The Heike Story: Fragmented 

A review and analysis of The Heike Story by Eiji Yoshikawa — some spoilers.

It would help to know the manner in which this story was written. The Tales of the Heiké is a Japanese classic from the 13th century, about the war between the Heiké clan (AKA the Taira) and the Genji clan (AKA the Minamoto) in the 12th century. As I understand it, the leader of the Heiké, Kiyomori, is written as a bloodthirsty villain (given that the Genji won, this was the story told). Then in the 1950’s, Eiji Yoshikawa rewrote the class story as New Tales of the Heiké, a 24-volume series published from 1950-1957. In this, Kiyomori is a nuanced character with good and bad traits and acts. Then Fuki Wooyenuka Uramatsu, with permission from the author, rendered this into a shorter novel (540 pages) in English, published in 1956. Thus, it is not only a translation, but an abridgment, and one which abridged a material that was not yet finished (though the original story was a well known classic). 

Thus, I recommend reading the foreword (by Davinder Bhowmik) and the afterword (by Uramatsu) before reading the novel, to learn some details on the Heian period, the original text, the source text, and the translation. 

Cyclical Violence in the Heian Period

I enjoyed this book. I found the later Heian period fascinating, with its emperors and abdicated emperors, court politics, the rise of the warrior class, and the armies of warrior Buddhist monks. On that last note, here is one of my favourite descriptions: 

“By evening several thousand armed monks with the Sacred Shrine had poured down the mountainside, and like thunderclouds bore down on the capital from the north, following the banks of the Kamo River in the twilight to a position not far from the city gates. As darkness fell they tramped to an ominous chanting of sutras, and their blazing torches seemed to scorch the earth and set the clouds on fire. 

In every village and hamlet along the marchers’ route, terror seized the inhabitants as though the God of Evil himself were marching through; not a soul could be seen. In their hovels of boards, mothers clutched their children to them, hid their faces, and stopped up their ears, waiting for the terrible invaders to pass on. 

At Gion the Sacred Shrine was installed in the temple sanctuary, where the monks set up watches, and through the night the light from their fires made the hot vapors of the Eastern Hills burn with a spectral glare.” ¹ 

War and violence form a central theme of the story, but like many Eastern stories there is a cyclical nature to all things. “Impermanence is the nature of all things of this world.”² If my scant historical knowledge is accurate, before the Heian period the warrior class ruled. But later on the Fujiwara aristocrats began to really run things, marrying their daughters into the imperial family and selecting who the emperor would be and when he would abdicate (there were, at least in the 12th century, several abdications and cloistered emperors who still wielded power contemporaneously with the reigning emperor). This is when the story takes place. But by the end of the story the warrior class, particularly the Heiké, wield considerable power. With the defeat of the Heiké would come Minamoto no Yoritomo, the first shogun as we know them today. But the fighting would continue until the Tokugawa shogunate prevailed in the 16th century, and even after the Tokugawa reign of the Edo period, the power of the emperor would rise again in the 19th century, and the Samurai class and feudalism would be abolished. But this new power of the emperor lasted not even a century, as America dropped two atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and Japan surrendered in 1945. It was in the wake of the Empire’s end, that Yoshikawa rewrote the Heiké story. “That which hath been made, the same continueth: the things that shall be, have already been: and God restoreth that which is past.” (Ecclesiastes 3:15) 

The two most constant characters in the book’s 36 year timespan—that is, the ones who appear earliest, feature throughout, and appear near the end—are Kiyomori, leader of the Heiké, and Mongaku, the former warrior turned prophetic monk. In Yoshikawa’s retelling, Kiyomori shows up as a sort of slow-witted Musashi—an impetuous, somewhat licentious, unlearned warrior who, unlike Musashi, does not spend three years locked in a tower reading philosophical classics, and instead must learn from decades of experience the price of violence and the necessity of self-mastery. Whether he really learns this, I think is debatable. 

As a contrast to Kiyomori, the tragic Morito, who becomes the prophetic monk Mongaku, begins far more committed to lust and violence than Kiyomori does. However, in one of the most classic displays of Japanese spousal piety on the part of a woman, his own passion works against him and becomes his undoing. The rest of his life is a conversion, a penance, one spent warning others against the same mistakes he has made. Morito is saved by Kesa-Gozen, the loyal wife. Kiyomori, for his part, makes Morito’s mistake by giving in to his own passions.³ Although there is, perhaps, a cyclical justice to this scene as well, knowing who aids in his downfall at the end of the story (not shown in this book). 

Mongaku attempts to teach mercy and self-restraint, warning those who would fall to the same fate as their predecessors. When he overhears three young Genji planning to enact their murderous vengeance on the Heiké, we read the following from Mongaku: 

“My sympathies, in fact, are with the defeated and that’s why I want to talk to you, young man, who still have the world before you. Your father and brothers are dead and the Genji scattered, but why must you throw away your life? Out of you will come future generations. Guard that priceless life of yours! Forget those foolish plans for revenge. You can’t change this world by killing one man. O fool, fool that you are! Can’t you see that that helpless woman, submitting quietly to her agonies for love of her children, is far more courageous than you?”

The three youths under the tree fell silent. The light sifting through the treetops showed that evening was near, and a red glow played over the seated figures.

“See, see how the sun has moved onward while we talked. Nothing can stop it in its course. Prayers cannot halt the revolving of nature. It is the same with human life. Victory and defeat are one in the vast stream of life. Victory is the beginning of defeat, and who can rest safely in victory? Impermanence is the nature of all things of this world. Even you will find that your ill fortunes too will change. It is easy to understand the impatience of the old, whose days are numbered, but why should you young ones fret when the future is yours? Why try to dispel your petty dejection by a rash act that can only hasten death?”⁴

In this case as in another in the novel, those who do not listen to Mongaku meet a swift death. Yet here his words save the lives of two. 

The theme of mercy, mingled with a repugnance for violence, appears several times, with the crux of the story laying upon Kiyomori’s decision to spare those children and youths who will one day overthrow him (though this is not in the novel). Another cyclical theme of violence shows up in Kiyomori and Ushiwaka, Tokiwa’s son. The novel begins with Kiyomori’s struggle to learn who his father is, and upon discovering it, deciding to become a warrior despite his self-centered mother and leaving behind his impoverished life (which he blames the Fujiwara for, who had trampled the warrior class) to become the leader of the heike. The novel ends with Ushiwaka discovering who his father is, and upon discovering it, deciding to become a warrior despite his loving mother and leaving behind his life imprisoned in captivity (which he blames the heike for, who have trampled the Genji) to become one of the leaders of the Genji. By the end, Kiyomori has matured, become more merciful and prudent, and prioritises prosperity of Japan over self-aggrandisement, and his own more peaceful economic dream over power and war. Both men, as youths, had to learn a secret about their parentage. Neither learned the whole of it, since it was shrouded in secrecy and never fully revealed. Both men chose to honor their father instead of their mother, since each were separated from their mothers for one reason or another. Masculinity without maternal care, in Kiyomori’s case, became licentious and violent, but became tempered through bitter struggle and experience. As the novel ends, Ushiwaka chooses the path of violence. Tokiwa’s words to him in the final chapter will be fulfilled: “Be warned that in righting wrong and putting down the arrogant, you too may follow the example of those you most deplore; others will rise to humble you, and the fearful and foolish history of bloodshed will go on repeating itself forever. As a warrior, remember to love and protect the oppressed and weak, that your name may be honored forever more.”⁵ Perhaps the difference between them lies in the fact that Kiyomori had a father who raised him, who exemplified honor, strength, and self-restraint. What has been, will be. But what one has not learned, one cannot know. The wise words of an absent mother (even if absent by necessity) cannot stand against the desire of a son to honor and avenge his father, a desire nurtured by another father-like figure in his life. 

Pitfalls

The novel essentially sets up the fall of the Heiki. The whole story, I suppose, might as well have been called The Rise and Fall of the Heikie. I do not think there is any issue with the reader needing to know a little of the surrounding history—most notably that Ushiwaka and Yoritomo, spared by Kiyomori, would end up defeating the Heike. I believe that is in the aforementioned introduction. However, the abridgement suffers. I suppose that is like saying, the wound suffers. For the most part, I had no issue with the pacing, with two main exceptions. 

The ending feels rather abrupt. In the latter part of the novel the story speeds up, jumping over years, then feels like it slows down to a rather sudden halt. This was saved, if at all, only by the parallel between Kiyomori and Ushiwaka, creating a satisfying feeling that the story has resolved, in away, into this contrast between the old and the young, the powerful and the future victor. 

Even so, the latter parts of the novel focus less on Kiyomori and more on lesser characters. The issue is not that the story spent so much time on monks, maidens, and minstrels, nor were they uninteresting. The issue is that they were more interesting than the main character by that point. I am not sure why this was so. I think it has to do with the fact that, in the beginning, the story shows Kiyomori—he acts, changes, and reacts, and I found his inner dynamism and contradictions fascinating—whereas in the latter half or so of the story it merely tells. We are told, for instance, about his inner thoughts in the scene with Giwo and with the dancing girl. But somehow the scene feels colder, like looking in, rather than experiencing it and living in the scene the way a good story allows one to do. I do not think there is an issue in not having a main character, especially given the grandness of the novel in terms of time span, plot lines, and number of characters. Certainly in a novel like The Count of Monte Cristo, there is a shift away from the protagonist, and the reader gets to know other characters better, seeing Dantes only from an emotional distance until the end. Somehow, I did not feel this was achieved here, either because at the end Kiyomori seems to fade away in importance (unlike Dantes), or because of too much showing instead of telling, or both. The fact that it is abridged, with many scenes cut out, possibly factored in. In the afterword the translator wrote, “Much that is significant and of great interest to a Japanese audience familiar with the historical setting has been omitted in translation.” Perhaps it would have been of interest to a Western audience too. 

Finally, the translator is excellent at English, but not perfect. Certain sentences feel awkward. I made a full list, since I thought it could be helpful in the interest of translation work between Japanese and English. But a couple examples are as follows. 

A couple examples of awkward comma placement: “Assailant after assailant went down as Tadanori, nimbly wrenched away halberds and struck at his attackers.”⁶ And “It was only a few days, now until the 3rd of March, and they had lingered along, looking at the many displays in the stalls.”⁷

In response to the words, “O-oy—Jiro! Stop pretending you know the way. Are you sure you’re turning in the right direction?” Jiro replies: “All right, all right. We just passed the Tenno Hills and must be on the Yamazaki Road. We’ll get to Akutagawa by following the foothills.”⁸ Since Jiro is clearly contradicting the speaker and affirming his own plan, the “All right” is a little confusing. If the original was the Japanese “daijyōbu,” it would be an understandable mistake, since that word does mean “alright,” but it also means “It’s alright,” as in “Stop worrying.” But the English “all right” usually communicates acquiescence. 

There are a few other instances of awkward words or sentences, as well as a character who is described as a half-brother but is listed in the geneology at the beginning as a cousin (or else it is a different Tadanori, which would have been helpful to have clarified). This was not really annoying, just a minor issue with readability. However, as a whole, the words of the novel are not beautiful. There are a few passages I really enjoyed, such as the one of the armed warrior monks above. But, unlike Yoshikawa’s Musashi, translated by the American Charles S. Terry, the story is told well enough, but the prose is not beautiful. In Musashi, the prose runs smoothly, with both brevity and beauty in its sentences. Perhaps if I could read the original, I would find problems with Terry’s translation. But as far as the two English translations go, I found Terry’s excellent, and Urumatsu’s to be good in many ways but not up to the same level, with some awkwardness in a few places. Translation work is quite difficult. Perhaps, with only a few exceptions, it is better to have a translator render the work into his own native tongue, rather than to have a native speaker of the original language render it into his second language. 

In all, I enjoyed this book, though I do not know if I will reread it, as I hope to reread Musashi. I am looking forward to reading the third of Yoshikawa’s novels that has an English translation, Taiko (translated by an American). 

1. P. 113.
2. P. 365.
3. See p. 347.
4. Pp. 365-366.
5. P. 539.
6. P. 445.
7. P. 532.
8. P. 232.