“BY WHAT MEANS DO WE ATTRIBUTE VALUE to works of art, and how do our evaluations affect our ways of attending to them?”1 In the case of The Tale of Genji, the short answers to this double-edged question would be that the most voluminous of all such means was exegetical commentary and that this “form of attention” encouraged readers to regard Genji in ways that hitherto had been considered more appropriate to the Chinese classics or the Buddhist scriptures than to anonymous fictions written in prose.
As we have seen in previous chapters, in its earliest years Genji was treated principally as a romance, written “by a woman, for women, and about women.”2 This form of attention was a bountiful source of percipient and witty responses to Genji, though far too few of them were recorded. It was also completely compatible with that attitude to noncanonical texts, prevalent in manuscript cultures, in which each copyist feels free to make creative (or corrective) contributions to his or her own copy, uninhibited by the notion that the work in question might be regarded as in any way inviolable. Sei Shōnagon does lament how humiliating it is for the author of a tale when someone copies it badly or, worse, notes in the margin that something had to be “corrected” or, worse still, “left as is.”3 But for the most part, creative copying and even radical rewriting were regarded as literary acts just as legitimate as original authorship. With the application of commentarial modes of thinking to The Tale of Genji, all this changed.
If attitudes to noncanonical works can be described as creative or even forward-looking—in the sense that they mean to improve on the received text for the benefit of future readers—then commentarial thinking can only be described as conservative and retrospective. Commentarial tradition advances not by introducing new ideas and theories, but by looking to the past, not only to preserve the text as it was originally written, but also to consult previous commentary, on which to build further contributions to the study of the work in question. We may regret the loss of the spontaneity, daring, and wit of the ladies in A Nameless Notebook, and lament some of the outlandish notions that come from delving too deeply into obscure corners of the past. But neither can it be denied that in virtually every one of the multitude of commentaries compiled over the past eight hundred years there lie nuggets of observation and discovery that remain indispensable to our contemporary understanding of Genji. A glance at the annotation appended to almost any modern edition of Genji shows that exegetical commentary neither has outlived its usefulness nor will cease to be a major form of Genji scholarship in years to come.
Unfortunately, exegetical commentary is also the most difficult form of attention to illustrate concisely and does not lend itself to easy summary. The vastness of the corpus alone makes it impossible to convey a full sense of its riches with a few random samples, however judiciously chosen. And many of the annotations that might be offered as exemplars of the art, when torn from their context and translated, may seem either so cryptic as to demand further commentary of their own or so prolix as to conceal their virtues in verbiage—cryptic because they were not written to be read but to serve as aides-mémoires for an author who used them as lecture notes, and prolix because commentary is cumulative and its compilers often quote extensively from previous commentaries and other texts in the course of elaborating their own contributions to the discourse.
Commentary, then, is a very mixed bag. It presumes, in the first place, that you have a text of Genji on your desk alongside it and that you will immediately apply its comments to that text. Then, too, commentary is almost never neutral. It intends not only to remove obstacles to the understanding of the text to which it applies, but often to lead the reader to a “proper” understanding of that text—an understanding that may go beyond what the author actually states but that the commentator feels certain she must have meant.
Our introduction to the wealth of medieval commentary on Genji must therefore attempt to negotiate a compromise between the impossibility of fullness and the inconclusiveness of random illustration. No compromise is ideal, but the one we have chosen is this: we first briefly introduce the major mainstream commentaries, the salient features of each, and its place in the development of the tradition. Then we sample a few works that are anomalous to the tradition, yet of great importance in their own right. One is a commentary by the renga (classical linked verse) master Sōgi (1421–1502) devoted entirely to the famous “rainy night ranking of women” in the “Hahakigi” chapter of Genji. Another introduces the work of Kaoku Gyokuei (1526–after 1602), one of the very few women known to have written commentary on Genji in the medieval era. Finally, we translate a short passage from Kitamura Kigin’s (1624–1705) Kogetsushō, the last of those works that in the Edo period came to be called the “Old Commentaries.” The net result of this compromise is a rather short chapter on the most voluminous form of attention ever paid to The Tale of Genji, but one that, we hope, will suggest both the breadth and the depth of this rich tradition.
Tracing the development of this tradition, from its origins in textual criticism and simple glosses into a massive body of exegesis, is itself one of the many rewards of studying Genji commentary. The elements of the process had long been familiar to the educated in Japan, having been transmitted from China first via the Korean Peninsula and then through direct contact with the mainland. As in China, the principal objects of commentary in Japan were the Confucian classics and the Buddhist scriptures. At first no one felt any need to explicate Genji. It was written in the language of its day, about the people of its day. Nor had it any pretensions whatever to philosophical or doctrinal authority that might require further elucidation. As we have seen, almost two centuries were to pass between the first compilation of the Genji text and the Roppyakuban utaawase (1193), in which Fujiwara no Shunzei was to insist that “to compose poetry without having read Genji is inexcusable.”4 This declaration is rightly seen as signaling a turning point in attitudes to Genji.
The subsequent growth of a tradition of exegetical commentary is often linked to the increasing difficulty of understanding the language of Genji that came naturally with the passage of time. No doubt this was a contributing factor, but far more important was the growing sense, clearly evident in Shunzei’s pronouncement, that Genji should be required reading for any person of culture, that Genji was becoming canonical, a classic. And in the cultural milieu of East Asia, the intellectual traditions of which were, and are, so predominantly exegetical, it was inevitable that The Tale of Genji should become the object of commentary. What, then, was the process by which this nascent attitude to Genji burgeoned into a tradition of exegetical commentary?
The attitude articulated in Shunzei’s dictum of 1193 had begun to manifest itself in various forms well before the turn of the thirteenth century. Both Shunzei and his son Teika were collating several texts of Genji, with the aim of establishing an authoritative recension, an “ideal” text that would approximate as closely as possible the no longer extant text written by Murasaki Shikibu. And they were joined in this activity by Minamoto no Mitsuyuki and his son Chikayuki, with whom they regularly shared their knowledge and their manuscripts.5 It was these two houses that were to produce the two texts of Genji that have remained the most authoritative to the present day. In describing their efforts, these collaborators mention many other texts that they consulted—a text in the hand of Fujiwara no Yukinari, the Koreyuki manuscript—most of which survive only in fragments, if at all. Comparison and analysis were the most important aspects of this particular project, but it was from this work that the first sprouts of a commentarial tradition grew.
Related to the quest for an authoritative text was the quest for a deeper understanding of Genji. Like readers everywhere, the readers of Genji sometimes wrote little notes to themselves in the margins and between the lines of their texts. Most of these marginalia have been lost with the texts in which they were written. But in two cases that we know of, some were preserved. Sesonji (Fujiwara) no Koreyuki (d. 1175), for reasons he does not explain, decided to collect the marginalia from his own text in a separate volume that now, under the title Genji shaku or Koreyuki shaku, is considered the earliest extant commentary on The Tale of Genji. Koreyuki seems to have been concerned primarily to identify the literary sources, both Japanese and Chinese, to which Murasaki alludes in the tale. And so, in transferring his notes from text to notebook, he would usually preface them with a summary of the context in which they occurred. He also seems to have conceived his project as ongoing, for in later versions of his work some entries have been considerably expanded. For example, in the Maeda text:
In the “ranking of women” passage where it says, “Choose this one, and there you are; if she measures up in one way, she’ll be lacking in another…”
shika areba to areba kakari kaku sureba / ana iishirazu au sa kiru sa ni
If you choose thinking “there is this,” but then if you decide on that…
I hardly know what to say. Having the one, she’ll lack the other.6
In the later Shoryōbu text, this is expanded to read:
In the “rainy night ranking of women” passage (Uma no Kami’s story) where it says, “When you give some thought to the one woman you must choose to be the mistress of your house, you realize how many important matters there are that can go wrong if she is not equal to the task. Choose one, and there you are: if she measures up in one way, she’ll be lacking in another…”
shika ari to [shikari tote; -reba in variant texts] to sureba kakari kaku sureba / ana iishirazu au sa kiru sa ni
If you choose thinking “there is this,” but then if you decide on that…
I hardly know what to say. Having the one, she’ll lack the other.7
Thus begins the long line of medieval commentaries on Genji. A reader happens on a phrase that he recognizes from another context. It is made up of two noncontiguous ku from a variant version of a poem in the Kokinshū (no. 1060), and in a discussion of the difficulties of choosing a wife, the allusion lends a lightly ironic touch of humor to the speaker’s lament. Koreyuki, the reader, appreciates this and jots down the source poem between the lines of his text, next to the phrase that draws on it (or perhaps in a margin or on slip of paper that he glues to the margin). Or he may jot down something gleaned from a note in a borrowed manuscript. As these marginalia accumulate, he decides that it would be more convenient to transfer them to a separate notebook, at which time he notes, along with the poem, the phrase in the text with which it belongs. Thereafter, in a new, and presumably larger, notebook, this same information is augmented with a fuller citation of the passage in Genji, which also identifies the speaker as well as variant versions of the source poem.
This is only one of the hundreds of notes that Koreyuki scribbled into his text of Genji. Elsewhere he identifies Murasaki’s many allusions to the “Song of Everlasting Sorrow” (J. Chōgonka) in “Kiritsubo,” and he points out another such reference in “Suetsumuhana,” in which Genji slyly notes that of the “three companions”—music, poetry, and wine—the last would not be at all appropriate for a princess. As this meager sampling of examples suggests, Koreyuki’s principal interest lies in elucidating the sources of the sense of depth that a sensitive reader of Genji detects. His project never reached completion, for some entries consist of only a word or a phrase followed by “to be investigated.” Nonetheless, his Genji shaku was a brilliant start to this long tradition.
And just to make the picture complete, we should also point out that while Koreyuki was busy with his textual and commentarial work, his daughter, whom we know as Kenreimon’in Ukyō no Daibu, may well have been busy with a Genji project of her own, the composition of an apocryphal “last chapter” to the tale: “Yamaji no tsuyu.”
That other readers were annotating their texts of Genji in similar fashion, we know from Koreyuki’s mention of them in his own compilation. Beyond this, we have no idea how widespread the practice was or what the fruits of it were. More than sixty years were to pass before the appearance of another such compilation, Fujiwara no Teika’s Endnotes (Okuiri, ca. 1236). Teika, too, it seems, had been collecting marginalia from the texts that friends had lent him. But instead of recording them in the margins or between the lines of his text, he jotted them down in the empty spaces at the end of each chapter. There they might have remained, as a set of random notes to each of the fifty-four (or more) booklets that constituted his text, had it not been for the malicious gossip of some of his fellow readers. Just as others had lent Teika their texts of Genji, Teika had agreed to their requests to borrow his, whereupon word filtered back to him that some of the recipients of his generosity were making unkind comments about his notes. No names are named and no examples are given, but Teika himself tells us that he was so incensed that he decided to rip the notes out of each chapter and make a separate volume of them, which, presumably, he would not lend.
Like Koreyuki, Teika took advantage of this rewriting to expand some of his notes. And like Koreyuki, his main interest was identifying Murasaki’s sources, particularly in poetry. At the beginning of his notes to “Hahakigi,” for example, under the heading “Koreyuki Ason,” he simply lists ten of the poems that Koreyuki cites in Shaku, including Kokinshū 1060, mentioned earlier, but omits the explication that Koreyuki appends to these poems. Apparently, he felt no need to repeat what he could readily consult in Koreyuki’s work. On the whole, therefore, Teika’s Endnotes is a somewhat leaner work than Koreyuki’s Shaku. When he felt it necessary, though, he was willing to quote Chinese poetry at considerable length.
It must not be thought that Koreyuki and Teika interested themselves only in the identification of Murasaki’s poetic sources. Their notes also touch on the grouping of chapters within the text (narabi), the identification of places the names of which had changed (for example, Nakagawa), the titles of the three classics and the five histories mentioned by Tō Shikibu no Jō in the “Hahakigi” chapter, and the like. But the first truly comprehensive commentary on Genji, in terms of both mass and breadth of interest, no longer survives and is known from only scattered fragments and quotations. This is a work known as Suigenshō (The Wellspring Commentary), and it, too, originated in a collection of marginalia and interlinear notes, though on a much grander scale than Koreyuki’s and Teika’s collections.
As we have seen, Minamoto no Mitsuyuki and his son Chikayuki spent years collating texts of Genji in a project that produced the text we now call the Kawachi-bon. And like Koreyuki and Teika, they collected annotations from the texts they had assembled and copied them into their personal texts. But their own contributions to this store of lore, knowledge, and interpretation seem far to have exceeded those of their predecessors. Not only did they include many more such annotations, but to judge from surviving quotations, they also seem to have reached into new areas of interest, such as orthography and textual interpretation. Mitsuyuki and Chikayuki seem, too, to have initiated the practice of setting aside their most valued nuggets of knowledge as “secrets” to be shared only with the select. Fortunately, these secrets survive under the title Genchū saihishō, a work that affords us at least a glimpse of the lost but much larger whole. At some point, Mitsuyuki, like his predecessors, decided to collect his notes in a separate volume, but the task was daunting and he died before finishing the work. It was completed by his son Chikayuki in about 1265. Beyond this, not much can be said with certainty, except that the Suigenshō was extremely influential and probably served as a model for the large-scale commentaries compiled in later years.
The honor of being the first major commentary to survive the ravages of time and medieval warfare must go to the Shimeishō, compiled by Sojaku, a younger brother of Minamoto no Chikayuki, and completed in 1294. But by far the most valuable of the early commentaries was the Kakaishō, compiled around 1362 to 1367 by Yotsutsuji Yoshinari (1326–1402). The Edo-period scholar Motoori Norinaga (1730–1801) describes Yoshinari’s work as follows: “The Kakaishō ranks first among the commentaries. There are others that precede it, but they are limited in scope and lacking in detail, whereas this work draws on a wide range of sources, Japanese and Chinese, Confucian and Buddhist. Everything in the tale, almost without exception, is explicated here.”8 Coming from a man who was more inclined to denigrate his medieval forebears than to commend them, this is high praise indeed. It also pinpoints the two features of the work that make it so distinctive: the vast variety of sources on which it is based and the great breadth of the author’s concern for what should be annotated. Kakaishō, of course, perpetuates Koreyuki’s and Teika’s interest in the sources of Murasaki’s poetic allusions and regularly cites Genji shaku and Okuiri. But Yoshinari’s own contributions to our understanding of the Genji are grounded in more than three hundred other works, including not only Chinese and Japanese collections of poetry, but also fictions, histories, diaries, scriptures, and the Chinese classics. And the uses to which he put this vast corpus opened many new lines of inquiry in the study of Genji, a number of which survive into the present day.
One of these that merits special mention is Yoshinari’s investigation of the historical basis of Genji. No doubt many early readers felt they could detect echoes of history in the plot of Genji and the shades of past notabilities in the characters. The subject is touched on tangentially as a topic of debate in Kōan Genji rongi (“What place is ‘a certain estate’ modeled on?”), but Kakaishō is the earliest record of an attempt to demonstrate precisely what those connections might be. Yoshinari is quite precise. In his prologue, he writes:
The age in which the tale is set is that of the three reigns of the Daigo, Suzaku, and Murakami Emperors. The Kiritsubo Emperor reigned in the Engi era [901–923], the Suzaku Retired Emperor in the Tenkyō era [938–947], and the Reizei Retired Emperor in the Tenryaku era [947–957]. The Shining Genji corresponds to the Nishinomiya Minister of the Left [Minamoto no Takaakira, 914–982].9
Throughout the entire work, Yoshinari draws on his panoply of sources to illustrate exactly how the Genji text relates to the historical record and how Murasaki Shikibu used that record in crafting her fiction. The fact that this subject remains a flourishing field of research is testimony to the lasting value of Yoshinari’s work.
A century was to pass before the appearance of another major commentary on The Tale of Genji. This was Kachō yosei, compiled by Ichijō Kanera (or Kaneyoshi, 1402–1481) and completed in 1474. Kanera’s stated purpose in compiling this work was simply to augment Yoshinari’s work with commentary on items he had passed over and to correct some of what Kanera thought to be Yoshinari’s errors. In the broadest sense this is exactly what he does. He builds on foundations laid down by Yoshinari and proceeds by much the same methods, citing, as Yoshinari does, literally hundreds of works of many sorts in evidence of his opinions. Close comparison of the two works, however, suggests that Kachō yosei is not merely an extension of Kakaishō. Kanera seems far less interested in demonstrating the historicity of Genji than in explicating the language of the text. It was Yotsutsuji Yoshinari who pioneered the semantic and syntactic explication of Genji, but in following Yoshinari’s lead, Kanera carried this line of inquiry to heights far beyond those achieved by his predecessor. Take, for example, the first sentence of the “Hahakigi” chapter:
The Shining Genji. The name itself was awe inspiring; yet many, it was said, were the misdeeds whispered about behind his back. And thus, lest his escapades of this sort be made the talk of age upon age to come and gain him a name for frivolity, he himself was at pains to keep them secret. Really, it was quite spiteful of whoever spread those tales about.
In Kakaishō, Yoshinari comments:
This means that the name “Shining Genji” sounds imposing but what the man did was often whispered about behind his back. It must be understood that this sentence breaks after “the name itself was awe inspiring” and that “whispered about behind his back” refers only to his deeds. To read it as a single syntactic unit misrepresents the meaning. The text in the hand of Kyōgoku Kita no Mandokoro [Reishi, junior first rank] introduces a full stop after “awe inspiring.” This, it seems to me, makes good sense.10
This is a useful warning to readers that the adverbial inflection of “awe inspiring” should not tempt them to assume that Genji’s name as well as his deeds were “whispered about behind his back.” Yoshinari then singles out the word sukigoto (here translated as “escapades”) and cites the kanji (characters) with which this word is written in the Nihongi, as well as a phrase from Hakushi monjū in which it is used. Apropos of the phrase “spiteful of whoever spread those tales about,” Yoshinari cites a poem he attributes to the Kokinshū (correctly the Shūishū) in which the same phrase appears. From this, it is apparent that Yoshinari’s concern does not extend beyond the sentence itself, whereas Ichijō Kanera situates its meaning in a much larger context. In Kachō yosei, Kanera comments:
The Shining Genji…. These first words hark back to the end of the “Kiritsubo” chapter, where it is written: “It is said that the name ‘Shining Lord’ was bestowed upon him in praise by the physiognomist from Koma.”
…whispered about behind his back…. There were probably many things, some true, some false, that were whispered about behind his back because of the mother of the Crown Prince, who was not at all well disposed toward this lord. There is a theory that sukigoto refers to his romantic escapades, but judging from the phrasing of this passage, it does not appear to be so. Here sukigoto refers to the name Shining Genji. In what follows, the things that might “gain him a name for frivolity,” and thus “he was at pains to keep them secret,” are just what the physiognomist from Koma divined in him. The details of those secrets are to be found in the “Kiritsubo” chapter. The “talk of age upon age to come” that might “gain him a name for frivolity” actually refers to present-day gossip.11
Clearly, some of Kanera’s interpretations would no longer be accepted by modern scholars or not even, perhaps, by Yotsutsuji Yoshinari. But it is equally clear that he advanced the explication—and our understanding and appreciation—of the Genji text in a major way. His accomplishment is even more impressive when we think of the circumstances under which he worked, as a refugee in Nara, deprived of his library, fleeing from the ravages of the Ōnin Wars in Kyoto.
At this point in our overview of the commentarial tradition, it would be well to touch briefly on the role of familial factionalism in the development of this tradition. Such factionalism was nothing new. We have seen how various aristocratic houses collated their own familial texts of Genji, and one need only glance at the development of other forms of artistic endeavor in the medieval era—poetry in particular, but also music and even kickball—to see that the esoterica of these, too, were highly prized and jealously guarded as family property. Moreover, all the major commentaries discussed so far have been paired with companion volumes containing secret interpretations: Suigenshō and Genchū saihishō, Kakaishō and Sango hishō, Kachō yosei and Gengo hiketsu. In such an environment, it was entirely natural that one familial faction should emerge as the foremost authority on the interpretation of The Tale of Genji. That authority was finally claimed by the house of Sanjōnishi Sanetaka (1455–1537), and all subsequent major commentaries before the Kogetsushō (1673) are the work of Sanetaka, his descendants, and their allies among the leading renga masters who were instrumental in establishing the Sanjōnishi ascendency.
The Kogetsushō cites four commentaries from this school of scholarship, and they are best considered as a group, for being the work of a unified school they are far more like peas in a pod than were their predecessors. Present-day scholars tend to characterize them all as “carrying on” (or “advancing” or “deepening”) the traditions of Sanjōnishi Genji studies, which is unquestionably true but not terribly helpful. A more notable characteristic of the Sanjōnishi school is its willingness to criticize, revise, and even refute earlier commentary. This is not to say that they write in opposition to Koreyuki, Teika, Yoshinari, and Kanera. They routinely cite their forebears and continue to add to the store of poetic allusion, historical precedent, explication, and interpretation found in earlier commentary. But they also attempt to refine it as they build on it. A quick comparison of their comments on the opening sentence of “Hahakigi” with those already examined offers at least a glimpse of this attitude in action.
Rōkashō (1476) is very much a joint effort. The renga master Sōgi had given a series of lectures on Genji that were attended by his disciple Shōhaku (1443–1527). Shōhaku then wrote out his lecture notes, no doubt augmenting them with his own thoughts as he did, and then lent his notes to Sanjōnishi Sanetaka, who further augmented them with his own contributions. On the sentence in question, they (for it is impossible to tell with whom this originates) comment:
The Shining Genji. The name itself was awe inspiring…. This was written in continuation of the last words of the previous chapter. It goes without saying that this means his name was imposing, but there were many things about which people whispered behind his back.
…his amorous escapades, which he kept secret…. Genji’s amorous escapades differ from those of Zai Chūjō [Narihira] and others, in that he maintains a facade of rectitude behind which he hides his amours.12
Sairyūshō (1528), though long thought to have been compiled by Sanetaka’s son Kin’eda (1487–1563), has been shown to be the work of Sanetaka himself, who speaks here in his own voice:
The Shining Genji. The name itself was awe inspiring…. The Kakaishō [correctly Kachō yosei] says that this sentence should be read as coming to a halt at this point. This is all well and good, but neither is there any harm in reading it continuously on into the next clause. Those who are inclined to be critical will whisper behind the back of anyone of any note whatever. This is simply the way of the world. [Kachō] says that he is whispered about by the Kokiden lady, but this should probably be attributed simply to the world of the court. His “misdeeds” are amours, but the same would be true of any others.
…his amorous escapades…. Sukigoto are amours. Kachō yosei says that the name Shining Genji is a sukigoto. I have my doubts about this; rather, they are the things he keeps hidden. Kachō also says that the physiognomist from Koma divined this, but this, too, I doubt.13
Mōshinshō (1575) was compiled by a grandson of Sanetaka, Kujō Tanemichi (1507–1594), who comments:
The Shining Genji. The name itself was awe inspiring; yet… [he was] whispered about behind his back. It is said that this should be read with a break after “whispered about behind his back [sic],” but it should be read continuously.
…many were the misdeeds…. Those inclined to criticize will speak ill of both good and bad deeds, and those inclined to praise will speak glowingly even of evil deeds. Kachō yosei’s interpretation is wrong. It refers only to his amorous escapades.14
Tanemichi then quotes the entire commentary of Kachō yosei, after which he remarks that if Kanera meant to say that “criticism of Genji’s amorous escapades, that being simply the way of the world, comes only from the Kokiden lady, then this is contrary to the purport of the tale.” Concerning “his amorous escapades,” Tanemichi first quotes (without attribution) Yotsutsuji Yoshinari’s kanji glosses and then goes on to say:
Sukigoto are probably just amours…. [L]est his escapades of this sort be made the talk of age upon age to come and gain him a name for frivolity, he himself was at pains to keep them secret. Really, it was quite spiteful of whoever spread those tales about. This means that although Genji was of an amorous disposition, he maintained a facade of rectitude and kept his amours hidden. Thus we know that it is Murasaki Shikibu herself who speaks of “whoever it was that spread those tales about.”15
Tanemichi then offers as his “personal opinion” (which, of course, it is not):
Kachō yosei says that the name Shining Genji is a sukigoto. This is wrong.
…his secrets that he kept concealed…Kachō yosei’s interpretation of this is very wrong. I need not elaborate. Rōkashō: Genji’s amorous escapades differ from those of Zai Chūjō [Narihira] and others, in that he maintains a facade of rectitude behind which he conceals his amours.16
Mingō nisso, the last in the lineage of “Sanjōnishi Genji scholarship,” is in many ways the most impressive work in this line. Its author, Nakanoin Michikatsu (1556–1610), a great-grandson of Sanetaka, compiled the work at Tanabe-jō, the remote retirement castle of the warrior Hosokawa Yūsai (1534–1610), during a nineteen-year period of banishment from the capital. Michikatsu’s aim was not so much to add another link to the Sanjōnishi chain but to produce a summa of previous commentary on Genji. By its very nature, then, it was destined to be a massive work: four closely printed volumes in the most recent modern edition. In elucidating the first clause or two of “Hahakigi,” Michikatsu cites five previous explications of this passage. First he quotes the preceding Kakaishō and Kachō yosei comments. He then notes that
Sōgi says that it was meant as praise to say that the name, the Shining Genji, was awe inspiring; but that to say many were the misdeeds whispered about behind his back simply shows that it is the way of the world to whisper behind the backs of those of renown who are praised.
Michikatsu next quotes his maternal grandfather, Sanjōnishi Kin’eda (Shōmyōin), to the effect that “Kakaishō says that the clause breaks after ‘awe inspiring,’ but it can just as well be read continuously,” and that “those who are inclined to criticize will whisper behind the backs of anyone. This is just the way of the world. Kachō yosei says that he is criticized by Kokiden; but it is simply those in the world at large who whisper behind his back.”17 To that, Michikatsu adds that his uncle Sanjōnishi Sanezumi (Saneki; 1511–1579) “agrees with this.” Then, under the heading “the name itself,” he notes that in this context in one of his lectures, Sanezumi cited both the Laozi and the Analects, both of which Michikatsu quotes here in the original Chinese, following which he offers his own explanation of their significance:
Because even Genji’s name was noised about in so exaggerated a manner, his was a name well known in the world. As is said here, “having a name is the mother of all things.”18 And having a name that was noised about in so exaggerated a manner, it generated an infinitude of flaws. It is for this reason that this passage is cited. The reason the Analects is cited is to show that attitudes of the people of the world are not all the same. There is good, and there is evil. And thus when Zigong asks Confucius, “What would you think of a man if everyone liked him?” he answers, “This is not enough.” And when he asks, “What if everyone disliked him?” again the answer is, “This is not enough.”19 Ultimately, to regard the good as good and the evil as evil is the Way of the Sages. Though people may make much of Genji’s failings, that is just the way of the world. Yet when one is in quest of overall excellence, one does not quibble over every trifling flaw, for most good people are not without minor shortcomings. As for Genji’s “misdeeds that were whispered about behind his back,” it is precisely because he was so highly praised that people found fault with him. These “misdeeds” are said to be amorous escapades, but this is wrong. The foregoing is the significance of these citations.20
Michikatsu then moves on to the phrase “escapades of this sort,” noting that the matter of Genji’s amours begins here and that Sanezumi has said that “if his ‘faults’ were all of an amorous sort, then there would be no need to use the word ‘amours’ [sukigoto] here.” And then Michikatsu continues:
Since despite being praised so highly as the “Shining Genji” people still found fault with him, he realizes that if he were to be more open about his amours, they would only find fault with him all the more. Here we can see the spirit of discretion that is one aspect of Genji’s character.
Next we are shown which characters were used to write sukigoto in the History of the Han Dynasty, that Kanera’s commentary on this word in Kachō yosei is questionable, and that Sōgi’s commentary says that Genji is of an amorous nature but that he maintains a facade of rectitude beneath which he conceals his amorous inclinations. Finally, in his own voice, Michikatsu adds, “Because his many failings are whispered about behind his back, he has good reason for being discreet about his amours.”21
Really, it was quite spiteful of whoever spread those tales about.
Michikatsu first notes that saganashi (here translated as “spiteful”) can be written with the characters for “not good” and that it can mean “evil” or “horrid”:
And inasmuch as these clandestine activities are passed down to us in writing, we know that it was Murasaki Shikibu herself who wrote about them. But the author of the tale writes as if to make us think that these are things others have said and that it was bad of them to spread them about.22
The foregoing survey amounts to no more than a droplet in a vast sea (a favorite metaphor of medieval exegetes). Nonetheless, some of the more salient characteristics of the genre do emerge, even from so cursory a glance. We see the growth of a vigorous tradition from scribbled marginalia to massive tomes of exegesis, as well as new ways of reading Genji and new standards of judging the tale. We also see some of the faults that so irritated Motoori Norinaga in the eighteenth century: the inattention to accuracy and the perverse citation of esoteric sources that have nothing to do with Genji. But then we see as well a new awareness of the narratological structure of Genji, which Sōgi termed sōshiji and which remains a fertile field of research to this day. In short, whatever its shortcomings and excesses, the exegetical commentary of the medieval era is not only the most voluminous “form of attention” ever paid to Genji, but also a rich and deep vein of valuable scholarship that is only just beginning to be mined.
T. HARPER
(Amayo danshō)
Notes on the Rainy Night’s Discussion, completed in or before 1485 and also known by the title Hahakigi betchū, is a detailed commentary on “The Broom Tree” (Hahakigi), chapter 2 of The Tale of Genji.23 It cites and discusses each line or passage from the first several pages of the text and is of interest as the medieval era’s only commentary that focuses on a single chapter and glosses it extensively. Another aspect of historical interest is its attention to rhetorical and grammatical usage, an aspect it shares with Ichijō Kanera’s seminal work Kachō yosei (1472). Notes on the Rainy Night’s Discussion also is the first commentary to introduce the term sōshiji. This is a technical term, literally meaning “the ground of the book,” that is used widely in later commentaries on Genji to refer to passages of narrative commentary or authorial intervention, analogous to the use of parabasis in classical Greek drama or the use of comments from author to reader in, for example, novels by Henry Fielding and William Makepeace Thackeray. Sōgi (1421–1502) distinguishes sōshiji from other, similar terms, such as sakusha no kotoba (the author’s words) or Murasaki Shikibu no kotoba (Murasaki Shikibu’s words), though the distinction does not always appear to be rigorous.
LEWIS COOK
The chapter is titled “The Broom Tree” because when Genji uses a directional taboo as a pretense for going to spend the night at Nakagawa and Utsusemi refuses [later] to meet him, treating him coldly, Genji sends her the poem, “Not knowing the mind of the broom tree, how I have lost my way on the paths of Sonohara,”24 to which the woman replies, “In the sadness of the humble dwelling of my station, I am at once there and not there.”25 The chapter title is taken from these poems. The poems are based on a poem by Sakanoue no Korenori: “The broom tree growing in Fuseya in Sonohara seems to be there, yet I do not find you.”26 This is taken to mean that while Utsusemi is indeed there, she will not meet [Genji] and thus seems to be there but is not there.
Even though this is the name of this one chapter, it extends to the entire fifty-four chapters of the tale. The reason is that this tale is a made-up work and thus a fiction, yet is composed of traces of events that happened in the past. To begin with, the three reigns of Emperors Kiritsubo, Suzaku, and Reizei are patterned on those of Engi [901–923], Shōhei [931–938], and Tenryaku [947–957].27 Hikaru Genji is modeled on the Nishinomiya Minister of the Left Lord Takaakira28 and his removal to Dazaifu. In addition, Genji’s exile evokes the eastern expedition of Shū Kōtan [Zhou Gongdan]29 and the case of Hakurakuten30 in China, and, in our land, the case of Sugawara no Michizane.31 In addition to these, other instances of modeling on historical precedents are innumerable.
Throughout the whole fifty-four chapters of the tale, because things that appear real are not, and things that appear unreal are in fact real, this title, “The Broom Tree,” suffices to name the whole work. Among the Four Gates [of Existence] propounded by Tendai doctrine, the Gate of Both Existing and Empty [of reality or essence] applies to this tale. “The Floating Bridge of Dreams” [Yume no ukihashi], too, though it is the title of a single chapter, likewise serves as a title for the whole tale. How so? All the actions of the characters in the tale, whether of high, middle, or low station, are nothing more than charades in a dream. Compare, for example, Zhuangzi’s knowing not whether he has dreamed of being a butterfly or is a butterfly dreaming of being Zhuangzi.
It is difficult to decide whether this tale is a dream of past times or the reality of those of us living now in this world: both are passages across a floating bridge of dreams, the reality or not of the broom tree. Thus the shades of Murasaki Shikibu’s brush are deep, their meaning beyond fathoming.
Now, the opening words of this chapter, beginning with “The Shining Genji” through “would have been laughed at by the Katano Lieutenant” are those of the author of this tale herself. Many of Murasaki Shikibu’s words are inserted here and there throughout.
The name alone was impressive.
These are words that praise the name “Shining Genji” as awe inspiring.
He was blamed for many faults.
This refers to the commonplace that even people of high repute, those honored for their adherence to the Way, are often disparaged in the world of society.
Fearing that his amorous affairs might be talked of for generations to come, earning him a reputation for frivolity, he always was discreet, but even those affairs he did his best to conceal became the talk of the town. Such is the meanness of gossips.
This is to say that although Genji was a person of an amorous nature, he made a show of outward seriousness while in his inmost heart he was inclined toward the pursuits of love. With this in mind, Murasaki Shikibu thus asks who it was, after all, that passed on stories of the affairs that Genji conducted with such discretion?
Indeed, in his caution about appearances and insistence on prudence, he refrained from risqué or flirtatious behavior to the degree that he would have been mocked by the Katano Lieutenant.
Beneath the surface he was given to amorousness but put on such a show of seriousness that he appeared prim and thus lacking the true instinct of the amorous, and at that the Katano Lieutenant would have laughed, so Tō no [Murasaki] Shikibu thought and so she wrote.
Although there are various interpretations of the matter of the Katano Lieutenant, what is known is that a certain Katano Lieutenant was a character in a fictional tale, one who was notorious for his amorous ways. Although Hikaru Genji and the Katano Lieutenant were not contemporaries, Murasaki Shikibu matched them and wrote about them in this way. To contrast one character of a fictional tale with another is an interesting literary technique.
The foregoing serves as the introduction to this one chapter.
While Genji was still a Captain…
In this chapter Genji is sixteen years of age and holds the rank of Captain. In the chapter “A Celebration of Autumn Leaves” [Momiji no ga] he becomes a Consultant, although here and through “The Cherry Blossom Festival” [Hana no en] he remains a Captain. Since throughout this chapter he must, of course, be a Captain, to write “while he was still a Captain” [as though he were soon to be promoted] must appear odd. Nonetheless, there is a reason for this. In composing this tale, Murasaki Shikibu did not write as though she were inventing the story but as though she were merely recording accounts of past events she happened to have heard passed down to her, records she then gathered to make up a single work. This is indicated in the concluding words to several chapters. Since it is about events that took place in the past, there can be no doubt about the use of the [past particle] shi in the expression “while he was still a Captain.”…
He spent his time entirely in the palace, only rarely visiting the Minister’s residence.
Genji became the spouse of the Minister of the Left’s daughter Lady Aoi at the age of twelve. At the time, Lady Aoi was sixteen. Because Genji was not very attached to her, he spent almost all his time in the palace and only rarely visited the Minister’s residence.
Some people seem to have suspected a case of “hidden feelings entangled.”32
This means that Aoi’s attendants suspected that Genji’s coolness toward their mistress must be due to some entanglement with this or that woman in the palace.
But his nature was such…. He had no interest in superficial, impulsive, or trifling affairs of the heart.
While some may have suspected otherwise, Genji was not one to be drawn to a woman easily seduced, so it was not, after all, such an entanglement. The ellipsis after “But his nature was such” carries the sense that he was not indeed entangled [in some superficial affair]. Such use of ellipses is common in the writing of this tale and creates a sense of subtlety [yū].33
Yet on rare occasions he did, unfortunately, yield to an inclination toward affairs fraught with difficulty and anguish, leading him to behavior most unbecoming.
The phrase “on rare occasions” means that while by nature he was averse to the easy liaison and seemed above such dalliances, sometimes one who resisted his attractions appealed to him, leading him to compromising behavior and affairs that gave rise to rumors.
The early summer rains were falling without end.
It was just around the Fifth Month.
As Genji’s seclusion went on and on and he stayed indoors [at the palace], some at the Minister’s residence became resentful, even though all manner of clothing and furnishings were forthcoming.
“Seclusion” refers to confinement within the Inner Palace. Such confinement [monoimi] was practiced when malicious forces threatened, and the characters for monoimi were written on [a slip of paper that was attached to] a blind. Going out was avoided in observance thereof….
His sons spent all their time in Genji’s quarters [in the palace]. Among them, the Captain, who was the son of the Princess, was on especially close terms with Genji.
“His sons” means those of the Minister [of the Left]. “The son of the Princess” refers to Tō no Chūjō. He attains the rank of His Excellency, the Chancellor, in the “Wakana” chapters [chapters 34 and 35], where he is called chichi no otōdo. The younger sister [Princess Omiya] of the Kiritsubo Emperor was taken in marriage by the Minister of the Left and bore two children. One was Lady Aoi and the other was this Captain, Tō no Chūjō, who was thus a cousin of Genji. This accounts for their affinity and their sharing, more closely than others, both their studies and their amusements.
While this son was treated with great care by the Minister of the Right, he, too, found his residence there quite oppressive and was fond of romantic adventures abroad.
“Kiritsubo” [chapter 1 of Genji] states that Tō no Chūjō is a son-in-law of the Minister of the Right. The phrases “he was treated with great care” [but] “found his residence there quite oppressive” refer to the fact that while Tō no Chūjō was married to the Minister of the Right’s fourth daughter, his heart was not drawn to her. The words “this son” [kono kimi] recall that likewise, Genji was not attracted to Lady Aoi and thus imply that he also was fond of romantic adventures.
While keeping Genji company throughout his comings and goings, sharing both their studies and their diversions, he hardly fell behind Genji in either.
Thus Genji and Tō no Chūjō were best friends and kept none of their feelings in reserve. The preceding serves as the preface to the “Rainy Night’s Discussion.”34
While sitting close to the lamp, reading texts, Tō no Chūjō could not restrain his curiosity and took out some multicolored papers from a cabinet nearby.
“Reading texts” refers to their study of [Chinese] textbooks. Writings on “multicolored papers” would be love letters.
“I’ll let you see some of those that don’t matter. Not those that could be embarrassing…” “But it’s just those that let slip things that might be embarrassing that I’m curious about. Even I exchange a few letters, nothing of possible interest to you, with ladies of various ranks. Those worth reading are the ones written in moments of anger, or perhaps at dusk by someone awaiting a visit.” When he so complained [enzureba]….”
From “I’ll let you see,” the exchange of words between Genji and Tō no Chūjō is expressed directly. A reply from Genji that should [grammatically] follow “so complained” is elided, and Tō no Chūjō continues speaking instead. The [conditional] particle-ba in enzureba is [thus] difficult to parse. That said, words left hanging in this unaffected way are one of the commonplaces of this tale, so this could be regarded as an example.
Since those from exalted writers would be hidden away, hardly left scattered around on a cabinet shelf, these letters must be from correspondents of only lesser interest.
The subject is Tō no Chūjō’s reading of Genji’s love letters, and the sense is that only those letters that Genji would not feel embarrassed to let others see would be left lying around unconcealed. Ni no machi [of only lesser interest] refers to paddies or fields of secondrate yield. Also, the words from the phrase “Since those from exalted” to “only lesser interest” might be identified as sōshi no ji [literally, “the ground of the book”: narratorial commentary or metanarrative, as opposed to narration per se]. If so, that would seem to resolve the problem of the ellipsis after enzureba [when he so complained].
Of women there are very few whom one can expect to be flawless, so I have come to learn. Those who display some superficial sensibility, write a flowing hand in appropriate response to letters, and seem capable of rising to the occasion—there are enough of these when you look around, but to discover one who is truly without imperfections, one who should not be missed, this is difficult indeed.
The words from “Of women…” to “so I have come to learn” are those of Tō no Chūjō. Even though Tō no Chūjō is young, he nonetheless has learned much about women in society. “A flowing hand” refers to women’s epistolary style; “in response to letters” refers to composing poems in reply; “capable of rising to the occasion” means those who are not necessarily able to write a fluent hand or to compose poems well. Here follows the “ranking of women” [into three grades]. This consists of assembling accounts of a number of women from society and presenting their dispositions [kokoro] to Genji by way of relating, for his benefit, that there are in this world women of such minds. Tō no Chūjō is not well acquainted with the ways of the world, but because he is a little ahead of Genji in regard to knowing the ways of women, he takes the lead here. Overall, this chapter [“The Broom Tree”] might seem difficult to understand. It might be compared, for example, to the way elderly persons in our present age, talking of their experiences over the past fifty or sixty years, might say that such and such a person’s disposition [kokoro] was, after all, like this or like that. In this respect, the minds of people of the present might be seen to resemble those of persons of the past. If you take this principle as the basis [for reading the chapter], matters can be understood without difficulty.
TRANSLATED BY LEWIS COOK
Within the flood of exegetical commentary on The Tale of Genji that poured forth between the twelfth and twentieth centuries, we know of very few works written by female commentators. One of those was Yūrin (fl. 1450), described by her contemporaries as a Genji-yomi bikuni, a nun who traveled around reading aloud sections of the text and explicating them for her audience.35 Yūrin’s digest-cum-commentary, Hikaru Genji ichibu uta (The Complete Poems of the Shining Genji), was completed in 1453.36 Another female commentator was Kaoku Gyokuei (1526–after 1602), whose surviving oeuvre reveals a lifelong engagement with The Tale of Genji. A narrative picture scroll (emaki) in six scrolls dated 1554 has been attributed to her,37 and works signed with her name include a copy of an account of the origins of Genji that she made for a niece who was in the service of Nei (1548–1624), wife of the military hegemon Toyotomi Hideyoshi;38 a set of fifty-four poems on the chapters of Genji, dated 1589;39 and two commentaries: Kaokushō (Kaoku’s Gleanings, 1594), and Gyokuei shū (Gyokuei’s Collection, 1602).
The details of Gyokuei’s biography have yet to be established.40 What is clear from her commentaries is that they were written for a female audience. As other texts in this anthology reveal, women recalled their reading of Genji (in Sarashina Diary, ca. 1059), they recorded their discussions of Genji (in A Nameless Notebook, ca. 1200), and they advised their daughters to memorize Genji (in The Nursemaid’s Letter, ca. 1264). But Gyokuei seems to have been the only woman in the medieval period to have written commentaries on Genji specifically for other women readers of the text.
Gyokuei accommodated Genji to her female audience in various ways. First, she advocates reading Genji for pleasure and not as an adjunct to some other pursuit, such as the composition of poetry. She encourages women to read the fifty-four chapters straight through. Second, this kind of reading demands a different level of knowledge from that provided by the mainstream commentaries. Anyone who has studied the earlier commentaries that she cites approvingly—Shimeishō, Kakaishō, and Kachō yosei —must be struck by the vast distance between them and Gyokuei’s work. Commentaries written by men are larded with citations to Chinese sources, “proof” that The Tale of Genji was a classic that could bear comparison with other classics, both Buddhist and Confucian. Such citations also demonstrated that the compiler of the commentary was engaged in a serious, scholarly, and properly masculine enterprise, and thus served to legitimate the interest of men in a mere tale. Gyokuei obviously was familiar with these earlier commentaries, and as the notes to the following translated passages reveal, she was not averse to borrowing from them when they could be of use to her.41 In her own commentaries, however, she cites no Indian or Chinese examples, proofs, or precedents. Rather, she selects only what she believes to be important to an understanding of Genji, simplifying and reducing as she goes along.
Gyokuei’s third set of accommodations to her female audience are those of language, style, and tone. Both Kaokushō and Gyokuei shū are written principally in hiragana. Gyokuei frequently translates words or phrases from Genji into contemporary sixteenth-century Japanese. She also is particular about how words ought to be pronounced. Her concern with pronunciation suggests that at this time, the ability to read Genji aloud, to “perform” the text for listeners, was still as necessary a skill for aristocratic women, especially those employed as gentlewomen, as it had been three centuries earlier when Abutsu (d. 1283) achieved renown for her accomplishment.42 Throughout both works, Gyokuei’s tone is conversational, almost chatty.
Gyokuei’s discussion of theories of authorship is another distinctive feature of her writing. In both her commentaries, Gyokuei explains that the phrase murasaki no yukari (related to Murasaki) at the beginning of the “Takekawa” chapter refers to Murasaki Shikibu, not the character Murasaki. This interpretation enables her to entertain the possibility that the chapter was written by someone other than Murasaki Shikibu.
G. G. ROWLEY
(Kaokushō)
The oldest surviving manuscript of Kaoku’s Gleanings is in the collection of the Hōsa Bunko, formerly the library of the Owari branch of the Tokugawa family, and is dated 1603. There are no woodblock-printed editions; the text was first published in 1936.43 In identifying her work only by her style, “Kaoku,” Gyokuei implicitly declines to associate it with the great mainstream commentaries, which were compiled by male scholars and whose titles were drawn from Chinese sources. Such commentaries typically begin with a preface in which the commentator describes the origins of the text to be discussed, summarizes previous scholarship, and situates his own commentary within a particular scholarly lineage. Gyokuei chose not to provide her commentary with a preface and opted instead for a modest afterword in which she explains her reasons for compiling the work. Kaokushō thus launches straight into a discussion of “Kiritsubo” and then proceeds through the remaining fifty-three chapters. The following are complete translations of Gyokuei’s commentary on the “Kiritsubo” chapter, her remarks on the authorship of the “Takekawa” chapter, and her afterword.
G. G. ROWLEY
The name of this chapter is taken from the text [of Genji]. “Kiritsubo” refers to the Paulownia Court within the Shigeisha, which is one of the residences [goten] of the Inner Palace. It should be understood that it is used as the name of the residence. Among the residences are the Plum Court, the Paulownia Court, the Wisteria Court, the Bamboo Court, the Pear Court, and the like. Each residence takes its name directly from the tree that grows in its courtyard. It should be understood, therefore, that the Shigeisha and the Kiritsubo are the same place.44 Thus it is that, although the palace quarters of Genji’s daughter, the Akashi Princess, are the Paulownia Court, in the “Wakana” chapters and elsewhere she is mentioned in connection with the Shigeisha. This chapter describes the events between Genji’s birth and his twelfth year.
In which reign was it?
Refers obliquely to the reign of the Engi Emperor.45
[Not] of the highest rank
Means that [the Kiritsubo Consort] was not the daughter of a Minister of State. That is why she is not called a nyōgo, but a miyasundokoro. This was a source of anguish, and she grew sickly and weak.
Otagi
Now she is gone
[No commentary given.]
The Bodyguards of the Left announcing their arrival for duty
The Bodyguards of the Left go on night duty at the Hour of the Rat [11:00 P.M.–1:00 A.M.]. From the Hour of the Ox [1:00–3:00 A.M.] until the Hour of the Tiger [3:00–5:00 A.M.], the Bodyguards of the Right are on night duty. That is why it says this. When the Bodyguards of the Left turn over the watch to the Right, they call out, “Who goes there?” and relieve them on night duty. That is why it is called “announcing night attendance.”47
Dais service
Refers to the meal served to the Emperor in his day room.
The Uda Emperor’s admonition
The father of [the Emperor regnant during] the Engi era. Because there had not been much hesitation about having physiognomists from foreign lands enter the palace, and even make pronouncements concerning the Crown Prince, [the Uda Emperor] warned against having them called to the palace.
Kōrokan
At Seventh and Shuja[ku] Avenues.48 A place where envoys from foreign lands were received.
He has the signs of one destined to become the father of his people and to achieve the Sovereign’s supreme eminence49
That Genji becomes the father of his people means that he is destined to attain the title of Honorary Emperor in Retirement [daijō tennō].
When I see him in that position, I wonder if it might not lead to disorder and suffering
Means that he is destined to be exiled to Suma Bay.50
Japanese physiognomy
This is the Japanese way of doing physiognomy.
Maternal relatives of an unranked Prince
Imperial Princes are ranked from first to fourth rank. Those lower still are not called fifth rank but are known as unranked Princes.
Unsupported by maternal relatives
This means that Genji’s familial connections through his mother’s line are not as they ought to be. Because he lacks solid support, he should not be set adrift as an unranked Prince with no one he can depend upon. Gesaku is how it is written in kana. One should pronounce it geshaku.
For sukuyō, read shukuyō
This refers to fortunetelling.
Three reigns of court service
This refers to the three reigns of the Kōkō [884–887], Uda [887–897], and Daigo [897–930] Emperors.
To an exceptional degree
This word means to an extent that was unsurpassed.
Disrespectful
The same as “apparently disrespectful” [nanmege]. Means to treat someone lightly.
The imperial storehouses [mikura].
[The Emperor had his] throne placed
Something on which he would be seated.
Juvenile
This means to be childlike.
The duty [room]
Rice balls
This is called wrapped rice [tsutsumi-ii]; when all the lower-ranking servants and the like are fed, they are given rice that has been wrapped up rather than made into a meal served on a tray. In the present day, for example, this is what we would call “bird’s egg rice balls” [torinoko].
Without reserve
Ostentatiously [yōyō nari].52
Takekawa
According to some people, this chapter was added by Murasaki Shikibu’s daughter Daini no Sanmi.53 Other people say that it is the written record of tales told by old women who had been in Higekuro’s service. But I wonder how certain it is that Sanmi wrote it. [The sentence that begins] murasaki no yukari nimo means “although this does not resemble anything related to what Murasaki Shikibu has written, I am just writing down what I have heard.”54
(Afterword)
The three commentaries on Genji—Shimeishō, Kakaishō, and Kachō yosei—are the source of the work called Sangen ichiran, which dispels the darkness like a clear mirror, leaving not a shadow of doubt.55 After this, many other works of various sorts were compiled, giving free rein to their authors’ intellect. All these, however, are but displays of their authors’ erudition and cleverness. Often they are unintelligible, and often they have little basis in Genji. Such stuff is beyond the reach of a beginner.
On an evening in the Fourth Month as our young lady gazes out at the darkening sky, longing for the lost vestiges of the cherry blossoms of spring, or, in summer, when recalling the story of he who gathered fireflies as they flitted past his window,56 she draws to herself this tale. And how much more so when she would seek consolation of an autumn evening as the tints that move her so deeply one after another fade away; as the insects cry; as the evening sky, so beautiful she could die, all but breaks her heart. Or of a long winter’s night, when she turns the lamp up high close to her bed or, next to the hearth, spreads out the tale, [at such times] what our young lady wants is just to enjoy herself—to read through the fifty-four chapters easily, entirely on her own, with nary a doubt, for this is the most important thing. After all, the reflection of the light of the moon in the waters of a shallow well is no different from that in a deep spring.
And so for the sake of us foolish women, I have written this work and bound it in four volumes. Of an autumn evening or a snowy morning, as you think back and your heart goes out to [Genji], you can consult this in conjunction with the text. Lest there remain any little points of doubt—for this is meant only for girls and women [osanaki hito, onnadochi]—I have glossed some of the kanji with kana.57 Insignificant as it is, I entitle it simply Kaokushō. Rather like something a cuckoo might do.58
TRANSLATED BY G. G. ROWLEY
(Gyokuei shū)
Gyokuei’s Collection, like Gyokuei’s earlier commentary Kaoku’s Gleanings, circulated solely in manuscript. The mimeograph version, transcribed by Ii Haruki and published in 1969, remains the only printed edition.59 Gyokuei shū begins with a preface, though it is not announced as such. The remainder of the text can be divided into three sections. In the first, Gyokuei explains the origin of each chapter title; in the second she provides interpretations of difficult-to-understand poems; and in the third, she lists unfamiliar words and phrases with short explanations of their meaning. Throughout, Gyokuei remains determined to facilitate women’s reading of Genji in the original. Her deprecation of digest versions of the tale is, as Tsutsumi Yasuo suggests, typical of the aristocratic readership she represents.60 Complete translations of Gyokuei’s commentary on the “Kiritsubo” chapter, taken from the first two sections of the text, follow the partial translation of the preface. Her remarks on the authorship of Genji from the “Takekawa” chapter are also included.
G. G. ROWLEY
(Preface)
As a rule, I would not be inclined to prattle on about matters concerning The Tale of Genji, but there are those who, knowing not the first thing about it, consider it merely another storybook [monogatari sōshi] along the lines of The Tale of Sumiyoshi [Sumiyoshi], The Distant Isle [Tōjima], and The Single Chrysanthemum [Hitomotogiku]; lament bitterly the fact that the language is so difficult to follow; and wish that somehow they might understand it.61 Thus, with the intention of putting an end to their longing for Genji by instructing them in the basics, reluctant though I am to prattle on about such things, I have taken up my brush to make these notes to Genji.
…Genji is no amusement for the lower ranks. Because it is a work with which poets of the palace and the Retired Emperor’s palace busy themselves, it never occurs to them that large numbers of people might not know the language of Genji, and thus they think, “No need to comment on this minor point.” They comment only on matters that people at large could hardly be expected to know. As the world lapses into decline, knowledgeable people pass away, and therefore things that people of the past thought nothing of knowing, nowadays no one knows. So it is that Genji, too, has become an extraordinarily unfamiliar work.
Many and various are the works compiled by recent commentators that tell one about even those things concerning which there is no doubt whatsoever. Some have eleven chapters, some twenty, others fifty-four…. These people are only showing off their store of knowledge, endlessly adducing Chinese and Indian precedents in order to elucidate things that are of no particular use to a reader of Genji. As a result, gentlewomen are unable to make any sense of them, and in the end, their desire to know what the commentary is saying remains unsatisfied. I think all this is totally unnecessary.62
Section 1
The [title of the] first chapter, “Kiritsubo,” is taken from the text. It is the name of a residence within the Greater Palace [daidairi]. On the east, the upper limits of the Greater Palace extended to the area of presentday Yōkandō; the lower limits were bounded by Shijō and the pond of the Shinsen’en Imperial Gardens; all this was contained within the Greater Palace. There were twelve gates facing the four directions; so enormous were gates like the Rashōmon that they were the dwellings of demons and the haunts of evil tricksters.63 One commonly encounters such goings-on. During the Hōgen era [1156–1159] the Greater Palace was destroyed by fire; after that it was never rebuilt, and it fell into ruin. There was a great deal of land devoted to residences, and these were indications of rank. The one with a paulownia tree was called the Paulownia Court; the one with a wisteria vine was called the Wisteria Court; the one with the plum tree was called the Plum Court; and so on. A cherry tree was planted in the garden of the Southern Hall, and when the flowers were in bloom, the Emperor and Empress would grace them with their presence morning and evening. The Paulownia Court [Kiritsubo] was within the Shigeisha; in the Inner Palace [dairi] of later years, because it was close to the Emperor’s day rooms, he installed this consort there and she came to be called the Kiritsubo Consort. Because the Emperor, too, was so often present there, he is known as the Kiritsubo Emperor. These [characters] are the inventions of the Genji author. In the days when the Greater Palace still existed, there was no Emperor known as Kiritsubo. He, too, is a fiction. Since the disappearance of the Greater Palace, the old names of the residences are no more.
[…]
This chapter [“Takekawa”] is an exceptional one, both the language and the spirit of which are totally different [from the others]. It is said that after the death of Murasaki Shikibu, her daughter Daini no Sanmi wrote [this chapter] and added it [to the text of Genji]. Another theory suggests that it was composed by Sai’in no Senji.64 There are also a variety of theories suggesting that the Uji [chapters] were composed by [Daini no] Sanmi. Which of these might be correct? The language of the Uji chapters is the same as the rest of Genji. The “Takekawa” chapter is exceptional, and so it may well be true that Daini no Sanmi created it. It is difficult to know. That the chapter begins “Although this does not resemble anything related to what Murasaki has written…” is entirely appropriate. There is also the theory that Sai’in no Senji wrote it because she was envious of Murasaki Shikibu’s having composed Genji; but realizing that it would be difficult to improve on it, she instead wrote the ten [Uji] chapters.65
Section 2
There are a total of 796 poems in Genji. As requested, I list here those poems that are difficult for a beginner to understand.
In the “Kiritsubo” chapter:
kagiri to te wakaruru michi no kanashiki ni / ikamahoshiki wa inochi narikeri
In my grief, now that the end has come and I tread this path that parts us,
far more do I wish that my destination were life. [“Kiritsubo,” 12:99]
i(ka)mahoshiki means “I want to go on living.”66
Toward the end of section 2 is a lengthy digression on the subject of insects, prompted by Gyokuei’s discussion of the famous poem from the “Kagerō” chapter.67 She concludes:
To have described this, [the kagerō (mayfly),] in such great detail is, in truth, foolish. Yet I realize that many works in this world are simply riddled with errors, and since my work is different, I thought it might just serve as a point of comparison, so I wrote this down when I came to it.
There are a variety of works that discuss all manner of peripheral topics in Genji; I can by no means set right all their errors.68 It is best not even to look at these works, so worthless they are, when you are in no position to tell what is right and what is wrong in them. Thus it is that those who know say, “Never show a Genji Small Mirror [Genji kokagami] to a beginner! Once you do, they’ll come down with the Genji disease [Genji yamai].” How true this is! They go about with a know-it-all look on their faces, thinking, “So that’s the original verse [honka]!” but they are wrong. They are worse off than if they had never seen it. This you simply have to realize.
Gyokuei shū concludes as follows.
To have gone into such detail may well be excessive, but in response to requests from beginners I’ve simply told what I know as it happened to come out. Mark my words! Mark my words! Read this through by yourself, whenever you have time on your hands, to while away the tedium. And thereafter, throw it in the fire. You really must!
ari to miru nashi to mo miru na minamoto o / kokoro na kakeso yume no ukihashi
Regard it not as being, nor, again, as being not; nor concern yourself
whither it might have come, this floating bridge of dreams.69
TRANSLATED BY G. G. ROWLEY
(Kogetsushō)
Kitamura Kigin’s (1624–1725) The Moonlit Lake Commentary is usually described as the last of the “Old Commentaries.” That designation can be misleading, however, for the “newness” of the “New Commentaries” of the Edo period was not a newness of format and presentation, but a newness of attitudes and allegiances. Keichū’s Genchū shūi (1696), Mabuchi’s Genji monogatari shinshaku (1758), and Norinaga’s Tama no ogushi (1796), the vanguard of the New, are visually indistinguishable from the Old Commentaries: lemma after lemma cited from the Genji text are followed by the commentator’s explication of them. Only upon careful examination of those explications does the reader discover what is new about them: their rejection of moralistic, didactic, and (to some extent) historicist modes of interpretation; their refusal to be influenced by aristocratic familial factionalism; and their rigorous adherence to higher standards of evidentiary scholarship.
Kigin’s Kogetsushō, by contrast, is instantly distinguishable from its predecessors, without reading a single word of it. In the first place, it incorporates a complete text of Genji, and all commentary is keyed to that text. Upon closer scrutiny, readers see that commentary and text are paired in several different ways, some of them highly innovative. Old-style commentary (lemma plus explication) survives here as headnotes, in which every comment that applies to a word or phrase on a particular page is placed at the top of that page; and whenever a commentary threatens to outrun the text, the text on that page is halted short of the margin, allowing the commentary to run the full length of the page. This is why many pages give the impression of a block of text “framed” by commentary. Moreover, between the lines of the text itself are further comments that Kigin feels would be more useful standing immediately adjacent to the words or phrases to which they apply. Sometimes these notes are lexicographical, providing a concise de0nition of a word, a modern (Genroku) translation of a phrase, or the kanji version of a potentially ambiguous word written in kana. Others identify the speaker of the passage in question. Still others supply an earlier commentator’s interpretation of a particular phrase. And the entire text is punctuated. Many of these annotations and interlinea are provided by Kigin himself, but others are drawn from whichever of the Old Commentaries Kigin deemed most apposite to the text in question.
The need for a summa of this sort had been felt since at least a century earlier, when Nakanoin Michikatsu compiled Mingō nisso, which remained the most comprehensive compilation of Genji commentary well into the twentieth century. But the radically innovative formatting of Kogetsushō—combining text, commentary, and modern language glosses in a single work—was to make it the most widely used Genji for the next two centuries and more. Even Motoori Norinaga, despite his generally unfriendly attitude toward the Old Commentaries, used Kogetsushō as the basis of both his lectures on Genji and his own commentary, Genji monogatari Tama no ogushi. Still later, Arthur Waley (1889–1966) made the first complete English translation of The Tale of Genji using Kigin’s Kogetsushō. Indeed, a close comparison of Waley’s translation with Kogetsushō reveals several passages that Waley translated not from the Genji text itself but from Kigin’s interlinear version of the text. This is why many of Kigin’s annotations, read in translation, seem almost redundant.
Kigin’s mission, then, was not to take issue with the “Old Commentators,” but to present the finest fruits of their labors in a new format that would be immediately useful to readers of his own day as an aid to deciphering an ancient text. In this he was extremely successful. Just as Mingō nisso had become indispensable to scholars of Genji, Kogetsushō became indispensable to readers of the tale.
For obvious reasons, the following excerpt from the “Hahakigi” chapter of Kogetsushō is based on Waley’s translation of The Tale of Genji.70 It also attempts to approximate the formatting of Kigin’s text, insofar as is possible when translating from a vertically written language into a horizontally written one. For the sake of clarity, the annotations that appear in the original as headnotes are here rendered as footnotes, and the passages in the Genji text to which Kigin’s interlinea refer are given in boldface type. Material taken from earlier commentaries is identified either by the short title of the work from which it is drawn (Mōshin = Mōshinshō) or by the name of its author (Yasoku = Nakanoin Michikatsu).
T. HARPER
GENJI TEXT TRANSLATED BY ARTHUR WALEY;
COMMENTARY TRANSLATED BY T. HARPER
Notes
ari to mite te ni wa torarezu mireba mata / yukue mo shirazu kieshi kagerō
There it is, just there, yet ever beyond my reach, till I look once more,
and it is gone, the mayfly, never to be seen again. (“Kagerō,” 17:264)
