Anthology of Japanese Literature/The Exile of Godaigo

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The Exile of Godaigo

 

[Masukagami, Book XVI]

 

The “Masukagami”—variously translated as “Mirror of Increase” or “Mirror of Clarity”—is an historical romance based on events which took place between 1184 and 1333. It begins with the accession of the Emperor Gotoba (1180–1239) and ends with the return from exile of the Emperor Godaigo (1288–1339). These were two of the most energetic and literarily gifted of the Japanese emperors. Both attempted to assert themselves against the military class, and both were defeated and sent to exile on the remote island of Oki.

The selection given here covers Godaigo’s journey from Kyoto to Oki, and the life he led in lonely exile. Godaigo was more fortunate than Gotoba (who is the “former emperor” of the translation) in that he was able to return from exile thanks to his supporters. Once back in power, however, he continued to make the mistakes that had caused his first exile, and it was not long before his forces were driven from Kyoto again, this time to the mountains of Yoshino where for some sixty years the “Southern Court” held sway.

Neither the date nor the author of the “Masukagami” is known, but it is believed to have been written about 1370, possibly by Nijō Yoshimoto (1320–1388) the famous poet of linked-verse.

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The spring of 1332 had come. The beginning of the first year of the new reign was surprisingly festive. The new Emperor, being young and handsome, lent a special brilliance to everything, and the palace ceremonies were performed in exact observance of tradition. On the occasions of official functions, and even on quite ordinary days, there was so dense a press of carriages before the palace and the residences of the cloistered sovereigns,^[1] which were situated within the same area, that it was scarcely possible to move, but among all those who thronged to the court, there was not a single familiar face.

The Emperor Godaigo was still held captive at Rokuhara. Along about the second moon, when the skies were serene and lightly veiled in mist, and the gently blowing spring breezes brought from the eaves the nostalgic fragrance of plum blossoms, so melancholy was his cast of mind that even the clear notes of the thrush sounded harshly in his ears. Their situations were different, of course, but one could not help thinking of some neglected court lady in the women’s palace at the Chinese court. Perhaps it was with the intent of consoling him, now that the lengthening of the days made it all the harder for him to pass his time, that the Empress sent him his lute, together with this poem written on a scrap of paper:

omoiyare chiri no mi tsumoru  yotsu no o ni harai mo aezu kakaru namida wo

Turn your thoughts to me, And behold these, my tears, Too thick to brush away; They fell on the strings of the lute When I saw how thick the dust lay.

The Emperor, understanding that these must have been her actual feelings, was deeply saddened, and the tears coursed down his face like raindrops. He wrote in reply:

kakitateshi ne wo tachihatete kimi kouru namida no tama no  o to zo narikeru

When I plucked the notes After many months of silence, I yearned for you, And the notes became cords On which to thread my tears.

Just at this time there arrived in Kyoto an emissary from Kamakura named Nagai Takafuyu. His family had been important samurai in Kamakura since the days of General Yoshitomo, and although he was still young he was chosen for the important mission of informing the Emperor that the time had at last come for him to remove to Oki; on the seventh day of the third moon he must depart from the capital. It may well be imagined how great was the Emperor’s consternation when he learned that the dreaded moment was now at hand. Great were the lamentations also of the Empress and the princes, and those who were in attendance on him could not control their grief. He attempted to keep others from seeing how greatly distressed he was, but in spite of himself tears welled up, which he concealed as best he could. Whenever he recollected what had happened to that former emperor, he realized how unlikely it was that he himself would ever return to govern the country again. He lived in the conviction that everything had now come to an end, and he ceaselessly lamented that his sorrows were due not to the wickedness of others, but had all been imposed on him from a previous existence.

tsui ni kaku shizumihatsubeki  mukui araba ue naki mi to wa nani umarekemu

If it is my fate To terminate thus my days, In the depths of ruin, Why was I ever born Sovereign supreme of men?

The Emperor set out about ten o’clock in the morning. He rode in the split-bamboo Imperial carriage. The outriders consisted of all those still alive who had served at the court since the reign of the late Emperor Go-uda.^[2] The Middle Counselor Saionji served as carriage attendant. The Emperor wore the Imperial crown, an ordinary court robe and trousers, and an unlined cloak of white damask. He recalled with sorrow that on the same day a year before he had held a cherry-blossom party in the northern hills, and one after another of the happy events of that day came back to him. The robes which he then had presented to the different gentlemen to celebrate the occasion were today altered into traveling garments, and this thought made him lament all the more bitterly the fickle usages of the world. Just before he left his prison to enter the carriage, he wrote on the paper-door beside which he always used to sit:

isa shirazu nao ukikata no mata mo araba kono yado totemo shinobare ya semu

I do not know— If I go from here to some Yet more hateful place, Perhaps even these lodgings Will stir nostalgic regret.

He was accompanied by several court dames and by just two men, Yukifusa and Tadaaki. No words could express the sorrow that each one felt as the moment of departure approached. The officers who were selected to escort him from Rokuhara, or who were engaged in other duties commensurate with their great fame, included ten of the most distinguished men of the realm. They were attired in magnificent brocade cloaks and robes of various hues, woven and dyed in contrasting patterns, and presented a rare and splendid sight even in these unhappy circumstances. From Rokuhara they proceeded westward along the Seventh Ward, and then turned southward at Omiya. The Imperial carriage halted in front of the Eastern Temple, apparently to permit the Emperor a brief moment of prayer. The carriages of spectators jammed the streets. Even ladies of quality, in wide-brimmed hats and turned-up robes, mingled with the pedestrians. Young and old, nuns, priests, and even wretched wood-cutters and hunters from the mountains thronged the place, as thick as bamboos in a forest. Just to see them all wiping their eyes and sniffling made one feel that no worse calamity could occur in this sorrowful world. It must have been thus when the Emperor Gotoba was exiled to Oki, but of that event I know only by report, not having witnessed it myself. It seemed to me then that so appalling a moment had never before been known. Even the insignificant or base people who normally could never have approached the Imperial presence were bewildered and dumbfounded by the pathos of today’s leave-taking. The Emperor lifted the blinds of his carriage a little and gazed around him as though not to let a blade of grass or a tree escape his eyes. The soldiers of the escort, not being made of stone or wood, could be seen to wet the sleeves of their armor with their tears. The Emperor looked back until the treetops of the capital disappeared from sight. He still wondered if it might after all be just a dream.

When they arrived at the Toba Palace, His Majesty changed his apparel, and for appearance’s sake partook of lunch, although he barely touched the food. From this place onward he was to travel by palanquin. The outriders and other courtiers wept as they returned to the capital with the empty carriage, and he was most touched by their distraction. In this manner the Emperor departed for his distant destination.

At the crossing of the Yodo River he recalled how when, long ago, he had paid a state visit to the Hachiman Shrine, his commissioner at the bridge-crossing had been Sasaki, the Lord of Sado, who had since entered the priesthood and was this day serving as one of his escorts. The recollection was difficult to bear.

shirube suru michi koso arazu narinu tomo Yodo no watari wa  wasureshi mo seji

Although this road On which you are guiding me Is not the one of old, At the Yodo crossing I do not forget the past….

The Emperor next crossed the Cape of Wada and the Karumo River, and was approaching the Barrier of Suma. The place “where the wind from the bay blows across the pass,” of Yukihira’s poem, must have been far inland from the bay which now the Emperor gazed on, lost in emotion. He felt as if even now the waves of which Genji had said, “they are lost in the sound of my weeping,” were splashing on his sleeves, and they brought tears for many things. The Emperor next came to the province of Harima. Struck by the charm of the villages he saw, he asked what they were called, and they told him “Salt-House” and “Dripping Brine.” “Just to ask the names makes the journey all the more bitter,” he said. When he lifted the blinds of his palanquin and looked out, his face was young and handsome, so that all who were in attendance thought how splendid he looked. Just beyond the valley of Okura was the tomb of Hitomaro. And when he passed the bay of Akashi, how moving it was.^[3]

mizu no awa no kiete ukise wo wataru mi ni urayamashiki wa ama no tsuribune

I who must journey Across a world vanishing Like foam on the waves, What I long for most of all Is a little fishing boat.

When he looked on the Springs of Nonaka, the Bay of Futami, and the Pine of Takasago, all celebrated in poetry, he thought how delighted he would be were it not this sort of journey, but in his present distraught frame of mind, which everything served only to deepen, he could only shut his eyes to them. “I must be in a terrible state,” he thought. Clustered cherry trees were in blossom on a lofty peak, and he felt as though he were making his way through white clouds. But the very charm of the scene brought up memory on memory of the capital.

hana wa nao ukise mo wakazu sakitekeri miyako mo ima ya  sakari naruramu

The cherry blossoms Unmindful of the sad world, Have burst into bloom. And in the capital too Now must be their glory.

On the twelfth, when he was stopping at a place on the Kako River, he was informed that his son, the Prince Sonchō, about to sail for exile in Sanuki, had arrived at Noguchi, east of the river, although the route he had taken differed somewhat from the Emperor’s. Much moved by the news, the Emperor asked to meet his son, but his escorts refused permission, and the Prince passed on without a glimpse of him. What unbearable agitation must he have experienced then! It hardly need be stated here, but there is no man but would feel unspeakable bitterness and rancor toward a world where even so small a thing could not be granted.

On the seventeenth he reached the province of Mimasaka where he rested for two or three days on account of an indisposition. Since his lodgings here were only temporary, they were not very spacious, and the soldiers on duty were all able to see him from quite close up. His majestic appearance stirred them profoundly, and he looked at them filled with many thoughts.

aware to wa nare mo miruramu  wa ga tami wo omou kokoro wa ima mo kawarazu

My miserable state Is apparent even to you— Know that my concern For my beloved people Even now remains unchanged.

At the sight of smoke rising from the eaves of the house adjoining his, the Emperor recited the verse, “Brushwood burning in a mountain hut” in a touching way.

yoso ni no mi omoi zo yarishi omoiki ya tami no kamado wo  kakute mimu to wa

I had always thought it Something quite remote from me.— Did ever I think Thus to see, so close at hand, The kitchen fires of my people?

They continued on their journey. The Emperor, noticing that the direction from which they had come was now veiled over in mist, thought, “How great a distance I have come!” Each day that elapsed took him farther from the capital and increased his melancholy. Even the branches of cherry, which he had seen in their first faint bloom, with the passage of the days and the miles had lost their color more and more, and now lay scattered whitely on the twisting roads that led up and down through the mountains. He felt as though he were passing over patches of melting snow.

hana no haru wa mita mimu koto no  kataki ka na onaji michi wo ba ikikaeru tomo

How hard it will be Once again to see the spring And cherry blossoms, Even if perchance I travel Back along this very road.

Yes, it would be extremely difficult but, he consoled himself, if he managed to keep alive he might yet be able to carry through his plans, though this was not to be depended on….

At Nakayama of the Three-day Moon he recalled the poem that long ago the Emperor Gotoba had written about the place. How sad those times had been!

tsutaekiku mukashigatari zo  ukarikeru sono na furinuru minazuki no mori

When I hear them tell Those stories of days gone by I am filled with grief. O name that I long have known, Forest of the Three-day Moon!

They were now half-way to their destination. The soldiers of the escort, high and low alike, changed to costumes of a style even gayer and more fashionable than those in which they had left the capital. Although in most respects it was paltry and strange for an Imperial procession, the evidence of the care which had been taken for their entertainment all along the way was such that the procession did not seem so wretched after all; the Emperor’s reception was in fact most courteous. He was now an exile, but there seemed still to be a lingering respect for one who had been a sovereign and had ruled his country with majesty. He was treated everywhere with the greatest deference. Those who knew about ancient matters declared that on that procession to exile of former days no such courtesies had been shown.

About the first day of the fourth moon, recalling his life at the palace, the Emperor wrote:

samo koso wa tsukihi mo shiranu ware narame koromogae seshi kefu ni ya wa aranu

Indeed it is true That I have quite forgotten The passage of time. Is it not today that I was wont To change to summer clothes?

At the port of Yasuki in the province of Izumo he boarded ship. Twenty-four large and innumerable small vessels followed his. As the boats were rowed far out to sea and the way back was obscured by ever thickening mist, his spirits sank, and he felt that he understood for the first time what it meant to be “separated by two thousand leagues.”^[4] Thus he arrived in Oki.

Nothing remained in the way of relics of that former exile. There was a handful of houses and, in the distance, only a shed where the fishermen burnt salt. When he cast his eyes on this most miserable view, all thoughts of himself left his mind, and he recalled instead the events of the past. With sorrow and humility he tried to imagine what it must have been like for that other Emperor to have ended his days in such a place, and he realized that his present exile stemmed from his desire to fulfill the aspirations of his ancestor. Countless thoughts pursued him; he wondered whether the former Emperor in his grave was now taking pity on him.

The Emperor fixed upon a temple called Kokubunji, which was situated somewhat inland from the coast, as his residence, and had it renovated suitably. Now that he had definitely entered upon the life he was henceforth to lead, he felt calmed, but he still experienced an indescribable sensation of unreality. When all the soldiers who had escorted him to Oki withdrew, a terrible silence fell over the place, which made him feel all the more depressed….

On the twenty-second day of the third moon the coronation procession took place in the capital, dazzling everyone by its splendor. The cloistered sovereigns, Gofushimi and Hanazono, who rode together, stopped their carriage by the eastern gate of the palace to watch the procession. Everything had been arranged with the greatest care and went off beautifully.

But, alas, the Emperor Godaigo’s consort was wrapped in grief, as she had been since their parting, and never raised her head. Her sorrow was understandable: added to the unhappiness caused by a distant separation, there were the pangs in her heart that gave her no surcease. Without emotion, as if it were happening to someone quite remote, she received the news that her title of Empress had been taken from her, and a name as a nun bestowed. It was now for her a world bereft of joy. In days past she had grieved because she had been mocked at and made the object of universal gossip,^[5] and the Emperor had shared her distress, but now she gave no thought at all to such matters. The various altars that had been erected for prayers for her safe delivery had been damaged beyond recognition and forgotten. Her days were now given over entirely to confused thoughts about the sadness of the world. As time went on without her even taking the necessary medicines, she fell insensibly into a decline, and it did not seem that she could long survive. From Oki there came only very infrequent messages, all of which contributed to her anxiety and depression. There was no certainty that they would meet again, and they were both exceedingly unhappy at the thought that, the uncertain world being what it is, they might soon end their lives still thus separated.

Naiji no Sammi, who accompanied the Emperor to Oki, had given birth to several of his children. Because of their tender years they were not sent to exile, but their guardian was changed, and they moved to a house in the northern hills. Although they were still small, they were aware of what had happened and often, when no one could see them, they would burst into tears of longing for their parents. The eldest of the children was seven years old. In his new surroundings the sky was dismal, and the fiercely blowing mountain winds made him sadder than before. He recited verses in Chinese and in Japanese:

The garden pines are dark with age, the autumn wind is cold;
The bamboo leaves grow thick, white snow now covers all.

tsukusuku to nagamekurashite iriai no kane no oto ni mo  kimo zo koishiki

Having spent the day In quiet meditation, Just to hear the sound Of the evening temple bell Makes me long for you, my lord.

It was most touching to see how, boy though he was, he kept a melancholy silence. Even though he spoke no word, everyone could guess from his appearance how deeply he lamented the fates of both those in Kyoto and in Oki….

This year there was an Imperial procession to the Kamo Festival, which was so unusual that people devoted the utmost care to the sightseeing carriages, and the stands along the way were built with greater splendor than ever before. The deputies of the reigning and cloistered sovereigns vied with one another as to who would present the most stunning appearance. The courtiers and the young men of noble families—all those who were privileged to wear the forbidden colors—attended in bright and elegant attire. Even their attendants created with their costumes the brilliant effect of a bouquet of flowers. From the carriages the court ladies’ robes in every color—wistaria, azalea, verbena, carnation, and iris—overflowed in a most gay and charming manner.

When the festival was over and things had quieted down, all those nobles who had been seriously implicated as partisans of the Emperor Godaigo were sent to distant exile. The Major Counselor Kimitoshi had shaved his head and was spending his days in quiet retirement, but his crime was apparently unpardonable, and it was reported that he had been sent under escort to the distant north. About the same time also the Middle Counselor Tomoyuki was sent to the east. Among the many offenders his crimes were reported to be the most serious, and it seemed likely that a punishment even severer than exile would be his fate. His wife had served in the palace, and had formerly enjoyed the favors of the Emperor Godaigo and borne him a princess, but later he yielded her to Tomoyuki, although the latter was still of inferior rank at the time. During the years since then they had loved each other with a rare passion, and now that the world was proving so cruel to one after another of the great men, her worries could not but be extreme. As the days went by she grew increasingly unhappy, but as long as she knew that Tomoyuki still remained in Kyoto she could at least take comfort from asking the blowing winds about him. She realized, of course, that sooner or later he would share the same fate as the others, but when she heard that the moment had come, her feelings were quite indescribable. This spring, when the Emperor had left the capital, she thought that she had wept all the tears she possessed, but some indeed remained—she wept now more even than before, until it seemed she would weep her whole body away. Tomoyuki, torn by regret and an unbecoming weakness, wished that things could be again as they were, but suddenly reflecting that he must not let others see him in this womanish state he changed his expression and feigned indifference, as if he were completely undisturbed. Here are some of the many poems he composed during the winter of the previous year, after his arrest:

nagaraete mi wa itazura ni hatsu shimo no oku kata shiranu yo ni mo furu ka na

Though yet I survive I shall meaninglessly die: Like the first frost Which cannot find a resting place, I pass my days in the world.

ima wa haya ika ni narinuru ukimi zo to onaji yo ni dani tou hito mo nashi

Now, already, Even while in the same world, No one asks any more What has happened to me Who have thus been afflicted.

The lay priest Sasaki, the Lord of Sado, escorted him from the capital. At Ausaka Barrier Tomoyuki wrote:

kaeru beki toki shinakereba kore ya kono yuku wo kagiri no  Ausaka no seki

Since there will not be A time when I may return, Mine is a journey But of going, once I pass Ausaka Barrier.

They stopped for a while at a place called Kashiwabara, where the priest was apparently waiting for a reply to the message he had sent to Kamakura about Tomoyuki’s disposition. During this time the priest related to him various tales in which he showed his sympathy. “Everything that happens is the result of actions committed in a former existence. You are not the only one who has been implicated, and I couldn’t very well help you if I didn’t help the others. It is hard for a man to be born as I was into a warlike family, and to have to spend all his time in service with his weapons.” He did not say directly what he thought, but Tomoyuki understood what he was hinting at.

The priest had also served as escort on the Emperor’s journey to Oki, and he began to relate what had happened on the way. “It was a most exalting and moving experience. I could easily imagine how you who had waited on him day and night must have felt about him. In every respect he equalled the grandeur of the sovereigns of old, and I was led to think that it was his very excess of ability in these degenerate and ill-starred times which caused things to happen as they did.” Even when he discussed quite ordinary matters, he added telling observations, speaking always in a most gentle manner. The priest tried to make up for the unhappy situation by treating Tomoyuki most solicitously, offering him wines which were extravagant for one in his position, if a little rough owing to the remoteness of the place.

Although the messenger sent to Kamakura had apparently by this time already returned, the priest deliberately avoided mention of him. Tomoyuki was oppressed by the desire to find out his fate, and though he had resigned himself to death, his spirits were low. “What good would it do me to be sent off to some distant island?” he asked himself. “No one in this world lives to be a thousand years old, and indeed, the longer one lives, the greater the suffering. Sooner or later I must journey the road that none escape—it’s all one. He whose mind is free of disturbance at the final hour will go to the Pure Land.”

In spite of his resolve, however, his heart was still torn by longing for the capital, and many thoughts continued to unsettle him. He realized that in any case, at least to judge by appearances, his own end could not be far off. His escort had hinted to him of it, and since he had shown himself a man of kindness, Tomoyuki thought that he would not object if he became a priest. The following day Tomoyuki said, “I think I should like to shave my head.” “That is most unfortunate. I wonder what they will think in Kamakura if they hear of it. However, I don’t imagine it makes any difference.” He thus gave his consent. This happened on the nineteenth day of the sixth moon.

That day, as Tomoyuki could tell, was probably to be his last. It did not come as a surprise to him, but he could not help feeling how disgraceful it was that he, a prince, should meet with so unprecedented a fate.

kiekakaru tsuyu no inochi no hate wa mitsu sate mo Azuma no  sue zo yukashiki

Now I can behold The moment of expiration Of my dew-like life. What I most would like to see Is the end of Azuma.[6]

It was evident from his words that he still harbored rebellious thoughts against Kamakura. Toward evening of the same day he was finally put to death. He did not behave in an unseemly manner during his last moments, even though his heart must have been filled with bitterness, but acted as though he considered his fate inevitable. It may be imagined how painfully his wife was afflicted by the news she so long had been dreading. Soon afterward she shaved her head and entered a convent where friends of former days were now living a life of holy devotions….

In this manner one after another of the adherents of the Emperor Godaigo was executed or sent to distant exile, each meeting a lamentable fate, but to describe them all is beyond my powers. Only Prince Sonun escaped the tiger’s mouth, wandering here and there with no safe refuge. It was wondered in pity how long he could survive.

On the little island of Oki the passing months and days brought with them only additional sorrows. The Emperor wondered, “Of what great crimes have I been guilty that I should be made to suffer so?” Even while he thus lamented his karma, he tried to think how he might atone for his sins. He gave himself to strict Buddhist discipline, and performed his devotions day and night. Perhaps he also thought that the power of the Law might help him to regain his throne. Whenever he himself lit the holy fire, many auspicious signs appeared, both in his dreams and in his waking hours.

At times when he was bored he used to pace the gallery-like part of the temple looking out at the bay in the distance. He could faintly see the little fishing boats, which reminded him of floating autumn leaves, and in his melancholy he would wonder, “Whither do they go?”

kokorozasu kata wo towaba ya  nami no ue ni ukite tadayou ama no tsuribune

I would ask of you Whither is it that you head, Little fishing boats, Floating, drifting aimlessly On the waves of the sea.

He recited the verse “The boat rowed out to the bay now is rudderless; how sad it is to be alone, adrift.”^[7] He somehow managed to conceal the tears which fell, lending an indescribable nobility to his face. Although he was no longer young, he was still so graceful and handsome that it seemed almost sacrilegious even to himself that such majesty should be wasted in so dreary a place.

In the capital, now that the tenth moon had come, everyone was frantically busy with preparations for the Thanksgiving Service for the new reign. The Household Treasury, the Department of Works, and the guilds of seamstresses and dyers were all noisily engaged in their respective tasks. But for those loyal to the Emperor Godaigo, the occasion was a source only of tears.

Various people were commanded to compose poetry to be inscribed on the Heaven and Earth palace-screens, but as there was no one who could write them beautifully enough, it was debated whether to recall Yukifusa from exile. Word of this soon reached Oki. In the stillness of an evening, when no one else was in attendance, Yukifusa waited on the Emperor. In the course of one of his stories about things present and past, the Emperor remarked, “I wonder what they will decide to do about you in the capital. If they do recall you I shall certainly be most envious.” The Emperor’s eyes filled with tears in spite of himself, as he gazed at the lantern by his side, and Yukifusa, who was watching him, quite lost heart. “If it were really some important business, I would go back, but to write poetry—how can I possibly return to the capital when I see him look that way?” Such were his thoughts, but he could not speak them.

It was just the time for the Emperor’s midnight devotions. A wind from the sea was blowing fiercely, and there even came a harsh rattle of hail. The Emperor broke the ice that had formed during this terribly cold night to offer holy water to the Buddha, like some little priest in a mountain temple. Tadaaki and Yukifusa, who had come to worship with sprays of anise as offerings, were profoundly stirred, and wondered when the Emperor had learned the ceremony. The Emperor was beset by countless thoughts as he prayed that somehow once again he might rule the country, this time with a better understanding of the true natures of men.

Translated by Donald Keene

1. At the time two emperors who had abdicated and taken Buddhist orders were living in the capital—Gofushimi (1288–1336) and Hanazono (1297–1348).
2. Go-uda (1267–1324) reigned from 1275 to 1288.
3. This section has many references to the Suma and Akashi chapter of “The Tale of Genji,” linking Godaigo’s exile with Genji’s.
4. An allusion to a line by Po Chü-i: “I think of old friends separated from me now by two thousand leagues.”
5. There had been a scandal about a false pregnancy.
6. Azuma (“the East”) here stands for the military government in Kamakura which was responsible for Godaigo’s exile.
7. An allusion to a poem by Ono no Komachi in the “Shokukokinshū.”