The "Heike Monogatari," that famous account of the events that led to the downfall of the Heike clan and the ascendancy of the Genji, covers the years between 1131 and 1331, but is mainly concerned with the 18 years between the premiership of Kiyomori, head of the Heike, and the destruction of that clan at the battle of Dan-no-ura.
These events are presented in great detail and there is an abundance of violent action, but the work is most distinguished by its tone. This is frankly elegiac. We view the events from a distance; morality is allowed to intrude from time to time; the fall of the Heike is seen with an ethical eye; and the lesson of the eternal evanescence of all things is detected in many an incident.
One of the reasons is that the Heike story was originally oral literature. It was a kind of ballad-chronicle chanted by biwa-playing storytellers. It was not until the early 14th century that it was transcribed, and even that original work has not survived. What is now regarded as the most authoritative text dates from 1371, a revision of this transcription.
The storytellers were concerned with entertainment and education. Morals are drawn, and the great lesson of shoja hissui (those who flourish are destined to fall) is tirelessly repeated. The work still passes as history and the popularizations (Eiji Yoshikawa's "The Heike Story" is the most famous contemporary example), films and TV shows that reuse this material all insist upon the moral aspect.
The work itself, however, is lyrical -- the interest is in emotion itself. The story stops, time and again, not only to tell us what the characters are wearing, but to observe how many times they wet their sleeves, how many times they complain about "this present degenerate age."
It is here perhaps that the "Heike Monogatari" enters the mainstream of Japanese literature. The lyric regard for the tragic detail assumes not only a knowledge of the transient; it also invites a quiet celebration of that fact. If all things pass, it is because all things must, and since all things must and this is what is, then it is good. This tragic sense of life has illuminated much of Japanese literature and, in the "Heike Monogatari," is seen in one of its earliest manifestations.
The work has been several times translated into English. The first was a partial translation by A. L. Sadler; the second was that of Hiroshi Kitagawa and Bruce T. Tsuchida, which appeared in 1975; the third was that of Helen Craig McCullough; and the fourth is this one of Burton Watson.
All the translations have their strengths. Sadler's may be vitiated by its choice of text (the authoritative text was not available that early) and by its somewhat period style. At the same time this style has its admirers -- as does Arthur Waley's period style in his version of the "Genji Monogatari."
One way to indicate the merits of these various versions is to compare passages. I have chosen a favorite, a section from "The Death of Atsumori" (Chapter XVI, Book 9). The warrior Kumagai is standing over the fallen youth.
"Alas! look there," he exclaimed, the tears running down his face, "though I would spare your life, the whole countryside swarms with our men, and you cannot escape them. If you must die, let it be by my hand and I'll see that prayers are said for your rebirth in Bliss." "Indeed it must be," said the young warrior, "so take off my head at once." Then Kumagai, weeping bitterly, and so overcome by his compassion that his eyes swam and his hand trembled so that he could scarcely wield his blade, hardly knowing what he did, at last cut off his head.
(Sadler)
He suppressed his tears and said: "Though I wish to spare your life, a band of my fellow warriors is approaching, and there are so many others throughout the countryside that you have no chance of escaping from the Genji. Since you must die now, let it be by my hand rather than by the hand of another, for I will see that prayers for your better fortune in the next world are performed." To this, the young warrior replied simply: "Then take off my head at once!" So pitiable an act was it that [Kumagai] could not wield his blade. His eyes saw nothing but darkness before him. His heart sank. However, unable to keep the boy in this state any longer, he struck off his head.
(Kitagawa/Tsuchida)
"I would like to spare you," he said, restraining his tears, "but there are Genji warriors everywhere. You cannot possibly escape. It will be better if I kill you than if someone else does it, because I will offer prayers on your behalf." "Just take my head and be quick about it." Overwhelmed by compassion, [Kumagae] could not find a place to strike. His senses reeled, his wits forsook him, and he was scarcely conscious of his surroundings. But matters could not go on like that forever: in tears, he took the head.
(McCullough)
Fighting back the tears, he said, "I'd like to let you go, but our forces are everywhere in sight -- you could never get away. Rather than fall into someone else's hands, it's better that I kill you. I'll see that prayers are said for your salvation in the life to come." "Just take my head and be quick about it," the boy said. Kumagae was so overcome with pity that he did not know where to strike. His eyes seemed to dim, his wits to desert him, and for a moment he hardly knew where he was. But then he realized that, for all his tears, no choice was left him, and he struck off the boy's head.
(Watson)
The various virtues of these passages are evident, but they have their differences (Sadler and Kitagawa/Tsuchida give the aggressor's name as Kumagai, McCullough and Watson as Kumagae; initial tears are suppressed/restrained in later translations, while running down the warrior's face in Sadler, etc.) But their very similarities would indicate that they are all trustworthy.
However, the purveying of story-line information is only a part of the duties of a translation. Perhaps the most important of these is the creation of a tone (in English, in this case) that will carry the purport of the text and make it understandable.
Sadler was working within the lingual confines of his time and these now, naturally, seem quaint. Kitagawa and Tsuchida are two people and so the translation had to go through an extra step along the way. A further complication is that only one of them (Bruce Tsuchida) was a native English speaker. McCullough has the benefit of a modern text and modern diction. At the same time she sought to tell the most in the fewest words. This resulting story moves swiftly but its very economy thins the tone.
Watson, the pre-eminent translator of classical Japanese and Chinese literature, maintains the proper balance: a colloquial tone, yet a certain formality of diction -- an English style that allows him to connect phrases (note his last sentence in the excerpt used here) that other translators have missed.
Watson's version, however, is not intended to be complete. It is edited to be a part of Haruo Shirane's new anthology of classical Japanese literature and would comprise, I would guess, about half the text of the original. The sections are connected by precis (written by Shirane), which connect the parts of the story.
The editor shares his ambitions in his preface. "The Tales of the Heike" is not popular "because of the difficulty in following the text, which is long and highly episodic and contains hundreds of names, places, and events. We hope to have overcome these hurdles with this abridged edition, concentrating on the most important and famous episodes while also linking them in such a way as to give the reader an overall vision of the extended narrative."
We sympathize with the demands of the coming anthology (which will duplicate this text) but at the same time entertain our own vision. Watson's is, I believe, the best of the translations. How splendid would have been his version of the complete work.
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