“OBSEQUIES FOR GENJI” is a rough translation of Genji kuyō, a term for which there is no precise English equivalent. A kuyō is a dedicatory service in which the merit acquired in preparing for and performing the rite is assigned to another person, usually deceased, in order to diminish that person’s suffering and speed his or her progress toward Buddhahood. The title Genji kuyō was applied to various such rites performed on behalf of Murasaki Shikibu, her readers, her hero the Shining Genji, and even The Tale of Genji itself.
The reason that such rites were thought necessary lies in the doctrine of Buddhist morality that counts four of the “ten evils” (jūaku) as “sins of the word” (kugō): falsehood (mōgo), equivocation (ryōzetsu), slander (akku), and frivolous or specious talk (kigo or kigyo).1 As these were commonly held to apply to both the written and the spoken word, the writer of almost any sort of secular literature could be considered a sinner, for even the use of ornamented or poetic language could be construed as kigo. Writers of fiction stood in the greatest danger, for they were guilty of mōgo as well. And the danger was great, for the commission of any of these sins, depending on the seriousness of the deed, could result in a sentence to hell, rebirth as an animal, or a term as a hungry ghost (gaki, Sk. preta).2
In Murasaki Shikibu’s day, these strictures seem not to have troubled many readers or writers very deeply. A few devotees of Chinese literature, members of the Society for the Advancement of Learning,3 had taken to chanting a passage from the Hakushi monjū that had found its way into the Japanese anthology Wakan rōeishū (NKBT 73:200): “May the worldly writings of my present incarnation, all these wild words and fancy phrases [kyōgen kigo], be transformed into hymns of praise of the Buddha’s teachings in age on age to come and cause the wheel of the dharma forever to turn.” And the Sarashina diarist, while reading Genji “night and day,” seems to have been visited in a dream by “a monk in a yellow surplice” who warned her that she might better be spending her time studying the fifth chapter of the Lotus Sutra.4
A century or two later, however, when the peace and tranquillity of Heian had been shattered by the disturbances and uprisings that culminated in outright warfare in the capital region, even The Tale of Genji came to seem a threat to its readers’ welfare, not only in the present, but also in lives to come. It was at this time, in the later twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, that Murasaki Shikibu began to appear in women’s dreams, telling of her suffering in hell for having written Genji and begging her readers to destroy their copies of the tale and sponsor the performance of rites to propitiate her sin. These rites, a considerable number of which were indeed performed, are what came to be called Genji kuyō.
Very few documentary remains of the rites survive, but from those that do we can reconstruct with reasonable accuracy the form that they took. Like any dedicatory rite, they consisted principally of creating merit that then could be assigned to someone in need of it. Merit might be accumulated in myriad ways, from building grand temple complexes and casting bells to simply reciting scripture. But in all the Genji kuyō of which we know, the requisite merit was created by making a complete copy of the Lotus Sutra. The sponsor of the rite would enlist the aid of twenty-eight like-minded readers of Genji and ask each of them to make a copy of one chapter of the Lotus. When they had finished, each copyist would then compose a poem based on the content of the chapter that he or she had copied, to be submitted with that chapter. These chapters would then be collected and dedicated to a temple. In preparation, the officiating monk would compose a “proclamation” (hyōbyaku) stating the purpose of the rites and designating the beneficiary, which he would read or chant aloud during the dedication. No doubt there were other elements as well—invocations, chants, responsories, benedictions, and the like—but no record of them remains.
As alien as such notions and practices may seem to modern sensibilities, it is important to remember that in medieval Japan, they were not oddities found on the fringes of Genji’s readership. Genji kuyō were a significant current in the very mainstream of literary activity in that era. Only fragments of documentation survive, but many of them, in one way or another, involve members of the Mikohidari branch of the Fujiwara clan and their clients, the most prestigious of all literary coteries. One occasion about which we have some knowledge appears to have been sponsored by no less a figure than Bifukumon’in Kaga (d. 1193), the wife of Fujiwara no Shunzei (1114–1204) and the mother of Fujiwara no Teika (1162–1241). Another was sponsored by the paramour of Fujiwara (Saionji) no Kintsune (1171–1244), whose sister was married to Teika. Kaga’s son by a previous marriage, Takanobu (1141–1205), tells us not only that Murasaki Shikibu had appeared to his mother in a dream, but also that he himself had copied one of the chapters of the Lotus Sutra to be dedicated at the rites held under her auspices. Another chapter—perhaps for the same rites—was copied by Kaga’s son-in-law Fujiwara no Muneie (d. 1189), who was married to another of Teika’s sisters. Ima monogatari, which contains an elaborate description of Murasaki Shikibu’s appearance in readers’ dreams, is thought to have been written by Takanobu’s son Nobuzane (d. 1265?). And recent research has determined with near certainty that Takanobu’s father, Tametsune (Jakuchō, b. 1113), was the author of Ima kagami, which contains an entire chapter delineating and debating Murasaki Shikibu’s “sins.”
Entering the realm of speculation—although of a conservative sort—we recall that every Genji kuyō had to involve at least twenty-eight participants, the number of persons required to copy one chapter each of the Lotus Sutra. Given that Shunzei’s wife was among the prime movers of these occasions, it is tempting to conclude—indeed, all but impossible not to conclude—that Shunzei and Teika and the “daughter” of Shunzei,5 as well as other members of the Mikohidari house and their clients, were directly involved in some of the many obsequies for Genji.
Almost all the known documents relating to Genji kuyō are translated in this chapter; only those that duplicate, or nearly duplicate, those translated have been omitted. These documents are arranged not in strict chronological order but in a sequence intended to illustrate the steps in the process just described. Accordingly, the “Progress of Fiction” chapter of Ima kagami, in which Murasaki’s “sins” are described, comes first. Following this are the accounts of Murasaki’s appearance in dreams, the poems composed after copying chapters of the Lotus Sutra, the proclamations for the dedicatory services, and finally a Muromachi-period story in which these materials were put to dramatic use.
T. HARPER
(Ima kagami)
By the latter part of the twelfth century, The Tale of Genji was firmly ensconced in the classical canon of Japan and an object of scholarly attention, required reading for all men and women of letters. Yet for a work of prose fiction, this position of preeminence proved decidedly less comfortable than for the more orthodox forms of literature. The century and a half that had passed since the composition of The Tale of Genji had been marked by warfare and a steady decline in the wealth and power of the aristocrats of the world of the Shining Genji. While this unsettled state of affairs unquestionably heightened late-Heian aristocrats’ appreciation for Murasaki Shikibu’s brilliant depiction of their past glories, it also inspired a new earnestness in religion, one consequence of which was an upsurge in moral misgivings about the ultimate worth of literature—misgivings from which no form of imaginative writing was totally exempt, but which aroused particular objections to fictions in prose. So as admiration for Genji grew, its expression took on a melancholic and defensive tone as the devout attempted to justify their attachment to a work that plainly violated the moral precepts of Buddhism. “The Progress of Fiction” (Tsukurimonogatari no yukue) is one of the earliest such defenses.
The defense constitutes the final chapter of the historical tale The Mirror of the Present6 and is cast in the form common to all works of the “Mirror” genre, in which a preternaturally aged person, encouraged by an audience of inquisitive pilgrims, gives a rambling, firsthand account of times long past. The narrator of The Mirror of the Present is a “toothless and doddering” woman more than 150 years old, who as a young girl had served as a lady-in-waiting to Murasaki Shikibu. While gathering fern shoots in the vicinity of her home, she encounters a band of pilgrims returning from the temple at Hatsuse who, upon learning her age and identity, begin to ply her with questions. Toward the end of the day, one of the pilgrims laments the severity of Murasaki’s punishment for having written so “insinuating and suggestive” a tale, and the work closes with the old woman’s attempt to defend the writings of her former mistress. The ensuing conversation provides an excellent epitome of the arguments for and against fiction that were to be rehearsed again and again throughout the medieval era in Japan.
Strict interpretation of Buddhist moral precepts led to the conclusion that any sort of fiction was a form of “falsehood” (mōgo) and that highly literary or poetic writing broke the commandment against “specious, fancy language” (kigo or kigyo). As a tale of “amorous intrigues,” The Tale of Genji was further censured for corrupting morals and exciting passions. The cumulative force of these several strictures can be gauged by the widespread credence given the legend mentioned by the first pilgrim, that Murasaki Shikibu had been cast into hell for writing Genji and that her readers were in danger of like retribution.
Defenders of Genji argued not against the basic validity of these charges, but for a more subtle interpretation of the precepts on which they were based. One line of reasoning held that Genji, though not “true” in the literal sense, was a moral fable and therefore a form of “expedient truth” (hōben) such as the Buddha had used in preaching to those incapable of grasping more sublime expressions of the dharma. The immoral acts depicted in the novel could thus be seen as serving the same purpose as those related by the Buddha in his parables: to illustrate graphically the true nature and consequences of wrongdoing in order to inculcate in the reader an abhorrence of evil. Buttressing this argument was the popular belief in bodhisattvas who appeared in human form in order to “lead us humans to enlightenment.” The narrator of The Mirror of the Present is only one of many to suggest that Murasaki was “no ordinary person” but an avatar of the bodhisattva Avalokitésvara (J. Kannon), while the pilgrims suspect that the old woman herself might be a supernatural being.
Another line of argument resorted to in “The Progress of Fiction” was based on the doctrine of the “Middle Way” expounded by the Indian sage Nagarjuna (ca. 150–250).7 In its original form, this was a complex metaphysical postulate that held, among other things, that all sensory perceptions are illusory; hence all distinctions between true and false, right and wrong, good and evil, and so forth, are meaningless. Seeming differences are only seeming; all ultimately partake of a single Absolute. In Japan, however, this doctrine was often interpreted in ways more utilitarian than metaphysical. Objections to literature could thus be confuted by citing, as the old woman does, the passage from the Nirvana Sutra that says “even coarse and insinuating language partakes of Absolute Truth,”8 or the Chinese poet Bo Juyi’s (772–846) prayer that the “wild words and fancy phrases” of his poetry might lead the way to enlightenment.
For all their grounding in scripture, however, the old woman’s arguments derive their cogency no less from their appeal to a predilection for intuited over reasoned truth. From this cast of mind grew the conception of Japanese poetry as primarily a vehicle for the “meditations of the heart,” without which one could not fully apprehend the “essential nature” of things. When the narrator claims that “to stir people’s hearts can be a virtue” and that The Tale of Genji “reveals the workings of a feeling heart,” she is in effect claiming these same functions for fiction and, in so doing, basing her argument on one of the most incontrovertible tenets of Japanese literary theory.
Others, however, like the first pilgrim who speaks, were not content with sophistry and felt that Murasaki’s sins required justification as well as propitiation. It was from this attitude that the practice of Genji kuyō grew.
T. HARPER
The Progress of Fiction (Tsukurimonogatari no yukue)
Again the pilgrim spoke: “How true it is I do not know, but so often we hear that Murasaki Shikibu, for crafting so insinuating and suggestive a tissue of lies in her Tale of Genji, was in the afterlife doomed to be consumed in smoke, like seaweed in the salt fires. This so upsets me that, vain though it may be to hope for her deliverance, I should like to make some offering for the repose of her soul.”
“Yes,” the old woman replied, “that is indeed what everyone says. And yet in Japan, as in China, the writings of the wise have always brought comfort to people’s hearts and have illuminated the way for dimmer minds; this hardly deserves the name of falsehood [mōgo]. To describe what never did happen, protesting behind a face of innocence that it is actually true, to lead others to think well of evil—to utter any sort of lie [soragoto] is sinful indeed. But is The Tale of Genji really such an empty fabrication? Meretricious [kigo] or specious [zōego] you might call it, but these hardly seem the most monstrous of sins. To take the life of any living creature or to steal even the least of a person’s treasures—these are horrible sins for which the offender may be plunged to the very depths of hell. But I find it hard to imagine that such should be the lot of Murasaki Shikibu, though to be sure I have no knowledge of what retribution she might now be suffering. To stir people’s hearts can, after all, be productive of virtue. And though to excite the passions may perhaps prevent one’s release from the cycle of rebirth, this is hardly so serious a transgression as to condemn one to hell. It is difficult enough to comprehend the affairs of our own time; but in China, the poet Bo Juyi composed works amounting to seventy-some volumes, which greatly stirred people’s hearts with their elegant phrases and ingenious conceits—and this man, we are told, was the incarnation of Manjusri. Indeed, the Buddha himself, when he preached in parables, invented stories of events that never occurred, and these certainly are not to be regarded as falsehoods. For a mere woman to have written such a marvelous book as this, well, it doesn’t seem to me she could have been any ordinary person. More than likely, she was Gadgadasvara or Avalokitésvara or some other supernatural being, come to us in the form of a woman to preach the dharma and lead us to enlightenment.”
A child in her company then said: “I can see how some women who have led others to enlightenment might indeed have been Avalokitésvara incarnate—such as Queen Vimaladatta, who led the king before the Buddha and persuaded him to reform his wicked ways,9 or Queen Shrimala, whose praise of the Buddha, inspired by her parents’ epistles, will transmit the dharma to generations yet unborn.10 But The Tale of Genji is such a farrago of amorous intrigues, all set forth as the very truth, that it corrupts people’s minds and excites their passions. How are we to regard this as the sacred and holy dharma?”
“Yes,” the old woman said, “there is some truth in what you say. Yet when you consider what an extraordinary and marvelous work Genji is; that she has written not just a scroll or two but a book of sixty chapters; that nowhere is it flawed by frivolity; that in the past as in the present it has brought pleasure even to emperors and empresses, who have made magnificent copies of it and have prized it above all their treasures—when you consider all these things, I say, what in fact strikes one as odd is that anyone could consider its author sinful. By showing the deeply sinful, it inspires one to chant the holy name of the Buddha and thus can serve as a first step toward the enlightenment of those for whose deliverance we pray. By revealing to us the workings of a feeling heart, it wins over to the path of righteousness those mired in the miseries of life; in demonstrating the evanescence of this world, it is by no means without effect as an exhortation to the Way of the Buddha. And when you further consider that it depicts one who, though grieved at having to leave behind his loved ones yet keeps the precepts of the Novice,11 and a woman who guards her chastity until death in obedience to her father’s dying injunctions,12 it is plain to see that this tale was intended as an object lesson. When readers see how Genji, who enjoyed the boundless favor of the Emperor and was blessed with the best of all possible karmas, yet dies as though all this had been but a dream or an illusion, they cannot but realize how ephemeral are the things of this world. And then there is the Emperor, who relinquishes his throne to his younger brother and retires to a hermitage in the western hills:13 here is another example of one devoted to the Way of the Buddha and learned in the dharma, one indeed that calls to mind that Emperor of old in the “Devadatta” chapter of the Lotus Sutra.14 Vasubandhu has written at the beginning of his treatise15 that nothing but the wisdom to distinguish right from wrong can rescue the heart lost in darkness, for so deep are the depths of delusion that the ignorant only drift on as though upon a bottomless sea. And so the Buddha in his benevolence has given us this means to discern the true nature of things and turn us in the way of enlightenment—this seed of the propagation of his dharma—that even coarse and insinuating language can lead the way to the Truth of the Absolute. To be sure, The Tale of Genji is not the untainted holy word of the dharma, and many passages describe the amorous intrigues you speak of. Yet under the pure morning light of the dharma, surely anyone with such great compassion as to pray for the deliverance of Murasaki Shikibu—whether because she found comfort in her book or was deeply touched by it—surely such a person must form a very deep bond of good karma.”
As she spoke, the pilgrims, in their eagerness to hear more, lost all thought of their destination. Yet loath though they were to part from her, the sun had begun to set, and they went their separate ways.
“Perhaps one day we shall all meet again,” she said, “for I hope in some future life to become a buddha and preach the dharma, as I’ve done here today, under the Tree of Enlightenment.”
These words convinced the pilgrims that she could be no ordinary mortal. But later, when they sought her at the place where she said she lived, she was not to be found. Filled with regret that they had not sent one of their number to follow her, they proceeded on their way.
TRANSLATED BY T. HARPER
(Gon Chūnagon Saneki Kyō no haha shū)
The composer of the majority of poems in this collection, a woman known to us only as “the mother of Acting Middle Counselor Lord Saneki,” was once a shirabyōshi, a female entertainer who danced and sang wearing male court costume. Hers is the only personal poetry collection by a shirabyōshi to have survived, and as such it provides evidence of the rich store of cultural knowledge possessed by such women, knowledge that in this case included familiarity with The Tale of Genji. Over the course of a long relationship with a low-ranking member of the Taira warrior house, Chikakiyo (d. 1275), “the mother of Acting Middle Counselor Lord Saneki” gave birth to several children, including at least one son as well as Chikakiyo’s fourth and fifth daughters. For a time, she also was involved with the much higher-ranking Saionji Kintsune (1171–1244), who had risen to the office of Grand Minister of State before taking vows (administered by Myōe) in 1231. “Lord Saneki” (1239–1267) was her son by Kintsune, and she was pregnant with another of his children, a daughter, when he died in 1244. She also outlived Chikakiyo and several of her children by him. We do not know when she died, but one source suggests sometime between 1293 and 1299. Through her lover Kintsune, whose elder sister was married to Fujiwara no Teika, the mother of Lord Saneki also was distantly connected to the great poet and scholar of Genji.16
Collected Poems of the Mother of Acting Middle Counselor Lord Saneki consists of 887 poems divided between two volumes. The collection is thought to have been compiled near the end of the thirteenth century by someone other than the author herself. In the words of one twentieth-century scholar, “It bears no sign of deliberate editing.”17 Only one manuscript survives, in the Shoryōbu imperial archives. Although the manuscript is not dated, the titles of the two volumes are in the hand of the Reigen Emperor (1654–1732; r. 1663–1687), indicating that it was copied in the mid-seventeenth century.
In addition to the five “obsequies for Genji” (Genji kuyō) poems translated here,18 the collection includes a series of nine poems based on chapter titles of The Tale of Genji19 and ten poems inspired by someone’s remark that “in The Tale of Genji it is first and foremost the ‘ranking of women’ [shinasadame] that one must comprehend.”20
G. G. ROWLEY
141. At a time when I was reading The Tale of Genji day and night, I saw Murasaki Shikibu in a dream, and for her enlightenment I sponsored obsequies at which the Lotus Sutra was dedicated.21 When the disquisition was delivered, I wrote the following:
nori naranu koto ya wa aru to murasaki no / fukaki kokoro o tazunete zo tou
So profound a mind has she that I would seek her out and inquire of
Murasaki Shikibu: Be there aught not of the Law?
142. On the occasion of a sudden downpour early one evening, to my younger daughter:
murasaki no kusaba mo ima ya moeiden / koyoi ichimi no ame sosogu nari
How the leaves of the murasaki must now be sprouting green and bright,
this evening when the rain pours equally upon us all.22
ima ya kono minori no ame ni murasaki no / karenishi nobe no kusa mo moyuran
Blessed now at last by the rain of the Law, how must the parched fields and plains
of murasaki be sprouting brightly with their new growth.
144. Sent to my elder daughter, with a copy of “Lauds for Genji” [Genji kōshiki] that I had written:
naniwa-e no ama no susabi mo minori zo to / kakioku ato o aware to wa miyo
Pray look with pity on the traces of these words I write,
for even this trifle by a fishermaid at Naniwa is of the Law.
hikari aru nori no tamamo o kakioku ya / satori nagisa no ama no ko no tame
Is it for the sake of that fishermaid’s child on the shore of enlightenment
you gather the glistening sea grasses of the Law?
TRANSLATED BY G. G. ROWLEY
(Fujiwara no Takanobu A son shū)
Fujiwara no Takanobu (1141–1205) was the son of Bifukumon’in Kaga, born to her before her marriage to Fujiwara no Shunzei. We therefore know that the excerpt from this particular Genji kuyō was sponsored by Shunzei’s wife.23
T. HARPER
When Mother sponsored a dedication of the complete [Lotus] Sutra for the benefit of Murasaki Shikibu and I undertook to copy the “Dharani” chapter,
yume no uchi mo mamoru chikai no shirushi araba /nagaki nemuri o samase to omou
Should this vow that Mother keeps, even in her dreams, one day be fulfilled,
may it awaken her [Murasaki Shikibu] from the long sleep of delusion.
TRANSLATED BY T. HARPER
(Shinchokusen wakashū)
Fujiwara no Muneie (d. 1189) was married to a daughter of Fujiwara no Shunzei, so it is possible that the following poem was composed for the Genji kuyō sponsored by Bifukumon’in Kaga,24 but no documentary proof of such a connection survives. The “rain of the dharma” is a metaphor used in the “The Parable of Medicinal Herbs” chapter of the Lotus Sutra to describe the teaching of the Buddha, which, like the rain, waters all plants equally but does not result in equal growth in all.
Upon sending “The Parable of Medicinal Herbs” to be dedicated at rites of bonding with the Buddha, for the benefit of Murasaki Shikibu.
ACTING GRAND COUNSELOR MUNEIE
nori no ame ni ware mo nuren mutsumashiki / wakamurasaki no kusa no yukari ni
By the rain of the dharma, would that I, too, might be blessed, for my close
affinity with the tender young murasaki sprouts.
TRANSLATED BY T. HARPER
(Genji ipponkyō)
This proclamation (hyōbyaku)25 employs Bo Juyi’s double-edged rhetoric that both justifies secular literature as an instrument to propagate Buddhism and apologizes for erroneously creating it in the first place.26 Bo Juyi’s formulation is quoted verbatim in the proclamation and is applied to prose fiction as a genre and to The Tale of Genji in particular. The collective project for which this proclamation was composed—the copying of a complete text of the Lotus Sutra27—involved the apparently unprecedented painting of scenes from Genji, which were attached to the sutra scrolls. The work is anomalous also in that it was composed of intricately crafted couplets, characteristic of Sino-Japanese (kanbun) parallel prose, although it was undoubtedly read out, or sung, as Japanese.
The author of this proclamation, the Tendai prelate Chōken (1126–1203), was a son of Fujiwara no Michinori (Shinzei, 1106–1159), a talented and learned scholar who amassed a vast collection of Chinese books and was renowned for producing a superb picture scroll of Bo Juyi’s “Song of Everlasting Sorrow.” Shinzei is better known, however, as a political figure who acquired sufficient power to punish his enemies in the Hōgen uprising (1156) by reactivating the death penalty after a 346-year hiatus. Three years later, in the Heiji uprising (1159), Shinzei was dragged from the hole in which he was hiding and beheaded. The source of Shinzei’s power was the influence of his second wife, Fujiwara Tomoko (Kii no Nii), who served as wet nurse to the GoShirakawa Emperor and whose name has been suggested as one of the painters of the twelfth-century Genji monogatari emaki (The Tale of Genji Illustrated Scrolls). Fortunately, because Chōken was not one of those whom his father had installed in a position of power, he was not implicated in the Heiji uprising and was banished only briefly to Shimotsuke (present-day Tochigi Prefecture). Afterward, he went on to found the first hereditary line of Buddhist preachers, known as the Agui school. Chōken’s eloquence is known to have startled his audiences at times, often moving them to tears and occasionally even to laughter.
The date of the dedicatory service for which this proclamation was composed is unclear, but the author, Chōken, was most active from the 1160s to the 1180s. On another occasion, he employed the same logic of kyōgen kigo in a sermon meant to justify the composition of waka. The proclamation from that service appears to date from the year 1166 and is therefore thought to indicate roughly the date of the Genji proclamation.
On the basis of a pair of waka and their headnotes found elsewhere, the sponsor of the service for which this proclamation was composed was long assumed to have been Bifukumon’in Kaga, the mother of Fujiwara no Teika. The attribution in the Sōanshū manuscript, however, makes it clear that the project’s principal sponsor was another lady-in-waiting, known as Tosa no Naishi. Unfortunately, her actual name, dates, and family are unknown. We know only that she was a poet of some renown who was associated with Shun’e and his Karin’en circle of poets, who frequently composed waka on topics taken from Genji, and also with Kamo no Shigeyasu and his circle.28
MICHAEL JAMENTZ
Tosa no Naishi, a nun in service to the Retired Emperor, urged various people to copy out the [Lotus] Sutra, each doing one chapter and providing paintings of scenes from Genji for the covers. 29
Considering the pleasures of literature and the appeal of the classics, we see that the purposes of these writings vary and their significance differs. The sutras of the buddhas and the treatises of the bodhisattvas reveal the sources of the precepts and wisdom; they have opened the gate of the nirvana of enlightenment since the distant past. The writings of the Duke of Zhou30 and the Analects of Confucius concentrate on the Way of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, and wisdom.31 They clarify the principles of the relationships between lord and subject, parent and child. Although these two types differ, one being scriptural and the other secular, together they conform completely to the true principles of this world and the next. 32 Moreover, the Scribe of the Left33 has recorded in detail times of tranquillity and turbulence in the realms of a hundred kings, and periods of security and peril for all the world within the four seas. 34 The verses of the poets who compose in Chinese take objects of nature as their topics and describe, as suits their fancy, the pleasures of spring scenery and the views of autumn vistas.
In addition to these genres, in our own realm, we have what we call waka. Composing them is an established custom of the people of Japan. In this land, there also exist what we call tales. They are the products of both past and present. They include Ochikubo, Iwaya, Nezame, Shinobine, Sagoromo, Ōgi nagashi, Sumiyoshi, Mitsu no Hamamatsu, Sueba no tsuyu, Ama no hagoromo, Kaguyahime, Hikaru Genji,35 and so forth. Such works as these tales do not recount the good and evil deeds of people of the past, nor do they record the ancient matters of past reigns. Through falsehood, they create events that never happened and people that never existed. They invent ages and reigns, creating something out of nothing. Although the stories they tell are truly beyond counting, all of them merely describe relations between men and women.
Among these, The Tale of the Shining Genji, which was the creation of Murasaki Shikibu, is composed of sixty fascicles and organized in forty-nine chapters.36 Its language is drawn from both secular and Buddhist texts. The elegant discourse between men and women is cleverly crafted throughout. Of all tales, from past to present, it stands alone in its excellence. Its alluring language is exquisite, greatly exciting the passions. For those men and women who favor amorous pursuits and those, whether high or low, who value superficial luster, this tale is the stuff of their idle talk and so nurtures untoward thoughts in the hearts of others.37 Thus sheltered maidens in the recesses of their homes read it and are furtively driven to springtime longings. Lonely men, reclining on their cold mats, open it and languish vainly in autumnal reverie.
It is thus that the ghost of the one who created it as well as those who have perused it are assuredly bound in sin, trapped in the cycle of birth and death. All of them will be plunged onto the blades of the saber-branched trees of hell. As a consequence, the ghost of Murasaki Shikibu has long since been appearing in people’s dreams, warning them of the gravity of this sin.
Therefore, our grand sponsor, the eminent nun, in her piety, has attempted, on the one hand, to save the author’s soul and, on the other, to rescue those who have read or listened to the tale. She has urged in particular those who have entered the path of Buddhism as well as those still of this world, both high and low, to copy the true word of the twenty-eight chapters of the Lotus Sutra and to illustrate each chapter with a scene from Genji at the beginning of each scroll, thereby truly turning delusion into enlightenment. The chapters of the sutra have thus been matched to the chapters of the tale in order to transform these amorous words into the seeds of wisdom.
In the past, Bo Juyi vowed to “make the error of wild words and fancy phrases into the karmic cause of praise for the one vehicle of the Buddha and to create karmic opportunities to turn the wheel of the dharma.”38 Now in order to save others, the nun seeks to transform the excesses of those alluring words found in its several chapters so as to adhere to the cosmic law of immutable truth and to create a karmic source for unsurpassed, true enlightenment.
That was but a passing moment, and this, too, is but a moment. Let us together depart the sea of suffering and ascend to the shore of enlightenment.
OFFICIANT, AGUI HŌIN CHŌKEN39
TRANSLATED BY MICHAEL JAMENTZ
(Genji kuyō sōshi)
Yet another proclamation (hyōbyaku) composed for dedicatory rites on behalf of Murasaki Shikibu is attributed to Chōken’s son Seikaku (1167–1235),40 who succeeded his father as head of the Agui line of preaching prelates. This work survives independently in various sources and is even reprinted in Kitamura Kigin’s great commentary Kogetsushō. The most interesting context in which it is found, however, is a Muromachi-period (1333–1568) story (otogizōshi), in which its origins are “explained.” The story is probably a fiction but is not implausible. Unlike his father’s proclamation, Seikaku’s is written in Japanese41 and incorporates every chapter title from Genji in a lyrical, though often syntactically loose, setting of Buddhist doctrine, the whole forming a continuous how from “Kiritsubo” to “Yume no ukihashi.” Even if it was not composed impromptu, as the story claims, it is nonetheless an impressive performance of the principle of non-duality.42
T. HARPER
Seikaku Hōin,43 of the temple Agoin,44 had two residences, East and West. The Eastern Residence was a tranquil place, undisturbed by visitors, where he could compose his thoughts and prepare his sermons. The only resident was a young acolyte named Zebun. The Western Residence was where his disciples always gathered for study and where he received callers. In the inner quarters, as they were called, the ladies of the house-hold lived and managed his private affairs.
One day around the middle of the Third Month, back when he was still known as Seikaku the Grand Prelate, he was composing a sermon at his Eastern Residence. Dressed in a sleeveless robe of rough silk, with a hempen surplice thrown over his shoulder, and shod in sandals worn down at the heel, he was circumambulating the veranda,45 when from an easterly direction he heard the sounds of an approaching carriage. To the east, a rushing stream flowed down the valley; carriages did not normally pass that way. What might be the meaning of this? he wondered, listening intently. Whereupon the carriage halted before his own gate, and someone pounded vigorously on the doors. Whoever might this be? he thought with a start. He called to Zebun,
“Come now! Can’t you hear that pounding at the gate?”
The boy had been napping, and still half-asleep, never questioning who it might be, he threw open both the left and right panels. The Prelate took refuge behind the wooden door at the carriage landing, peering out from which he spied a fawn-colored carriage adorned with large eight-petal crests and hung with long tinted curtains beneath the blinds….46 Five or six lackeys, clad in white cloak and trousers, were in attendance. They pushed the gate wide open and swiftly entered the compound. Who could this be? the Prelate wondered; but Zebun had fled, and there was no one else he could command to make inquiries in his stead. He could only gaze wide-eyed at the scene. They unhitched the carriage and turned it to face the wooden door. The Prelate himself handed them the straw mat for the carriage landing, whereupon the lackeys pushed the door shut again and shunted the carriage into position.
As he watched, a gentlewoman of twenty-two or twenty-three alighted, wearing crimson trousers and a diaphanous gown. Then the Prelate saw another woman gently alight, a nun of twenty-four or twenty-five, fine featured with a pale white complexion, wearing a pale persimmon robe next to her skin and over it a black robe with white trousers. The Prelate slid open the panel door and took refuge inside. He was quite perplexed what sort of people these might be, but when he cleared his throat, the gentlewoman spoke.
“Might we have a word with you?” she said.
“Concerning what…?” he replied.
“A person from the Eastern Hills who wishes to speak with you has made her way hither,” she said.
“But whose dwelling do you imagine this might be, that you should make your way here?” When he said this, a look of doubt crossed her face.
“I had our attendants drive the carriage in here, thinking this was the residence of the preaching Prelate. But am I perhaps mistaken?”
“From time to time, I do preach a poor sermon of sorts,” the Prelate replied, “but I can hardly imagine who from the Eastern Hills might honor me with a visit.”
“Were she some grand personage, I should gladly tell you who comes from the Eastern Hills. But she lives deep in a valley you may never even have heard of. Even if I were to tell you, I doubt that you would have heard of her; we are not the sort whose names are well known. She simply wishes to meet you and speak with you.”
In the meantime, the Prelate had changed into a somewhat more presentable robe, donned a silken surplice, and come to sit by the sliding panel.
“I am no one toward whom you need feel reticent,” the gentlewoman said. “Could you perhaps slide the panel open a bit?”
Since the gentlewoman herself showed no reticence, there seemed no need for the monk to do so, and he slid the panels all the way open. And there sat the nun, facing north, directly opposite him, as in a formal audience. But when she turned her gaze slightly to the west, he could see from her face and bearing that she was no ordinary woman. Even when she was about to speak, the expression that spread from ear to ear across her face bespoke great reluctance to do so.
“I am loath even to speak of this,” she said, “but since childhood, my thoughts have been deeply tainted by a storybook called Genji, which I found utterly fascinating. But in the spring of this past year, I came to my senses and, as you see, became a nun. I am now determined to give my undivided attention to thoughts of the hereafter. Yet, those things that for long I read still linger, unforgotten, in my mind, and I find myself thinking, ‘Now it was in this chapter that such and such happened…,’ which distracts me from my devotions when I am chanting the nenbutsu. I know full well how grievously sinful this is, and so in atonement, I purposely tore up several chapters of this book,47 both those I myself had copied and those I had had others copy for me, and had them remade as sutra rolls, onto which I copied, in my own hand, the entire Lotus Sutra.
“Were I a person of any consequence, it would behoove me to extend an invitation to you; but being of such mean station, I would hardly dare ask that you honor me with a visit. Neither would I be able to offer you such recompense as I would wish. Even so, it would be a terrible shame to request this of a rude monk from a rustic mountain temple. And so, hoping at least to forge an initial bond with the Way of the Buddha, I have, despite all, come to you. Might I beg of you, then, if only for form’s sake, to sound your chime on my behalf?”
The Prelate replied: “That I, Seikaku, make my way through this life as a preacher of the dharma is well known to all and sundry. But to conduct rites of dedication to the Buddha or in praise of the scriptures would require that I prepare a written proclamation, for which I would need advance notice from your good self. Your command that I do so this very moment, here in your presence, I am hard put to obey.”
“It is nothing so very grandiose that I require,” Her Ladyship the nun said. “I dare hope that you might in some small way oblige me only because I place such great faith in you. Please, I pray you, simply sound your chime for me.”
“It would indeed be too heartlessly cruel of me to send away one whose devotion is so great. Very well, then—here and now, if only for form’s sake, let me offer you my humble services.”
Overjoyed, her gentlewoman summoned their lackeys and had them bring in the sutra box. The fabric of the pouch in which it was wrapped hinted to him that its contents would bear no resemblance to anything commonplace, and when he saw the sutra box that they produced from it—redolent with the rich scent of a renowned incense, its polished lacquer surface adorned with a scene strewn in gold dust, the scattering cherry petals in mother-of-pearl, with silver edging in the Chinese fashion—it was obvious that this was something quite exceptional. Then the box was opened, revealing sutra scrolls of extraordinary magnificence, with cover papers of deep blue and spindles of crystal. The Prelate summoned Zebun and had the boy bring him his battered old lectern. He assumed that the gentlewoman would first place a protective layer of paper on it, but she took up the scrolls, one after another, and set them out in a row. She could see perfectly well how decrepit a lectern it was, fraught with broad cracks between its slats. “And yet a gentlewoman can bring herself to use such a thing?” he thought, marveling only the more how very gracious she was. He, of course, had an incense burner at hand, but to give the rite a special touch, he had a sprig of star anise brought in, which he used to sound the chime. Then unobtrusively, he made triple obeisance and began, there and then, almost inaudibly, to chant a full catalog of the chapters of Genji:
Kiritsubo no yūbe no kemuri, sumiyaka ni hosshō no sora ni noboru,
In the evening, smoke rising from the pyre of the lady of the Paulownia Court ascends swiftly to the heavens of the dharma nature,
Hahakigi no yoru no kotoba wa, tsui ni kakuju no hana o hirakan.
While those trifling words spoken that night in the Broom Tree ultimately shall cause flowers to bloom on the tree of enlightenment.
Utsusemi no munashiki kono yo o itoite,
Despising this world, as empty as the Cicada’s Shell,
Yūgao no tsuyu no inochi o kanji,
Contemplating her whose life was as fleeting as dew on a Moonflower,
Waka [Waga?] murasaki no kumo no mukae o ete,48
And receiving the welcome of those who come for us on Delicate Purple clouds,
Suetsumuhana no utena ni za seshimen.
Then shall we be seated on the throne of the [Saf]flower of the Lotus.
Momiji no ga no aki no yūbe ni wa, ochiba o nozomite, ui o kanashimi,
On the autumn evening of the Celebration of Autumn Leaves, gazing at those leaves as they fall, lamenting the impermanence of all phenomena,
Hana no en no haru no ashita ni wa, hika o kanjite mujō o satorite,49
On the spring morning of the Cherry Blossom Festival, observing the ?uttering petals, awakening to the impermanence of all things,
Tamatama busshō ni Afu hi [Aoi] nari.50
Then perchance shall come that Day of Encounter with our own Buddha nature.
Sakaki-ba no, sashite jōsetsu wo negaubeshi.
Proffering a sprig from the Sacred Tree, pray then for rebirth in the Pure Land.
Hana chiru sato ni kokoro o todomu to iedomo, aibetsu rikū no kotowari manugaraegatashi.51
And though our hearts may long to linger in this Village of Falling Flowers, there is no escaping the truth that all must know the pain of parting with loved ones.
Tada subekaraku wa, shōji ryūrō no Suma no ura o idete,
What must, above all, be done is to depart that desolate shore of Suma, where one wanders in the endless cycle of birth and death,
Shichi enmyō no Akashi no ura ni itaran ga tame nari.52
So as to arrive at the shore of total Understanding of the Four Modes of Wisdom.
Miotsukushi, Sekiya no yukiau michi o nogarete, hannya no kiyoki migiri ni omomuki,
Avoiding that way where they who come via the Channel Markers and the Barrier Gate chance to meet and making, instead, for that pure place of Transcendent Wisdom,
Yomogiu no fukaki kusamura o wakete, bodai no makoto no michi o negawan.
Parting the thick clumps of Wormwood, let us seek out the Way to the truth of enlightenment.
Nani zo Mida no sonyō o utsushite, Eawase to shi,
And might we not enter a rendition of the honored visage of Amida in the Picture Competition,
Matsukaze ni gosshō no Usugumo o harawazaran?
Thus allowing the Wind in the Pines to blow away the Thin Clouds of hindrance?
Shō, rō, byō, shi no Asagao no hikage o matan hodo nari.53
Birth, aging, illness, and death last only as long as the Morning Glory awaits the sun.
Rōshō no sakai, Otome ga Tamakazura kaketemo nao tanomigatashi.54
Even the Maiden who has only just adorned her hair with the Tendril Wreath can hardly be certain whether old or young shall die first.
Tani uchiizuru uguisu no, Hatsune mo nani ka mezurashikaran. Fugan en’ō no saezuri ni wa shikaji.
What is there so wondrous in the First Song of the warbler that darts out from the valley? It is no match for the call of the drake, the wild goose, the mandarin ducks.55
Magaki ni tawabururu Kochō mo, tada shibaraku no tanoshimi nari. Tennin shōju no asobi o omoiyare.
The Butterflies that disport themselves by the fence offer but a moment’s pleasure. Set your thoughts instead on the music of the heavenly host and the assembled saints.
Sawa no Hotaru no kuyuru omoi, Tokonatsu nari to iedomo,
Our smoldering regrets, so like Fireflies on the marsh, though they last Summer Long,
Tachimachi ni chie no Kakaribi ni hikikaete,
In an instant may be transformed into a blazing Watch Fire of wisdom,
Nowaki no kaze ni kiyuru koto naku;
Never to be extinguished by the winds of the Storm;
Nyōrai Kakuō no Miyuki ni tomonaite,
Then joining the Royal Progress of that Monarch of Enlightenment the Buddha,
Jihi ninniku no Fujibakama o, jōbon rendai ni kokoro o kakete,
We don the Purple Trousers of compassion and forbearance, set our hearts on the highest of the high among lotus thrones,
Shippō shōgon no Makibashira no moto ni itaran.
That we may arrive at the base of that Cypress Pillar so splendidly adorned with the Seven Treasures.
Umegae no nioi ni kokoro o tomuru koto naku,
Content yourself not with the fragrance of a Branch of Plum,
Jōdo no Fuji no uraba o moteasobubeshi.
But delight instead in the New Leaves of Wisteria in the Pure Land.
Kano sentō sennen mo kyūji ni wa, Wakana o tsumite sennin ni kuyō seshikaba, jōbutsu tokudō no in to nariniki.
Because he who was once King [sentō], throughout his thousand years of servitude, plucked Young Sprouts and gave them in offering to the Seer [sennin], this became the direct cause of his mastery of the Way and his attainment of Buddhahood.56
Natsugoromo tachii ni, ikani shite ka hitoeda no Kashiwagi o hiroite, myōhō no takigi to nashite, mushi kōgō no tsumi o horoboshi, hon’u jōju no fūkō o kagayakashite, shōju no ongaku no Yokobue o kikan.
In the course of our own daily lives, slight as summer raiment though they be, would that we might somehow take up a branch of the Oak Tree, use it to fuel the fire of the wondrous dharma, whose flames would consume all our sins throughout time without beginning and illumine brilliantly the beauties of our original and eternal Buddha nature, that we might hearken to The Flute as it plays the music of the assembled saints.
Urameshiki kana ya, busshō no yo ni umarenagara, ie o ide, na o sutsuru migiri ni wa, Suzumushi no koe furisutegataku,
How lamentable! That despite being born into this world with the Buddha nature, even when we leave behind our homes and abandon fame, we still find it so difficult to forsake the song of the Bell Cricket,
Michi ni iri kazari o orosu tokoro ni, Yūgiri no musebi haregatashi.
And when we enter the Way and take the tonsure, we still can hardly avoid being choked with tears at the sight of the Evening Mist.
Kanashiki kana ya, ningen ni shō o ukenagara, Minori no michi o shirazu shite kukai ni shizumi;
How very sad! That despite being born a human, we should sink in the sea of anguish, never knowing the Way of The Law;
Maboroshi no yo o itowazu shite seiro o itonamu koto shikaji.57
Far better that one make one’s way down the road of life knowing never an ill thought for this world of Illusion.
Tada Kaoru daishō no ka o aratamete, shōren no hanabusa ni omoi o some Niou Hyōbukyō no nioi o hirugaeshite wa, kōno kemuri no yoso’oi to nari,
Merely by altering the fragrance of Commandant Kaoru, we shall imbue our thoughts with the bloom of the blue lotus58 and, transforming the scent of The Perfumed Prince, provide the smoke of offertory incense,
Takekawa no mizu o musubite wa, bonnō no mi o susugi,
Scooping up water from the Bamboo River shall we wash away our delusion,
Kōbai no iro o utsushite, aichaku no kokorozashi o ushinaubeshi.
And, draining the tint from the Crimson Plum, banish our attachment to the bonds of affection.
Matsu yoi no fukeshi o nagekiken Uji no Hashihime ni itaru made, Ubasoku ga okonau michi o shirube nite,
Onward until we reach Uji—where the Maiden of the Bridge, on those evenings when she waited, must have sighed that it had grown so late59—with the Way as practiced by the Novice as our guide,
Shii ga moto ni tomaru koto naku, hokubō no tsuyu to kienan yūbe ni wa, gedatsu no Agemaki o musubi;60
Halting not Beneath the Oak, but of an evening when we might vanish as the dew on Mount Mang to the north, let us tie the Trefoil Knot of release;
Tōtai no Sawarabi kemuri to noboran ashita ni wa,
And on a morning when we might rise up as smoke from the Fern Shoots on Mount T’ai in the east,61
Sendan no kage ni Yadorigi to naran.
Let us shelter in the shade of the sacred sandalwood, clinging to it like Ivy.
Tsukasa kurai o Azumaya no uchi ni nogarete,
We must flee office and rank, taking refuge in the Eastern Cottage,
Tanoshimi sakae o Ukifune ni tatoubeshi.
And liken the pleasures and successes of this life to a Drifting Boat.
Kore mo Kagerō no yo nari.
For these, too, are of a world as ephemeral as the Mayfly.
Aru ka naki ka no Tenarai ni, ōjō gokuraku no mon o kakubeshi.
Even at Writing Practice—though so desultory that we wonder, “Is it or is it not” 62—we should write the words “rebirth in paradise.”
Kare mo Yume no ukihashi no yo nari.
For that, too, is of a world as insubstantial as a Floating Bridge of Dreams.
Asa na yū na ni raigō injō o negaiwatarubeshi. Namu saihō gokuraku kyōshu Amida Nyōrai zenzei, negawaku wa kyōgen kigyo no ayamari o hirugaeshite, Murasaki Shikibu ga rokushu kugen o sukuitamae.
Morning and evening, let us ceaselessly pray that the Buddha might come and lead us to Paradise. Praise be to the Lord of the Western Paradise, the Buddha Amida, he who has gone on to the world of good beyond. And may those wild words and fancy phrases be transformed, so that Murasaki Shikibu may be rescued from the pain and suffering of rebirth in the six realms.63
When he had finished, he sounded the chime and pushed his lectern aside. Her Ladyship the nun was hard put to dry the tears that soaked her sleeve. Her gentlewoman, too, had to lower her eyes. Then from the pouch that held her amulet, she produced a hundredweight of gold dust wrapped in thin white paper, which she placed before him. Seeing this, the Prelate realized that these could be no common people. The gentle-woman had the carriage drawn up, and they departed.
The Prelate summoned one of his guardian monks and told him to find out where the carriage went. As the man followed them, taking care not to be seen, they came to the First Avenue and there turned in the direction of Shirakawa. As they proceeded eastward, passing north of the temple Hosshōji and on toward Hanazono, the sun began to set. At the crossroads east of Kusakawa, he saw them enter a south-facing double-door gate that appeared to be the main entrance to a high-gated palace. A resident of the neighborhood said it was the palace of the Honorary Empress.64 The guardsman gave some thought to the matter and then reported what he had learned.
“If she is the daughter of Naka no Kampaku,” 65 the Prelate said, “it seems to me this would make sense. Even so, this is most unusual. I sensed from the start that she was no ordinary woman.”
It was nothing new that the Honorary Empress thought Seikaku a superb preacher, but this she could hardly consider the work of a mere mortal. To recall, on the spot, all the chapters of Genji in their proper order,66 with never a moment’s hesitation or missing a single one—all the while drawing upon famous phrases and composing impromptu in elegant parallels—this seemed too miraculous to be the work of any ordinary man. I have heard that thereafter she summoned him whenever Buddhist rites were in order and that it was she who promoted him to the rank of hōin.
TRANSLATED BY T. HARPER
Notes
samushiro no koromo katashiki koyoi mo ya / ware o matsuran uji no hashihime
This evening, too, on a rough mat, her robe spread out for herself alone,
does she await me, the Maiden of the Bridge in Uji?
