If someone with whom one is having an affair keeps on mention ing some woman whom he knew in the past, however long ago it is since they separated, one is always irritated.

  It is very tiresome when a lover who is leaving one at dawn says that he must look for a fan or pocket-book that he left somewhere about the room last night. As it is still too dark to see anything, he goes fumbling about all over the place, knocking into everything and muttering to himself, “How very odd!” When at last he finds the pocket-book he crams it into his dress with a great rustling of the
pages; or if it is a fan he has lost, he swishes it open and begins flapping it about, so that when he finally takes his departure, instead of experiencing the feelings of regret proper to such an occasion, one merely feels irritated at his clumsiness. . . .

  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, huntingjacket 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* 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† 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?”‡ 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* 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 neighbor’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 grownup 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. Th is 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* 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,† 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 o
ne 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.