The Sacred Tree: Being the Second Part of ‘The Tale of Genji’

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Title: The Sacred Tree: Being the Second Part of ‘The Tale of Genji’
Author: Murasaki Shikibu
Language: English
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THE SACRED TREE

BEING THE SECOND PART
OF ‘THE TALE OF GENJI’

By
LADY MURASAKI

Translated from the Japanese by
Arthur Waley

Boston and New York
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1926

MARY MacCARTHY

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

PREFACE

Several critics have asked to be told more about the writer of the
Tale of Genji. Unfortunately little is known of Murasaki’s life save
the bare facts recorded in the first appendix of Volume I. What other
knowledge we possess is derived from her _Diary_, which will be
discussed in a later volume and is meanwhile available in Mr. Doi’s
translation. Reviewers have also asked for information concerning
the state of literature in Japan at the time when the _Tale_ was
written. This I have supplied; and I have further ventured upon a short
discussion of Murasaki’s art and its relation to the fiction of the
West.

I have been blamed for using Catholic terms to describe heathen
rituals. My reason for doing so is that the outward forms of medieval
Buddhism stand much nearer to Catholicism than to the paler ceremonies
of the Protestant Church, and if one avoids words with specifically
Catholic associations one finds oneself driven back upon the still
less appropriate terminology of Anglicanism. Thus ‘Vespers’ is a less
misleading translation than ‘Evening Service’ though the latter is far
more literal.

Finally, I have thought it might be of interest to give a few notes
concerning the transmission of the text.

Volume III is finished and will appear shortly.

_Note on Pronunciation_.—The G in ‘Genji’ is hard, as in ‘gun.’ Vowels,
as in Italian.

CONTENTS

PAGE
PREFACE 5
LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS 9
GENEALOGICAL TABLES 11
SUMMARY OF VOL. 1 13
INTRODUCTION:
FICTION IN JAPAN PREVIOUS TO THE _Tale of Genji_ 15
THE ART OF MURASAKI 30
NOTE ON THE TEXT 35

CHAPTER
X. THE SACRED TREE 39
XI. THE VILLAGE OF FALLING FLOWERS 94
XII. EXILE AT SUMA 99
XIII. AKASHI 141
XIV. THE FLOOD GAUGE 188
XV. THE PALACE IN THE TANGLED WOODS 225
XVI. A MEETING AT THE FRONTIER 252
XVII. THE PICTURE COMPETITION 258
XVIII. THE WIND IN THE PINE-TREES 282

LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS

(ALPHABETICAL)

Akashi, Lady of Daughter of the old recluse of Akashi.

Akikonomu, Lady Vestal Virgin at Ise; daughter of Rokujō.

Aoi, Princess Genji’s first wife.

Asagao, Princess Genji’s first-cousin; courted by him in
vain.

Chūjō Short for ‘Tō no Chūjō.’

Chūjō, Lady Tō no Chūjō’s daughter by his legitimate
wife.

Chūnagon Maid to Oborozuki.

Emperor, The Old Genji’s father.

Fujitsubo The Old Emperor’s consort; loved by Genji.

Genji, Prince The Old Emperor’s son by a concubine.

Gosechi, Lady Dancer at the winter festival; admired by
Genji.

Hyōbukyō, Prince Fujitsubo’s brother; Murasaki’s father.

Iyo no Suke Husband of Utsusemi.

Jijū Maid to Suyetsumu.

Jōkyōden, Lady Consort of Suzaku.

Ki no Kami Son of Iyo no Suke by his first wife.

Kōkiden Original consort of the Old Emperor;
supplanted first by Genji’s mother, then
by Fujitsubo.

Koremitsu Retainer to Genji.

Murasaki Genji’s second wife.

Oborozukiyo, Princess Younger sister of Kōkiden.

Ōmyōbu Maid to Fujitsubo.

Reikeiden Lady-in-waiting at the Old Emperor’s Court.

Reikeiden, Princess Niece of Kōkiden.

Rokujō, Princess Widow of the Old Emperor’s brother.

Ryōzen, Emperor Son of Genji and Fujitsubo; successor to
Suzaku.

Shōnagon Murasaki’s old nurse.

Sochi no Miya, Prince Genji’s half-brother.

Suyetsumu, Lady Daughter of Prince Hitachi; the red-nosed
(Suyetsumuhana) lady.

Suzaku, Emperor Genji’s half-brother; successor to the Old
Emperor.

Tō no Chūjō Brother of Genji’s first wife, Lady Aoi.

Ukon no Jō (Ukon) Faithful retainer to Genji; brother of
Ki no Kami.

Utsusemi Wife of Iyo no Suke. Courted by Genji.

Village of Falling Sister of Reikeiden; protected by Genji.
Flowers, Lady from the

GENEALOGICAL TABLES

┌ Prince Zembō, _m_. Lady Rokujō, and died young.
│ │
│ └ Lady Akikonomu.
│
│
├ THE OLD EMPEROR.
│ │
│ ├ Suzaku (his mother was Lady Kōkiden).
│ │
│ └ Genji (his mother was Lady Kiritsubo).
│
│
├ Prince Momozono Shikibukyō.
│ │
│ └ Princess Asagao.
│
└ Princess Ōmiya, _m_. the Minister of the Left.
│
├ Aoi.
│ │
│ └ Yūgiri.
│
└ Tō no Chūjō.
│
└ Lady Chūjō.

MINISTER OF THE RIGHT.
│
├ Kōkiden (eldest daughter).
│
└ Oborozukiyo[1] (sixth daughter), wife of Suzaku, who is Emperor
for a time, but soon retires.

A FORMER EMPEROR.
│
├ Prince Hyōbukyō.
│ │
│ └ Murasaki (Genji’s second wife).
│
└ Fujitsubo.
│
└ Ryōzen (supposed to be the old Emperor’s child; really Genji’s).
Becomes Emperor in Suzaku’s stead.

[1] Whom in this volume I call Oborozuki for short.

SUMMARY OF VOLUME ONE

Genji is an illegitimate son of the Emperor; his mother dies soon
after his birth. At the age of twelve he is affianced to Lady Aoi, the
daughter of the Minister of the Left; but she is older than he is, and
looks down upon him as a mere schoolboy. Years go by and they are still
upon indifferent terms. Meanwhile Genji falls in love with Lady Rokujō,
a widow eight years older than himself. She is passionately jealous of
his wife (whom, however, Genji hardly ever sees) and relations with her
become very difficult. Genji turns for consolation to Utsusemi, wife of
a provincial governor: to Yūgao, a discarded mistress of his great
friend Tō no Chūjō: to the fantastic Lady Suyetsumuhana, the ‘lady
with the red nose.’ Utsusemi is carried away to the provinces by her
husband; Yūgao dies, withered by the virulence of Rokujō’s jealousy.
Meanwhile Genji manages to establish better terms with his wife, Aoi,
only to lose her through the operation of the same baleful force that
had destroyed Yūgao. Since his childhood Genji has had a passionate
admiration for Lady Fujitsubo, his father’s second wife and therefore
his own stepmother. He has a son by her which is believed by the world
to be the Emperor’s child. Had this misdemeanour became known, Genji’s
enemies, led by Lady Kōkiden who had been his mother’s rival, would
have had an ample pretext for driving him away from Court. As it is,
the actual cause of Genji’s banishment (recounted in Vol. II) is his
intrigue with Oborozukiyo, a much younger sister of his enemy,
Lady Kōkiden.

At the end of Vol. I, Genji marries, _en secondes noces_, Lady
Murasaki, a niece of Fujitsubo, whom he had some years before taken
into his house and adopted.

INTRODUCTION

Fiction in Japan Previous to “The Tale of Genji”

_The Tale of Genji_ was probably written about 1001–1015 A.D. We know
the titles of a good many earlier stories and romances. About a dozen
are mentioned in the _Tale_ itself. But only three actual works of
fiction survive, _The Bamboo-cutter_, _The Hollow Tree_ (‘Utsubo’), and
the _Room Below Stairs_ (‘Ochikubo’). Besides these there are a few
works which, though belonging to a rather different category, throw
some light on the development of fiction and will be mentioned in due
course.

_The Bamboo-cutter_ dates from about 860–870. It is a harmless little
fairy-story. An old peasant finds a minute child in a bamboo-stem. She
grows up into a woman of surpassing beauty, is courted by numerous
lovers to whom she sets a series of grotesque tasks which they entirely
fail to perform. Finally celestial messengers arrive and carry her away
to the sky.

The _Hollow Tree_ cannot be much earlier than 980. No doubt in this
interval of more than a hundred years much was written that is now
lost. But it cannot be said that _The Hollow Tree_ shows much sign
of progress. As it exists to-day it is a very long book—more than
half as long as _Genji_. But it is not quite certain whether, of
the fourteen chapters which we now possess, any but the first
(called _Toshikage_) is really earlier than _Genji_. _Toshikage_ is
the story of a man who on the way from Japan to China, regardless of
geographical probabilities, gets wrecked ‘on the coast of Persia.’ In
this country he falls in with supernatural beings from whom he obtains
thirty miraculous zitherns and the knowledge of enchanted tunes. After
a distinguished career on the Continent he returns to Japan with ten
zitherns which he distributes among the grandees of the Court, keeping
one for his small daughter, to whom alone he teaches the marvellous
Persian tunes. He and his wife die, the daughter marries unhappily and
is finally left with no possessions save the marvellous zithern and
a little son of twelve. They take refuge in a hollow tree, but soon
discover to their consternation that their new home is the den of a
bear who, returning from his day’s hunting, is about to devour them,
when the little boy makes a speech of several pages. The bear is so
much moved that, far from molesting the intruders, it puts the hollow
tree at their disposition and trots off to look for another home.
Finally the wicked husband repents, takes back the wife and child whom
he had deserted and all ends happily. The child embarks upon its career
as an infant prodigy and at the age of eighteen takes part victoriously
in a musical competition at Court.

The remaining chapters deal chiefly with the rivalry of this young
musician and other courtiers for the hand of the Prime Minister’s
daughter. They possess a certain historical interest as pictures of
Court life, but are long-winded and boring to an almost unbelievable
degree. Even _Toshikage_ (the first chapter), which, when summarized,
may sound mildly entertaining, is for the most part unendurably silly.

A little later, but not very far removed in date, is the _Room Below
Stairs_. It is a feebly sentimental story about an ill-used
step-child, somewhat in the manner of the edifying stories told in the
_Fairchild Family_, but wholly lacking in the occasional felicities
which spring unexpectedly from Mrs. Sherwood’s pen. It is, however, a
short book (only about 200 pages) and that is the best that can be said
for it.

In none of these works is there any ability or desire to portray
character. That is not in itself fatal to a work of fiction. The
_Arabian Nights_ are without it, and it exists only in the most
rudimentary form in Defoe. But if this resource be neglected, something
must take its place. There must be a fertility of narrative invention
(as in Near Eastern fiction) or the building up of effect by sequences
of actual word-texture (as in Virginia Woolf). Otherwise not literature
but mere perfunctory anecdote will result, as has indeed happened in
the case of _Genji’s_ predecessors.

Now Murasaki herself has every quality which these earlier writers
lack. She exploits character, in a very restrained way, it is true, but
with an unerring instinct how to produce the greatest effect with the
least possible display. And to this she adds not only an astonishing
capacity for invention, but also a beauty of actual diction unsurpassed
by any long novel in the world. For none of these qualities was she
indebted in any way to such of her predecessors as survive. Concerning
lost works it is useless to speculate.

I have said that besides the three early stories there are other
prose works which have some bearing on the history of Japanese
fiction. To begin with there are the _Tales of Ise_, written somewhere
about 890 A.D. They consist of 125 short paragraphs (often only two
or three lines) containing little poems and a description of the
circumstances under which they were written. They appear to concern the
love-adventures of a single person, but are quite disconnected. I
have translated one of the longer episodes in my _Japanese Poetry_. The
_Yamato Tales_, about half a century later, also centre round poems.
They consist of rather trivial anecdotes about courtiers of the period.

We now come to the one book which, though it is not a work of fiction
and though it lacks the qualities of deliberate art which make _Genji_
so astonishing, at least seems to move in the same world of thought and
feeling. This is the _Gossamer Diary_ (‘Kagerō Nikki’).

The writer was mistress of the great statesman Fujiwara no Kane-iye
(929–999). By him she had a son called Michitsuna, and her name not
being recorded she is known to history as ‘Michitsuna’s mother.’ He
made her acquaintance in 954 and Michitsuna was born the year after.
But Kane-iye already had a wife, a legitimate family and numerous
mistresses. Lady Gossamer (as we will for convenience call the writer
of the _Diary_) could not expect undivided attention. This was a fact
that she took years to recognize, and when the diary closes (in the
twentieth year of their _liaison_!) she had indeed recognized her
position, but was still as far from accepting it as at the start.

The record begins in 954, the year in which they met. ‘For twenty
days he has not been here at all.’ ‘This month he has written
only twice....’ Such entries are frequent from the beginning. Her
grievance grew and grew. It became her whole life. When he did not
come, she wept; when he came, she wept because he had not come
sooner. She was immersed in perpetual devotions; while he, like our
own eighteenth-century bucks whom in every particular he so strongly
resembled, only turned religious when he was ill. Often he found her
kneeling before an image of Buddha, lost in prayer; and one day,
suddenly infuriated by this dismal reception, he kicked over her
incense-bowl and, snatching the rosary from her hands, flung it across
the room. He loved gaiety, noise, funny stories, practical jokes. She
was shy, sensitive and, above all, terribly serious. His method of
entertaining her was to repeat with immense gusto ‘every piece of silly
clownery or tomfoolery’ that was current in the City, spiced with jokes
and puns of his own.

She was incurably sentimental. Never for an instant could she recognize
that time must bring changes, and after ten years she was still
expecting him to court her with the ardour of _arishi toki_, ‘the times
that were.’

One night when she is awaiting him she lights the candles. No! She will
let him find her in the dark, as in those old days when their love
was still a secret escapade. She puts the candles out and, hearing
him fumbling at the entry, cries _Koko ni_! (Here!) and stretches out
her hand as she had often done before. But to-night he is in no mood
for hide-and-seek. ‘What game is this?’ he cries angrily, ‘light the
candles at once. I cannot see my way into the room.’ Then he asks if
they can find him a snack of something to eat; he has had no supper.
He eats his fish in silence, then says that he has had a tiring day,
yawns, and falls asleep. At dawn his sons, the children of her rival,
come to fetch him, and he calls her to the window to ‘look what fine
young fellows they have grown.’

His visits become more and more infrequent. She is desperately unhappy,
talks of suicide, threatens to become a nun and on more than one
occasion actually instals herself in a nunnery, but always allows
herself to be ‘rescued’ at the last minute. The second flight was to
a temple at Narutaki. Here she remained for many months in a state of
the greatest agitation; but she did not take her vows, and in the end
allowed herself to be fetched, quietly away by Kane-iye and her
son Michitsuna, now a boy in his ’teens.

It was at this moment that she actually began the composition of the
_Diary_, the first part of which is not a day-to-day record but an
autobiographical fragment composed many years later than the events
which it records. But henceforward the book has all the character of a
diary and is indeed very minute; scarcely a shower passes unrecorded.
A new phase in the story begins with the adoption by Lady Gossamer of
a little orphan girl aged twelve, a child of her lover Kane-iye by a
woman whom years ago he had seduced and immediately abandoned. The
child grows up and is ultimately courted by the head of the office in
which Lady Gossamer’s son Michitsuna is now working. Kane-iye gives his
consent to the match; Lady Gossamer hears stories to the young man’s
discredit, foresees for her adopted daughter a life all too like her
own and opposes the plan.

Here (in 974 A.D., twenty years after she first met Kane-iye) the
_Diary_ ends abruptly.

Publication in our sense of the word did not of course exist in those
days. But no doubt a few copies of the book were made for those who
were likely to be interested. Kane-iye himself, who lived on for
another twenty-five years, surely possessed one. Now it was in the
family of Kane-iye’s legitimate son Michinaga[1] that Murasaki, the
authoress of the _Tale of Genji_, served as lady-in-waiting, and we
know from Murasaki’s diary that this Michinaga fell in love with her
and courted her. It is more than probable that Michinaga had inherited
a copy of the _Gossamer Diary_ from Kane-iye and in that case it is
also very probable that he showed it to Murasaki. This much at any
rate is certain, that we find in the _Gossamer Diary_ an anticipation
of just those characteristics which mark off _Genji_ from other
Japanese romances,—apt delineation of character, swift narrative, vivid
description and above all the realization that a story of actual life,
such as is led by hundreds of real men and women, is not necessarily
less interesting than a tale crammed with ogres and divinities. The
following passage refers to the year 970, when Kane-iye (the lover) was
41, Michitsuna (the bastard) 15 and Lady Gossamer herself perhaps about
35.

‘Every day he promises that it shall be to-morrow. And when to-morrow
comes, it is to be the day after. Of course I do not believe him;
yet each time that this happens I begin imagining that he has
repented,—that all has come right again. So day after day goes by.

‘At last I am certain. He does not intend to come. I did not think that
about unhappiness I had anything fresh to learn; I confess that never
before have I endured such torture as in these last days. Hour after
hour the same wretched thoughts chase through my brain. Shall I be able
to endure it much longer? I have tried to pray; but no prayer forms
itself in my mind, save the wish that I were dead.

‘But there is this lovely creature (her son Michitsuna) to think of. If
only he were a little older and I could see him married to some girl
whom I trusted, then I would indeed be glad to die. But as it is how
can I leave him to shift for himself,—to wander perhaps from house to
house? No, that is too horrible. I must not die.

‘I might of course become a nun and try to forget all this. Indeed,
I did once speak of it (i.e. to Michitsuna),—quite lightly, just to
see how he would take it. He was terribly distressed and, struggling
with his tears, he told me that if I did so he would become a monk,
“For what would there be,” he said, “to keep me in the world? You are
the only thing I care for.” And at that he burst into a flood of
tears. By this time I too was weeping; but seeing him almost beside
himself with grief I tried to pass the thing off as a jest, saying
“Well, I mean to one day; and what will your highness do then?” It
happened that he had a falcon on his wrist, and jumping straight to his
feet he set it free, reciting as he did so the verse: “Desolate must
she be, and weary of strife, whose thoughts, like this swift bird, fly
heavenward at a touch.”

‘At this, some of my servants who chanced to be sitting near by could
not restrain their tears; and it may be imagined with what feelings I,
in the midst of the unendurable misery and agitation with which I was
contending, heard my child utter these words.

‘It was growing dark when suddenly _he_ (her lover) arrived at the
house. For some reason I felt certain that he had come only to regale
me with all the empty gossip that was going round. I sent a message
that I was not well and would see him some other time.

‘It is the tenth day of the seventh month. Every one is getting ready
their Ullambana[2] presents. If, after all these years, he should fail
to send me anything for the festival I think the most hard-hearted
person in the world could not help being sorry for me! However, there
is still time.

‘Last night, just when I was thinking I should have to get the
offerings for myself and was weeping bitterly, a messenger came with
just the same presents as in other years, and a letter attached! Even
the dead were not forgotten.[3] In his letter he quoted the poem:
“Though never far away, yet wretched must I bide....” If that is indeed
how he feels, his conduct becomes more than ever inexplicable! No
allusion to the fact that he has transferred his affections to some one
else. Yet I am certain it is so.

‘It suddenly occurs to me that there is a certain gentlewoman in the
household of that Prince Ono no Miya[4] who died the other day. I
believe that it is she whom my lord is courting. She is called Ōmi,
and I heard some one whispering not long ago that this Ōmi was having
an adventure of some kind. He does not want her to know that he comes
here. That is why he decided to break with me beforehand. I said this
to one of my maids; but she doubted if there were anything in it. “O
well, it may be so,” she said, “but in any case this Ōmi is not the
sort of person to ask many questions....”

‘I have got another idea. I think it is one of the daughters of the
late Emperor. But what difference does it make? In any case, as every
one tells me, it is no use just sitting and watching him slip away from
me as one might watch the light fade out of the evening sky. “Go away,
pay a visit somewhere or other,” they say to me. I have thought about
nothing else day or night but this hideous business. The weather is
very hot. But it is no use going on talking about what I am going to
do. This time my mind is made up. I am going to Ishiyama for ten days.

‘I decided to tell no one, not even my brothers, and stole from the
house very secretly, just before dawn. Once outside, I began to run as
fast as I could. I had almost reached the Kamo River when some of my
women came rushing after me laden with all sorts of stuff. How they
discovered that I had fled and that this was the direction I had taken,
I still do not know. The setting moon was shining very brightly and
we might easily have been recognized; but we met no one. When we came
to the river some one told me there was a dead man lying face
downwards on the shingle. I did not feel afraid.

‘By the time we reached the Awada Hill I began to be very exhausted and
was obliged to rest. I had still not decided what I should do when I
arrived,[5] and in the agony of trying to make up my mind I burst into
tears. I could not risk being seen in such a state and staggering to my
feet I set out once more, just able to drag myself along a step or two
at a time.

‘By the time we reached Yamashina it was quite light. I felt like a
criminal whose guilt has suddenly been exposed and became so agitated
that I scarcely knew what I was doing. My women had now fallen behind.
I waited for them and made them go in front, myself walking alone so
that we might attract as little attention as possible. Yet the people I
met stared at me curiously and whispered excitedly. I was terrified.

‘Scarcely able to draw breath I at last reached Hashiri-i. Here they
said it was time for breakfast, and having opened the picnic baskets
they were just arranging the mats and getting things ready when we
heard people coming towards us shouting at the top of their voices.
What was I to do? Who could it be? I could only suppose that they
were friends of one or another of the maids who were with me. “Could
anything more tiresome have happened?” I was just thinking, when I saw
that the people were on horseback and formed part of a large travelling
party, consisting of numerous riders and a number of waggons and
coaches. It was in fact the retired governor of Wakasa coming back from
his province. Soon they began to pass the place where we were sitting.
Fortunate travellers! Among them are many who from to-day onwards will
kneel in my Lord’s presence noon and night. This thought cut
through my heart like a knife. It seemed to me that the drivers took
the waggons as close as they could to where we had spread our mats.
While they were passing us, not only the servants who were at the back
of the coaches but even the drivers and grooms behaved disgracefully,
making such remarks as I had never heard before. My ladies showed great
spirit, hastily moving our belongings as far from the roadside as they
could and calling out: “This is a public highway, isn’t it? We have
just as good a right to be here as you!” What an odious scene to be
mixed up with! As soon as they were well out of sight we pressed on
again, and were soon passing through the Ōsaka gate. I reached the quay
at Uchide[6] more dead than alive. My people whom I had sent on ahead
had gathered long bulrushes and built for me a kind of shelter or cabin
on the deck. I crept on board and lay down, scarcely noticing whether
we had the boat to ourselves or not. Soon we were far out upon the
lake. During the voyage, as we drew further and further from the City,
I felt a loneliness, an anguish, an utter helplessness impossible to
describe. It was well after the Hour of the Monkey (i.e. about 5 p.m.)
that we reached the temple.

‘As soon as I had taken a bath, I went and lay down. Again I began
trying to make up my mind what I should do, and for several hours I lay
tossing from side to side, unable to get any rest. At dusk I washed
again and went into the Chapel.

‘I began trying to make my confession to Buddha; but tears choked me
and my voice fell to a whisper. It was now quite dark. I went to the
window and looked out. The Chapel stood high, and below it was what
seemed like a precipitous ravine; it lay in a cup or hollow and the
steep banks on either side were overgrown with tall trees, so
that the place was very closed-in and dark. The moon was some twenty
days old and having risen late in the night was now shining with
extraordinary brilliance. Here and there the moonlight pierced through
the trees, making sudden patches of brightness; there was one such just
at the foot of the cliff. Looking straight below me I could see what
appeared to be a vast lake, but was indeed only a small drinking-pool.
I went on to a balcony and leant over the railing. Among the grass on
the steep bank far below me I could see something white appearing and
disappearing, and at the same time there was a curious, rustling sound.
I asked what it was and was told that these were deer. I was wondering
why I had not heard them cry as one generally does, when suddenly from
the direction of quite a different valley there came a faint weak sound
like the wailing of a new-born child. Surely it must be a young doe
crying a great way off? At first I thought that I was imagining the
sound; but presently it became unmistakable.

‘I was lost in prayer and knew nothing of what was going on around
me, when a hideous yelling, seeming to come from the far side of the
hills at which I had been looking, broke in upon my prayers. It was
a peasant chasing some one off his land. Never have I heard a voice
more pitiless, more ferocious. If such sounds as that proved to be
common happenings in this place, I knew that I should not hold out very
long and, utterly shattered, I sat for a while trying to recover my
composure. At last I heard a sound of chanting in the temple; the monks
had begun to sing the _goya_,[7] and I left the chapel. Feeling very
weak, I again took a bath. It was beginning to grow light, and looking
about me I saw that a heavy night-mist was rolling away to the
West, blown by a light, steady wind. The view beyond the river looked
as though painted in a picture. Near the water horses were quietly
grazing; they looked strangely small and far away. It was very lovely.

‘If only my beloved child were in safe hands I would give everything up
and arrange to end my days here. But the moment I think of him I long
to be back in the City and become very depressed.

‘He will be coming with the other boys on the excursion to Sakura-dani,
which is not far from here. If he were to come, I could not bear to
hear that he had passed so close.... I do not want to go back; but I
think if any one fetched me I should consent to go. But should I? I
worry about this all the time and cannot bring myself to eat anything.

‘They came and told me they had been for a walk behind the monastery
and found some meadow-sweet growing near a pond. I asked them to bring
me some, which they did, and put the flowers in a bowl along with some
lemons on stripped stems. It really looked very pretty.

‘When it was dark I went back to the chapel and spent the night in
confession and prayer, weeping bitterly the whole while. Towards
daybreak I dozed for a moment and dreamt that I saw one of the monks
(the one who seems to act as a sort of steward here) fill a bucket
of water and put it on the seat on my right. I woke up with a start
and knew at once that the dream had been sent to me by Buddha. It was
certainly not of a kind to bring much encouragement.[8] Presently some
one said that it was now broad daylight, and breaking off my prayers I
came down from the chapel. I found, however, that it was really
still quite dark. Only across the surface of the lake a whiteness was
creeping, against which were dimly outlined the figures of some twenty
men clustered together on the shore. They seemed all to be gazing
intently at something that was hidden from me by the shadow of the
cliff. But though I could see nothing I knew that from the dark place
would presently issue the boat for which they were waiting. A priest,
who had just come from the early morning service, was standing on the
cliff watching the boat put out from the shore, and as it drew further
and further away from him, it seemed to me that he gazed after it
almost wistfully. Should I too, if I had been here as many years, grow
weary of the place and long for escape? It may be so. “This time next
year!” the young men on the boat shouted; and by the time the priest
had called “goodbye” they were already mere shadows in the distance.
I looked up at the sky. The moon was very slim. Its narrow bow was
reflected in the lake. A rainy wind was now blowing and presently the
whole surface of the water became covered with glittering ripples. The
young men on the boat had begun to sing, and though their voices were
faint I could hear what song they were singing. It was “Haggard has
grown the face ...” and the sound of it brought back the tears to my
eyes.

‘Ikaga Point, Yamabuki Point,—promontory after promontory was now
emerging from the darkness. And as my eye travelled along the shore I
suddenly saw something moving through the reeds. Before I could see
clearly what it was I began to hear the noise of oars, then the low
humming of a rowers’ song. A boat was drawing near. Some one standing
further down the shore called out as it passed “Where are you making
for?” “For the temple,” a voice from the boat answered, “to fetch the
lady....”

‘How my heart beat when I heard those words! It seems that despite
all my precautions he[9] caught wind of my plan, and sent some servants
to escort me; but by then I suppose I had already started. They were
at first wrongly directed; hence the delay. The boat pulled inshore,
room was made for us, and soon we were on our homeward way, the oarsmen
singing lustily. As we passed along the side of Seta Bridge it began to
grow quite light. A covey of sand-plovers, with much frilling of wings,
flew right across us; and indeed, before we reached the quay where two
days ago I had taken boat, we had seen many lovely and moving sights. A
carriage was waiting for me at the quay and I was back in the City soon
after the hour of the Snake (10 a.m.). No sooner did I reach home than
my women gathered round me full of lurid stories about all that had
been going on in the world since my departure. It is really very odd
that they should still think such things have any interest for me; and
so I told them.’

In the _Izumi Shikibu Nikki_, the record of a love-affair which took
place in 1003–1004, we find the romantic diary already becoming a
rather effete and self-conscious _genre_. This little book (some
forty pages) is utterly lacking in the intensity and directness of
Lady Gossamer’s journal; it has been translated into English[10]
and the environment of the story is so new to European readers that
its weakness as literature tends to be condoned. Another work which
preceded _Genji_ by a few years was the _Makura no Sōshi_ or ‘Pillow
Sketches’ of Sei Shōnagon. This is a spirited commonplace-book, but it
contains no connected narrative and therefore does not here concern us.
The greater part of it was translated by the late Abbé Noël Péri, and
no doubt his translation will one day be published.

The Art of Murasaki

Most critics have agreed that the book is a remarkable one and that
Murasaki is a writer of considerable talent; but few have dealt with
the points that seem to me fundamental. No one has discussed, in
anything but the most shadowy way, the all-important question of how
she has turned to account the particular elements in story-telling
which she has chosen to exploit. The work, it is true, is a
translation, and this fact prevents discussion of Murasaki as a poet,
as an actual handler of words. But it has for long been customary to
criticize Russian novels as though Mrs. Garnett’s translation were the
original; nor is there any harm in doing so, provided actual questions
of style are set aside.

One reviewer did indeed analyse the nature of Murasaki’s achievement to
the extent of classifying her as ‘psychological’ and in this respect he
even went so far as to class her with Marcel Proust. Now it is clear
that, if we contrast _Genji_ with such fiction as does not exploit the
ramifications of the human mind at all (the _Arabian Nights_ or _Mother
Goose_), it appears to be ‘psychological.’ But if we go on to compare
it with Stendhal, with Tolstoy, with Proust, the _Tale of Genji_
appears by contrast to possess little more psychological complication
than a Grimm’s fairy tale.

Yet it does for a very definite reason belong more to the category
which includes Proust, than to the category which includes Grimm.
Murasaki, like the novelist of to-day, is not principally interested
in the events of the story, but rather in the effect which these
events may have upon the minds of her characters. Such books as hers
it is convenient, I think, to call ‘novels,’ while reserving for other
works of fiction the name ‘story’ or ‘romance.’ She is ‘modern’
again owing to the accident that medieval Buddhism possessed certain
psychological conceptions which happen to be current in Europe to-day.
The idea that human personality is built up of different layers
which may act in conflict, that an emotion may exist in the fullest
intensity and yet be unperceived by the person in whom it is at
work—such conceptions were commonplaces in ancient Japan. They give to
Murasaki’s work a certain rather fallacious air of modernity. But it is
not psychological elements such as these that Murasaki is principally
exploiting. She is, I think, obtaining her effects by means which
are so unfamiliar to European readers (though they have, in varying
degrees, often been exploited in the West) that while they work as they
were intended to do and produce aesthetic pleasure, the reader is quite
unconscious how this pleasure arose.

What then are the essential characteristics of Murasaki’s art?
Foremost, I think, is the way in which she handles the whole course
of narrative as a series of contrasted effects. Examine the relation
of Chapter VIII (_The Feast of the Flowers_) to its environment. The
effect of these subtly-chosen successions is more like that of music
(of the movements, say, in a Mozart symphony) than anything that we
are familiar with in European fiction. True, at the time when the
criticisms to which I refer were made only one volume of the work had
been translated; but the quality which I have mentioned is, I should
have supposed, abundantly illustrated in the first chapters. That to
one critic the _Tale of Genji_ should have appeared to be memoirs—a
realistic record of accidental happenings rather than a novel—is to me
utterly incomprehensible. But the first painted makimonos that were
brought to Europe created the same impression. They were regarded
merely as a succession of topographical records, joined together
more or less fortuitously; and Murasaki’s art obviously has a close
analogy with that of the makimono. Then there is her feeling for shape
and tempo. She knows that, not only in the work as a whole, but in
each part of it there is a beginning, a middle and an end, and that
each of these divisions has its own character, its appropriate pace
and intensity. It is inconceivable, for example, that she should open
a book or episode with a highly-coloured and elaborate passage of
lyrical description, calculated to crush under its weight all that
follows. Another point in which she excels is the actual putting of
her characters on to the scene. First their existence is hinted at,
our curiosity is aroused, we are given a glimpse; and only after much
manoeuvring is the complete entry made. The modern novelist tends to
fling his characters on to the canvas without tact or precaution of any
kind. That credence, attention even, may be a hard thing to win does
not occur to him, for he is corrupted by a race of readers who come to
a novel seeking the pleasures of instruction rather than those of art;
readers who will forgive every species of clumsiness provided they are
shown some stratum of life with which they were not previously familiar.

How finally does Murasaki achieve the extraordinary reality, the
almost ‘historical’ character with which she succeeds in investing her
scenes? Many readers have agreed with me in feeling that such episodes
as the death of Yūgao, the clash of the coaches at the Kamo festival,
the visit of Genji to the mountains, the death of Aoi, become, after
one reading, a permanent accession to the world as one knows it,
are things which have ‘happened’ as much as the most vivid piece of
personal experience. This sense of reality with which she invests her
narrative is not the result of realism in any ordinary sense. It is
not the outcome of those clever pieces of small observation by
which the modern novelist strives to attain the same effect. Still
less is it due to solid character building; for Murasaki’s characters
are mere embodiments of some dominant characteristic; Genji’s father
is easy-going; Aoi, proud; Murasaki, long-suffering; Oborozukiyo,
light-headed. This sense of reality is due rather, I think, to a
narrative gift of a kind that is absolutely extinct in Europe. To
analyse such a gift would require pages of quotation. What does it
in the last resort consist in, save a preeminent capacity for saying
the most relevant things in the most effective order? Yet, simple as
this sounds, I believe that in it rests, unperceived by the eye of
the Western critic, more than half the secret of Murasaki’s art. Her
construction is in fact classical; elegance, symmetry, restraint—these
are the qualities which she can set in the scales against the
interesting irregularities of European fiction. That such qualities
should not be easily recognized in the West is but natural; for here
the novel has always been Gothic through and through.

NOTE ON THE TEXT

The Medieval Manuscripts

In the Middle Ages (from the thirteenth to the seventeenth centuries)
the MSS. of _Genji_ were divided into two groups, (1) Those which were
founded on the copy made for Fujiwara no Sadaiye about the middle of
the thirteenth century. His was known as the Blue Cover Copy and is the
basis of all printed editions[11] down to the present day. (2) Those
which were founded on the copy made for Minamoto no Mitsuyuki early in
the thirteenth century. His was known as the Kōchi Copy, owing to the
fact that he was Governor of Kōchi. At first the more popular of the
two, it was afterwards almost entirely disregarded.

Existing Manuscripts

The earliest existing _Genji_ manuscript is a series of rolls
illustrating some of the later chapters of the _Tale_. They are
attributed to Tosa no Takayoshi (early twelfth century). Then comes a
manuscript of Chapter xxiv (_The Tide-Gauge_), which is supposed to
be in the handwriting of Fujiwara no Sadaiye and therefore to date
from the first half of the thirteenth century. The earliest complete
manuscript is the Hirase Copy, which is in private possession at Ōsaka.
It was made during the years 1309–1311 and is founded principally
on the Kōchi Copy. It has thus a quite different pedigree from the
currently printed text. I know it only from facsimiles of Chapters i
and xxxi kindly presented to me by Professor Naitō, on whose researches
the above information is largely based. My translation is based chiefly
on the Hakubunkwan edition of 1914; but numerous other editions have
been consulted.

[1] 966–1027 A.D.

[2] Festival on the 15th day of the 7th month. The presents given are
to be used as offerings to Buddha.

[3] I.e. specially her mother. The festival was on behalf of the souls
of dead parents and ancestors.

[4] An uncle of Kane-iye’s.

[5] Whether she should stay permanently in the monastery.

[6] The modern Ōtsu, now reached from Kyōto (her starting-point) by
tramway in half an hour.

[7] The late night service.

[8] It foreboded ill to Kane-iye, who was at that time Marshal of the
bodyguard of the _Right_. Water typifies weakness and death.

[9] Kane-iye.

[10] _Diaries of Court Ladies_, 1920.

[11] The earliest printed edition known to me is that of 1650, of which
there is a copy in the British Museum. I imagine this to be the _editio
princeps_.

THE SACRED TREE

CHAPTER X

THE SACRED TREE

As the time for her daughter’s departure came near, Lady Rokujō
fell into utter despair. It had at first been generally supposed
that the death of the lady at the Great Hall would put an end
to all her troubles and the attendants who waited upon her at
the Palace-in-the-Fields were agog with excitement. But their
expectations remained unfulfilled. Not a word came from Genji, and
this unprecedented treatment on his part finally convinced her that
something[1] had indeed happened which it was impossible for him to
forgive. She strove to cast out all thought of him from her heart so
that when the time came she might set out upon her journey without
misgiving or regret. For a parent to accompany her daughter on such
an occasion was in the highest degree unusual; but in this case the
Virgin’s extreme youth was a convenient excuse, and Rokujō put it
about that as the child still needed surveillance she had decided to
quit the temporal world in her daughter’s company. Even after all that
had happened the prospect of parting with her forever was extremely
painful to Genji, and as the day drew near he again began to send her
letters full of tenderness and solicitude. But he did not propose a
meeting, and she herself had by now given up all hope that there
could be any question of such a thing. She was certain that (for all
his politeness) what had happened must in reality have made her utterly
odious to him, and she was determined not to plunge herself, all to no
purpose, into a fresh period of conflict and agitation. From time to
time she made short visits to her palace, but so secretly that Genji
did not hear of it. The Palace-in-the-Fields was not a place where
he could see her without inconvenient restrictions and formalities.
He fully intended to see her, but put off the visit from day to day
till at last months had elapsed since she left the city. Then the
ex-Emperor’s health began to decline. He had no definitely serious or
alarming symptoms, but constantly complained of feeling that there was
something wrong with him. Genji’s thoughts were therefore a great deal
occupied with his father’s condition; but he did not want Rokujō to
leave with the impression that he had lost all feeling for her, nor did
he wish those who knew of their friendship to think that he had treated
her heartlessly, and despite all difficulties he set out one day for
the Palace-in-the-Fields. It was the seventh of the ninth month and
the departure of the Virgin for Ise was bound to take place within the
next few days. It may be imagined that Rokujō and her maids were in no
condition to receive visits, but he wrote again and again begging her
to see him even if it were only at the moment of her departure, and at
last, despite the fluster into which her whole household was plunged,
and feeling all the while that she was acting very imprudently, she
could no longer fight against her longing once more to see him and
sent word secretly that, if he came, she would contrive to speak to
him for a moment from behind her screen-of-state. As he made his
way through the open country that stretched out endlessly on every
side, his heart was strangely stirred. The autumn flowers were
fading; along the reeds by the river the shrill voices of many insects
blended with the mournful fluting of the wind in the pines. Scarcely
distinguishable from these somewhere in the distance rose and fell a
faint, enticing sound of human music. He had with him only a handful
of outriders, and his attendants were by his orders dressed so as to
attract as little notice as possible. They noted that this lack of show
contrasted strangely with the elaborate pains which their master had
bestowed upon his own equipment, and as they looked with admiration
at the fine figure he cut, the more romantically disposed among them
were thrilled at the thought that it had befallen them to accompany
him upon a journey, every circumstance of which was calculated to
stir to the depth such sensitive hearts as theirs. So delighted was
Genji with the scene before him that he continually asked himself why
it was that he had deferred this visit for so long; and he regretted
that while Rokujō was at the Palace-in-the-Fields he had not made a
constant practice of visiting her. They came at last to a group of very
temporary-looking wooden huts surrounded by a flimsy brushwood fence.
The archways,[2] built of unstripped wood, stood out black and solemn
against the sky. Within the enclosure a number of priests were walking
up and down with a preoccupied air. There was something portentous
in their manner of addressing one another and in their way of loudly
clearing their throats before they spoke. In the Hill of Offering there
was a dim flicker of firelight, but elsewhere no single sign of life.
So this was the place where he had left one who was from the start in
great distress of mind, to shift for herself week after week, month
after month! Suddenly he realized with a terrible force all that she
must have suffered. He hurried to the place where she had told him
he would find her (a room in the northern outbuilding) and sent in a
long message contrasting his present quiet and serious existence with
his now discarded frivolities. She in return replied with a message,
but did not suggest that they should meet. This angered him. ‘You do
not seem to realize,’ he said, ‘that such excursions as this are now
no part of my ordinary existence and can only be arranged with the
greatest difficulty. I had hoped that instead of keeping me beyond
the pale, you would hasten to relieve all the anxiety that I have had
concerning you in the long months since we met.’ To this appeal were
added the protests of her waiting-ladies who were scandalized at the
idea of Prince Genji being left waiting outside the house. At first
she pleaded the impossibility of receiving a guest in surroundings so
cramped and wretched, her duty towards her daughter at this critical
hour, the undesirability of such an interview just on the eve of her
permanent departure. But though the prospect of facing him filled
her with unspeakable depression, she had not the heart to treat him
unkindly, and at last, looking very grave, with sighs and hesitation
at every step she came forward to meet him. ‘I presume that here one
is allowed no further than the verandah,’ he said, and mounting the
narrow bamboo platform that surrounded the building he took his seat
there. An evening moon had risen and as she saw him moving in its
gentle light she knew that all this while she had not been wrong; he
was indeed more lovely, more enticing than anyone in the world beside.
He began trying to explain why it was that for so many months on end
he had not been able to visit her; but he soon got into a tangle,
and feeling suddenly embarrassed he plucked a spray from the Sacred
Tree[3] which grew outside her room and handing it to her through
her blinds-of-state he said: ‘Take this evergreen bough in token that
my love can never change. Were it not so, why should I have set foot
within the boundaries of this hallowed plot? You use me very ill.’
But she answered with the verse ‘Thought you perchance that the Holy
Tree from whose boughs you plucked a spray was as “the cedar by the
gate”?’[4] To this he replied: ‘Well knew I what priestess dwelt in
this shrine, and for her sake came to pluck this offering of fragrant
leaves.’

Though the position was not likely to be a very comfortable one, he now
thrust his head under the reed blinds and sat with his legs dangling
over the wooden framework of the bamboo platform. During all the years
when he could see her as often and as intimately as he chose and she on
her side withheld nothing from him, he had gone on serenely assuming
that it would be always so, and never once in all that time had he
felt so deeply moved as at this moment. Suddenly he realized with
astonishment that though after that unhappy incident he had imagined
it to be impossible for them to meet and had so avoided all risk of
his former affection being roused to new life, yet from the first
moment of this strange confrontation he had immediately found himself
feeling towards her precisely as he had before their estrangement.
Violently agitated he began to cast his mind rapidly over the long
years of their friendship. Now all this was over. It was too horrible.
He burst into tears. She had determined not to let him see what she
was suffering, but now she could restrain herself no longer and he was
soon passionately entreating her not to go down to Ise after all. The
moon had set, but the starlit sky was calm and lovely. Pausing
often to gaze up into the night he began at last to speak to her of
what had lain so heavily on his heart. But no sooner was it openly
mentioned between them than all the pent-up bitterness of so many weeks
was suddenly released and vanished utterly away. Little by little, in
preparation for her final departure, she had at last accustomed herself
to think of him almost with indifference. Now in a moment all this was
undone, and when she heard Genji himself entreating her to abandon the
journey her heart beat violently, and the wildest thoughts agitated
her brain. The garden which surrounded her apartments was laid out in
so enchanting a manner that the troops of young courtiers who in the
early days of the retreat had sought in vain to press their attentions
upon her, used, even when she had sent them about their business, to
linger there regretfully; and on this marvellous night the place seemed
consciously to be deploying all its charm. In the hours which followed,
no secret was withheld on her side or on his; but what passed between
them I shall not attempt to tell.

At last the night ended in such a dawn as seemed to have been fashioned
for their especial delight. ‘Sad is any parting at the red of dawn; but
never since the world began, gleamed day so tragically in the autumn
sky,’ and as he recited these verses, aghast to leave her, he stood
hesitating and laid her hand tenderly in his.

A cold wind was blowing. The pine-crickets in neighbouring trees were
whispering in harsh despairing tones, as though they knew well enough
what was toward. Their dismal voices would have struck a chill to the
heart of any casual passer-by, and it may well be imagined what cheer
they gave to lovers already at the height of distraction and anguish.
She recited the verse ‘Sad enough already is this autumn parting;
add not your dismal song, O pine-crickets of the moor.’ He knew that
it was his neglect that had forced this parting upon them. But now it
was too late to make amends. Full of useless regrets, while the grey
light of morning spread over the sky, he journeyed back disconsolately
to the town, through meadows deep in dew. As she watched him go she
could no longer restrain herself, and at the thought that she had lost
him forever broke into a fit of reckless weeping. Her gentlewomen,
who on the evening before caught a fleeting glimpse of him in the
moonlight, enjoyed next morning the excitement of detecting in their
mistress’s room a lingering fragrance of the princely scent which he
had carried.[5] It may well be imagined that they at any rate were far
from condemning the crime to which she had been accessory. ‘It would
have to be a marvellous journey indeed that I was going to take, before
I could bring myself to part from such a one as this young prince!’ So
one of the ladies exclaimed; and at the thought that they had seen him
for the last time all were on the verge of tears.

His letter, which arrived during the day, was so full and affectionate
that had it been within her power she might have attempted to alter
her plans. But matters had gone too far for that and it was useless to
think of it. Nor were his feelings towards her (she was convinced) of
a sort to warrant such a step. Much of what he had said was inspired
simply by pity for her. But the mere fact that he took the trouble to
say such things—that he thought it worth while to comfort her—showed
that he still retained something of his old feeling, and the thought
that even upon such remnants of affection as this she must now soon
turn her back forever, filled her mind with the most painful longings
and regrets. He sent her many costumes and all else of which she
could possibly have need upon the journey, with suitable presents to
all her ladies. But to these handsome and costly gifts she gave hardly
a thought. Indeed as the hour of her departure drew near she sank into
a state of utter collapse. It was as though she had never till that
moment fully realized the desolation and misery into which an intrigue,
undertaken originally in a reckless and frivolous spirit, had at last
plunged her. Meanwhile the Virgin, who had to the last been far from
certain that her mother really meant to accompany her, was delighted
that all was now fixed beyond power of recall. The unusual decision
of the mother to accompany her daughter was much discussed in the
world at large. Some scented a scandal; a few were touched by so rare
an exhibition of family attachment. It is indeed in many ways more
comfortable to belong to that section of society whose actions are
not publicly canvassed and discussed. A lady in Rokujō’s conspicuous
position finds her every movement subjected to an embarrassing scrutiny.

On the sixteenth day of the seventh month the Virgin was purified in
the Katsura River. The ceremony was performed with more than ordinary
splendour, and her escort for the journey to Ise was chosen not
from among the Chamberlains and Counsellors, but from noblemen of
the highest rank and reputation. This was done in compliment to the
old ex-Emperor who showed a particular interest in the Virgin, his
favourite brother’s child. At the moment of her departure from the
Palace-in-the-Fields Rokujō was handed a letter. It was from Genji
and was couched in all those tender terms that had once been current
between them. Remembering the sacred errand upon which she was bound
he tied the letter to a streamer of white bark-cloth.[6] ‘Such love as
ours,’ he wrote, ‘not even the God of Thunder whose footsteps shake the
fields of Heaven ...’[7] and added the verse: ‘O all ye Gods of the
Kingdom, Rulers of the Many Isles, to your judgment will I hearken;
must needs this parting sever a love insatiable as ours?’[8] Though
the letter arrived just when the procession was forming and all was
bustle and confusion, an answer came. It was not from Rokujō but from
the Virgin herself, and had been dictated by her to her aunt who was
acting as Lady Intendant: ‘Call not upon the Gods of Heaven to sit in
judgment upon this case, lest first they charge you with fickleness and
pitiless deceit.’ He longed to witness the presentation of the Virgin
and her mother at the Palace,[9] but he had a feeling that since it was
to avoid him that Rokujō was leaving the City, it would be embarrassing
for both of them if he took part in the ceremonies of farewell, and
overcoming his desire to see her once more, he stayed in his own
palace sunk in idle thoughts. The reply of the Virgin showed a quite
astonishing precocity, and he smiled as he read it through again. The
girl had begun to interest him. No doubt she was precocious in charm
as well as intelligence, and since it was his foible invariably to set
his heart upon possessing, even at the cost of endless difficulties,
whatever custom and circumstance seemed to have placed beyond his
utmost reach, he now began thinking what a misfortune it was that he
had in earlier days never once availed himself of his position in the
house to make her acquaintance, which would indeed at any time have
been perfectly easy. But after all, life is full of uncertainties;
perhaps one day some unforeseen circumstance would bring her into his
life once more.

The fame of Lady Rokujō brought many spectators to view the procession
and the streets were thronged with coaches. The Palace Gates were
entered at the hour of the monkey.[10] Lady Rokujō, sitting in the
sacred palanquin by her daughter’s side, remembered how her father,
the late Minister of State, had brought her years ago to these same
gates, fondly imagining that he would make her the greatest lady in
the land.[11] Thus to revisit the Palace now that so many changes had
come both to her life and to the Court, filled her with immeasurable
depression. At sixteen she had been married, at twenty she had been
left a widow and now at thirty again she had set foot within the
Ninefold Palisade. She murmured to herself the lines: ‘Though on this
sacred day ’twere profanation to recall a time gone by, yet in my
inmost heart a tinge of sadness lurks.’

The Virgin was now fourteen. She was extremely handsome and her
appearance at the presentation-ceremony, decked in the full robes of
her office, made a profound impression. The Emperor, when he came to
setting the Comb of Parting in her hair, was deeply moved and it was
observed that he shed tears.

Outside the Hall of the Eight Departments a number of gala-coaches
were drawn up to witness the departure of the Virgin from the Palace.
The windows of those coaches were hung with an exquisitely contrived
display of coloured scarves and cloaks, and among the courtiers who
were to go down to Ise there were many who thought with an especial
pang of one who in his honour had added some gay touch of her own to
the magnificence of this unprecedented show. It was already dark when
the procession left the Palace. When after traversing the Second
Wood they turned into the Dōi Highway the travellers passed close by
Genji’s palace. Deeply moved, he sent the following poem tied to a
spray of the Holy Tree—‘Though to-day you cast me off and lightly set
upon your way, yet surely when at last you ferry the Eighty Rapids of
Suzuka Stream[12] your sleeve will not be dry.’ When this message was
brought to her it was already quite dark. This and the noisy bustle
of her journey prevented her from answering till the next day. When
her reply came it was sent back from beyond the Barrier: ‘Whether at
the Eighty Rapids of Suzuka Stream my sleeve be wet or no, all men
will have forgotten me long ere I come to Ise’s Land.’ It was hastily
written, yet with all the grace and distinction that habitually marked
her hand; but his pleasure in it was marred by the strange bitterness
of her tone. A heavy mist had risen, and gazing at the dimly-veiled
semblances that were belatedly unfolding in the dawn he whispered to
himself the lines: ‘O mist, I long to follow with my eyes the road that
she passed; hide not from me in these autumn days the slopes of Meeting
Hill.’[13] That night he did not go to the western wing,[14] but lay
sleepless till dawn, brooding disconsolately upon a turn of affairs for
which, as he well knew, he alone was responsible. What _she_ suffered,
as day by day she travelled on through unknown lands, may well be
guessed.

By the tenth month the ex-Emperor’s condition had become very grave
indeed. Throughout the country much concern was felt. The young Emperor
was in great distress and hastened to pay him a visit-of-state. Weak
though he was the sick man first gave minute instructions as to the
upbringing of the Heir Apparent and then passed on to a discussion
of Genji’s future. ‘I desire you,’ he said, ‘still to look upon him
as your guardian and to seek his advice in all matters, whether small
or great; as indeed I have accustomed you to do during my lifetime.
In the handling of public business he shows a competence beyond his
years. There is no doubt that his natural vocation is to administer the
affairs of a people rather than to lead the secluded life of a Royal
Prince, and when I attached him to a clan devoid of Royal Blood it was
that he might the better keep watch for us over the public affairs
of our kingdom. I therefore entreat you never to act contrary to his
advice.’ He gave many other parting instructions to his successor, but
such matters are not for a woman’s pen and I feel I must apologize for
having said even so much as this.

The young Emperor, deeply moved, repeatedly signified that he would
obey all these instructions in every particular. It gave his father
great comfort and pleasure to note that he was already growing up into
a fine handsome young fellow. But after a short while Court affairs
necessitated the Emperor’s immediate presence, and his father, who
longed to keep him by his side, was in the end more distressed than
comforted by this brief visit. The Heir Apparent was to have come at
the same time as the Emperor; but it was thought that this arrangement
would be too tiring and the little boy[15] was brought on another day.
He was big for his age and very pretty. The old man looked fondly at
him and the child, unconscious of the purpose for which he had been
summoned, stood watching him with laughter in his face. Fujitsubo, who
sat near by, was weeping bitterly; and, suddenly catching sight of her,
the ex-Emperor for a while lost his composure. To this little
prince also he gave a variety of instructions; but it was evident that
he was too young to understand what was being said, and remembering
the uncertainties of his future the ex-Emperor gazed at the child
with pity and distress. In his final instructions to Genji concerning
the management of public affairs he recurred again and again to the
question of the Heir Apparent and the importance of giving him due
protection and advice. It was now late at night and the Heir Apparent
was taken off to bed. A vast number of Courtiers followed in his
train, so that his visit created almost as much bustle and confusion
as that of the Emperor himself. But this visit had seemed to the sick
man only too short and it was with great distress that he watched the
procession depart. The Empress Mother, Lady Kōkiden, had also intended
to come; but hearing that Fujitsubo was at his side she felt somewhat
disinclined, and while she was trying to decide whether to go or not,
his Majesty passed quietly and painlessly away.

The ex-Emperor’s death caused profound consternation in many quarters.
Though it was some while since he resigned the Throne, he had continued
to control the policy of the government just as in former days. The
present Emperor was a mere child; his grandfather, the Minister of
the Right, was known to be a man of hasty temper and treacherous
disposition. Courtiers and noblemen alike regarded with the greatest
apprehension a government subjected to his arbitrary power. But among
them all none had better reason than Fujitsubo and Prince Genji to
dread the coming reign. It was indeed natural that this prince should
take a foremost part in the ceremonies of mourning which were performed
by the family on each seventh day, and in the Filial Masses for the
dead man’s soul; but his piety was generally noted and admired.
Despite the unbecoming dress which custom required, his beauty made
everywhere a deep impression; and this, combined with his evident
distress, procured him a great share of sympathy.

He had lost in one year his wife and in the next his father. The scenes
of affliction through which he had passed weighed heavily upon his
spirits and for a while deprived him of all zest for life. He thought
much of retiring from the world, and would have done so had he not been
restrained by many earthly ties. During the forty-nine days of mourning
the ladies of the late ex-Emperor’s household remained together in his
apartments. But at the expiration of this period they retired to their
respective homes. It was the twentieth day of the twelfth month. The
dull sky marked (thought Fujitsubo) not only the gloom of the departing
year, but the end of all fair prospects. She knew with what feelings
Kōkiden regarded her and was aware that her existence at a Court
dominated by this woman’s arbitrary power could not be otherwise than
unhappy. Above all it was impossible for her to go on living in a place
where, having for so many years enjoyed the old Emperor’s company, she
found his image continually appearing to her mind. The departure of
all his former ladies-in-waiting and ladies-of-the-household rendered
her situation unendurable and she determined to move to her mansion in
the Third Ward. Her brother Prince Hyōbukyō came to fetch her away.
Snow was falling, blown by a fierce wind. The old Emperor’s quarters,
now rapidly becoming denuded of their inhabitants, wore a desolate
air. Genji happened to be there when Hyōbukyō arrived and they fell
to talking of old times. The great pine-tree in front of the Palace
was weighed down with snow and its lower boughs were withered. Seeing
this, Hyōbukyō recited the verses: ‘Because the great pine-tree
is withered that once with wide-spread branches sheltered us from the
storm, lo! we the underboughs droop earthward in these last moments of
the year.’ No very wonderful poem, but at that moment it moved Genji
deeply, and noticing that the lake was frozen all over he in his turn
recited the poem: ‘Now like a mirror shines the frozen surface of the
lake. Alas that it reflects not the form and face we knew so well!’
Such was the thought that came to him at the moment, and he gave it
utterance well knowing that the prince would think it forced and crude.
Ōmyōbu, Fujitsubo’s gentlewoman, now interposed with the verse: ‘The
year draws in; even the water of the rock-hewn well is sealed with ice,
and faded from those waters is the face that once I saw.’ Many other
poems were exchanged; but I have other things to tell.

Fujitsubo’s return to her mansion was carried out with no less ceremony
than on former occasions, but to her mind the transit seemed this time
a distressing affair and more like a journey to some strange place than
a home-coming; and as she approached the house her thoughts travelled
back over all the months and years that had passed since this place had
been her real home.

The New Year brought with it none of the usual novelties and
excitements. Genji, in very dismal humour, shut himself up in his room.
At the time when the new appointments were being made, during the old
Emperor’s reign and to an equal extent even after his retirement,
Genji’s doors had always been thronged with suitors. But this year
the line of horses and carriages waiting outside his palace was thin
indeed, and the bags[16] of courtiers were no longer to be seen at all.

When he looked about him and saw his reception halls frequented
only by his personal retainers, who looked as though time were hanging
heavily on their hands, the thought that this was but a pretaste of
the dreariness and insignificance with which his whole life would
henceforth be tinged reduced him to a state of great depression.

In the second month Oborozukiyo was made chief Lady of the Bedchamber,
the former occupant of this office having at the ex-Emperor’s death
become a nun. Her birth and education, together with her unusual charm
both of person and disposition, combined to make her much sought after
even at a Court where such qualities were to be found in remarkable
profusion. Her sister Lady Kōkiden was now seldom at Court, and on
the rare occasion when she needed a room she lodged in the Umetsubo,
resigning her old apartments to the Lady of the Bedchamber. No longer
was Oborozukiyo buried away in the inconvenient Tōkwaden; she had space
and light and a vast number of ladies in her employ, while all about
her was in the gayest and newest style. But she could not forget a
certain brief and unexpected adventure[17] which had once befallen her,
and was very unhappy. A desultory correspondence was still carried on
between them with the greatest caution and secrecy.

He knew well enough how fatal would now be the consequences of
discovery; but this, as has often been noted, so far from discouraging
him served only to increase his interest in such an affair.

During the late Emperor’s lifetime Kōkiden had been obliged to behave
with a certain restraint. Now she was free to revenge herself with
the ferocity of a long-curbed malice upon those who had hitherto been
sheltered from her spite. Genji found himself thwarted at every turn.
He had expected these intrigues, but having for so long enjoyed a
favoured and protected existence he was at a loss how to cope with them.

The Minister of the Left felt that his influence was gone and no
longer presented himself at Court. Kōkiden had never forgiven him for
marrying the late princess his daughter to Genji instead of giving
her, as had originally been intended, to her son the present Emperor.
Moreover there had always been a certain amount of ill-feeling between
the families of the two Ministers. During the late Emperor’s reign the
Minister of the Left had managed things pretty much as he chose, and it
was but natural that he now had no desire to take part in the triumph
of his rival. Genji continued to visit him as before and was assiduous
in his attention to Aoi’s maids-of-honour, as also in providing for the
education of the little prince her son. This delighted the old Minister
and he continued to treat his son-in-law with the same affectionate
deference as in old days.

The high position to which Genji had been raised two years ago had
entailed much tiresome business and made considerable inroads upon his
leisure. He found himself in consequence obliged to discontinue many of
the intimacies in which he had been previously engaged. Of his lighter
distractions he was now thoroughly ashamed and was glad to abandon
them; so that for a while his life became altogether quiet, regular and
exemplary. The announcement of his marriage with Murasaki was very well
received by the world at large. Shōnagon and her companions naturally
attributed their little mistress’s success to the prayers of her
pious grandmother the late nun, and in secret conclave congratulated
themselves on the turn which events had taken. Her father Prince
Hyōbukyō asked for nothing better than such a match. But his wife,
who had not managed to do half as well for her own children on whom
she doted, was extremely jealous of her step-child’s triumph, and this
marriage continued to be a very sore point with her. Indeed, Murasaki’s
career had been more like that of some step-child in fiction[18] than
of a real young person.

The Vestal Virgin of Kamo, third daughter of the late Emperor by
Lady Kōkiden, was now in mourning and had to resign her charge. Her
successor was the Princess Asagao.[19] It had not very often happened
that a collateral descendant of the Emperor was chosen for this post;
but on this occasion no other princess of suitable age and lineage was
available. Genji’s admiration for this lady had not, in all the years
that had passed since he first courted her, in any degree abated, and
it was painful to him to learn that she was now to embark upon so
different a way of life. She still sent him an occasional message and
he had never ceased to write to her. He had known her as a Lady of the
Court. Now he must try to picture her to himself as a priestess. This
he could not manage to do, and his repeated failure to evoke any image
which corresponded to her as she now was bitterly tormented him.

The young Emperor punctiliously obeyed his father’s last injunctions
and treated Genji with great consideration. But he was still very
young, and being somewhat weak and yielding in character he was easily
influenced by those about him. Again and again, under pressure from
Kōkiden or the Minister of the Right, he allowed public measures to
be taken of which he did not really in the least approve. Meanwhile
Kōkiden’s sister the Lady Oborozukiyo, though her new position rendered
the carrying on of a secret intrigue in the highest degree
difficult and perilous, was becoming more and more unhappy, and at
last found a means of informing Genji of her unaltered attachment.
He would have been glad enough if she had felt otherwise; but after
what had passed between them he could not disregard such a message.
Accordingly he waited till the Court was immersed in the Celebration
at the Five Altars[20] and went secretly to her apartments. The
encounter was brief and dream-like as on that first occasion, on the
night of the Flower-feast.[21] Her maid Chūnagon smuggled him in by
the little side door which had before caught his attention. There
happened to be a good many people about at the time, and it was with
great trepidation that this lady conducted him through the exposed and
frequented ante-chambers which led to her mistress’s apartments. To
look upon Prince Genji was a ceaseless delight even to those who daily
served him. It can be imagined then what rapture his visit brought to
one who had waited so long for his return. Nor was Genji on his side
by any means indifferent to her charms. She was at the height of her
youth and good-looks; lively, graceful, confiding. Indeed, save for a
certain light-heartedness and inconsequence, there was nothing in her
which he would wish to change. Suddenly he heard people stirring in
the corridor outside and for a moment thought that it must already be
morning. He soon realized however that these were not the people of the
house, but members of the Imperial Guard come to report themselves.
No doubt some officer of the Guard was known to be spending the night
in this part of the Palace; but for a moment Genji had the wild idea
that some malicious person had revealed to the soldiers of the
Guard the unexpected presence of their Commander.[22] He was amused at
his mistake, but at the same time horrified at the realization of the
risks which he was running. Outside in the corridor they could still
hear the soldiers tramping up and down looking for their officer and
calling out as they went ‘First hour of the Tiger Watch, first hour of
the Tiger Watch!’[23] Then Oborozukiyo whispered the verse: ‘Though
the watch-man of the night cries out “Enough!” yet seems it from
your tears and mine we are not of his mind.’[24] Her plaintive tone
touched his heart and he answered with the verse: ‘Must we, because
they say the time is spent, in tears relinquish what our own hearts’
reluctance bids us still enjoy?’ So saying he left her. Though daylight
had not yet come and the setting moon was heavily veiled in mist, he
felt very uneasy. And in fact, despite his disguise, his bearing and
figure were so notable that he was at once recognized by a brother
of Lady Jōkyōden[25] who happened, at the moment when Genji passed
unsuspecting on his way, to have just left Fujitsubo’s old quarters and
was now standing in the shadow of a trellis-gate. This gentleman was
vastly amused and did not fail to make good use of the episode in his
conversation.

So great were the risks he had run that for some time afterwards
Genji found himself wishing Fujitsubo’s prudence and reserve were
more commonly practised, and at such times he almost applauded her
unkindness. At any rate it saved him from these nerve-racking
experiences. But such moods did not last long. With the Lady of the
Bedchamber his deeper feelings were not involved, whereas he was drawn
towards Fujitsubo as though by some secret power, and except at rare
moments her coldness caused him nothing but torment and despair.

This princess, though she no longer felt at ease in the Palace and
could not bring herself to visit it, was distressed that she was now
unable to see her son. It was very awkward that there was no one to
advise her about the child except Prince Genji, who unfortunately still
persisted in regarding her with the same strange adoration. She was in
a continual panic lest he should take advantage of her dependence upon
him. True the Emperor had died without betraying the least suspicion
concerning the child’s parentage. But she shuddered to think of the
predicament in which this deception had involved her. Any renewal of
their relationship, quite apart from the effect it might have upon her
own fortunes, would react disastrously upon her son. So heavily did
this matter weigh upon her that when she was supposed to be at her
prayers she did nothing but turn over in her mind, a hundred times
this way and that, how best she might persuade him to feel differently
towards her.

Yet despite all her precautions he managed one night to enter the
house and get very near indeed to the room where she was sitting. Not
a soul in the house had conspired with him or expected his coming.
He seemed to have risen mysteriously up among them like a figure in
a dream. He sent her many passionate messages, such as I cannot here
transcribe, but she would not let him come to her. At last, worn out
by his persistency, she began to feel so faint that Ōmyōbu, Myōbu no
Ben and the rest of her favourite waiting-women took fright and were
soon busily employed in attending to her. Meanwhile Genji, in a
frenzy of irritation and disappointment, scarce knew how he came to be
in her ante-chamber nor thought how he was going to retire from it.
So completely had he lost all sense of real things that though broad
daylight was come he did not stir from where he stood. The news of her
indisposition quickly spread through the house. There was a sound of
footsteps, and Genji, still but half conscious, groped his way into
a large lumber-room or clothes-cupboard that happened to be near by.
An embarrassed lady-in-waiting hastily stowed away a cloak and other
effects which she saw lying about.

Fujitsubo herself remained in much distress both of body and mind
throughout the night. As she was feeling very giddy, her brothers, who
had now arrived upon the scene, sent out for a priest. All this Genji
heard from his hiding-place with great grief and alarm. The day was
far advanced when she began at last to mend. She had not of course the
least idea that he was still in the house and her ladies feared that if
they were to tell her of his presence the news might cause a recurrence
of last night’s attack. At last she dragged herself from her bed to the
chair in which she generally sat, and her brothers, thinking that the
worst was now over, withdrew and she was left alone. Even her intimate
and personal attendants had retired from her daïs and could be heard
moving away to and fro behind the screens at the other end of the room.
The sole preoccupation of Ōmyōbu and the few other ladies who shared
the secret of Genji’s presence was now how best to get him out of the
house. They were certain that if he stayed where he was the same scene
would be repeated that night, with the same unhappy effects, and they
were whispering together in a tone of great concern when Genji, first
cautiously pushing the door a little ajar and then gently slipping
out, darted from his hiding-place to the shelter of one of the screens
which surrounded her daïs. From this point of vantage he was able at
last to gaze upon her to his heart’s content, and as he did so tears
of joy and wonder filled his eyes. ‘I am wretched, wretched,’ she was
murmuring; ‘but soon my misery will end, soon all will be over....’ She
was looking out towards the centre of the room and he caught a profile
view of her face which he found inexpressibly charming. Presently
Ōmyōbu came with fruit for her breakfast. Though the cover of the
fruit-box was of rare and beautiful workmanship she did not so much as
glance at it, but sat rigidly staring in front of her, like one for
whom life has lost all interest and meaning.

How beautiful she was! And, now that it was possible to compare them on
equal terms, how like in every minutest detail of pose and expression
to the girl at home! Particularly in the carriage of her head and the
way her hair grew there was the same singular charm. For years Murasaki
had served to keep Lady Fujitsubo, to some extent at any rate, out of
his thoughts. But now that he saw how astonishingly the one resembled
the other he fancied that all the while Murasaki had but served as a
substitute or eidolon of the lady who denied him her love. Both had
the same pride, the same reticence. For a moment he wondered whether,
if they were side by side, he should be able to tell them apart.
How absurd! Probably indeed, he said to himself, the whole idea of
their resemblance was a mere fancy; Fujitsubo had for so many years
filled all his thoughts. It was natural that such an idea should come
to him. Unable to contain himself any longer, he slipped out of his
hiding-place and gently crept between her curtains-of-state, till he
was near enough to touch the train of her cloak. By the royal scent
which he carried she knew at once that it was he, and overcome by
astonishment and terror she fell face downwards upon her couch. ‘Can
you not bear to set eyes upon me?’ he cried, and in despair clutched
at the skirt of her cloak. She in panic slipped the cloak from her
shoulders and would have fled, leaving it in his hands; but by ill luck
her hair caught in the buckle and she was held fast. With horror she
realized that a fate too strong for her was planning to put her at his
mercy. He for his part suddenly lost all dignity and self-restraint.
Sobbing violently he poured out to her, scarce knowing what he said,
the whole tale of his passion and despair. She was horrified; both the
visit and the outburst seemed to her unpardonable, and she did not
even reply. At last, hard-pressed, she pleaded illness and promised
to see him some other time. But he would not be put off and continued
to pour out his tale of love. In the midst of all this talk that so
much displeased her and to which she paid no heed at all, there came
some phrase which caught her attention and for some reason touched
her; and though she was still determined that what had happened on
that one unhappy occasion should never, never be repeated, she began
to answer him kindly. Thus by skilful parryings and evasions she kept
him talking till this night too was safely over. By her gentleness she
had shamed him into submission and he now said: ‘There cannot surely
be any harm in my coming occasionally to see you in this way. It would
be a great relief to me if I could do so.’ This and much else he said,
now in a far less desperate mood. Even in quite commonplace people such
situations produce strange flights of tenderness and fancy. How much
the more then in such lovers as Genji and the queen!

But it was now broad daylight. Ōmyōbu and her daughter arrived and
soon took possession of their mistress. Genji, retiring from the
room, sent her many tender messages. But now she sat staring vacantly
in front of her as though she were but half alive. Exasperated by
her martyred attitude, he cried out at last: ‘Answer me, answer me!
I cannot live without you. And yet, what use to die? For I know that
in every life to come I am doomed to suffer the torment of this same
heinous passion.’ Still, to the alarm of those who waited upon her, she
sat staring fixedly in front of her. He recited the verse: ‘If indeed
the foeman fate that parts us works not for to-day alone, then must I
spend Eternity in woe.’ When she heard him saying that the bonds of her
love would hold him back from Paradise, she began to weep and answered
with the verse: ‘If to all time this bond debars you from felicity, not
hostile fate but your own heart you should with bitterness condemn.’
The words were spoken with a tenderness that was infinitely precious to
him; yet he knew that a prolongation of the interview could not but be
painful to both of them, and he rushed from the room.

He felt that he made himself odious to her. He would never be able to
face her again, and contrary to custom he wrote no morning letter. For
a long while he paid no visit either to the Emperor or to the Heir
Apparent, but lay in his room brooding upon Fujitsubo’s unkindness.
Misery and longing brought him at last to so pitiable a plight that
it was as though with agonizing pain his inmost soul were dissolving
within him. Often there ran in his head the lines: ‘Soon upon causeways
of resounding stone my footsteps shall beat out their song!’[26] And
indeed the world again seemed to him so cheerless that his decision
would soon have been taken had he not remembered that there was one
over whose happiness he was pledged to watch. So exquisite, so
trustful a creature he could not abandon, and the project was soon put
aside.

Fujitsubo too reflected upon what had taken place with great uneasiness
of mind. She had now learnt how he had concealed himself for a whole
day in her house without giving her the slightest intimation of his
presence. This fact Ōmyōbu and the rest had not, in their indignation
at his plight, managed to restrain themselves from revealing to her.
Such conduct she could not tolerate. Yet she well knew that if she
showed her displeasure Genji would feel a disinclination towards the
Heir Apparent, and this she was above all things anxious to avoid.
In a fit of despair he might even take some step which could not be
rectified, and that thought, despite the torment of his importunity,
filled her even now with horror. If such an occurrence as that of
last night were often to be repeated it was certain that both their
reputations would soon be irrecoverably destroyed. She felt that it
would in a way disarm the censures of the world if she were to give up
the rank of Empress, the bestowal of which had been received with such
caustic comments by Lady Kōkiden. She remembered with what intention
and with what explicit injunctions this title had been granted her
by the late Emperor. But she felt herself no longer bound by his
instructions; for since his death the whole position at Court had
utterly changed. She had no fear of suffering the fate of Lady Chi,[27]
but she had every reason to suppose that her position as Empress would
henceforth be both ludicrous and humiliating. She felt no inclination
to struggle against ridicule and opposition. Soon her mind was made
up. She must renounce the world. But first she must visit her son. She
could not bear that he should never again see her as he had known
her in days of old. She drove to the Palace without public escort. On
many occasions when she had travelled in even less state than this,
Genji had attended her and arranged every detail of her progress. This
time he pleaded sickness and was not present. Previously he had been in
the habit of sending constantly to enquire after her health. The fact
that he had discontinued this practice was cited by the sympathetic
Ōmyōbu as a proof that he must be now plunged in the utmost misery.

The little prince[28] had grown into a handsome boy. His mother’s
visit surprised and delighted him and he was soon telling her all
his secrets. She looked at him sadly. The step that she contemplated
seemed unendurably hard to take. Yet a glance at the Palace reminded
her how great were the changes and upheavals that had taken place,
how insecure had now become her own position at the Court. The Lady
Kōkiden still showed the same unrelenting hostility, finding at every
turn some means to inconvenience or humiliate her. Her high rank, so
far from protecting her, now imperilled both herself and her son. For
a long while she hesitated, torn by many conflicting feelings. At
last she succeeded in saying to the child: ‘What would you think if I
were to go away for a long while and, when at last I came back to see
you, were to look quite different, almost as though it were another
person?’ She watched his face while she spoke. ‘What would happen to
you?’ he said, very much interested; ‘would you become like old Lady
Shikibu? Why do you want to be like that?’ and he laughed. It was very
difficult to tell him. She began again: ‘Shikibu is ugly because she
is so old. That is not what I mean. I shall have even less hair than
Shikibu and I shall wear a black dress, like the chaplain whom
you have seen coming to say prayers here in the evenings; but it will
be a long while before they let me come here to see you.’ He saw that
she was crying and at once said very decidedly: ‘If you do not come
for a long while, I shall miss you terribly.’ He too began to cry, and
ashamed of his tears, turned his head away. As he did so his long hair
fell rippling across his cheek. The eyes, the brow—all was as though
a cast had been taken from the face she knew so well. He had not yet
lost his baby-teeth. One or two of them were a little decayed, their
blackness amid a row of white giving to his smile a peculiar piquancy
and charm. As she watched him standing there in his half-girlish beauty
and suddenly realized how like he was to his father, she became more
than ever unhappy. But if the resemblance was painful to her and seemed
to her at that moment almost to spoil his beauty, it was only because
she dreaded the gossip to which this likeness would give rise.

Genji too was longing to see his son, but while Princess Fujitsubo was
at Court he was resolved to keep away. Perhaps this would make her
realize how completely he had been frustrated by her harshness; for
she would certainly be expecting to meet him in the young prince’s
apartments.

He was in very ill humour and the time hung heavily on his hands.
It was now autumn and it seemed a pity not to be in the country.
He decided to spend a little while at the Temple in the Cloudy
Woods.[29] Here in the cell of his mother’s elder brother, a master
of the Vinaya,[30] he spent several days reading the sacred texts and
practising various austerities. During this time much happened both
to move and delight him. The maple leaves in the surrounding
forests were just turning and he remembered Sōjō’s song written in the
same place: ‘Proud autumn fields....’ In a little while he had almost
forgotten that this quiet place was not his home. He gathered about
him a number of doctors famous for their understanding of the Holy
Law and made them dispute in his presence. Yet even in the midst of
scenes such as these, calculated to impress him in the highest degree
with the futility of all earthly desires, one figure from the fleeting
world of men still rose up importunately before him and haunted every
prayer. One day at dawn by the light of a sinking moon the priests of
the temple were making the morning offering of fresh leaves and flowers
before an image that stood near by. He could hear the clink of the
silver flower-trays as they scattered chrysanthemum and maple leaves of
many hues around the Buddha’s feet. It seemed to him then that the life
these people led was worth while, not merely as a means to salvation
but for its own pleasantness and beauty. Again and again he marvelled
that he could have for so long endured his own aimless existence. His
uncle, the Vinaya-master, had an extremely impressive voice and when
he came to the passage ‘None shall be cast out, but take unto him all
living things that call upon his name,’ Genji envied him the assurance
with which he uttered the Buddha’s promise. Why should not he too avail
himself of this promise, why should not he too lead this sanctified
existence? Suddenly he remembered Murasaki and his home. What must she
be thinking of him? It was many days since he had seen her, and he
hastened to repair this neglect: ‘I came here as an experiment,’ he
wrote, ‘that I might decide whether it would not be better for me to
withdraw forever from the world. Since I have been here it has been
gradually becoming clearer to me that my present way of life can
bring me nothing but misery; and to-day I heard something read out loud
which made a deep impression upon me and convinced me that I ought not
any longer to delay....’ The letter was written on sandalwood paper
of Michinoku, informally but with great elegance. With it he sent the
poem: ‘Because I left you in a home deep-girt with dewy sedge, with
troubled mind I hear the wild winds blow from every side.’ This he
said and much else beside. She cried when she read it. Her answer was
written on a white slip: ‘First, when the wild wind blows, flutters
the dewy web that hangs upon the wilting sedge-row in the fields.’ He
smiled to himself with pleasure as he read it, noting how swiftly her
hand had improved. He had written her so many letters that her writing
had grown to be very like his, save that to his style she had added
some touches of girlish delicacy and grace. In this as in all else she
at least had not disappointed him.

It occurred to him that Kamo was not so very far off and he thought
he would send a message to the Vestal Virgin.[31] To Chūjō her maid
he sent the letter: ‘That here among strangers in deep affliction I
languish unconsoled, your mistress cannot know.’ To this he added a
long tale of his present woes and to the Virgin herself addressed the
poem: ‘Goddess Immaculate, the memory of other days has made me bold
to hang this token at thy shrine!’ And to this, quoting an old song,
he added the words ‘Would that like a ring upon the hand I might turn
Time around till “then” was “now.”’ He wrote on light green paper, and
with the letter was a twig of the Sacred Tree festooned with fluttering
tassels of white as befitted the holy place to which it was addressed.
In answer the maid Chūjō wrote: ‘There is so little here to break the
sameness of the long empty days that sometimes an idle memory of
the past will for a moment visit the Virgin’s heavenly thoughts. Of you
she has spoken now and again, but only to say that now all thought of
you is profitless.’ The gentlewoman’s letter was long and written with
great care. On a small strip tied to a white ritual tassel the Virgin
herself had written the poem: ‘Full well you know that in those other
days no secret was between us for you to hang as ritual-token at your
heart.’ It was not written with much pains, but there was an easy flow
in the cursive passages which delighted his eye and he realized that
the Court had lost one who would in time have grown to be a woman of no
ordinary accomplishments.

He shuddered. How pitiless is God! Suddenly he remembered that only
last autumn the melancholy gateway of the Palace-in-the-Fields had
filled him with just such an indignation and dismay. Why should these
Powers be suffered to pursue their hideous exactions?

That strange trait of perversity, so often noted, was indeed at work
again under the most absurd circumstances. For in all the years when
Asagao was within reach he had not made one serious effort to win her,
but had contented himself with vague protestations and appeals. But
now that she was utterly unattainable he suddenly imagined that he had
never really cared for anyone else! Believing him to be the victim of
an inconsolable passion, the Virgin had not the heart to leave his
letters unanswered, and a correspondence of a rather strange and unreal
kind was for some while carried on between them.

Before he left the Temple in the Cloudy Woods he read the whole of the
Sixty Chapters,[32] consulting his uncle on many obscure points. The
delight of the priests, down to the humblest servitor, may well be
imagined. It seemed as though the Lord Amida must hold their poor
country temple in especial favour, or he would not have vouchsafed that
such a radiance should shine among them.

But soon Genji began to grow restless. His mind strayed constantly to
mundane affairs, and though he dreaded the return, there was one whom
it was not in his heart any longer to neglect. Before his departure he
ordered a grand chanting of the Scripture to be held and gave suitable
presents to all the resident priests both high and low, and even to the
peasants of the surrounding country. Then, after many other rituals
and benefactions, he drove away. The country people from far and near
crowded round the gates to see him go, uncouth figures strangely
gnarled and bent. His carriage was draped with black and he himself was
still dressed in the drab unbecoming robes of mourning. Yet even the
momentary glimpse of him that they caught as he entered his carriage
sufficed to convince them that a prince of no ordinary beauty had been
dwelling near to them and many were moved to tears.

It seemed to him when he was back in his palace that Murasaki had in
these last months become far less childish. She spoke very seriously
of the changes at Court and showed great concern for his future. That
in these last weeks his affections had been much occupied elsewhere
could hardly have escaped her notice. He remembered with a pang that
in the last poem she had sent him there was some reference to ‘the
wilting sedge-row,’ and full of remorse he treated her with more than
ordinary kindness. He had brought her a branch of autumn leaves from
the country temple where he had been staying. Together they compared it
with the trees in his palace garden, and found when they set them side
by side that the country leaves were dyed to a yet deeper red. There
was one who was at all times paramount in his thoughts, and the sight
of these leaves, tinged with so strong a hue that they eclipsed
whatever colours were set beside them, reminded him that to her alone
he had given no token of his return. The desire to have news of her so
tormented him that at last he wrote a letter to Ōmyōbu announcing that
he had left the temple: ‘I heard with surprise and joy of your Lady’s
visit to the Court. I longed for news both of her and of the young
prince; but though I was uneasy on their account, I could not interrupt
my appointed course of penance and study. Thus many days have passed
since last I gave you any news. Here are some sprays of autumn leaf.
Bid your Lady look at them when she feels so disposed, lest unregarded
they should waste their beauty “like silken stuffs spread out by
night.”’

They were huge, leaf-laden boughs, and when she looked closer,
Fujitsubo saw that the usual tiny strip of paper, such as he always
used in writing to her, was tied to one of them. Her gentlewomen
were watching her, and as she examined the offering she felt herself
blushing. So he was still in the same deplorable state of mind! Surely
he must realize that it was very embarrassing for her to receive
offerings of this kind from one who was known to be her admirer!
Wishing that he would show more regard for her feelings and reputation
she bade a servant put the boughs in a vase and stand it against one of
the pillows on the verandah, as far out of the way as possible.

In her reply she confined herself to matters of business upon which she
needed his advice. Her cold and impersonal tone deeply wounded him.
But as it was his usual practice to assist her in every difficulty,
he felt that his absence on the day of her departure from Court would
give rise to unwelcome speculations, and hearing that the day had been
fixed he hastened to the Palace. He went first to the apartments of the
young Emperor and finding him at leisure settled down to a long
conversation. In person His Majesty much resembled the late Emperor,
but he was of a quicker and livelier disposition. He was very easy
to get on with and they were soon exchanging recollections of their
late father. The Emperor had heard that Genji was still on intimate
terms with his aunt the Princess Oborozuki, and had on his own account
observed many signs of such an attachment. If the affair had begun
since the Princess’s arrival at Court he would have felt bound to take
cognizance of it. But he knew that the friendship between them was of
very old standing and felt that under these circumstances there was no
great impropriety in it.

They discussed all manner of affairs together, including their Chinese
studies, and the Emperor consulted him about the interpretation of
various difficult passages. They then repeated to one another such
poems of gallantry as they had lately addressed to ladies of the
Court, and it was in the course of this conversation that the Emperor
mentioned his admiration of the Lady Rokujō’s daughter and his
distress on the occasion of her departure for Ise. This emboldened
Genji, and soon he was telling the Emperor about his own visit to the
Palace-in-the-Fields and all the sad circumstances attending it. The
waning moon had begun at last to rise. ‘It is at such moments as this,’
said the Emperor sadly, ‘that one longs for music.’[33]

Genji now took his leave, explaining that he must wait upon the
ex-Empress before she retired again to her own home. ‘You will
remember,’ he said, ‘that the late Emperor our father committed
the Heir Apparent to my guardianship and protection. There happens
unfortunately to be no one else to watch over his interests, and as
I am very uneasy concerning his future I am obliged to take counsel
fairly frequently with his mother.’ ‘Our father certainly asked
me to retain him as Heir Apparent,’ replied the Emperor, ‘and I have
always tried to help him in any way I could. But there is really
nothing much that I can do for him. I hear he has made astonishing
progress with his handwriting and is in every way satisfactory. I am
afraid he is more likely to be a credit to me than I a help to him.’
‘He does indeed seem to be in most ways very forward and intelligent,’
said Genji, ‘but his character is still quite unformed.’ And after some
further description of the child’s attainments he proceeded to the Heir
Apparent’s apartments.

There was a certain Tō no Bēn, a son of Kōkiden’s elder brother Tō
Dainagon. Being young, good-looking and popular he had grown somewhat
out of hand. This young man was now on his way to the rooms of his
sister Princess Reikeiden. For a moment Genji’s servants who were
preceding him to the Heir Apparent’s rooms blocked his path and forced
him to stand waiting till they had passed. In a low voice, but quite
distinctly enough for Genji to hear every word, the young courtier
chanted the lines ‘When a white rainbow crossed the sun the Crown
Prince[34] trembled.’ Genji flushed, but it was obviously best to let
the matter pass.

That Kōkiden should have succeeded in infecting her whole clan with her
venomous hostility towards him was both vexatious and alarming. Genji
was indeed much disquieted; but he contrived on all such occasions to
conceal his discomfiture.

In arriving at Fujitsubo’s rooms he sent in a message to explain that
he had been detained in the Presence. It was a moonlit night of unusual
beauty. It was at such times as this that the old Emperor would
call for music. Fujitsubo remembered those dazzling midnight parties.
Here were the old courtyards, the old gardens and rooms, and yet this
was not the Palace after all! Through Ōmyōbu her maid she sent to him
the poem: ‘Though now dark exhalations hide from sight the Palace of
the Ninefold Wall, yet goes my heart to the bright moon[35] that far
above the cloud-bank dwells.’ She did not in this message give any hint
that she wished to see him; yet her tone was not unkind, and forgetting
all his rancour he wrote with tears in his eyes: ‘Though lovely still
as in past years the moonbeams of this night, for me in vain their
beauty, since now in shadows of unkindness they are wrapped.’

She was to leave the Palace at dawn and was much preoccupied with the
young prince her son. In her anxiety for his future she overwhelmed him
with warnings and instructions. The child understood but little of what
she was saying, and seeing that his attention had wandered, she felt
more than ever that he was of no age to shift for himself. He usually
went to bed very early, but on this occasion he had asked to sit up
till his mother started. It was evident that he was very much upset by
her departure, but he was very brave about it, and this made her feel
more than ever remorseful at leaving him.

Genji could not banish from his mind the thought of Tō no Bēn’s
insolent behaviour. It spoilt all his enjoyment in life and for a long
while he wrote to no one, not even to Oborozuki. The autumn rains set
in and still no word came from him. She began to wonder what could be
amiss, and at last sent him the poem: ‘While leaf by leaf autumn has
stripped the trees, all this long windy while have I in sadness waited
for the news that did not come.’ Doubtless it had cost her some
trouble to communicate with him in secret; moreover the poem itself
was not at all displeasing. Genji detained the messenger, and going
to his desk opened the drawer where he kept his Chinese writing-paper
and chose the prettiest piece he could find. Mending his pen with
the greatest care, he indited a note so elegant even in its outside
appearance that on its arrival there was quite a stir among the ladies
who were at her side. Who could be the sender of such a missive?
Significant glances were exchanged. ‘I have for some while, for reasons
about which it would be useless to speak, been in the last depths of
depression.’ So he wrote and to this he added the poem: ‘Why, think
you, fell the rains of autumn yet faster than of yore? It was my tears
that swelled them, my tears because we could not meet.’ He told her too
that if the path of their friendship were but clear, he should soon
forget the rain and his depression and all that was amiss in the world.
He took much pains with this letter. There were several other people
who had written to complain of his neglect, but though he sent them all
encouraging replies there were some of them about whom he did not feel
very strongly one way or the other.

On the anniversary of the Emperor’s death, in addition to the usual
ceremonies, he caused the Service of the Eight Recitals[36] to be
celebrated with particular magnificence. The day of national mourning
was the first of the eleventh month. A heavy snow was falling. He sent
to Fujitsubo the poem: ‘Though once again the time of his departure has
come back, not yet dare hope we for the day when we shall meet.’[37] It
happened that on that day she felt in utter despair, seeing no hope of
happiness on any side. She answered: ‘Though sad to have outlived
him for so long, yet in this day’s return found I some peace; it was as
though the world again were in his rule.’

It was not written with very great display of penmanship, but there was
(or Genji fancied that there was) a peculiar distinction and refinement
in the writing. It was not quite in the fashion of the moment; but that
did not matter, for she had a style that was completely of her own
invention.

But this, he remembered, was the day of the great masses for his
father’s soul. He must put Fujitsubo out of his thoughts; and wet
through by the perpetual downpour of rainy snow, he played his part in
the elaborate rituals and processions.

The Service of the Eight Recitals was to be celebrated in Fujitsubo’s
house on the tenth of the twelfth month and the four succeeding
days. She was at great pains to render the ceremony as impressive as
possible. The tents to be used on each of the five days were wound
on rods of ivory; they were backed with thin silk and laid in cases
of woven bamboo. All was ordered with a splendour such as had seldom
been seen before. But under her management even the most trivial daily
arrangements became invested with a singular beauty and completeness.
It did not therefore surprise Genji that the Recitals were carried
out with unequalled impressiveness and dignity. The adornments of the
Buddha, the coverings of the flower-altars, all were of a beauty that
made him dream he was indeed a dweller in Amida’s Land of Bliss.

The first day’s Recital was dedicated to the memory of her father;[38]
the next was on behalf of her mother, the deceased Empress; the third
day was in memory of her husband, the late ex-Emperor. It is on this
day that the fifth book is read; despite the disapproval of Kōkiden
and her flatterers, the ceremony was attended by the greater
part of those about the Court. The readers of this third day had been
chosen with especial care, and when they came to the passage: ‘Then he
gathered sticks for firewood and plucked wild berries and the fruit of
the mountains and trees,’ the words that all had heard so many times
before took on a strange significance. It fell to the lot of the dead
man’s sons to officiate at the altar, circling it with gold and silver
dishes held aloft in their hands, and these dishes piled high with
offerings of many kinds. This rite was performed by Genji with a grace
and deftness that was not equalled by any of his companions. You will
say that I have noted this superiority many times before; that is true,
and I can only plead in excuse that people were actually struck by it
afresh each time they saw him.

The last day’s Recital was on behalf of her own salvation. To the
astonishment of all present it was announced that she herself wished
to take this opportunity of abandoning the world, and had desired the
clergy to intimate her renunciation to the Lord Buddha. It may well be
imagined with what consternation both Prince Hyōbukyō her brother and
Genji himself received this utterly unexpected announcement. It was
made in the middle of the service, and Hyōbukyō, without waiting for
the Recital to end, left his seat and went at once to her side. But all
his pleading was in vain. At the end of the service she sent for the
Head of the Tendai Sect[39] and told him that she was ready to receive
the Rules forthwith. Her uncle the High Priest of Yogawa thereupon
ascended the daïs and shaved her head. A murmur of horror ran through
the hall; there was a sound of sobbing. There is something strangely
moving in the spectacle of such a renunciation, even when some
decrepit old woman decides at last that it is time to take her vows.
But here a lady in the prime of her beauty, who till now had given the
world no inkling of her intention, was suddenly casting herself away.
Her brother found himself weeping with the rest; and even strangers
who had come merely for the sake of the service felt, under the spell
of the reader’s solemn voice and of this sudden declaration, that a
personal calamity had befallen them. The sons of the late Emperor who
remembered her proud bearing at their Father’s Court were particularly
distressed, and all of them intimated their regret at the step which
she had taken. Only Genji stood rooted to the spot in speechless horror
and dismay. At last he realized that his behaviour must be attracting
attention, and when all the princes had left her he made his way to her
daïs.

Most of the people had cleared off and only a few ladies-in-waiting,
all of them on the verge of tears, sat here and there in small
disconsolate groups. An unclouded moon heightened the sparkling
radiance of the fresh snow which lay around the house. Old memories
crowded to his mind and for a moment he feared that he would break
down. But at last controlling himself he said very quietly ‘What made
you suddenly decide to do this?’ ‘I have been meaning to for a long
while, but so many things were happening and I had not time to think
about it quietly....’ He was standing outside her curtains-of-state.
This answer was not spoken directly to him, but was brought by Ōmyōbu,
her maid. Within the curtains he knew that her favourites were gathered
round her. He could hear a faint, reiterated rustling, as though a
company of silent mourners were swaying in inconsolable grief. How well
he understood their utter despair! From the hanging incense-burner
behind her curtain-of-state there rose a heavy perfume of
_kurobo_,[40] carried through the room by the fierce snow-wind which
had blown since dusk; and with it mingled a faint remnant of the holy
incense which the priests had that day been burning in the house. Add
to this the princely scent which Genji wore and you may well imagine
that the night air was fragrant as the winds of Paradise.

A messenger came from the Heir Apparent’s household. There rose before
her mind the memory of the child’s pretty speeches and ways, that last
morning in the Palace. It was more than she could bear, and lest she
should break down altogether she left the message unanswered. Seeing
the messenger go away empty-handed, Genji wrote a few words on her
behalf. It was now time for him to take his leave; but both he and she
were in a state of agitation which they could barely control, and he
dared not utter the thoughts that were at that moment passing through
his mind. Through Ōmyōbu he sent her this poem: ‘Though fain I too
would seek that stainless tract whither the moon has climbed, yet how
unguided in the darkness should those small feet not go astray?’[41]
He spoke of his regret at the step she had taken, but only in formal
terms, for he knew that she was not alone. Of the tumultuous thoughts
which surged through his brain there was not one to which he could at
such a time give vent. And answer came: ‘Though now upon life and all
its sorrow I have looked my last, yet are there certain earthly things
I shall not soon forget....’ ‘The stain of the world clings fast to
me....’ This and much else was in the answer; but he guessed that a
great part of it had been supplied by those who were about her.

There was no more to be done, and heavy at heart he left the house.
At the Nijō-in he lay alone upon his bed, never once closing his
eyes. He was now firmly convinced that if it were not for his duty to
Fujitsubo’s son he would certainly retire from the world. The late
Emperor had hoped that by investing Lady Fujitsubo with definite
public rank he would assure the boy’s future. But now, by becoming a
nun, she had upset all his calculations; for it was almost certain
that she would not continue to hold her present position in the State.
Were Genji also now to desert the child, what would become of him?
These were the thoughts that still perplexed him when morning came. He
remembered that Fujitsubo would now have to provide herself with such
articles as appertain to a nun’s life. In this matter at least he could
assist her, and he hastened to send to her palace before the end of
the year a suitable provision of rosaries, prayer-desks and the like.
He heard that Ōmyōbu also had renounced the world that she might keep
her mistress company, and to this gentlewoman he sent a message of
affectionate condolence. In this letter he touched on many incidents of
their common past, and a correspondence ensued, of such length that it
would not be possible to record it. As was natural on so affecting an
occasion many poems were exchanged between them, and as these were of
considerable merit I regret that they must be omitted.

Now that Fujitsubo had definitely embraced the religious life she felt
that there was less impropriety in her receiving him, and on several
occasions she no longer conversed through an intermediary, but actually
admitted him to her presence. His feelings towards her were absolutely
unchanged, but now that there could be no question of intimacy between
them he could face her with some degree of tranquillity.

The close of that year ended the period of Court mourning, and the New
Year was celebrated at the Palace with the usual festivities, including
the Imperial Banquet and the Dance Songs.[42] But of these things no
echo reached Fujitsubo’s house. Day after day was spent in prayers,
penances and meditations on the life to come, and he who had been at
once her comfort and despair no longer found any place in her thoughts.
She continued to use the old palace-chapel for her daily observances;
but for the celebration of more elaborate rites she built a new chapel
in front of the west wing, but at some distance from the house.

He visited her on New Year’s Day. Nowhere was there a sign of renewal
or rejoicing. The house was very quiet and seemed almost deserted.
Here and there stood a few of her most devoted retainers, looking (or
was it only his fancy?) very downcast and depressed. Of the usual New
Year offerings from the Palace only the white horse[43] had this year
arrived. The gentlewomen of the house could not but remember how at
this season in former years princes and courtiers had thronged these
halls. Now they drove straight past, making one and all for the great
palace in the next Ward.[44]

This was under the circumstances perfectly natural and Fujitsubo had
fully expected it. Yet when it happened she became very depressed. But
now the arrival of one whom she would not have exchanged for a thousand
visitors put all this chagrin out of her head.

So great were the changes that had taken place since he was last in
her room that for a while he could do nothing but stare about him in
bewilderment.

The canopy of her daïs and the hangings of her screen-of-state were now
of dark blue; here and there behind the curtains he caught a glimpse of
light grey and jasmine-coloured sleeves. The effect was not displeasing
and he would gladly have studied it more closely.

The ice on the lake was just beginning to break up. The willows on the
banks showed a faint tinge of green; they at least remembered that
a new season had begun. These and other portents of the approaching
spring he watched till it grew dark. From behind the curtains Fujitsubo
gazed at him as he sat singing softly to himself the song: ‘Happy the
fisher-folk[45] that dwell ...’; she thought that in all the world
there could be no one so beautiful.

She remained all the while behind her curtains, but a great part of the
room was taken up by images and altars, so that she was obliged to let
him sit very near the daïs and he did not feel wholly cut off from her.

A number of elderly nuns were installed at her side, and fearing lest
in their presence his parting words might betray too great an emotion
he stole in silence from the room. ‘What a fine gentleman he has grown
up to be!’ they exclaimed after Genji’s departure. ‘One might have
thought that it would have spoiled him always having things his own
way as he did in his Father’s time, and being first in everything.
How little can he then have guessed that he would ever come to know
the world’s ingratitude! But you can see that he bears his troubles
manfully, though there is a graver look in his face now than there was
in the old days. Poor gentleman, it makes one’s heart bleed to see him
so sad!’ So the old ladies whispered together, shaking their heads
and calling blessings upon him, while to Fujitsubo herself came many
painful recollections.

It was the time when the yearly distribution of honours took place.
Fujitsubo’s kinsmen and retainers were entirely passed over. This was
quite natural and she did not resent it; but she noticed that even the
usual bounties were withheld, and promotions which had always been
taken as a matter of course were in many cases not granted. There was a
great deal of disappointment and annoyance. Moreover on the ground that
she would shortly have to give up her official rank and would not then
be able to maintain so large an establishment,[46] many other changes
and readjustments were made.

All this she had expected. It was indeed the inevitable consequence
of her retirement from secular life; but when she saw her former
pensioners and retainers going about with dismal faces and in many
instances left without proper support, she was very much upset. But
above all her thoughts were centred on one persistent desire; that,
even though she herself should come to utter ruin, the Heir Apparent
might in due course come peacefully to the Throne, and it was to this
end that she caused perpetual services to be celebrated in the chapel
attached to her house.

To what secret peril was the young prince’s life exposed? Those who
were called upon to officiate at these incessant litanies could
themselves form no conjecture. But her own prayers were more explicit.
Again and again she called upon the Buddha to save the young prince
from the ruin which would immediately overtake him should the true
story of his birth be known; and she prayed with all her heart that,
if retribution must needs come, it might fall upon herself rather than
upon the child. These prayers had at least the effect of bringing her
to a calmer state of mind. Genji, for his part, regarded them as
by no means superfluous.

His own servants and retainers had in the recent distribution of
honours fared little better than hers and were in very ill humour.
Thoroughly discontented with the march of public affairs both they and
their master henceforward appeared but seldom at Court. About this
time the Minister of the Left decided to send in his resignation.
The changes in his home as well as the decline of his own political
influence had recently told very much upon his spirit and he no
longer felt equal to his charge. The Emperor remembered the unbounded
confidence which his father had placed in this Minister’s sagacity, and
how in his last hours the old Emperor had said that to dispense with
such a man’s counsel must needs endanger the security of the Throne. He
was therefore very reluctant to give this resignation effect and for
a while attempted to ignore it. But the Minister stuck to his point
and, though his retirement had not been formally accepted, no longer
appeared at Court.

Henceforward the whole government of the country fell into the hands of
a single family, that of Kōkiden’s father, the Minister of the Right.
The powerful influence of the retired Minister had indeed been the last
check upon the complete dominance of this ascendant faction, and his
withdrawal from public affairs was regarded with grave apprehension
both by the young Emperor himself and by all right-thinking people.

The late Minister’s sons, who had hitherto enjoyed a consideration
in the world somewhat beyond that to which their own abilities would
have entitled them, were mortified to discover that they could no
longer have everything their own way. The most crestfallen of them all
was Tō no Chūjō, who through his connexion[47] with the family which
was now dominant, might have been expected to fare rather better
than the rest. Unfortunately he was still on very bad terms with his
wife, and his neglect of her had deeply offended the Minister, who no
longer received Chūjō as a son-in-law. No doubt as a punishment for
his misdemeanour, his name had been altogether omitted from the list
of New Year honours and promotions. Such things however did not much
interest him and he was not nearly so disappointed as the Minister had
hoped. He could indeed hardly expect to enjoy much influence when even
Genji’s fortunes were so obviously on the decline, and leaving public
business to look after itself he would go off to Genji’s palace, where
the two of them spent the time in the study of music and letters. Often
they would remind one another of the many absurd exploits in which
they had once been rivals; and even in their present quiet pursuits
the old rivalry continued. Genji was much occupied with the readings
of Holy Scripture which are appointed for spring and autumn, and with
the performance of various other annual observances.[48] He also
gathered round him a number of scholars who seemed, no doubt owing to
the present state of public affairs, to be out of employment, and put
them to writing Chinese poems and essays. He also spent many hours in
playing literary games such as rhyme-covering and the like. He soon
became so interested in these trivial pursuits that for a month on
end he never once set foot in the palace. This incivility, together
with his enthusiasm for what were considered frivolous and undignified
occupations, was commented upon very unfavourably in many quarters.

The summer rains had set in, and one day when a steady downpour made
other amusements impossible Chūjō arrived at the palace with a
great pile of books. Genji too opened his library, and after exploring
several cases which had not been unlocked for a long time he produced
some very remarkable collections of ancient Chinese poetry. There
happened to be with him that day several friends who, though they were
not scholars by profession, had a very considerable knowledge of such
matters. From among these gentlemen and the learned doctors who were
present Genji picked sides, and ranging them to left and right of the
room instituted a grand competition with very handsome prizes. In
the course of the rhyme-covering contests they came across some most
unusual and puzzling rhyme-words, and even well-known scholars were
occasionally at a loss. More than once Genji was able to come to their
rescue. They were astonished at his knowledge. How, they wondered,
did he find time to pick up so many accomplishments? There seemed to
be no art or pastime in which he did not show the same marvellous
proficiency. The ‘right’ won easily and it fell to Chūjō’s lot to
provide the winners with a feast. This took place on the following day.
It was not an elaborate affair, but consisted of a collation served in
elegant luncheon boxes.

Various prizes were also given and when this was over the doctors of
literature were again called upon to divert the company with essays.
The rose-trees at the foot of the steps were in full bloom and coming
as they did in a somewhat dull season, when the brightness of spring is
over and the riot of autumn colours has not yet begun, these flowers
gave Genji an especial pleasure.

Chūjō’s son, a little boy of eight or nine who had only that year been
introduced at Court, was present that day. He sang well and could play
the _shō_. Genji was very fond of him and they used often to practise
together. He was Chūjō’s second son by his wife, the sister of Kōkiden,
and as grandson of the all-powerful Minister of the Right he was
treated by every one at Court with great deference. But he was also not
only handsome but extremely intelligent, and in the present company his
performance received so much encouragement that he was soon singing
that rather noisy song the _Ballad of Takasago_, which he got through
with great credit and applause. As a reward for this song Genji laid
his own cloak on the boy’s shoulders, and as he sat flushed with the
excitement of the party and wearing only an unlined shirt of thin gauze
that showed the delicate texture of his skin beneath, the old doctors
of literature stared at him with delight and amazement from the distant
part of the room where they had respectfully taken up their stand;
and many of them shed tears of wonder and delight. At the close of
the stanza: ‘May I be there where lilies bloom’ Chūjō picked up the
wine-bowl and handed it to Genji, reciting as he did so the poem: ‘Not
the first rose that but this morning opened on the tree, with thy fair
face would I compare.’ Laughing, Genji took the cup and whispered the
poem: ‘Their time they knew not, the rose-buds that to-day unclosed.
For all their fragrance and their freshness the summer rains have
washed away.’ Then Chūjō, who had become somewhat excited, accused
Genji of toying with the wine-bowl and forced him to drink what he
considered a proper draught.

Much else happened before the banquet closed. But to describe in detail
all that was said and done on an occasion such as this would, I think,
be very unfair to the persons concerned. I will therefore observe
Tsurayuki’s warning and refrain from tiring you with any further
particulars. Suffice it to say that the company made a great many
poems both in Chinese and Japanese, all of them containing flattering
references to their host, and Genji soon began to feel in very good
humour with himself. He could not help thinking of the passage
in Chinese history where the Duke of Chou boasts that he is ‘the son
of King Wen and the brother of King Wu.’ These were very good names
and fitted his case exactly. ‘Son of King Wen, brother of King Wu.’
Suddenly, as he murmured these words, he remembered that the Chinese
duke had added ‘and uncle of King Ch’ēng.’ But here he was on difficult
ground; something seemed to have gone wrong with the parallel. The
‘King Ch’ēng’[49] of his case, though something more than a nephew, was
still a very long way from being a king!

Prince Sochi no Miya[50] frequently joined these gatherings, and as he
was not only a man of taste and fashion but also an excellent performer
on various instruments, his presence added greatly to the pleasure of
the company.

About this time Princess Oborozuki left the Court for a while and went
to stay at her father’s house. She had for some time been suffering
from slight attacks of malaria and it was thought that she could be
treated for this illness more conveniently at her home than amid the
bustle of the Court. Priests were summoned and their incantations were
at once effective. Among the many people who wrote to congratulate
her upon her recovery Genji was naturally one, and as both of them
happened for the moment to have a good deal of time on their hands, a
correspondence ensued which led in the end to his paying her a somewhat
reluctant visit. This was followed by others and he was soon seeing
her every night. She was well made, tending even to plumpness, so
that the slight pallor and thinness which had ensued from her recent
indisposition only enhanced her charm. It happened that at the
time Kōkiden was also staying in the house. This made Genji’s visits
particularly imprudent, but it was just this added risk which attracted
him and induced him to repeat them. It was not of course long before
several inmates of the house became aware that something of this kind
was going on, but they were too frightened of Kōkiden to say anything
to her about it, nor had the Minister of the Right any suspicion
whatever.

One night when Genji was with her a violent storm suddenly came on.
The rain fell in such torrential floods as to be quite alarming
and just after midnight tremendous crashes of thunder began.
Soon the whole place was astir. The young princes and Kōkiden’s
gentlemen-in-attendance seemed to be wandering all over the house,
while the ladies-in-waiting, terrified by the thunderstorm, were
clinging to one another hysterically in the passage just outside. There
were people everywhere and Genji began to wonder how he was ever going
to escape.

It was now broad daylight. Oborozuki’s maids had entered the room
and seemed to be crowding round the great curtained bed. Genji was
appalled by the situation. Among these ladies there were two who knew
the secret, but they quite lost their heads in this emergency and were
unable to be of any use. The thunderstorm was over and the rain was
now less violent. The Minister was now up and about. He first paid his
elder daughter a visit, and then, just at a moment when the rain was
falling rather heavily, stepped lightly and briskly into Oborozuki’s
room. The rain was making such a noise that they did not hear him and
it was not till a hand was thrust through the bed-curtains that they
realized what had happened. ‘We have had a very bad thunderstorm,’ he
said, pulling the curtain slightly aside as he spoke. ‘I thought of you
in the night and had half a mind to come round and see how you were
getting on, but somehow or other I didn’t. Your brothers were on
duty at the Palace last night. Just fancy....’ So he went on, speaking
in an excited inconsequent manner which, even in his present quandary,
Genji could not help contrasting with the gravity and good-sense of
that other Minister, Aoi’s father, and he smiled to himself. Really if
he had so much to say he had better come right inside and have done
with it. Oborozuki, determined to screen her lover if she could, now
crept to the edge of the bed and issued cautiously from between the
curtains. Her face was so flushed and she looked so very ill at ease
that her father was quite alarmed. ‘What have you been doing?’ he said,
‘you are not looking at all well. I am afraid we stopped the treatment
too soon. These attacks are very troublesome to get rid of....’ As he
spoke his eye suddenly fell upon a man’s pale violet-coloured belt that
had got mixed up with her clothes, and at the same time he noticed a
piece of paper with writing upon it lying near the bed. How did these
things come to be in his daughter’s room? ‘Whose is this?’ he asked,
pointing at the paper. ‘I think you had better give it to me; it may
be something important. I shall probably know the writing.’ She looked
where he was pointing. Yes, there was Genji’s paper lying conspicuously
upon the floor. Were there no means of heading her father away from it?
She could think of none and did not attempt to answer his question. It
was evident that she was acutely embarrassed, and even though she was
his own child he ought to have remembered that she was now a lady of
some consequence, whose feelings, however reprehensible might be her
conduct, he was bound in some measure to respect. Unfortunately there
was not in his nature a particle either of moderation or restraint. He
stooped to pick up the paper, and as he did so, without the slightest
hesitation or compunction he opened the bed-curtains and peered
right in. There full length upon the bed and apparently quite at
his ease lolled a charming young man, who when the curtain stirred
merely rolled quietly over and hid his face in the pillows. Enraged,
astonished as the Minister was, even he had not quite the courage to
press the discovery home. Blind with fury he thrust the paper into his
pocket and rushed out of the room.

Genji was indeed extremely concerned about the consequences of this
incident, coming as it did in the wake of so many other indiscretions.
But his first care was to comfort his companion, which he did as best
he could.

Self-restraint had never been a characteristic of the lady’s father
and now that he was getting old he found it more than ever impossible
to keep anything to himself. It was therefore only to be expected that
without considering the consequences or turning the matter over in
his mind for a single moment, he went and told the whole story to his
daughter Kōkiden.

‘Well there it is,’ he wound up, ‘and you will not be surprised to hear
that the handwriting was that of no less a person than Prince Genji!
Of course I know quite well that this affair has been going on for a
long time. A good deal of licence is allowed to people in his position
and unfortunately I was weak-minded enough to let the matter pass.
Then came the death of his wife, and it seemed certain that he would
now legitimize his relations with your sister. Instead of doing so he
suddenly abandoned her in the most heartless and disgraceful fashion.
I was very uneasy about what had happened, but there was nothing to do
except to make the best of a bad business, and I sent her to Court,
fully trusting that His Majesty would not regard this one escapade as
a fatal objection. Unfortunately he looked upon her as still more or
less betrothed to Genji and left her severely alone. One would
have thought she had suffered enough already! It is really disgusting,
after what has happened, that he should have the face to start the
thing all over again. You may say that a young man is bound to have his
fling; but this Prince Genji goes a great deal too far. I hear that he
has been behaving very badly with the Vestal Virgin of Kamo, carrying
on a secret correspondence with her, and according to some people
going a good deal further than that. If he has no respect for her holy
calling he might at least realize that this kind of thing does his own
reputation no good. How anyone holding an important and responsible
position in the State can bring himself to behave in this way I simply
cannot imagine....’ Kōkiden had always detested Genji and she now burst
out angrily: ‘They call him their Emperor, but from the very beginning
they have gone out of their way to heap every sort of indignity upon
him. Even before he came to the Throne they had already begun to treat
him abominably. Remember how the Minister of the Left behaved about the
marriage of his cherished only daughter! He insisted forsooth in giving
her to this wretched Prince Genji instead of to my son, though my boy
was older and had already been proclaimed Heir Apparent, while Genji
did not count as a member of the royal family at all and was so young
that the wedding took place on the same day as his Initiation! We too,
you may remember, were planning to give my sister to Genji when we were
outwitted by this hasty wedding, of which till the last minute no one
was given the slightest intimation. Every one was indeed astonished
that we should allow ourselves to be tricked in this unscrupulous
fashion. We should all much have preferred to see her married to this
young man, but when that fell through there was nothing for it but to
do the best we could for her at Court. It is really extraordinary
that after all the painful experiences she has had with this wretch she
should still imagine she can make a permanent conquest of him. I have
no doubt he is treating the Vestal Virgin in just the same way; and
his behaviour in this matter, as indeed in many others, is causing His
Majesty the greatest anxiety; which is not to be wondered at, seeing
that the heir to the Throne is entirely in this Prince Genji’s hands.’

She went on in this strain for so long and with so much rancour that
her father, who never remained angry for more than a short time, soon
began to sympathize with Genji rather than with her and was sorry that
he had mentioned the matter at all. ‘I think that for the present,’
he said, ‘you had better not speak of this to anyone, not even to His
Majesty your son. Prince Genji’s conduct is certainly outrageous; but
you are very fond of your sister and you cannot denounce him without
getting her too into trouble. Leave the matter to me. I intend to
speak to her very seriously, and if this has no effect, then we shall
have done our best and she must take the consequences.’ But it was too
late to mend matters; she was indeed only further exasperated by his
attempt to conciliate her. That Genji should have been carrying on this
intrigue in her own house, and that too at a time when he knew she
was in residence, showed an impudent contempt for her authority which
deeply wounded her, and all that she now thought of was how best she
might use this discovery to his undoing.

[1] Rokujō was still uncertain whether it was her jealousy that had
killed Yūgao.

[2] Torii.

[3] The _sakaki_, a species of evergreen oak, is planted at Shintō
shrines.

[4] In allusion to the old song ‘My home is at the foot of Miwa Hill.
If you like me, come some day to visit me. You will know the house by
the cedar which grows at the gate.’

[5] Princes used rich scents forbidden to commoners.

[6] Used in making offerings to Shintō gods.

[7] An allusion to the poem (_Kokinshū_ 701) ‘Can even the God of
Thunder whose footfall echoes in the sky put those asunder whom love
has joined?’

[8] In reality an appeal to the Virgin (representative of the Gods) to
dissuade her mother from accompanying her.

[9] Before departing for Ise the Virgin was presented to the Emperor
and formally invested.

[10] 4 p.m.

[11] Prince Zembō, her father, was at that time Heir Apparent.

[12] A river in the Province of Ise.

[13] ‘Ōsaka’ means Hill of Meeting; a gentle slope on the road from
Kyōto to Ōtsu.

[14] I.e. to Murasaki.

[15] Genji’s son by Fujitsubo; supposed to be the Emperor’s child. He
was now four years old.

[16] In which they packed the costumes they wore while on duty at the
palace.

[17] Her relations with Genji. See vol. i, p. 241. She had now become
the Emperor’s mistress.

[18] The neglected step-child who in the end triumphs over her pampered
rivals is a favourite theme in Japanese stories. Cf. the _Sumiyoshi
Monogatari_ and the _Ochikubo_.

[19] See vol. i, pp. 68 and 252.

[20] A ritual in honour of the Five Mysterious Buddhas of the Tantric
Sect, to wit: Gōsanze, Gundari, Dai-itoku, Kongō-yasha and Fudō.

[21] See vol i, pp. 241 _seq_.

[22] Genji was Commander of the Imperial Guard. The soldiers of the
Guard had to report at 4 a.m. to the senior officer of the Guard who
happened on that night to be in the Palace. They had really come to
report to some subordinate officer who happened to be lodging close by.

[23] I.e. 4 a.m. They had to go on calling the hour till their officer
replied ‘So be it’ to show that he had heard them.

[24] There is a play of words on _aku_ ‘enough’ and _aku_ ‘dawn’; in
the next poem between _aku_ ‘enough’ and _aku_ ‘open.’

[25] Wife of the young Emperor Suzaku.

[26] I.e. in a monastery.

[27] Who, after the death of her lover, the Chinese Emperor Kao Tsu,
was tortured and mutilated (c. B.C. 200) by his wife.

[28] Genji’s child by Fujitsubo: supposed by the world to be the late
Emperor’s son.

[29] The Unrinin, near Kyōto.

[30] Books on monastic discipline, and morality in general.

[31] Princess Asagao.

[32] The canonical book of the Tendai Sect.

[33] The Court was still in mourning and music was not allowed.

[34] The Crown Prince sent an assassin to murder the King of Ch‘in;
whereupon the above phenomenon was observed and the Crown Prince felt
convinced that the plot would fail. The young courtier vaguely hints
that Genji is meditating treason.

[35] I.e. the late Emperor.

[36] Of the Hokkekyō.

[37] Ostensibly the poem refers to the late Emperor, but it has a
hidden reference to the meeting of Fujitsubo and Genji. There is a pun
on _yuki_, ‘snow,’ and _yuki_, ‘go.’

[38] Of whom we are vaguely told that he was ‘a former Emperor.’

[39] The bishop of the Enryakuji on Mount Hie.

[40] An incense made of sandal-wood, cloves, etc.

[41] I should like to become a priest, but I must stay and look after
the child. There is an allusion to the famous poem on the death of a
child: ‘Because in Death’s dark land he will not know the way, I will
make offerings to the Guardian of Souls that on his shoulders he may
carry him.’

[42] Performed by girls on the 16th day and by young men on the 14th
and 15th days of the first month.

[43] Twenty-one white horses were offered to the Emperor on the 7th
day, and afterwards distributed by him among members of his family.

[44] The residence of the Minister of the Right, Kōkiden’s father.

[45] _Ama_, ‘fishermen,’ also means ‘nun.’

[46]The State grant allowed to an ex-Empress was sufficient to maintain
2,000 dependants.

[47] His wife was the fourth daughter of the Minister of the Right.

[48] Such as Buddha’s birthday, Māyā’s birthday, Buddha’s Nirvāna day,
etc.

[49] The Heir Apparent, Genji’s son by Fujitsubo, supposed to be the
old Emperor’s child.

[50] One of Genji’s step-brothers.

CHAPTER XI

THE VILLAGE OF FALLING FLOWERS

The outlook was very black. Not only were his private affairs in a
state of grievous entanglement, but also his position at Court was
being made every day more difficult. So despondent did he become that
he had serious thoughts of giving everything up and quitting the
Capital. But this was by no means easy now that so many persons were
dependent upon him. For example there was Lady Reikeiden, a lady of his
father’s Court. She had no children to look after her and had, since
the old Emperor’s death, been living in very bad circumstances. But
for Genji’s assistance she would never have pulled through. With her
lived a sister much younger than herself with whom he had once had a
fugitive affair when both of them were living at the Palace. He never
forgot anyone to whom he had stood, even for the briefest period, in
such a relation as this. Their friendship had never been resumed; but
he had reason to suppose that on her side the attachment was still as
strong as ever. During the period of emotional tumult through which
he had just passed he had many times brooded upon his relations with
this lady. At last he felt that he could neglect her no longer, and the
rains of the fifth month having given place to an enchanting spell of
fine warm weather, he set out for her sister’s house. He went without
any outriders and took care that there should be nothing to distinguish
his coach from that of an ordinary individual. As he was nearing
the Middle River he noticed a small house standing amid clumps of
trees. There came from it the sound of some one playing the zithern; a
well-made instrument, so it seemed, and tuned to the eastern mode.[1]
It was being excellently played. The house was quite near the highway
and Genji, alighting for a moment from the carriage, stood near the
gate to listen. Peeping inside he saw a great laurel-tree quavering
in the wind. It reminded him of that Kamo festival long ago, when
the dancers had nodded their garlands of laurel and sun-flower.[2]
Something about the place interested him, seemed even to be vaguely
familiar. Suddenly he remembered that this was a house which he had
once visited a long while before. His heart beat fast.... But it had
all happened too long ago. He felt shy of announcing himself. All the
same, it seemed a pity to pass the house without a word, and for a
while he stood hesitating. Just when he was about to drive away, a
cuckoo flew by. Somehow its note seemed to be an invitation to him to
stay, and turning his chariot he composed the following poem, which he
gave into Koremitsu’s hands: ‘Hark to the cuckoo’s song! Who could not
but revisit the hedge-row of this house where once he sung before?’
There seemed to be several people sitting together in a room on the
left. This must be the lady’s own apartment. Several of the voices
Koremitsu thought he could remember having heard before. He made a
slight noise to attract attention and delivered the poem. He could
hear it being discussed within by a number of young women who seemed
somewhat puzzled by it. Presently a reply was brought: ‘That to my
garden Cuckoo has returned, his song proclaims. But how, pray, should I
see him, caged behind the summer rain?’ Koremitsu made sure that
they were only pretending not to know who their visitor was. The lady
indeed, though she hid her feelings from the rest, was very loath to
send Koremitsu away with this hollow message. But so long a time had
elapsed since her adventure with Genji that she may very well have had
good reasons for doing so. Suddenly, as he drove away, there came into
his mind a picture of this lady dancing with four others at the Palace.
Yes, that was who she was. She had been one of the Gosechi dancers one
winter long ago. How much he had admired her! And for a moment he felt
about her exactly as he had felt before. It was this strange capacity
of his for re-creating in its full intensity an emotion suspended
for months or even years and overlaid by a thousand intervening
distractions, that gained for him, faithless though he was, so large a
number of persistent admirers.

At last he arrived at Lady Reikeiden’s house. Noting that it wore an
aspect fully as cheerless and deserted as he had feared, he hastened
at once to the elder lady’s room. They talked much of old times and
the night was soon far advanced. It was the twentieth day and the moon
had now risen, but so tall were the surrounding trees that the garden
still looked dark and gloomy as before. The lady herself sat in a room
pervaded by the fragrance of orange-trees. She was no longer young,
but still preserved much dignity and charm. Though she had never been
singled out as a particular favourite with the late Emperor, they had
been on very familiar terms and she was able to entertain Genji with
many intimate recollections of his father’s life and habits. Indeed so
vivid a picture of those old days soon rose before his mind that the
tears came into his eyes. A cuckoo was suddenly heard in the garden
outside, perhaps the very same that had sung when he was waiting
at the gate of the little house; its note at any rate seemed strangely
similar. Had it followed him? Pleased with this idea he sang softly to
himself the old song ‘Knows the cuckoo when he sings?’ Presently he
handed to her this poem: ‘“It is the scent of orange-trees that draws
the cuckoo to the village of falling flowers.” I knew you would remind
me of many things that I would not gladly forget; that is why I made my
way straight to your room. Though life at Court gives me much both to
think of and to feel, there are often times when I should like to have
about me people who would talk of the past, and now that the world has
given its allegiance to new powers such people are hard to find. But
if I, amid the bustle of the town, feel this deprivation, how much the
more must you in your long hours of tedious inactivity!’

His prospects had indeed changed very much for the worse since she had
first known him, and he certainly seemed to feel those changes deeply.
But if her heart went out to him it was perhaps rather because of his
youth and beauty than because she regarded his position in the world
as calling for any particular commiseration. She answered him with
the poem: ‘To these wild gardens and abandoned halls only the scent
of orange-trees could draw the traveller’s steps!’ She said no more
and he took his leave. Yes, despite the fact that greater beauties had
overshadowed her at his father’s Court, this lady had a singular charm
and distinction of her own.

Her sister was living in the western wing. He did not hide from her
that he was only calling upon her on his way from Lady Reikeiden’s
rooms. But in her delight at his sudden arrival and her surprise at
seeing him under circumstances so different she forgot to take offence
either at his having visited her sister first or having taken so
long in making up his mind to come at all. The time that they
spent together was in every way successful and agreeable, and she can
scarcely have thought that he did not care for her.

It was often thus with those whom he met only in this casual way.
Being women of character and position they had no false pride and saw
that it was worth while to take what they could get. Thus without any
ill will on either side concerning the future or the past they would
enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company, and so part. However, if
by chance anyone resented this kind of treatment and cooled towards
him, Genji was never in the least surprised; for though, as far as
feelings went, perfectly constant himself, he had long ago learnt that
such constancy was very unusual. The lady in the little house by the
road-side was clearly an example of the latter class; she had resented
the infrequence of his visits and no longer felt disposed to receive
him.

[1] I.e. as a _wagon_ or Japanese zithern, not in the Chinese style.

[2] See vol. i, p. 257.

CHAPTER XII

EXILE AT SUMA

The intrigue against him was becoming every day more formidable. It was
evident that he could not in any case go on living much longer where he
was, and by a voluntary withdrawal he might well get off more lightly
than if he merely allowed events to take their course.

There was Suma. It might not be such a bad place to choose. There had
indeed once been some houses there; but it was now a long way to the
nearest village and the coast wore a very deserted aspect. Apart from
a few fishermen’s huts there was not anywhere a sign of life. This did
not matter, for a thickly populated, noisy place was not at all what he
wanted; but even Suma was a terribly long way from the Capital, and the
prospect of being separated from all those whose society he liked best
was not at all inviting. His life hitherto had been one long series of
disasters. As for the future, it did not bear thinking of! Clearly the
world held in store for him nothing but disappointment and vexation.
But no sooner had he proved to himself convincingly that he was glad
to leave the Capital than he began to recollect a thousand reasons for
remaining in it. Above all, he could not imagine what would become of
Murasaki if he were to leave her. Even when for one reason or another
he was obliged to pass a few days away from his palace, he spent so
much of the time wondering how she was getting on without him that he
never really enjoyed himself and in the end dreaded even these
short absences almost as much as she did. Now he was going away not
for a fixed number of days or even years, but for a huge, incalculable
period of time; perhaps (for who knew what might not happen either to
him or her?) forever. The thought that he might never see her again
was unendurable and he began to devise a scheme for hiding her in his
retinue and secretly taking her with him. He soon saw however that this
was quite impracticable. First there was the difficult sea-journey; and
then, at Suma, the total lack of amusements and society. The waves and
winds of that desolate shore would make poor companions for one used
to the gaieties of a fashionable house. It would moreover be utterly
impossible in such a place to make adequate provision for the comfort
of a fastidious and delicately-nurtured lady. Her presence would soon
involve him in all sorts of difficulties and anxieties. She herself
felt that she would rather face every danger, every hardship, than
be left behind at the Nijō-in, and that he should doubt her courage
wounded her deeply.

The ladies at the ‘village of falling flowers,’ though in any case they
saw him but seldom, were dismayed at the news of his departure, not
for personal reasons only, but also because they had come to depend
in numerous ways on his patronage and support. Many others whose
acquaintance with him was very slight, were, though they would not have
confessed it, shattered at the prospect of his disappearance from the
Court. The abbess[1] herself feared that if she showed him any open
mark of sympathy at this turn in his fortunes she would give new life
to rumours which had already been used against him by his enemies. But
from the time when his decision was first announced she contrived to
send him constant secret messages. He could not help reflecting
with some bitterness that she might sometimes have shown an equal
concern while it was still possible for her to console him in more
concrete ways. But it seemed to be fated that throughout all this long
relationship each, however well disposed, should only cause torment to
the other. He left the City about the twentieth day of the third month.
The date of his departure had not been previously disclosed and he
left his palace very quietly, accompanied only by some seven or eight
intimate retainers. He did not even send formal letters of farewell but
only hasty and secret messages to a few of those whom he loved best,
telling them in such words as came to him at the moment what pain it
cost him to leave them. Those notes were written under the stress of
deep emotion and would doubtless interest the reader; but though some
of them were read to me at the time, I was myself in so distracted a
state of mind that I cannot accurately recall them. Two or three days
before his departure he paid a secret visit to Aoi’s father. He came
in a rattan-coach such as women use, and heavily disguised. When they
saw that it was indeed Prince Genji who had stepped out of this humble
equipage the people at the Great Hall could hardly believe that this
was not some strange dream. Aoi’s old room wore a dismal and deserted
air; but the nurses of his little boy and such of Aoi’s servants as
were still in the house soon heard the news of his unexpected arrival
and came bustling from the women’s quarters to gaze at him and pay him
their respects. Even the new young servants who had not seen him before
and had no reason to take his affairs particularly to heart were deeply
moved at this farewell visit, which brought home to them so vividly the
evanescence of human grandeurs. The little prince recognized him and
at once ran up to him in the prettiest and most confiding way. This
delighted Genji; taking the child on his knee he played with
it so charmingly that the ladies could hardly contain their emotion.
Presently the old Minister arrived: ‘I have often meant,’ he said,
‘during these last months when you have been living so much at home,
to come round and talk over with you various small matters connected
with the past; but first I was ill and for a long time could not attend
to my duties, and then at last my resignation was definitely accepted.
Now I am merely a private person, and I have been afraid that if I came
to see you it would be said that it must be to promote some personal
intrigue that I was bestirring my aged bones. As far as I am concerned
I am out of it all, and have really nothing to be afraid of. But these
new people are very suspicious and one cannot be too careful.... I
am distressed beyond measure that you should be obliged to take the
course which you are now contemplating; I would gladly not have lived
to witness such a day. These are bad times, and I fully expected to see
a great deal of mischief done to the country. But I confess I did not
foresee that you would find yourself in such a situation as this, and
I am heart-broken about it, utterly heart-broken....’ ‘We are told,’
answered Genji, ‘that everything which happens to us in this life is
the result of our conduct in some previous existence. If this is to be
taken literally I suppose I must now accept the fact that in a previous
incarnation I must have misbehaved myself in some way. It is clear, at
any rate, that I am in bad odour at Court; though, seeing that they
have not thought it necessary to deprive me of my various offices and
titles, they cannot have very much against me. But when the Government
has shown that it mistrusts a man, he is generally considered much to
blame if he continues to flaunt himself at Court as though nothing
were amiss. I could cite many instances in the history both of our own
and other countries. But distant banishment, the penalty which
I hear is contemplated in my case, has never been decreed except as
the penalty of scandalous and open misdemeanour. My conscience is of
course perfectly clear; but I see that it would be very dangerous to
sit down and await events. I have therefore decided to withdraw from
the Capital, lest some worse humiliation should befall me.’ He gave
the Minister many further details of his proposed flight. The old man
replied with a multitude of reminiscences, particularly of the late
Emperor, with anecdotes illustrating his opinions and policies. Each
time that Genji tried to go his father-in-law gripped his sleeve and
began a new story. He was indeed himself deeply moved by these stories
of old days, as also by the pretty behaviour of his little son, who
while they were talking of policies and grave affairs constantly ran up
to one or the other with his absurd, confiding prattle. The Minister
continued: ‘Though the loss of my dear daughter is a sorrow from which
to my dying day I shall not recover, I find myself now quite thankful
that she did not live to see these dreadful days. Poor girl, she would
have suffered terribly. What a nightmare it all is! More than anything
else I am distressed that my grandson here should be left with us
elderly people and that for months or even years to come you will be
quite cut off from him.

‘As you say, exile has hitherto been reserved as a punishment for
particularly grave offences. There have indeed been many cases both
here and in China of innocent persons being condemned to banishment,
but always in consequence of some false charge being made against them.
But against you a threat of exile seems to have been made without any
cause being alleged. I cannot understand it....’

Tō no Chūjō now joined them and wine was served. It was very late, but
Genji showed no signs of going, and presently all the gentlewomen
of the household collected round him and made him tell them stories.
There was one among them, Chūnagon by name, who, though she never spoke
of it, had always cared for Genji far more deeply than did any of her
companions. She now sat sad and thoughtful waiting to say something to
him but unable to think of anything to say. He noticed this and was
very sorry for her. When all the rest had gone to their rooms he kept
her by him and talked to her for a long while. It may perhaps have
been for her sake that he stayed so long. Dawn was beginning to come
into the sky and the moon, which had not long risen, darted its light
among the blossom of the garden trees, now just beyond their prime.
In the courtyard leafy branches cast delicate half-shadows upon the
floor, and thin wreaths of cloud sank through the air till they met the
first flicker of the white grass-mists which, scarcely perceptible, now
quivered in the growing light.

He hung over the balustrade outside the corner room and for a while
gazed in silence at this scene, which transcended even the beauty of
an autumn night. Chūnagon, that she might watch him go, had opened the
main door and stood holding it back. ‘I shall return,’ Genji said, ‘and
we shall surely meet again. Though indeed, when I think about it, I can
find no reason to suppose that I shall ever be recalled. Oh, why did I
not make haste to know you in better days, when it would have been so
easy for us to meet?’ She wept but made no answer.

Presently Aoi’s mother sent a message by Saishō, the little prince’s
nurse: ‘There are many things that I want to talk over with you, but
my mind is nowadays so clouded and confused that I hesitate to send
for you. It is kind of you to have paid us so long a visit and I would
ask you to come to me; but I fear that to talk with you would remind
me too much of all that is now so changed. However, pray do not
leave the house till your poor little son is awake.’ He answered with
the poem: ‘To a shore I go where the tapering smoke of salt-kilns
shall remind me of the smoke that loitered by her pyre.’ He wrote no
letter to go with the poem, but turning to the nurse he said: ‘It is
sad at all times to leave one’s friends at dawn. How much the more
for one such as I, who goes never to return!’ ‘Indeed,’ she answered,
‘“farewell” is a monster among words, and never yet sounded kindly in
any ear. But seldom can this word have had so sinister an import as to
all of us on this unhappy morning.’

Touched by her concern at his departure he felt that he must give her
what she evidently expected,—some further message for her mistress,
and he wrote: ‘There is much that I should like to say, but after
all you will have little difficulty in imagining for yourself the
perplexity and despair into which my present situation has plunged me.
I should indeed dearly like to see the little prince before I go. But
I fear that the sight of him might weaken my resolution to forsake the
fleeting world, and therefore I must force myself to leave this house
without further delay.’

The whole household was now awake and every one was on the watch to
see him start. The moon shone red at the edge of the sky, and in its
strange light he looked so lovely, yet so sad and thoughtful, that the
hearts of wolves and tigers, nay of very demons, would have melted at
the sight of him. It may be imagined then with what feelings those
gentlewomen watched him drive away, many of whom had known and loved
him since he was a child. But I had forgotten to say that Aoi’s mother
replied with the poem: ‘Seek not another sky, but if you love her,[2]
stay beneath these clouds with which her soul is blent.’ When he
reached his own palace he found that none of the gentlewomen there had
slept a wink. They were sitting a few here, a few there, in frightened
groups, looking as though they would never lift their heads again.
Those officers of his household and personal retainers who had been
chosen to go with him to Suma were busy preparing for their departure
or saying good-bye to their friends, so that the retainers’ hall was
absolutely deserted; nor had the gentlewomen whom he was leaving
behind dared to present themselves on the occasion of his departure,
for they knew that any demonstration of good will towards an enemy of
those in power would be remembered against them by the Government. So
that instead of his doors being thronged, as once they had been, by
a continual multitude of horsemen and carriages, he found them that
morning utterly deserted and realized with bitterness how frail is the
fabric of worldly power. Already his great guest-tables, pushed against
the wall, were looking tarnished and dusty; the guest-mats were rolled
up and stowed away in corners. If the house looked like this now, what
sort of spectacle he wondered would it present when he had been absent
for a few months?

On reaching the western wing he found the partition door still open.
Murasaki had sat there watching till dawn. Some of the little boys
who waited upon her were sleeping on the verandah. Hearing him coming
they now shook themselves and rose with a clatter. It was a pleasant
sight to see them pattering about in their little pages’ costumes; but
now he watched them with a pang at his heart, for he could not help
remembering that while he was away they would grow up into men and in
the end have to seek service elsewhere. And indeed during those days
he looked with interest and regret on many things which had never
engaged his attention before. ‘I am so sorry about last night,’ he
said. ‘One thing happened after another, and by the time I was
free to come back it would not have been worth while. You must have
thought it horrid of me. Now that there is so little time left, I hate
to be away from you at all. But my departure from the Court naturally
involves me in many painful duties, and it would be quite impossible
for me to remain shut up here all the time. There are other people,
some of whom I may very likely never see again, who would think it
unkind of me if I did not even bid them good-bye....’ ‘It is your going
away that matters,’ she answered; ‘nothing else is of any consequence
now....’ She said no more, but sat staring before her in an attitude of
the profoundest despair. And indeed, as Genji realized, she had every
possible reason to dread his departure. Her father Prince Hyōbukyō had
never put himself out for her, and since Genji’s disgrace he stopped
writing and no longer even enquired about her. She was ashamed of his
worldly caution and dreaded lest others should notice it. For her part
she was resolved that, since he showed no interest in her, she would
be the last to remind him of her existence. Some one told her that
her step-mother[3] went about saying: ‘This is what comes of trying
to get on too quickly in the world. Look how she has been punished!
All her relatives expire and now her lover takes flight!’ She was
deeply distressed and felt that she could not ever communicate with
her step-mother again. There was indeed no one to whom she could turn
for help, and her position was likely to be in every way unhappy and
difficult. ‘I promise,’ said Genji to comfort her, ‘that if my exile
seems likely to last for a considerable time, I will send for you to
join me, even if I can offer you nothing better to live in than a hole
in the rocks. But it would be considered most improper for me to take
you with me now. People who are disapproved of by the Government
are expected to creep about miserably in the dark, and if they try to
make themselves happy and comfortable it is considered very wicked.
I have not of course done anything wrong, but my misfortune must
certainly be due to some sin in a previous life, and I am sure that if
I did anything so unusual as to take my lady into exile with me, fate
would find some yet more cruel way to punish me for the presumption.’

He then lay down and slept till noon. Later in the day his half-brother
Prince Sochi no Miya and Tō no Chūjō called and offered to help him
dress. He reminded them that he had resigned his rank and they brought
him a cloak of plain silk without any crest or badge. This costume had
an informal air which became him better than they had expected. When
he went to the mirror that his servants might do his hair he could not
help noticing how thin his face had lately grown, and he said ‘What a
fright I look! Can I really be such a skeleton as this? It is indeed
a bad business if I am.’ Murasaki, her eyes full of tears, came and
peeped at the mirror. To distract her he recited the poem: ‘Though I
wander in strange lands and far away, in this mirror let me leave my
image, that it may never quit your side.’ ‘That, yes, even so little as
that, would comfort me, if indeed this mirror might hold the image of
your distant face.’ So she answered, and without another word sank into
a seat behind the roof-pillar, that her tears might not be seen. His
heart went out to her, and he felt at this moment that among all the
women he had known she was indeed the most adorable.

His step-brother now fell to reminding him of scenes in their common
childhood, and it was already growing dark when he left Genji’s room.
The lady at the ‘village of falling flowers’ had written to him
constantly since she heard the news of his approaching departure. He
knew that she had many reasons for dreading his absence and it
seemed unfeeling not to pay her one more visit before he left. But if
he spent another evening away from his palace Murasaki would be very
disappointed, and he therefore did not start till late in the night.
He went first to the room of Princess Reikeiden, who was flattered and
delighted beyond measure that hers should be the only house to which he
paid the honour of a farewell visit. But what passed between them was
not of sufficient interest to be recorded. He remembered that it was
only through his help and protection that she had managed to overcome
the difficulties and anxieties of the last few years. Now matters would
go from bad to worse. In the house nothing stirred. The moon had risen
and now shimmered faintly through the clouds. The lake in front of
the building was large and wild, and dense thickets of mountain-trees
surrounded it. He was just thinking that there could hardly in all the
world be a lovelier, stranger place, when he remembered the rocky shore
of Suma,—a thousand times more forbidding, more inaccessible!

The younger sister had quite made up her mind that Genji was going
to leave the house without visiting her, and she was all the more
surprised and delighted when at last, more lovely than ever by
moonlight and in the grave simplicity of his exile’s dress, he stole
into her room. At once she crept towards the window and they stood
together gazing at the moonlight. They talked for a while, and found
to their astonishment that it was nearly day. ‘How short the night has
been,’ said Genji. ‘Yet even such a hasty meeting as this may never be
ours again. Why did I not know you better in all those years when it
would have been so easy to meet? Never have such misfortunes befallen
an innocent man before, nor ever will they again. I go from torment to
torment. Listen ...’ and he was beginning to recount to her the
disasters and miscalculations of the past when the cock crowed, and
fearing detection he hastened away.

The moon was like last night, just on the point of setting; it seemed
to him a symbol of his own declining fortunes. Shining through the dark
purple of her dress the moonlight had indeed, as in the old poem, ‘the
leaden look of those who weep,’ and she recited the poem: ‘Though to
the moonlight my sleeve but narrow lodging can afford, yet might it
dwell there for ever and for ever, this radiance[4] of which my eyes
can never tire.’ He saw that she was deeply moved by this parting and
in pity sought to comfort her with the poem: ‘In its long journeying
the moon at last shall meet a clearer sky; then heed not if for a while
its light be dimmed.’ ‘It is foolish,’ he added, ‘to spoil the present
with tears for sorrows that are still to come,’ and with that he
hurried away, that he might be out of the house while it was still dark.

At home he had a great many things to arrange before his departure.
First of all he had to give instructions concerning the upkeep of
his palace to the few faithful retainers who had taken the risk of
remaining in his service. When these had at last all been assigned
their functions, difficulties arose about some of the attendants who
were to have gone with him into exile, and a fresh choice had to
be made. Then there was the business of deciding how much luggage
he should take with him to his mountain fastness. Some things were
obviously indispensable; but even when he cut down his equipment to
the barest possible necessities there were still all kinds of odds and
ends, such as writing-materials, poems, Chinese books, which all had to
be fitted into the right sort of boxes. And then there was his zithern;
he could not leave that behind. But he took no large objects
of furniture nor any of his more elaborate costumes, having resigned
himself to the prospect of a completely bucolic existence. Finally he
had to explain to Murasaki all the arrangements he had made about the
servants who were to stay behind, and a hundred other matters. Into
her charge too he put all the documents concerning his various estates
and grazing-lands in different parts of the country. His granaries
and store-houses he put into the keeping of the nurse Shōnagon whose
vigilance and reliability he had often noted, giving her the help
of one or two trusted household officers. And here again there were
numerous arrangements to be made.

With the gentlewomen of his palace he had never been on intimate terms.
But he kept them in a good humour by sending for them occasionally to
talk with him, and he now summoned them all, saying to them: ‘I am
afraid it will be rather dull here while I am away. But if any of you
care to stay in my service on the chance that I may one day return to
the Court, which if I live long enough is indeed certain to happen
sooner or later,—please consider yourselves at the disposition of
the Lady in the western wing.’ So saying he sent for all the other
servants, high and low, and distributed suitable keepsakes among them.

No one was forgotten; to the nurse of Aoi’s little son and even to the
servants at the ‘village of falling flowers’ he sent tokens of his
appreciation, chosen, you may be sure, with the greatest taste and care.

To Oborozuki, despite a certain reluctance, he wrote at last: ‘That
after what happened between us you should have ceased to communicate
with me was both natural and prudent. But I would now have you know
that the unparalleled ferocity of my enemies has at last driven me from
the Court. “The rising torrent of your reproachful tears has carried me
at last to the flood-mark of exile and disgrace.” I cannot forget
that this folly alone was the instrument of my undoing.’ There was some
danger that the letter might fall into wrong hands before it reached
its destination, and for that reason he made it brief and vague.

The lady was heart-stricken, and though she strove to hide her tears,
they flowed in a torrent that her sleeve was not broad enough to dam.
She sent him the poem: ‘Long ere I reach the tide of your return shall
I, poor scum upon the river of tears, be vanished out of sight.’ She
was weeping violently when she wrote it, and there were many blotches
and mistakes, but her writing was at all times elegant and pleasing. He
would very much have liked to see her once more before his departure,
and he many times thought of arranging it. But she was too intimately
connected with just those people who had been chiefly responsible for
his undoing, and somewhat regretfully he put the idea aside.

On the evening of the day before his departure he went to worship at
his father’s tomb on the Northern Hills. As the moon did not rise till
after midnight he found himself with time on his hands, and went first
to visit the Abbess Fujitsubo. She allowed him to stand close up to
her curtain, and on this occasion spoke to him with her own mouth.
She naturally had many questions to talk over concerning the future
of her son, which was now more than ever uncertain. But apart from
this, two people who had once lived on such terms as this prince and
princess, could not now fail to have much to say to one another of a
far more intimate and tender character. He thought her every bit as
charming and graceful as in old days, and this made him allude with
bitterness to her heartless treatment of him. But he remembered in time
that her present state made any such complaints in the highest degree
unseemly and inappropriate. He was allowing his feelings to get out
of hand, and withdrawing for a while into his own thoughts, he
said at last: ‘This punishment has come upon me quite unexpectedly,
and when I try to account for it, one possible explanation of a most
alarming character presents itself to my mind. I am not thinking of the
danger to myself should a certain fact be known, but of the disastrous
consequences of such a disclosure upon the career of the young prince,
your son....’ The same possibility had of course occurred to her. Her
heart beat wildly, but she did not answer. The many painful scenes in
which he had recently taken part had broken his spirit and he now wept
unrestrainedly. ‘I am going to the Royal Tombs,’ he said at last. ‘Have
you any message?’ She answered with the poem: ‘He that was, is not; and
he that is, now hides from the afflictions of the world. What increase
but of tears did my renunciation bring?’

At last the moon rose, and he set out. Only five or six attendants were
with him, men of low rank, but all of them deeply attached to him.
Genji himself rode on horseback like the rest. This was quite natural
on such an occasion, but his companions could not help contrasting
this melancholy cavalcade with the splendours of his retinue in former
days. Among them the most downcast was Ukon,[5] who had formed part of
his special escort on the occasion of the Kamo festival a few years
ago. This gentleman had since that time seen himself repeatedly passed
over at the annual distribution of honours, and finally his name
disappeared altogether from the lists. Being without employment he had
been obliged to go into service, and was now acting as Genji’s groom.
As they rode along Ukon’s eye lighted on the Lower Shrine of Kamo which
lay quite near their road, and remembering that wonderful day of the
festival he leapt from his horse and holding Genji’s bridle he
recited the verse: ‘Well I remember how, crowned with golden flowers,
we rode together on that glorious day! Little, alas, they heed their
worshippers, the churlish gods that in the Shrine of Kamo dwell.’

Genji well knew what was passing through the man’s mind. He remembered
with indignation and pity how Ukon had been the gayest, the most
resplendent figure among those who had ridden with him on that day.
Genji too alighted from his horse and turning his face towards the
Shrine repeated this parting poem: ‘Thou who art called the Righter
of Wrongs, to Thee I leave it to clear the name that stays behind me,
now that I am driven from the fleeting haunts of men.’ Ukon was a very
impressionable youth, and this small episode thrilled and delighted him
beyond measure.

At last they reached the Tombs. Genji’s mind was full of long-forgotten
images. He saw his father seated on the throne in the days of his
prime, the pattern of a kindly yet magnificent king. Who could then
have guessed that death would in an instant deface all memory of that
good and glorious reign? Who could have foreseen that the wise policies
which, with tears in his eyes, he had time and again commended to those
about him, would in an instant be reversed, and even his dying wishes
contemptuously cast aside? The path to the Royal Tomb was already
overgrown with tall thick grass, so that in pressing his way along it
he became soaked with dew. The moon was hidden behind clouds, dank
woods closed about him on either hand, such woods as give one the
feeling one will never return through them alive. When at last he knelt
at the tomb, his father’s face appeared so vividly before him that he
turned cold with fear. Then murmuring the verse: ‘How comes it that thy
vanished image looms before me, though the bright moon, symbol of thy
high fortunes, is hidden from my sight?’ he set out towards the
town, for it was now broad daylight. On his return he sent a message
to the Heir Apparent. Ōmyōbu had taken charge of the child since
Fujitsubo’s retirement and it was through her that Genji now addressed
his son: ‘I leave the City to-day. That I have been unable to visit
you once more is the greatest of my many vexations. You indeed know
better than I can tell what thoughts are mine in this extremity, and I
beg you to commend me to your little master in such terms as you deem
best.’ With this letter he enclosed a spray of withered cherry-blossoms
to which was tied the poem: ‘When again shall I see the flowers of
the City blossoming in Spring, I whom fortune has cast out upon the
barren mountains of the shore?’ This she passed on to the boy who,
young though he was, quite well understood the import of the message,
and when Ōmyōbu added ‘It is hard at present to say when he will
return...!’ the young prince said sadly ‘Even when he stays away for a
little while I miss him very much, and now that he is going a long way
off I do not know how I shall get on.... Please say this to him for me.’

She was touched by the simplicity of his message. Ōmyōbu often
called to mind all the misery which in past days had grown out of
her mistress’s disastrous attachment. Scene after scene rose before
her. How happy they might both have been, if only.... And then she
would remember that she and she alone had been the promoter of their
ruin. She had pleaded for Genji, arranged those fatal meetings! And
a bitter remorse filled her soul. She now sent the following reply:
‘His Highness dictated no formal answer. When I informed him of your
departure, his distress was very evident....’ This and more she wrote,
somewhat incoherently, for her thoughts were in great confusion. With
the letter was the poem: ‘Though sad it is to mark how swift
the flowers fall, yet to the City Spring will come again and with it,
who can tell....’ ‘Oh if that time were come!’ she added, and spent
the hours which followed in recounting such moving tales of Genji’s
wisdom and kindness that every one in the Palace was soon dissolved
in tears. If these people who but seldom caught sight of him were
distressed at the prospect of his departure, it may be imagined what
were the feelings of those whose duties brought them constantly into
his presence. At the Nijō-in every one down to the mere scullery-maids
and outdoor servants, who could never hope to exchange a single word
with him and had thought themselves very lucky if they obtained an
occasional glance or smile, had always been in despair when it was
known that he would be absent from the palace even for a few days.
Nor was his downfall by any means welcome in the country at large.
Since his seventh year he had enjoyed the privilege of running in and
out of the old Emperor’s rooms just as he felt inclined. Everything
he asked for had been granted without question, and there were few
who had not at one time or another found themselves beholden to his
boundless good-nature and generosity. Even among the great nobles and
Ministers of the Crown there were some who owed their first promotion
to Genji’s good offices; and countless persons of less importance knew
quite well that they owed everything to him. But such was their dread
of the present Government, with its ruthless methods of persecution
and suppression, that not one of them now came near him. Expressions
of regret were everywhere heard; but it was only in the secrecy of
their own hearts that these sympathizers dared blame the Government for
happenings which they universally deplored. After all, what was the
good of risking their own positions by showing to the exiled prince
civilities which could be of no real use to him? There was some
sense in this, but on Genji their prudence made a most painful and
dispiriting impression. He suddenly felt the world was inhabited by a
set of mean and despicable creatures, none of whom were worth putting
oneself out for in any way at all.

He spent the whole of that day quietly with Murasaki at his palace.
He was to start soon after midnight. She hardly knew him as he stood
before her dressed in his queer travelling clothes. ‘The moon has
risen,’ he said at last. ‘Come out to the door and see me start. I
know that at the last minute I shall think of all kinds of things I
meant to say to you to-day. Even when I am only going away for a few
nights, there are always so many things to remember....’ He raised the
curtain-of-state behind which she was sitting and drew her with him
towards the portico. She was weeping bitterly. Her feet would not obey
her and she stumbled haltingly at his side. The moonlight fell straight
upon her face. He looked down at her tenderly. The thought came to him
that he might die at Suma. Who would look after her? What would become
of her? He was indeed no less heart-broken than she; but he knew that
if he gave way to his feelings her misery would only be increased and
he recited the verse: ‘We who so long have sworn that death alone
should part us, must suffer life for once to cancel all our vows.’ He
tried to speak lightly, but when she answered: ‘Could my death pay to
hold you back, how gladly would I purchase a single moment of delay,’
he knew that she was not speaking idly. It was terrible to leave her,
but he knew that by daylight it would be harder still, and he fled from
the house. All the way down to the river her image haunted him and it
was with a heart full to bursting that he went aboard the ship. It was
a season when the days are long, and meeting with a favourable wind
they found themselves at Suma between three and four o’clock in
the afternoon.[6] It was indeed a trifling journey, but to Genji, who
had never crossed the sea before, the experience was somewhat alarming,
though his fears were mingled with wonder and delight. As they came
in sight of that wild and lonely headland where stands the Hall of
Ōye[7] marked by its solitary pine, he recited the verse: ‘A life more
outcast shall be mine among these hills than all those exiles led
whose sufferings the books of Kara[8] have rehearsed.’ He watched the
waves lapping up over the sands and then creeping back again. It put
him in mind of the ancient song: ‘Oh would that like the tides I went
but to return!’ Those who were with him knew the song well enough, but
never before had it moved them as now when Genji murmured to himself
the long-familiar words. Looking back he saw that the mountains behind
them were already melting into the hazy distance, and it seemed to him
that he had indeed travelled the classical ‘three thousand leagues’
of which the Chinese poets so often speak. The monotonous dripping
of the oars now became almost unendurable. ‘Now is my home hid from
me by the mist-clad hills, and even the sky above me seems not the
lovely cloudland that I knew.’ So he sang, being for the moment utterly
downcast and dispirited.

His new home was quite close to the place where in ancient days Ariwara
no Yukihira[9] once lived in exile, ‘trailing his water-buckets along
the lonely shore.’ At this point the sea bends back, forming a
shallow inlet, encompassed by desolate hills.

He proceeded to inspect the hut which had been prepared for his
reception. Never had he seen such a place before. Even the hedge was
built in quite a different way from what he was used to; and the hut
itself, with its thatched roof and wide-spreading gables covered with
wattled bull-rushes, seemed to him the most extraordinary place to
live in. But he could not help admiring the ingenuity with which it
was constructed, and he knew that if he had come there under different
circumstances the prospect of staying in such a cottage would have
fascinated and delighted him. How, in the old days, he had longed for
such an experience!

Many repairs and alterations were necessary, and Genji sent at once for
the bailiffs of some of his estates which lay in the neighbourhood.
They and their workmen, directed by the faithful Yoshikiyo, soon
carried out Genji’s plans, and the place began to assume a much more
habitable air. The pond was dredged and deepened, plantations were
laid out. Soon he settled down to his new life in a way that he would
never have dreamed to be possible. The Governor of the province had
formerly been attached to his household, and though he did not dare
to give him a public welcome, he made it clear in private that his
sympathies were on Genji’s side. Thus even in this remote spot he was
not entirely deprived of society; but there was no one with whom he was
really intimate and such conversation as he could get was of the most
superficial and uninteresting kind. He felt almost as isolated as if
he had been cast up on a desert island, and the prospect of spending
months, nay years, buried away amid these uncivilized surroundings
still appalled him. He was just beginning to reconcile himself a little
to his rustic employments when the summer rains set in. During
this tedious period of inactivity he thought much of his friends at
the Capital. Often he called to mind the picture of Murasaki’s misery
in those last hours, of the Heir Apparent’s infant beauty or the
heedless antics of Aoi’s little son. He determined to send a courier
to the City, and began writing letters to everybody. While he wrote to
the Lady of his palace and again while he wrote to Fujitsubo in her
cloister he wept so bitterly that the letters had many times to be put
aside. To Oborozuki he dared not write direct, but as he had sometimes
done before enclosed a message to her in a letter to Lady Chūnagon,
with the acrostic poem: ‘That I, though cast like weed upon the barren
margin of the sea, am unrepentant still, how should they guess,—these
fisherfolk that tend their salt-kilns on the shore?’ To the retired
Minister and to Nurse Saishō he sent many instructions concerning the
upbringing of the child. It may well be imagined that the arrival of
his post-bag in the City set many hearts a-flutter.

The condition of Murasaki after his departure had gravely alarmed her
attendants. She lay for many days utterly overcome by the shock of his
departure. Every effort to cheer her was in vain. The sight or mention
of things which she connected with him, a zithern which he had once
played, the perfume of a dress which he had left behind, threw her at
once into a new paroxysm of grief. She behaved indeed for all the world
as though he were not merely exiled but already in his grave. At last
Shōnagon, becoming seriously alarmed, sent for her uncle the priest
and begged his aid. The liturgy of intercession which he conducted
had for its aim both the recovery of Lady Murasaki from her present
prostration and the early recall of Genji himself. For a while she
was somewhat calmer and began to go about the house again. She spent
much time at her devotions, praying fervently that he might soon
return and live with her as before. She sent him sleeping-clothes and
many other comforts which she feared he might not otherwise be able to
secure. Among the garments which she packed were a cloak and breeches
of plain homespun. She folded them with a sigh, remembering his Court
apparel with its figured silks and glittering badges. And there was his
mirror! He had left it behind as in his poem he had jestingly promised
to do; but his image he had taken with him, and much good was a mirror
that reflected another face than his! The places where he used to walk,
the pinewood pillar against which he used to lean,—on these she could
still never look without a bitter pang. Her situation might well have
dismayed even a woman long inured to the world; for an inexperienced
girl the sudden departure of one who had taken the place of both father
and mother, to whom she had confided everything, to whom she had looked
on every occasion for comfort and advice, was a blow from which it
could hardly be expected that she would quickly recover. Deep down in
her heart there was the haunting fear that he might die before his
recall. But apart from this dread (which did not bear thinking of),
there was the possibility that gradually, at such a distance as this,
his affection for her would cease. True, she could write to him, and
had his absence been fixed at a few weeks or months she would have had
no great anxiety. But as it was, year might follow year without the
slightest change in his prospects, and when he found that this was so
who knew what might not come...?

The Lady Abbess too was at this time in great distress. The sin of
the Heir Apparent’s birth was a constant weight upon her heart. She
felt that she had up to the present escaped more lightly than her
_karma_ in any degree warranted and that a day of disastrous reckoning
might still be at hand. For years she had been so terrified
lest her secret should become known that she had treated Genji with
exaggerated indifference, convinced that if by any sign or look she
betrayed her partiality for him their attachment would at once become
common knowledge at Court. She called to mind countless occasions when,
longing for his sympathy and love, she had turned coldly away. The
result of all her precautions did indeed seem to be that, in a world
where everything that anyone knows sooner or later gets repeated, this
particular secret had, so far as she could judge by the demeanour of
those with whom she came in contact, remained absolutely undivulged.
But the effort had cost her very dear, and she now remembered with pity
and remorse the harshness which this successful policy had involved.
Her answer to the letter which he sent from Suma was long and tender;
she sought indeed to explain and expiate her seeming heartlessness in
former days.

An answer also came from Oborozuki: ‘Not even to fishers that on the
shore of Suma their faggots burn must we reveal the smouldering ashes
of our love.’ ‘More I have no heart to write,’ she added in the margin
of this poem, which was on a tiny strip of paper discreetly hidden
between the pages of a note from Lady Chūnagon. In her own letter
this lady gave a most melancholy account of her mistress’s condition.
All these tales of woe made the arrival of Genji’s return post-bag a
somewhat depressing event.

Murasaki’s letter was full of the tenderest allusions and messages.
With it was the poem: ‘Look at the sleeves of the fisherfolk who trail
salt-water tubs along the shore: you will not find them wetter than
mine were on the night you put out to sea.’ The clothes and other odds
and ends which she sent him were all of the most delicate make and
colour. She had evidently taken immense trouble, and he reflected
that she could now have little indeed to employ her. No doubt she had
in her loneliness deliberately prolonged this task. Day and night her
image floated before him and at last, unable to endure any longer
the idea of her remaining by herself in that dull lonely palace, he
began to make fresh plans for bringing her out to join him. But after
further reflection he changed his mind. Such a step would at once bring
down upon him the full retribution of his offences, and putting the
idea out of his head he took to prayer and fasting, in the hope that
Buddha would have pity on him and bring his exile to a speedy end. He
was also somewhat distressed at being separated from Aoi’s son. But
here the case was different from that of older people. There was every
probability that he would eventually see the child again, and meanwhile
he had the comfort of knowing that it was in excellent hands.

But stay! There has been so much to tell that one important matter had
quite escaped me. I ought to have told you that before his departure
he sent a message to Ise with a letter informing Lady Rokujō of the
place at which she must in future address him. An envoy now arrived at
Suma with her reply. It was long and intimate. Both the handwriting
and mode of expression showed just that extraordinary distinction and
fineness of breeding which he had always admired in her. ‘I find it
impossible,’ she wrote, ‘to conceive of you in such a place as that
at which you bid me to address you. Surely this must be some long,
fantastic dream! I cannot but believe that I shall soon hear of you
as again at the Capital; alas, even so it will be far longer before
_my_ fault is expiated and we can meet face to face. “Forget not those
who for salvation dredge their misery by Ise’s shore, while you with
fisherfolk drag dripping buckets to the kiln.”’ This and much more was
written, not as it seemed at one time, but bit by bit as fresh
waves of feeling prompted her. There were altogether four or five large
sheets of white Chinese paper, and there were many passages which in
the handling of the ink were quite masterly. This woman, whom he once
so passionately admired, had, after the fatal outcome of her jealousy,
become utterly distasteful to him. He knew well enough that she was not
to blame for what had occurred and that his own feelings towards her
were utterly unreasonable, and now that he was himself suffering the
penalty of exile he felt more than ever ashamed of having driven her
away by his sudden coldness. Her present letter moved him so deeply
that he detained the messenger for several days, questioning him upon
every detail of the life at Ise. The man was a young courtier of good
family and was enchanted at the opportunity of living in the company of
this famous prince at such close quarters as the limited accommodation
of the cottage made necessary. In his reply Genji said: ‘Had I known
that I was to be driven from the Court, I might have done well to join
you in your journey. “Were I but in the little boat that the men of Ise
push along the wave-tops of the shore, some converse would at least be
mine.”... Now, alas, there is less prospect even than before that we
shall ever meet again....’

He had now acquitted himself of all his epistolary duties, and no one
had any right to complain. Meanwhile a letter arrived from the lady
in the ‘village of falling flowers,’ or rather a journal in which she
had from time to time noted down her impressions since his departure.
The manner in which she recorded her despondency at his absence was
both entertaining and original. The letter was a great distraction
and aroused in him a quite new interest in this lady. It had come to
his ears that the summer rains had done considerable damage to the
foundations of her house and he sent word to his people at the Capital
to get materials from such of his farms as were nearest to the
ladies’ home and do whatever was necessary in the way of repairs.

The Emperor still showed no signs of summoning Princess Oborozuki to
his side. Her father imagined that she felt her position and, since she
was his favourite daughter, was most anxious to get matters put right.
He spoke about it to Kōkiden, begging her to use all her influence,
and indeed went so far as to mention his daughter’s disappointment to
the Emperor himself. It was hoped that he might be prevailed upon to
instal her, if not as a regular mistress, at any rate in some dignified
capacity in his immediate entourage. The Emperor had hitherto neglected
her solely because of her supposed attachment in another direction.
When at last, yielding to the persuasion of her relatives, he summoned
her to him, she was as a matter of fact more than ever absorbed in her
unlucky passion. She moved into the Inner Palace during the seventh
month. As it was known that the Emperor had previously been very much
in love with her, no surprise was felt when he began immediately to
treat her as a full lady-in-waiting. From the first he showered upon
her a multitude both of endearments and reproaches. He was by no means
distasteful to her either in person or character, but a thousand
recollections crowded to her mind and continuously held her back. He
did not fail to notice this, and once when they were at music together
he said to her suddenly: ‘I know why you are unhappy. It is because
that man has gone away. Well, you are not the only one who misses him;
my whole Court seems to be plunged in the darkest gloom. I see what it
is; I ought never to have let him go. The old Emperor on his death-bed
warned me of all this, but I took no notice, and now I shall suffer
for it.’ He had become quite tearful. She made no comment, and after a
while he continued: ‘I get very little pleasure out of my life. I
am fast realizing that there is no point in any of the things I do. I
have the feeling that I shall probably not be with you much longer....
I know quite well that you will not be much upset; certainly much less
than you were recently. That poet was a fool who prayed that he might
know what happened to his mistress after he was gone. He cannot have
cared much about her, or he would certainly rather not have known.’ He
really seemed to set such store by her affection and spoke in so bitter
and despondent a tone that she could bear it no longer and burst into
tears. ‘It is no good your crying like that,’ he said peevishly, ‘I
know well enough that your tears are not in any way connected with me.’
For a while he was silent. Then he began again: ‘It is so depressing
not to have had any children. Of course I shall keep Lady Fujitsubo’s
son as my Heir Apparent, since the old Emperor desired it. But there is
sure to be a great deal of opposition, and it is very inconvenient....’

In reality, the government of the country was not in his hands at
all; at every turn he saw his own wishes being violated and a quite
contrary policy pursued by men who knew how to take advantage of his
inexperience and weakness of character. All this he deplored but was
powerless to alter.

At Suma autumn had set in with a vengeance. The little house stood
some way back from the sea; but when in sudden gusts the wind came
‘blowing through the gap’ (the very wind of Yukihira’s poem[10]) it
seemed as though the waves were at Genji’s door. Night after night he
lay listening to that melancholy sound and wondering whether in all the
world there could be any place where the sadness of autumn was more
overwhelming. The few attendants who shared the house with him had all
gone to rest. Only Genji lay awake, propped high on his pillow,
listening to the storm-winds which burst upon the house from every
side. Louder and louder came the noise of the waves, till it seemed to
him they must have mounted the fore-shore and be surging round the very
bed on which he lay. Then he would take up his zithern and strike a few
notes. But his tune echoed so forlornly through the house that he had
not the heart to continue and, putting the zithern aside, he sang to
himself the song:

“The wind that waked you,
Came it from where my Lady lies,
Waves of the shore, whose sighs
Echo my sobbing?”

At this his followers awoke with a start and listened to his singing
with wonder and delight. But the words filled them with an unendurable
sadness, and there were some whose lips trembled while they rose and
dressed.

What (Genji asked himself) must they think of him? For his sake they
had given up their homes, parents, brothers, friends from whom they
had never been absent for a day; abandoned everything in life which
they had held dear. The thought that these unfortunate gentlemen should
be involved in the consequences of his indiscretion was very painful
to him. He knew that his own moodiness and ill humour had greatly
contributed to their depression. Next day he tried to cheer them with
jokes and amusing stories; and to make the time pass less tediously he
set them to work to join strips of variegated paper into a long roll
and did some writing practice, while on a piece of very fine Chinese
silk he made a number of rough ink sketches which when pasted on to a
screen looked very well indeed. Here before his eyes were all those
hills and shores of which he had so often dreamed since the day long
ago when they had been shown to him from a far-off height.[11] He
now made good use of his opportunities and soon got together a
collection of views which admirably illustrated the scenery of this
beautiful coast-line. So delighted were his companions that they were
anxious he should send for Chiyeda and Tsunenori[12] and make them
use his sketches as models for proper-coloured paintings. His new
affability soon made them forget all their troubles, and the four or
five retainers who habitually served him felt that the discomforts of
exile were quite outweighed by the pleasure of waiting upon such a
master.

The flowers which had been planted in front of the cottage were
blooming with a wild profusion of colour. One particularly calm and
delightful evening Genji came out on to the verandah which looked
towards the bay. He was dressed in a soft coat of fine white silk with
breeches of aster-colour. A cloak of some dark material hung loosely
over his shoulders. After reciting the formula of submission (‘Such a
one, being a disciple of the Buddha Śākyamuni, does obeisance to him
and craves that in the moonlit shelter of the Tree of Knowledge he may
seek refuge from the clouds of sorrow and death’) he began in a low
voice to read a passage from the Scriptures. The sunset, the light
from the sea, the towering hills cast so strange a radiance upon him
as he stood reading from the book, that to those who watched he seemed
like some visitant from another world. Out beyond the bay a line of
boats was passing, the fishermen singing as they rowed. So far off were
these boats that they looked like a convoy of small birds afloat upon
the high seas. With the sound of oars was subtly blended the crying of
wild-geese, each wanderer’s lament swiftly matched by the voice of his
close-following mate. How different his lot to theirs! And Genji
raised his sleeve to brush away the tears that had begun to flow. As he
did so the whiteness of his hand flashed against the black wooden beads
of his rosary. Here indeed, thought those who were with him, was beauty
enough to console them for the absence of the women whom they had left
behind.

Among his followers was that same Ukon who had gone with him to the old
Emperor’s tomb. Ukon’s father had become Governor of Hitachi and was
anxious that he should join him in his province. He had chosen instead
to go with Genji to Suma. The decision cost him a bitter struggle, but
from Genji he hid all this, and appeared to be quite eager for the
journey. This man, pointing to the wild-geese above, now recited the
poem: ‘Like flocks that unafraid explore the shifting highways of the
air, I have no fear but that my leader should outwing me in the empty
sky.’

About this time the Secretary to the Viceroy came back to Court. As
he was travelling with his wife, daughters and a very large staff of
attendants he preferred to make the whole journey by water. They were
proceeding in a leisurely fashion along the coast and had intended to
stop at Suma which was said to be the most beautiful bay of all, when
they heard that Genji was living there. The giddy young persons in the
boat were immediately in the wildest state of excitement, though their
father showed no signs of putting them ashore. If the other sisters,
who did not know Genji, were in a flutter, it may be imagined what a
commotion was going on in the breast of Lady Gosechi.[13] She could
indeed hardly restrain herself from cutting the tow-cord, and when the
boat put in so near the shore that a faint sound of string-music could
be heard floating down from Genji’s cottage, the beauty of the shore,
the proximity of so interesting a personage and the interrupted
strains of the tune combined to make a powerful impression upon the
imaginations of these young people, and the tears came into their eyes.
The Secretary sent the following letter ashore: ‘I had hoped that after
my long absence it would be from your lips that I should first hear all
the gossip of the Capital. I now learn to my intense surprise and, if
you will allow me to say so, to my deep regret, that you are at present
living in retirement in this remote place. As we are a large and mixed
party, I must excuse myself from troubling you, but I hope to have the
pleasure of your society upon some other occasion.’ This letter was
brought by his son the Governor of Echizen, a nobleman who had been
one of Genji’s equerries and had been treated by him with particular
kindness. He was distressed at his former master’s ill fortune and did
not wish to seem ungrateful; but he knew that there were persons in his
father’s train who had their eye upon him and would, if he lingered
in Genji’s company, denounce him to the authorities. He therefore
handed in the letter and at once hurried away. ‘You are the first of my
friends to visit me since I left the Capital,’ said Genji. ‘I cannot
sufficiently thank you for sparing me so much of your time....’ His
reply to the Viceroy’s letter was couched in much the same terms. The
young Governor returned in very low spirits, and his account of what he
had seen and heard provoked loud expressions of sympathy not only from
the ladies of the party but also from the Viceroy himself. Lady Gosechi
contrived to send a short message on her own account, together with the
poem: ‘Little you guessed that at the sound of your distant lute one
hand was near indeed to severing the tow-cord of the boat.’ ‘Do not
think me forward if under these strange circumstances I have ventured
once more to address you,’ she added. He smiled as he read the letter.
She seemed to have become very demure. ‘Had you in truth been
minded to visit me, what easier than to cut the cable that drags you
past this shore?’ So he wrote and again: ‘You are a little taken aback,
I think, to find me “among the fishers at their toil.”’ So much did
he long for some distraction that he would indeed have been delighted
if she had found courage to come ashore; nor is this strange when we
remember how not far away from this same place a mighty exile[14] found
solace in the company of an ostler.

In the Capital Genji’s absence was still universally deplored. His
step-brothers and some of the noblemen with whom he was most intimate
had in the early days of his exile sent sometimes to enquire about
him and had composed elegies in his honour, to which he had replied.
This soon reached Kōkiden’s ears. She was furious at this proof of
his continued popularity: ‘It is unheard of,’ she burst out angrily,
‘that a man condemned of offences against the Government of his country
should be allowed to live as he pleases and even share in the literary
pastimes of the Court. There he sits (by the way I hear he has got a
very pretty house!) railing all day at the Government, and no doubt
experimenting on loyal servants of the Crown for all the world like
that man in the History Book who declared that a stag was a horse.’[15]
Henceforward Genji received no letters from Court.

The lady at the Nijō-in remained inconsolable. The servants in the
eastern wing had at first been somewhat reluctant to transfer their
services to her; but after a while her charming manners and
amiable disposition completely won their hearts, and none of them
showed any signs of seeking service elsewhere. Their employment had
given them opportunity of observing, albeit at a distance, most of
the great ladies of the Court. They were soon willing to allow that
in beauty of character Murasaki far excelled them all, and they well
understood why Genji had singled her out to be his pupil.

He, meanwhile, longed more and more to have her with him. But apart
from the fact that the roughness of life at Suma would be utterly
unsuited to her, he knew that his sending for her would be regarded as
an impudent challenge to those who had achieved his downfall.

They were within easy distance of Akashi, and Yoshikiyo naturally
thought of the strange lady whom he had once courted there, daughter
of the eccentric recluse[16] who had made his home near the bay. He
wrote to her several times, but received no reply. Finally a note
came not from her but from her father, saying that he had something
to tell Yoshikiyo and would be glad if he could find time to call. It
was quite clear what this meant. The old man merely wanted to tell him
that his suit was unwelcome. Yoshikiyo saw no point in going to the
house on purpose to be snubbed, and left the letter unanswered. As a
rule provincial governors seem to think that there are no reputable
families in the land except those of other provincial governors, and
it would never occur to them to marry their daughters into any other
class. But this ex-Governor was a man who not only had ideas of his own
but clung to them with passionate obstinacy. For years past, the sons
of provincial officials had been courting his daughter, and one and
all he had sent them about their business. His own notion of a husband
was very different. Then came Genji’s arrival at Suma. So soon
as he heard of it, the ex-Governor said to his wife: ‘I hear that Lady
Kiritsubo’s boy, Prince Hikaru Genji, has got into some sort of trouble
with the authorities and has come to live at Suma. I confess I am
delighted to hear it. What a splendid opportunity for our girl....’

‘You must be mad!’ broke in the mother. ‘I have been told by people
at Court, that he already keeps several ladies of the highest rank as
his mistresses; and not content with that, it appears that he has now
got into trouble about some lady in the Imperial Household. I cannot
imagine why you suppose that a coxcomb of this kind is likely to take
any interest in a simple, country girl....’ ‘You know nothing whatever
about it,’ interrupted the father testily. ‘I have very good reasons
for thinking as I do, and I must trouble you to fall in with my plans.
I intend to invite Prince Genji over here at the earliest possible
opportunity.’ He now spoke in a gentler tone, but it was evident that
he meant to have his own way, and to his wife’s consternation he began
to make the most lavish preparations for Genji’s entertainment.’ I
cannot imagine,’ she said, ‘why you are so set upon marrying our
daughter to this man. However exalted his position may once have been,
that does not alter the fact that he has now been expelled from the
City as a criminal. Even if by any chance he did take a fancy to her,
the idea of accepting such a person as our son-in-law is one which
you cannot surely entertain even as a joke....’ ‘What is all this
about criminals?’ he growled. ‘Surely you know that some of the most
distinguished men in history both here and in China have been forced at
one time or another to retire from Court. There is nothing disgraceful
about it. Just consider for a moment who this prince is. His mother was
the daughter of my own uncle, the late Inspector of Provinces,
who having made a name for himself by his public services was able
to obtain for her a position in the Imperial Palace. Here she at
once became the idol of our beloved Monarch, and although the very
exceptional favour with which she was treated aroused a good deal of
jealousy and in the end brought about her undoing, her career cannot be
considered unsuccessful, since she became the mother of His Majesty’s
most cherished son. In short, the family with which his august father
was not ashamed to ally himself is surely good enough for this young
prince, and though our daughter is a country-bred girl, I do not think
you will find he turns up his nose at her....’

The young woman in question was not remarkably handsome, but she had
considerable distinction and charm. Indeed many of the greatest ladies
at Court had, so far as good looks went, far less to boast of. She was
painfully conscious of her own deficiencies and had made up her mind
that no one of good position would ever take any notice of her. Men of
her own rank in life she knew that she had no opportunity of meeting.
Sooner or later her parents would die, and then she would either become
a nun or else drown herself in the sea; she was not sure which. Her
father brought her up with extreme strictness, and her only outings
were pilgrimages to the Shrine of Sumiyoshi, whither he brought her
regularly twice a year, secretly hoping that the God would be moved to
assist his ambitious designs.

The New Year had begun. The days were growing longer and already there
was a faint show of blossom on the cherry-trees which Genji had planted
in his garden at Suma. The weather was delightful, and sitting idly in
the sunshine he recalled a thousand incidents that were linked in his
mind with former springs. The twentieth day of the second month! It was
just a year ago that he left the Capital. All those painful scenes of
farewell came back vividly to his mind, bringing with them a new
access of longing. The cherry-trees of the Southern Hall must now be in
full bloom. He remembered the wonderful Flower Feast of six years ago,
saw his father’s face, the elegant figure of the young Crown Prince;
and verses from the poems which he had himself made on that occasion
floated back into his mind.

All this while Tō no Chūjō had been living at the Great Hall, with
very little indeed to amuse him. He had been put down again into the
Fourth Rank and was very much discouraged. It was essential to his
prospects that he should not come under any further suspicion, but he
was an affectionate creature and finding himself longing more and more
for Genji’s society, he determined, even at the cost of offending the
Government, to set out at once for Suma. The complete unexpectedness
of his visit made it all the more cheering and delightful. He was
soon admiring Genji’s rustic house, which seemed to him the most
extraordinary place to be living in. He thought it more like some
legendary hermit’s hut in a Chinese book than a real cottage. Indeed
the whole place might have come straight out of a picture, with its
hedge of wattled bamboo, the steps of unhewn stone, the stout pine-wood
pillars and general air of improvisation. Chūjō was enchanted by the
strangeness of it all. Genji was dressed in peasant style with a grey
hunting-cloak and outer breeches over a suit of russet-brown. The way
in which he played up to this rustic costume struck Chūjō as highly
absurd and at the same time delighted him. The furniture was all of
the simplest kind and even Genji’s seat was not divided off in any
way from the rest of the room. Near it lay boards for the games of
_go_ and _sugaroku_, and chessmen, with other such gear as is met with
in country houses. The meals, which were necessarily of a somewhat
makeshift character, seemed to Chūjō positively exciting. One day some
fishermen arrived with cockles to sell. Genji sent for them and
inspected their catch. He questioned them about their trade and learned
something of the life led year in and year out by those whose homes
were on this shore. It was a story of painful unremitting toil, and
though they told it in a jargon which he could only half understand, he
realized with compassion that their feelings were, after all, very much
like his own. He made them handsome presents from his wardrobe and they
felt that these shells had indeed been life-giving.[17]

The stable was quite close by and in full view of the cottage. It
amused Chūjō to watch the labourers fetching rice-husks from a queer
building which seemed to be a sort of store-house or granary and using
them as provender for the horses; and he would sing the ballad: ‘Sweet
is the shade....’[18]

He had of course a great deal to tell to his friend, and it was
sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears that they went step by
step over all that had happened in the long months of their separation.
There were many stories of Aoi’s little son, happily still too young
to understand what was going on in the world around him, of the old
Minister, who now was sunk into a state of unremitting melancholy, and
of a thousand other happenings at the Great Hall and Court, which could
not possibly be recounted in full and would lose all interest if told
incompletely. Neither of them had any inclination to sleep, and at dawn
they were still exchanging Chinese odes.

Though Chūjō had said that he no longer cared what the authorities
thought of him, he was reluctant to aggravate his offence by
lingering on this forbidden shore, and he now announced that he must
start for home again immediately. This was a terrible blow to Genji
who knew that so short a visit would leave him even more wretched
than before. Wine was brought and as they drank the farewell cup they
murmured in unison the words of Po Chü-i’s parting poem:

“Chin on hand by the candle we lay at dawn
Chanting songs of sadness, till the tears had splashed
Our cup of new-made wine....”

Chūjō had brought with him some delightful presents from the Capital.
With many apologies Genji offered him in return a black colt, saying as
he did so: ‘I fear that it may be embarrassing for you to receive even
so poor a gift as this from one in my position. But I beg of you to
accept it as a symbol of my longing to return, for in the _Old Poem_ it
is written:

“The Tartar horse neighs into the northern wind;
The bird of Yueh nests on the southern bough.”

It was in fact a magnificent horse and could hardly have been matched
in all the kingdom. Among the presents brought by Chūjō was a
celebrated flute which had long been in his possession, and many other
small but beautiful objects such as could easily be secreted and would
serve as tokens of his affection without exciting troublesome comment.

The morning was well advanced before Chūjō set out. He could hardly
believe that the long-dreamed-of meeting was already over and looked
back again and again to where his friend was standing. The sight of
Genji gazing after him as the boat drew away made it more difficult
than ever to endure so speedy a parting, and he cried out ‘When, when
shall we meet again? I cannot think that they will let you go on
much longer....’ At which Genji answered him with the poem: ‘O crane,
who travellest at will even to the very margin of the Land on High,
look well upon me, whether in intent I be not cloudless as this new day
of Spring.’[19] ‘Sometimes for a while I have hope,’ he added; ‘but of
those who before have been in my case even the most grave and virtuous
have seldom managed to repair their fortunes. I fear I shall not see
the precincts of the Capital again.’ ‘Hapless in cloudland shall your
crane’s solitary voice re-echo till with his lost friend, wing to wing
again, he can renew his flight.’ This was the poem that Chūjō now
recited as his boat left the shore.

The third month was now beginning and some one who was supposed to be
well up in these matters reminded Genji that one in his circumstances
would do well to perform the ceremony of Purification on the
coming Festival Day.[20] He loved exploring the coast and readily
consented. It happened that a certain itinerant magician was then
touring the province of Harima with no other apparatus than the crude
back-scene[21] before which he performed his incantations. Genji now
sent for him and bade him perform the ceremony of Purification. Part
of the ritual consisted in the loading of a little boat with a number
of doll-like figures and letting it float out to sea. While he watched
this, Genji recited the poem: ‘How like these puppets am I too cast
out to dwell amid the unportioned fallows of the mighty sea....’ These
verses he recited standing out in the open with nothing but the wind
and sky around him, and the magician, pausing to watch him, thought
that he had never in his life encountered a creature of such beauty.
Till now there had not been the least ripple on the face of the sea.
Genji, wondering what would in the end become of him, began to
review the whole course of his past life and the chances of better
fortune in the future. He gazed on the quiet aspects of both sky and
sea. ‘The Gods at least, the myriad Gods look kindly on my fate,
knowing that sinful though I be, no penalty have I deserved such as I
suffer in this desolate place.’ As he recited these words, the wind
suddenly rose; the sky grew dark and without waiting to finish the
ceremony every one began hastily preparing to make for home. Just when
they had decided to return as quickly as possible, a squall of rain
commenced, beginning so unexpectedly that there was no time even to
put up umbrellas. The wind was now blowing with unparalleled violence
and things which the calmness of the morning had tempted them to
leave carelessly lying about the shore were soon scattered in every
direction. The sea too was rapidly advancing and they were obliged to
run for their lives. Looking back they saw that the whole surface of
the bay was now covered with a blanket of gleaming white foam. Soon the
thunder was rolling and great flashes of lightning fell across the sky.
It was all they could do to make their way home. The peasants had never
witnessed such a gale before. ‘It blows pretty stormy sometimes,’ they
said; ‘but you can generally see it coming up a long while before.’
Of such a storm as this, coming on without a moment’s warning, they
could make nothing at all. Still the thunder crashed, and the rain
fell with such violence that each shaft struck deep into the earth. It
seemed indeed as though the end of the world were come. Some of Genji’s
servants became very restless and uneasy; but he himself settled
quietly in his chair and read out loud from the Scriptures. Towards
evening the thunder became less violent, but the wind remained very
high all night. It was soon apparent that if the wind did not change,
the waves would carry away their house. Sudden high tides had
often before done great damage on the coast, but it was agreed that
such a sea as this had never been seen before. Towards dawn every one
went off to get a little rest. Genji too began to doze a little. There
appeared to him in his dream a vague and shadowy figure who said: ‘I
have come from the Palace to fetch you. Why do you not follow me?’ He
tried to obey the command, but suddenly awoke. He realized that the
‘Palace’ of his dream did not mean, as he had at first supposed, the
Palace of the Emperor, but rather the dwelling of the Sea God. The
whole import of the dream was that the Dragon King[22] had taken a
fancy to him and wished to detain him yet longer on the shore of his
domains. He became very depressed and from this time onwards took a
dislike to the particular part of the coast in which he had chosen to
reside.

[1] Fujitsubo.

[2] The dead Aoi, Genji’s first wife.

[3] Hyōbukyō’s wife. Murasaki was his illegitimate daughter.

[4] Genji.

[5] See vol. i, pp. 253 seq.

[6] The distance is about 60 miles. It could, says Moto-ori, in no
circumstances have been covered in one day. He therefore concludes that
the travellers spent a night at Naniwa (the modern Ōsaka) on the way. A
much more probable solution is that Murasaki was herself rather vague
about the time which such a journey would take.

[7] Near Naniwa. It was here that the returning Vestals of Ise lodged
on their way back to the Capital.

[8] China.

[9] For the story of his exile, see the Nō play _Matsukaze_ in my _Nō
Plays of Japan_, p. 268.

[10] See _Nō Plays of Japan_, p. 268.

[11] See vol. i, pp. 137 seq.

[12] Tsunenori was a famous painter, c. 950 A.D. So presumably was
Chiyeda. Some people say Chiyeda was a name used by Tsunenori.

[13] See above, p. 96.

[14] The great statesman Sugawara no Michizane, 845–903.

[15] Chao Kao was plotting to overthrow the Second Emperor (3rd cent.
B.C.). He brought his majesty a stag, telling him it was a horse. The
Emperor laughed, but some of the Courtiers were so much afraid of Chao
Kao that they sided with him and insisted that it was indeed a horse.
Then Kao knew that they feared him more than the Emperor and definitely
decided to revolt.

[16] See vol. i, p. 138.

[17] There is here a play on words. The other meaning is: ‘That life
was indeed worth living.’

[18] ‘Sweet is the shade, the lapping waters cool, and good the pasture
for our weary steeds. By the well of Asuka, here let us stay.’ See vol.
i, p. 46.

[19] I.e. You have access to the Emperor, put in a word on my behalf.

[20] The third day of the third month.

[21] _Zeshō_, a screen or in some cases curtain with a pine-tree
painted on it used as a background to sacred performances.

[22] Sovereign of the Ocean.

CHAPTER XIII

AKASHI

The bad weather continued; day after day nothing but rain, wind and
repeated thunderstorms, bringing with them countless troubles and
inconveniences. So depressing was the past to look back upon and so
little hope did the future hold out for him that, try as he might,
Genji could no longer keep up even the appearance of cheerfulness. His
prospects were indeed dark. It was just possible that he might some day
be permitted to return to the Capital. But with the dominant faction
at Court still working against him he would be subject to unendurable
slights and vexations. He thought more than once of withdrawing from
the coast and seeking shelter at some point well back among the inland
hills. But he knew that if he did so it would be said he had been
scared away by a few days of foul weather. The smallest actions of
people in his position are recorded, and he did not care to figure in
the history-books as the Prince who ran away from a storm. Night after
night he had the same dream of a messenger summoning him to the realms
below the sea. It seemed as though the Dragon of the Ocean had indeed
set his heart upon him.

Day followed day without the least break showing in the sky. It was
now a long time since he had heard any news from the Capital, and
he was becoming very anxious. To be immured for weeks on end in his
small house was to the last degree enervating and depressing;
but in this villainous weather there was no question of so much as
even sticking one’s head out of doors for two minutes. Needless to say
no one came to visit him. At last a pitifully bedraggled figure hove
into view, fighting its way through the storm. A messenger from the
Nijō-in. So he announced himself; but the journey had reduced him to
such a plight that Genji would scarce have known that this tattered,
dripping mass was a human being at all. He was indeed a common peasant,
such a one as in old days would have been unceremoniously bundled out
of Genji’s path. Now Genji found himself (not without some surprise at
the degree of condescension to which his misfortunes had brought him)
welcoming the fellow as an equal, and commiserating with him upon his
plight.

In her letter Murasaki said: ‘In these odious days when never for a
single instant has the least gleam or break pierced our sodden sky,
the clouds have seemed to shut you off from me and I know not behind
which part of this dark curtain to look for you. “How fiercely must
the tempests be blowing on your shore, when even here my sleeves are
drenched with ceaseless spray!”’

The letter was full of sad and tender messages. He had no sooner opened
it than a darkness spread before his eyes and tears fell in floods,
‘belike to swell the margin of the sea.’

He learnt from the messenger that at Kyōto too the storm had raged with
such violence and persistency that it had been proclaimed a national
Visitation, and it was said that the great Service of Intercession[1]
had been held in the Palace. So great were the floods that the officers
of the Court were unable to reach the Inner City, and all
business was at a standstill. He told his story confusedly and in a
broken jargon that was very hard to follow. But what matter? Such as it
was, his news came from Kyōto, from the City, and that in itself was
enough to make Genji catch eagerly at every word. He had the messenger
brought to his own room and was soon plying him with questions. It
seemed that the same continuous downpour had gone on day after day
without a moment’s break, varied only by occasional hurricanes of wind.
Thunder they had not had, nor the alarming hailstorms which along the
coast were of such violence that the hailstones had penetrated far down
into the earth. Such horror came into the man’s face as he recalled the
scenes through which he had passed, and so lamentable was his present
condition that even those who had taken the storm somewhat lightly
now began to feel seriously alarmed. It seemed indeed as though a
continuance of the present deluge must speedily wash the world away;
but worse was to come, for next day, from dawn onwards, an even more
violent wind raged, causing a tremendous flood-tide along all the
shore. Soon the breakers were crashing with a din so stupendous that
you would have thought the rocks, nay the very hills, could not long
resist them. Suddenly a blaze of lightning, inexpressibly fierce and
dazzling, rushed earthward. They realized that something must have
been struck, and there was now no longer anyone who even pretended to
take the situation lightly. Each of Genji’s servants was wondering in
his heart what he had done to deserve at the hand of Fate so hideous
an experience. Here, it seemed, they were all to die; never again to
meet mother or father, far from the pitying faces of wife, of children,
or of friends. Genji himself had no desire to end his existence on
this inhospitable shore, but he managed to control his feelings
and did his best to introduce some order among his followers. This
proved to be by no means easy. At last he set them to offering up
prayer-strips and ribbons to the God of Sumiyoshi and himself called
upon the God to save from calamity a shore that was so near his own
Holy Abode and, if indeed he were a Present Deity, to prove it now by
his aid. So he prayed, with many other vows and supplications. And
his servants, as they heard him, forgot for a while the peril that
threatened their own lives, and could think only of the calamity which
would befall their country should such a prince be lost amid the waters
of this deserted shore. Then one, who was of greater courage than the
rest and had now somewhat regained the use of his faculties and better
feelings, began to call upon the God to take his life and welcome, so
be it Genji were saved. And after this, all began in chorus to invoke
both Buddhas and Gods of their own land; and presently one said:
‘Though nurtured in a palace of princes and inured from infancy to
softness and delights, our master has not hidden his face from common
men; for in every corner of the Eight Islands his patience and kindness
are known. How many that were downcast and obscure has he not helped
upward to greatness? Tell us now, Heaven, tell us, Earth, of what crime
has he been guilty, that he should be cast away, a victim to the winds
and seas? Guiltless he has been punished, has been robbed of rank and
office, has been torn from home and country, nor has been suffered to
be at peace either by day or night....’ Genji himself prayed again to
the gods, saying: ‘With such sights and sounds about us we cannot but
wonder whether the end of our days is come. Do ye now, O Powers, put
an end to this grievous visitation, whether it be the fruit of _karma_
or the punishment of present crimes; lest we should doubt if Gods and
Buddhas can indeed make manifest their will.’ Then turning in the
direction of the Sumiyoshi Shrine he uttered many further prayers to
that God, to the Dragon King of the Ocean and to a thousand and one
other Gods and Spirits. Suddenly, however, while he was in the midst
of these prayers, there was a louder thunder-clap than ever, and at
the same time lightning struck a pent-house which actually adjoined
Genji’s room. Flames shot up and that part of the building was soon in
ashes. His men were now without exception in such a state of panic that
they could do nothing. Finally Genji got them to move his things into
a sort of shed at the back of the house, which had sometimes been used
as a kitchen. Here, huddled with all his followers and grooms, he spent
the rest of the day, wearied by their ceaseless lamentations, which
indeed bid fair to out-din the thunder. The sky was still black as ink
when night fell. However, the wind began to subside and presently the
rain grew a little less heavy; and at last an occasional star began to
twinkle. The thought of their master spending the night in so strange
and undignified a situation was very perturbing to his attendants and
they began trying to make his proper bedroom habitable again. This,
however, did not prove to be feasible, for although a great part of
it had not been actually touched by the fire, ‘the Storm God in his
boisterous passage’ had left a terrible havoc behind him and the
room was strewn with the tattered wreckage of furniture, screens and
bedding. It was agreed that nothing could be done till next day.

Genji said his prayers and began to consider the situation. It was
indeed sufficiently alarming. So high had the tide risen that, now
the moon was up, the fine of the incoming waves was plainly visible
from his house, and standing at the open wicker door he watched the
fierce breakers plunge and recoil. Such conditions of storm and tide
had not occurred in recent times and no one was prepared to say
how far matters were likely to go. This being the only gentleman’s
house in the neighbourhood many of the fishing people and peasants who
lived along the shore had now collected in front of it. Their queer,
clipped dialect and the rustic topics of their conversation were alike
very strange to him; but he would not suffer them to be driven out of
earshot. ‘If this wind does not go down,’ one of them was saying, ‘we
shall have the sea right on top of us before the tide turns. God’s
help alone can save us.’ It may be imagined that these predictions
were far from disposing the townsmen towards a quiet night’s rest. A
brisk sea wind was again driving onward the swollen tide, and though he
tried to reassure his men Genji was himself in considerable anxiety;
when suddenly and quite unexpectedly he fell into a doze and dreamed
that his father, looking exactly as in the old days when he was on
the throne, stood beside the crazy bed which had been improvised for
him in this disordered place. ‘How comes it that you are sleeping in
such a place as this?’ the vision asked, and taking his hand made as
though to drag him from the bed. And again, ‘Put your trust in the God
of Sumiyoshi. Leave this place, take to your ship and He will show you
where to go.’ What joy it was to hear that voice once more! ‘Father,’
Genji answered, ‘since your protection was taken from me nothing but
sorrow and ill-fortune have befallen me, and now I am fully expecting
to perish miserably upon this forsaken shore.’ ‘It is not to be thought
of,’ answered the Emperor. ‘Your offence was not so great that you must
needs be driven to such a place as this. Unfortunately I myself am at
present expiating a few small offences (such as it is indeed impossible
to avoid; for the Judges of the Dead have not managed to prove that
during my whole reign I did serious harm to anyone). However, for
the present this expiation keeps me very busy, and I have not
been able to keep an eye upon what is happening here. But your late
misfortunes have been such as I could not bear to think of, and though
it cost me great labour, I have made my way through the depths of
ocean and up again on to the shore, that I might be with you in your
suffering. Yet this time I must not stay longer, but will go straight
to the Palace and tell these things to him who is now Ruler there.’ So
he spoke, and turned to fly away. ‘Let me go with you. Do not leave
me!’ cried Genji in his dream. But looking up he found that there was
no one there at all. The full-faced moon stared down at him, cold
and un-dreamlike; a cloud trailed across the sky, shaped to the dim
semblance of a figure in flight.

It was many years since he had dreamed of his father, though in his
waking hours he had never ceased to mourn for him and long for his
company. This sudden vision which, though so brief, had all the
vividness of a real encounter, brought him great comfort. The thought
that at the hour of his greatest despair, nay when death itself seemed
close at hand, his father’s spirit had hastened through the air to
succour him, made him almost glad that Fate had brought him to the
extremity which had moved his father’s compassion. So full was he of
new hope and comfort that in his exultation he utterly forgot the
perils that encompassed him, and lay trying to recall stray fragments
of his father’s dream-speech which had faded from his waking mind.
Thinking that the dream might be repeated, he tried to sleep again; but
this time all his efforts were in vain, and at daylight he was still
awake.

Next morning there landed at a point in the bay opposite to Genji’s
house a little boat with two or three persons aboard her. It proved on
enquiry that they had come from the Bay of Akashi and that the boat
belonged to the ex-Governor of the province, now turned lay-priest.
The messenger explained that his master was himself aboard and
desired to have a word in private with the Genshōnagon[2] Yoshikiyo,
if he were at present to be found at Suma. Yoshikiyo thought this very
peculiar. The ex-Governor was perfectly well aware of all that went
on in the district; but though he had been acquainted with Yoshikiyo
for years, he had not during all the while they had been at Suma paid
the slightest attention to him. It seemed indeed (thought Yoshikiyo)
as if he were definitely in the old man’s bad books. And now, in the
middle of an atrocious storm, he took it into his head to pay a call.
It was all very queer. But Genji, who saw in this new happening a
possible fulfilment of his dream, said at once ‘You had better go,’
and Yoshikiyo accordingly accompanied the messenger back to the boat.
How they had ever managed to launch it at all, under the conditions
which must have prevailed at the time they left Akashi, was a complete
mystery to him. ‘On the first day of this month,’ the old man began,
‘I had a most singular and interesting dream. What it portended seemed
to me at the time very improbable; but part of the dream was that if
I wished to see the promise fulfilled, I must get ready a boat and on
the thirteenth day, so soon as there was the slightest lull in the
storm, make straight for this coast. As this injunction was several
times repeated I had the boat manned and at the appointed time waited
for a chance of getting to sea. There was a fearful gale blowing;
rain was falling in torrents and a thunderstorm was in progress. It
certainly did not seem a very good moment to start. But there are
many instances in foreign history of people saving a whole country
from peril by obeying an apparently senseless dream. I feared
that if I delayed my departure beyond the day which had been named my
journey would be of no service to anyone. And so, determined that you
should know of the divine indication which had been vouchsafed to me,
I launched my boat. What was my surprise to discover that we had a
quite moderate wind blowing nicely in our wake! We had this wind behind
us all the way, and I cannot but regard the whole affair as a clear
instance of divine intervention. It is possible that on your side too
there has been some warning or message which fits in to the revelations
which I have received. I am very sorry to disturb His Highness; but I
should be obliged if you would tell him of what has passed.’ Yoshikiyo
accordingly went back to Genji and told him the whole story. The matter
needed some consideration. Here was a chance which it would not be
wise to let pass. Both actual events, such as the destruction of his
bedroom, and a general restlessness induced by his own singular dream,
with its warning to quit this place, inclined him to make use of the
ex-Governor’s visit. No doubt that if he retired to Akashi his move
would become the subject of a great many scurrilous jokes[3]; but on
the other hand he would look even more foolish if it turned out that
he had not availed himself of a genuine warning from the Gods. And
this must be a very dangerous thing to do; for even human beings are
extremely annoyed if one disregards their advice. His situation could
hardly be worse than it was already. The old Governor was many years
his senior; was even, as things went now, his superior in rank, and was
certainly viewed by the authorities in a very different light from that
in which Genji was regarded. In fact it would be most unwise not to
take advantage of his visitor’s evident friendliness and desire to be
connected with him. To go to Akashi would be to beat a retreat.
But a wise man[4] of ancient times has told us that ‘to retreat is no
disgrace.’ And then there was his own dream, in which his father had
begged him to leave this place. He had made up his mind about it. He
would ask if he might go back with them to Akashi. He therefore sent a
message to his visitor saying: ‘Though I am living in a strange land,
under circumstances in the highest degree painful and depressing, from
the direction of my own home there does not come a single message of
enquiry or condolence. Here all is unfamiliar to me; save the stars and
sun there is not one being or thing that recalls to me the life I used
to know. You can imagine then with what joy I saw your fishing-boat
draw near. Tell me, is there not on your shore some corner where I
could hide myself and be at peace?’

This was just what the old gentleman wanted, and in high delight he
hastened to welcome Genji’s suggestion. A great bustle commenced; but
before daybreak all Genji’s effects had been stowed away in the boat
and, with his usual band of chosen retainers, he at last set sail. The
wind had veered and was behind them on the return journey too, so that
the little ship flew to Akashi like a bird. The distance is of course
not great and the voyage does not in any case take more than a few
hours. But so assiduously did the wind follow them on this occasion
that it really seemed as though it were doing it on purpose.

Akashi was evidently a very different sort of place. Indeed his first
impression was that, if anything, it would be difficult here to find
seclusion enough. The ex-Governor’s estate comprised not only the
foreshore, but also a considerable extent of mountain-land
behind. And everywhere, in creeks and hill-folds and on river-shores,
were felt-roofed huts so situated that the old recluse might not lack
an agreeable place of retirement at any season of the year.

On all sides there rose groups of substantial granaries and barns,
which looked as though they must contain rice and corn enough to last
for the rest of his present existence. But though so careful to provide
for his earthly needs, he had by no means forgotten the life to come.
On a site which, commanding as it did a magnificent panorama, was
calculated to inspire him with the sublimest thoughts, he had built a
handsome temple, where part of his time was spent in the performance of
penances and mystic meditations.

During the recent storms he had moved his wife and daughter to a lodge
on the hill-side and was therefore able to place his seaside residence
entirely at Genji’s disposal. It was still dark when they left the
boat; but as they drove along the shore, the growing daylight at
last gave him an opportunity of taking a good look at his guest. So
delighted was he by the young man’s appearance and by the rapid success
of his expedition that his usually severe and formidable countenance
relaxed into a perfect efflorescence of smiles and affability. But
even in this state of preoccupation and excitement he did not forget
to offer up a prayer of thankfulness to the God of Sumiyoshi. To the
old man it was as though the sun and moon had been taken down from
the sky and entrusted to his keeping. It may easily be imagined that
he left no stone unturned to make Genji comfortable and contented.
Not only was the place one of great natural beauty, but it had been
laid out with unusual taste and skill. Copses had been planted,
rock-gardens constructed and flower-beds made,—all this around
the mouth of a little creek that ran in from the sea. The charms of
the place were such as a very skilful landscape-painter might possibly
manage to convey; to describe them in words would, I fear, be quite
useless. The contrast with the uncomfortable quarters where he had been
cooped up for months was immense. The house was equipped with every
possible elegance and convenience; it scarcely fell short of the great
mansions which he had been used to frequent at the Capital; and indeed
in many respects surpassed them. Thus admirably served and lodged
Genji began to regain some of his equanimity and was soon engaged in
writing letters to his friends at the Capital. The messenger who had
brought Murasaki’s letter was far too much shaken by his previous
experiences to be sent back immediately to the City and Genji had left
him behind at Suma. He now sent for him and entrusted to him a letter
in which he described all that he had recently been through and with
many tender messages explained the reasons which had led him to his
new abode. He also sent private intimation of his whereabouts and
present condition to various holy men who were charged to pray for
his welfare. To Fujitsubo he sent an account of the thunderstorm and
his own almost miraculous escape from harm. He had tried to write an
answer to Murasaki’s letter during the melancholy period when he was
still at Suma, but had never managed to finish it, for his tears fell
so fast that he was forever putting the letter aside. And it was indeed
a piteous sight to see him stop again and again to wipe away the tears
that soiled his page. In this letter he said: ‘More than once my misery
has become so intense that I was fully determined to give up my career
and end my days in some cloister cell. But then I always remembered
your little poem[5]: and felt that it was impossible to leave the
world, at least till I had seen you once again.

“Swift as before
My thoughts fly back to thee,
Though now from unknown shore
To stranger and more distant shores I flee....”

Forgive this letter which, written as in a dream, may well say
much which a waking mind can scarcely apprehend.’ It was written
distractedly and with a shaking hand: but those who were with him could
not forbear from peeping a little as he wrote, such was their curiosity
to know what he would say to one who held so great a sway over his
affections. And presently, having seen what they could, his servants
too began their own letter-writing, each of them having some dear one
at the City from whom he was anxious to obtain news.

The bad weather in which for so many weeks there had not been a single
break, had now completely vanished. Out came all the fishing boats,
eager to make up for lost time. The complete desertedness of Suma,
which apart from a few fishermen who lived in caves under the cliff,
had no inhabitants at all, was very depressing. Akashi could certainly
not be complained of on that score; indeed, he feared at first that it
might prove somewhat too populous. But the beauty of the place was so
great and afforded him so many surprises that he was soon perfectly
contented. His host seemed to be exclusively absorbed in religious
exercises. Only one other matter occupied his thoughts; it was clear
from stray allusions in his conversation that he lived in a state of
continual agitation about his only daughter, to whom he was evidently
attached with an almost morbid degree of concentration. Genji had not
forgotten the favourable account of this lady which had been given
him some years ago. Her presence had of course been no part of
his reason for coming to this place; but the fact that accident had
finally brought him so near her was in a way intriguing. However, his
misfortunes were still weighing heavily upon his mind and he was in a
mood for prayer and fasting rather than for any gallant diversions.
Moreover his thoughts were, for the time being, more than ever turned
towards the City, and he would not have dreamed of doing anything that
the girl whom he had left in his palace might feel to be a betrayal
of his promises. He was therefore careful not to show the slightest
interest in the topic to which his host so often returned. But various
indications had already convinced him that the lady in question was
a person of very unusual and attractive qualities, and despite this
assumed indifference he could not help feeling a certain curiosity with
regard to her. The ex-Governor showed himself to be an ideal host. He
stationed himself at the far end of the house, in a wing which was
completely cut off from Genji’s quarters. Here he was always to be
found when wanted, but never obtruded himself. The self-effacement was
the more remarkable seeing that he was all the time longing to be in
Genji’s company, and he was continually praying Gods and Buddhas for
guidance as to how he might best win the confidence of his exalted
guest. Although he was not much over sixty a constant habit of watching
and fasting had told much upon him, so that in appearance he was
wizened and almost decrepit. But he was by no means a dull companion,
for owing to the influential circles in which his youth had been passed
he was extremely well-informed concerning all the principal events of a
period which had hitherto lain outside Genji’s ken, and his anecdotes
were a considerable source of distraction. Genji found indeed that he
had started a veritable landslide of information about a generation
which his own distractions, both social and political, had never
left him time to study. So pleased was he both with his host and with
his new place of residence that he thought with horror how easily it
might never have occurred to him to pay this visit.

Though he had now become so intimate with his guest, the old man was
still daunted by a certain reserve and distance in Genji’s manner
towards him; and whereas in the first few days of their acquaintance he
had sometimes mentioned his daughter, he now hardly ever referred to
her. But all the while he was trying to discover some way of unfolding
his project and his complete failure to do so distressed him beyond
measure. He was obliged at last to confess to his wife that he had
made no progress; but she was not able to offer him any useful advice.
The girl herself had been brought up in a neighbourhood where there
was not a single male of any description whom she could possibly think
of as a lover. At last she had a chance of convincing herself that
such creatures as men of her own class did actually exist. But this
particular one was such an exalted person that he seemed to her in
his way quite as remote as any of the local people. She knew of her
parents’ project, which indeed distressed her greatly, for she was
convinced they were merely making themselves ridiculous.

It was now the fourth month. A dazzling summer outfit was supplied
for Genji’s use; magnificent fresh hangings and decorations were put
up in all his apartments. The attentions of his host were indeed so
lavishly bestowed that they would have proved embarrassing, had not
Genji remembered that he was in the hands of an eccentric, whose
exalted notions were notorious and must, in a man of such distinction,
be regarded with indulgence. About this time he began to have a fresh
distraction; for messengers again began to arrive from the Capital,
and came indeed in a pretty constant stream. One quiet moonlit night,
when a cloudless sky stretched over the wide sea, Genji stood
looking out across the bay. He thought of the lakes and rivers of his
native land. This featureless expanse of sea awakened in him only a
vague and general yearning. There was no intimate mark round which his
associations might gather, no bourne to which his eyes instinctively
turned. In all the empty space before him only the island of Awaji
stood out solidly and invited attention. ‘Awaji, from afar a speck of
foam,’ he quoted, and recited the acrostic verse: ‘Oh, foam-flecked
island that wast nothing to me, even such sorrow as mine is, on this
night of flawless beauty thou hast power to heal!’

It was so long since he had touched his zithern that there was a
considerable stir among his followers when they saw him draw it out
of its bag and strike a few random notes. Presently he began trying
that piece which they call the ‘Kōryō’[6] and played the greater part
of it straight through. The sound of his zithern reached the house on
the hillside near by, mingled with the sighing of pine-woods and the
rustling of summer waves. The effect of all this upon the imagination
of the impressionable young lady in the house above may well be
guessed. Even gnarled old peasants, whom one would not have expected
to make head or tail of this Chinese music, poked their noses out of
their cottage-doors and presently came to take an airing along the
shore. The Governor could not contain himself, and breaking off in the
middle of his prayers, hastened to Genji’s rooms. ‘How this brings
back to me the old days at Court, before I turned my back on all the
pleasures of the world,’ he exclaimed: ‘But surely the enchantment of
such music as this is not all earthly! Does it not turn our thoughts
towards those celestial strains which will greet us when we come
at last to the place of our desires?’ To Genji too the sound of the
zithern brought recollections of many music-makings at the Capital. He
remembered with just what turns and graces such a one had played the
zithern at a particular banquet or another had played the flute. The
very intonations of some singer’s voice came back to him from years
ago. He remembered many an occasion of his own triumph or that of his
friends; the acclamations, the compliments and congratulations of the
Court, nay, the homage of everyone from the Emperor downwards; and
these shadowy memories imparted to his playing a peculiar tinge of
melancholy and regret. The old recluse was deeply moved and sent to his
house on the hill for his own lute and large zithern. Then, looking
for all the world like a _biwa_ priest,[7] he played several very
admirable and charming pieces. Presently he handed the large zithern
to Genji, who struck a few chords, but was soon overcome by the tender
memories which this instrument[8] evoked. The poorest music may gain
a certain interest and beauty from the circumstances in which it is
performed. It may be imagined then how enchanting was the effect of
Genji’s touch as the notes sped across the bay. Nor indeed could any
flowering groves of spring nor russet winter woods have made a better
setting for his music than this huge space of open sea. Somewhere in
the region of soft, vague shadows along the shore, shrike were making
that strange tapping sound with their bills. It sounded as though
some one had been locked out and were rapping, rapping, rapping in
the desperate hope that those within might at last relent of their
unkindness. The old recluse then played so delightfully on both
instruments that Genji was fascinated. ‘This large zithern,’ he
said to the old man presently, ‘is usually supposed to be a woman’s
instrument and requires a very delicate, fluttering touch.’ He meant
this quite generally, and not as an apology for his own playing; but
the old man answered with a deprecatory smile: ‘I cannot imagine a
touch more suitable to this instrument than yours. This zithern was
originally a present from the Emperor Engi[9] and has been in my family
for three generations. Since my misfortunes and retirement I have had
little taste for such distractions as this, and have lost what small
skill I ever possessed. But in times of great spiritual stress or deep
depression I have occasionally turned to this instrument for solace and
support. And indeed there is in my household one who from watching me
at such times has herself developed a strange proficiency, and already
plays in a manner which would not, I venture to think, displease those
departed princes to whom the zithern once belonged. But perhaps by
now, like the mountain-hermit in the old story, I have an ear that is
better attuned to the rushing of wind through the tree-tops than to
the music of human hands. Nevertheless I wish that, yourself unseen,
you might one day hear this person’s playing’; and his eyes moistened
in fond paternal recollection. ‘I had no idea,’ answered Genji, ‘that
I was in the neighbourhood of genius such as you describe. I fear my
playing will have sounded to you indeed as a mere “rushing of wind
through the tree-tops,” and he hastened to put back the zithern in the
old priest’s hands. ‘It is indeed a curious fact,’ Genji continued,
‘that all the best players of this instrument have been women. You will
remember that the Fifth Princess became, under the instruction of her
father the Emperor Saga,[10] the most famous performer of her
whole generation. But none of her descendants seems to have inherited
her talent. Of all the players who in our own time have achieved a
certain reputation in this line, there is not one who is more than
an intelligent amateur. That in this remote place there should be
some one who is really a skilled performer excites me beyond measure.
Do please lose no time in arranging....’ ‘As for that,’ the priest
answered, ‘I do not see why there should be any great difficulty about
it, even if it meant bringing the player down here to meet you. Was not
one that had sunk into ignominy and made herself a merchant’s drudge
once summoned to a great man’s[11] side, because she could still play
upon her lute the music that long ago he had loved? And speaking of
the lute, I should tell you that the person to whom I refer is also
a remarkable lute-player, though this instrument too is one which is
very rarely mastered completely. Such absolute fluency, such delicacy
of touch, I assure you! And such certainty, such distinction of style!
Shut away for so long on this shore, where one hears no sound but the
roaring of the sea, I sometimes fall a prey to dark and depressing
thoughts; but I have only to listen for a while to this delightful
performer and all my sorrows disappear.’ He spoke with so much
enthusiasm and discernment that Genji was charmed with him and insisted
upon his playing something on the large zithern. The old man’s skill
was astonishing. True, his handling of the instrument was such as is
now considered very old-fashioned, and his fingering was all entirely
in the discarded ‘Chinese’ style, with the left-hand notes heavily
accentuated. But when (though this was not the sea of Ise) he played
the song ‘Let us gather shells along the clean sea-shore,’ getting one
of his servants, who had an excellent voice, to sing the words, Genji
enjoyed the performance so much that he could not refrain from
beating the measure and sometimes even joining in the words. Whereupon
the priest would pause in his playing and listen with an expression of
respectful rapture.

Fruit and other refreshments were then served, all with the greatest
taste and elegance. The old priest insisted upon every one present
drinking endless cups of wine, though the night itself was of a beauty
so intoxicating that the dull realities of life had long ago faded
from their minds. As the night wore on a cool wind began to blow among
the trees, and the moon, who in her higher course had been somewhat
overcast, now at her setting shone out of a cloudless sky. When the
company was grown a little quieter, the priest began gradually to tell
the whole story of his life on this shore, together with his reasons
for settling there and a voluminous account of his vows and religious
observances; when without difficulty he led the conversation towards
the topic of his daughter. She certainly sounded very interesting,
and despite the old man’s volubility Genji found himself listening
with pleasure at any rate to this part of the discourse. ‘It seems
a strange thing to say,’ his host went on, ‘but I sometimes wonder
whether, humble old cleric though I be, my own prayers are not really
responsible for your Highness’s excursion to these remote parts! You
will say that if this is so I have done you a very bad turn.... But
let me explain what I mean. For the last eighteen years I have put
myself under the special protection of the God of Sumiyoshi. From my
daughter’s earliest childhood I have been very much exercised in mind
regarding her future, and every year in the spring and autumn I have
taken her with me to the shrine of that deity, where praying day and
night I have performed the offices of the Six Divisions,[12] with
no other desire at heart save that, whether I myself should
be re-born upon a Lotus Throne or no, to her at least all might be
given that I asked. My father, as you know, was a Minister of State;
while I, no doubt owing to some folly committed in a former life, am
become a simple countryman, a mere yokel, dwelling obscurely among the
hills. If the process continued unchecked and my daughter was to fall
as far below me in estate as I am now below my illustrious father,
what a wretched fate, thought I, must be in store for her! Since the
day of her birth my whole object has been to save her from such a
catastrophe, and I have always been determined that in the end she
should marry some gentleman of good birth from the Capital. This has
compelled me to discourage many local suitors, and in doing so I have
earned a great deal of unpopularity. I am indeed, in consequence of my
efforts on her behalf, obliged to put up with many cold looks from the
neighbouring gentry; but these do not upset me at all. So long as I am
alive to do it, I am determined to afford her what little protection my
narrow sleeve can give. When I am no longer there to watch over her,
she will no doubt do as she thinks best. But I confess I would rather
hear she were drowned in the sea than that she had settled herself in
the sphere of life to which my folly has for the time reduced her.’
He went on thus for a long while, pausing now and again to shed a few
tears; but most of what he said would not be worth repeating. Genji was
for various reasons also in a very emotional and discursive mood, and
presently he interrupted: ‘I could never make out why I had suddenly
fallen into disgrace and been compelled to live in these remote
regions; for I have certainly done nothing in my whole life to deserve
so stern a punishment as this. But at last you have furnished me with
the explanation, and I am perfectly well satisfied. No doubt it was, as
you suggest, entirely in answer to your prayers that all this has
happened to me. I only regret that, since you must all the time have
been aware of this, you did not think fit to tell me about it a little
sooner. Since I left the City I have been so much obsessed by the
uncertainty of human life that I have felt no inclination towards any
save religious employments. I am now so worn out by months of penance
and fasting that no worldly impulse or desire is left in any corner
of my being. I had indeed been told long ago that a grown-up daughter
lived here with you; but I knew nothing more, and assumed that the
society of a disgraced and exiled man could only be distasteful to one
of her birth and breeding. But since you thus encourage me, I ask for
nothing better than to make her acquaintance as soon as possible. I do
not doubt that her company will prove a solace to my loneliness.’ His
prompt acceptance was more than the old man had dared to expect and in
high delight he answered with the verse: ‘You too have learnt to know
it, the loneliness of night upon Akashi shore, when hour and listless
hour must yet be filled before the dawn can come.’ ‘And when you
consider the anxiety in which I have for all these years been
living...’, the old man added: and though he trembled somewhat
affectedly at the recollection of what he had been through, Genji was
willing to concede that to have lived all one’s life in such a place
must indeed have been very disagreeable. However he would not be too
sympathetic and answered: ‘You at any rate have the advantage of being
used to the coast...’, and he recited the poem: ‘What know you of
sorrow, who wear not the traveller’s cloak, nor on an unaccustomed
pillow rest, groping for dreams till dawn?’ For the first time Genji was
treating him without the slightest formality or reserve. In his
gratitude and admiration the old man poured out an endless stream of
inconsequent but flattering remarks, which would be wearisome to read. I
am conscious indeed that the whole of this section is rather a bundle of
absurdities. But how else could I display the vanity and eccentricity
of the old recluse?

At last everything seemed to be turning out just as he desired. He
was already beginning to breathe more freely when, to crown his
satisfaction, very early on the morning of the next day a messenger
from Prince Genji arrived at the house on the hill. The letter which
he carried was written with a certain embarrassment, for the lady had
grown up in very different surroundings from those whom he was used to
address. But the very fact of discovering such talent and charm hidden
away in a place where one would least have expected it was enough to
kindle his fancy. He took unusual pains with the letter, writing it on
a _kurumi-iro_[13] paper from Korea. In it was the poem: ‘Long wandered
my lonely gaze with nought to rest on save the drifting pathways of the
clouds, till the mists divided and I saw the tree-tops by your house.’
‘Love has vanquished discretion...’, he ended, quoting from the old
song.

Anxious to be on the spot in case such a letter arrived, the old
priest had already installed himself in the mansion on the hill before
the messenger started. He imagined that his presence in the house
was entirely unsuspected. But Genji’s man, had he not already been
perfectly well aware that the old recluse had preceded him, would
certainly have guessed it by the almost embarrassing attentions which
were paid to him when he reached the house. Despite the distracting
refreshments with which he was being regaled the messenger could not
but wonder why the lady was taking such an immense while in composing
her reply. The truth was that though her father had gone through
into the women’s apartments and was giving her all the assistance
in his power, she found herself utterly at a loss to frame a reply.
Despite the trouble that Genji had taken with his letter, there was an
uneasiness about it which made her feel that it was not spontaneous;
and even had she known in what terms to reply there was still the
question of hand-writing. She guessed that in this matter he would be a
severe critic and felt utterly incapable of pleasing him. No! The gulf
between them was too great. Pretending that she was unwell she sank
helplessly upon a couch. There was nothing for it but to reply in her
stead, and the old priest wrote as follows: ‘You will think it very
peculiar that I should answer your letter in my daughter’s stead. Pray
attribute her inability to frame a reply not to any want of gratitude
or respect, but rather to the bashfulness engendered by country
breeding; pray reflect also that she has never yet had the privilege of
finding herself in your company. She has however ventured to compose
the following poem, which she bids me communicate to you: “That I too
for long years have gazed upon these selfsame pathways of the sky is
token of some strange kinship in the course of our desires.” She is, as
you will observe, deeply affected by the arrival of your message. Pray
do not think her answering poem impertinently bold.’

This was written on Michinoku paper, and although the style of the
writing was quite out of fashion it had a certain dignity and elegance
of its own. The poem did strike Genji as somewhat forward in tone, and
this surprised him.

He sent back the messenger loaded with handsome stuffs for dresses.
Next day he wrote to her again protesting that he was not used to
receive, in reply to a private letter, an answer dictated as though to
a Palace Secretary. And he added the verse: ‘This surely is a dismal
and outrageous thing, to greet a passer-by and get no friendly nod
nor “Say, how goes the world with you?”’ This time he wrote on
a very soft thin paper, with great delicacy and care. The appearance
of the letter was such that a young girl who did not admire it must
needs have been rustic, nay brutish indeed. The lady to whom it was
addressed was by no means insensible; but she felt that the writer
of it was too far removed from her in rank and influence for any
interchange of affection to be thinkable. The discovery that a world
existed which was populated by such dazzling creatures, so far from
giving her pleasure, merely left her more unhappy and discontented
than before. Again she found herself utterly at a loss how to reply,
and it was only the persistence of her father which forced her at last
to indite the poem: ‘“How goes the world?” is said to friends. That
one whom you have never seen should greet more stiffly, can do small
outrage to the feelings of your heart.’ It was written in sharply
contrasted light and heavy strokes on a deep-brown paper, in a masterly
style which would not have disgraced a lady of the Court. Genji was
naturally very pleased; but he did not want it to be reported at the
Capital that he had committed himself to a fresh entanglement. He was
therefore careful henceforward always to leave several days’ interval
between his letters to her. He wrote in fact only when it chanced that
the evening hours hung heavy on his hands, or upon the pretext of some
particularly beautiful sunrise or other natural effect; at such times
in short as he guessed that she might be under the influence of the
same impressions as himself. In such a correspondence it seemed to him
that there could not be any impropriety. He had heard so much about
her pride that he felt sorely tempted to put it to the test. But he
remembered that his retainer Yoshikiyo had spoken of her very much
as though she were his own property. Should Genji now by any chance
succeed where the devotion of years had brought no reward, he
would certainly feel that he had treated his gentleman very badly and
suffer the discomfort of remorse. But on reflection he decided that as
she had been so reluctantly thrust upon his notice, there could be no
harm in pursuing a guarded correspondence with her. She did indeed turn
out in the course of this correspondence to be possessed of a pride and
aloofness which rivalled that of the greatest princesses whom he had
known and, on such occasions as he pitted his own pride against hers,
it was generally she who came out on top.

Though now yet another range of hills separated him from the Capital,
his mind was more constantly than ever occupied with thoughts of his
friends at home. His longing for Murasaki often became unendurable.
What was there to be done? In such moments he could not resist making
plans for bringing her secretly from the Capital. But quiet reflection
would show him that it was unlikely he would go on living for more than
a year or two longer at Akashi and no step was worth while which might
merely provoke a fresh outburst on the part of his adversaries.

That year the Court was troubled by a succession of disquieting
portents and apparitions. On the thirteenth day of the third month,
during a night marked by violent thunderstorms and a fierce wind
with torrents of rain, the Emperor dreamed that he saw His Majesty
the late Emperor standing at the foot of the step before his throne,
wearing an expression of extreme displeasure, indeed glaring at him,
as it seemed, with an angry and astonished eye. The Emperor having
assumed an attitude of respectful attention, the apparition proceeded
to deliver a long discourse, part of which was concerned with Genji’s
present plight. The Emperor was very much frightened, and being in
any case somewhat uneasy at Genji’s prolonged absence, he hastened to
communicate his dream to Kōkiden. She was not at all sympathetic.
‘These stormy nights are very disturbing,’ she said. ‘It is quite
natural that you should have had bad dreams; the rain alone would
have accounted for it. You must not allow such trifles to upset you.’
About this time the Emperor began to suffer from a pain in his eyes.
Remembering his dream, he could not get out of his head the idea
that this pain was in some way caused by the wrathful glance of the
apparition which had rebuked him. His sufferings became more and more
acute, despite the fact that continual services of intercession were
held both in the Palace and at Kōkiden’s house.

Next came the death of Kōkiden’s father, the Grand Minister of the
Right. There was nothing unexpected in this, for he had reached a
very great age. But coming as it did on top of various other public
calamities it caused widespread consternation. Kōkiden herself, though
she had no definite malady, was also very far from well. As time went
on she seemed gradually to lose strength. A general gloom spread
over the Court. It was felt that if, as was alleged by his friends,
Prince Genji had indeed been banished without any sufficient cause,
the present misfortunes of the nation might well have been sent as
punishment for this injustice. Again and again the Emperor thought of
restoring Genji to his previous rank and appointments; but whenever he
mentioned this project to Kōkiden, that lady would answer: ‘To do so
would be to incur the public charge of inconsequence and frivolity. He
was banished and if, when less than three years have elapsed, he is
suddenly recalled to the Capital, a pretty figure you and I shall cut
in history!’ She spoke with such fierce conviction that the Emperor was
completely overawed. So the months went by, and meantime both he and
Kōkiden were gradually sinking under the burden of their respective
maladies.

At Akashi, as frequently happens in autumn, heavy winds were blowing
in the bay. Genji began to find the long evenings very monotonous
and depressing. Sometimes he would allow the priest to come and talk
to him, and in the course of one of these conversations Genji said:
‘I am longing for a little diversion. Could you not manage, without
attracting too much attention, to bring your daughter here one day
to see me?’ It seemed somehow to be accepted that for Genji to pay
a visit to the house on the hill was entirely out of the question.
Unfortunately the lady herself was equally averse to making any move.
She knew that gentlemen who visited the provinces on Government
business would often take up with some wretched peasant girl and, for
so long as they happened to be in the district, carry on a purely
frivolous affair with her. The Lady of Akashi was convinced that
Genji regarded her in just such a light. To accept his advances could
only render her in the end more wretched than before. Her parents,
she knew, were still clinging to the idea that all those long years
of watchfulness and isolation had at last borne fruit. To them the
inevitable disillusion would be a crushing blow. Her mind was quite
made up; so long as this prince remained at Akashi she would continue
to correspond with him, but further than that she would not go.

His name had been known to her for years past, and she had sometimes
wondered whether it would ever fall to her lot to meet, even in the
most superficial way, some such magnificent personage as he. Now,
astonishing though it seemed, he was actually living a stone’s throw
away. She could not be said exactly to have met him, but she constantly
caught glimpses of him, heard his inimitable zithern-playing, and knew,
one way and another, all that there was to know about his daily comings
and goings. That such a person should even be aware of her
existence was more than, as an inhabitant of this remote fishing-town,
she had any right to expect. As time went on it seemed to her less
than ever possible that any closer relationship should be established
between them. Meanwhile her parents were far less confident about the
situation than she supposed. They felt that in their anxiety to see the
prayers of half a lifetime at last fulfilled they had perhaps acted
somewhat precipitately. If Genji did not after all seem to regard their
daughter as ‘counting,’ her feelings would have been upset for nothing.
True he was a great catch and was worth certain risks; but that only
made it harder to lose him. They had an uneasy feeling that while they
had been placing all their trust in ‘Gods whom no eye seeth’ they had
paid too little attention to the dispositions of the human beings for
whose future they had schemed.

‘A little music,’ said Genji to the old priest one evening, ‘would
mingle pleasantly with the sound of these autumn waves. It is only as a
background to music that the sound of the sea is tolerable.’

The time for action had come. The old priest looked in his calendar,
chose a lucky day, and despite the misgivings of his wife began to
prepare the house on the hill for Genji’s visit. Not even to his most
intimate acolytes and disciples did he explain the object of these
elaborate preparations. The visit was to take place on the thirteenth
day of the month. It turned out to be a resplendent moonlit night.
The old man came to Genji’s room and recited the line: ‘Is this a
night to lose?’ Genji at once understood that this was an invitation
to the house on the hill. Suddenly what had seemed impossible became
perfectly simple. He set his cloak to rights and left the house. His
host had provided him with a magnificent coach, but the narrow lanes
would have made its use inconvenient and Genji preferred to go
on horseback. He was accompanied only by Koremitsu and one or two of
his other trusted servants. The house stood a little way back from the
shore and while he climbed to it he was all the time looking down over
the bays that spread out on every side. He remembered the verse: ‘Would
that to one who loves what I love I now might show it, this moon that
lies foundered at the bottom of the bay!’ For the first time since he
had agreed to set out upon this excursion he remembered the lady at his
palace far away, and at that moment he could hardly resist turning his
horse’s head and riding straight to the Capital. ‘O thou, my milk-white
pony, whose coat is as the moon-beams of this autumn night, carry me
like a bird through the air that though it be but for a moment I may
look upon the lady whom I love!’ So he murmured as he approached the
house, which was thickly girt with an abundance of fine timber. It
was indeed a house impressively situated and in many ways remarkable;
but it had not the conveniences nor the cheerful aspect of the house
on the shore. So dark and shut-in an appearance did it present as he
drew near, that Genji soon began to imagine all its inhabitants as
necessarily a prey to the deepest melancholy and felt quite concerned
at the thought of what they must suffer through living in so cheerless
a place. The Hall of Meditation stood close by and the sound of its
bell blent mournfully with the whispering of the pine-trees that on the
steep uneven ground grew precariously out of a ledge of rock, their
roots clutching at it like some desperate hand. From the plantations in
front of the house came a confused wailing of insect voices.

He looked about him. That part of the house which he knew to be
occupied by the lady and her servants wore an air of festive
preparation. Full in the moonlight a door stood significantly ajar. He
opened it. ‘I wish to rest for a few minutes,’ he said; ‘I hope you
have no objection to my coming in?’ She had in fact the greatest
objection, for it was against just such a meeting as this that she had
resolutely set her face. She could not actually turn him away; but she
showed no signs of making him welcome. He thought her in fact the most
disagreeable young person whom he had ever met. He was accustomed to
see women of very much greater consequence than this girl show at any
rate a certain gratification at being thought worthy of his attentions.
She would not, he felt, have dared to treat him so rudely but for the
present eclipse of his fortunes. He was not used to being regarded
so lightly, and it upset him. The nature of the circumstances was
obviously not such that he could carry off the situation with a high
hand. But though violence was out of the question, he would certainly
cut a very ridiculous figure in the eyes of the girl’s parents if he
had to admit that she showed no signs of wanting to be acquainted
with him. He felt embarrassed and angry. Suddenly one of the cords
of the screen-of-state behind which she was sitting fell across her
zithern, making as it did so a kind of casual tune. As she bent over
the instrument he saw her for an instant just as she must have looked
before his entry had made her stiffen; just as she must look when
carelessly and at ease she swept an idle plectrum over the strings.
He was captivated. ‘Will you not even play me something upon this
zithern of which I have heard so much?’ he added, and he recited the
poem: ‘Were it but from your zithern that those soft words came which
your lips refuse, half should I awaken from the wretched dream wherein
I am bemused.’ And she: ‘A night of endless dreams, inconsequent and
wild, is this my life; none more worth telling than the rest.’ Seen
dimly behind her curtains she recalled to him in a certain measure the
princess[14] who was now in Ise. It was soon evident that though
she had answered his poem she was no nearer than before to treating his
visit as otherwise than an impertinence. She had been sitting there
so comfortable and happy, when suddenly this tiresome person burst in
upon her without apology or warning. However, the remedy lay in her
own hands, and rising to her feet she fled into a neighbouring closet,
fastening the door behind her with ostentatious care. You might have
supposed that this was the end of the matter, for she had evidently
no mind to return, nor he any intention of forcing bolts and bars.
Curiously enough, however, this was not the end of the matter. The
difficulties that ensued may well be imagined if we remember the lady’s
unusual shyness and pride. Suffice it to say that from this night’s
meeting, which seemed at first to have been forced upon him by chance
and other people’s intrigues, sprang an intimacy which was grounded
in the deepest feeling. The night, generally so long and tedious at
Akashi, passed on this occasion all too quickly. It was essential that
he should leave unobserved, and at the first streak of dawn, with many
last endearments and injunctions, he crept stealthily from the room.
His next day’s letter was sent very secretly, for he was haunted by the
fear that some story of this adventure might find its way back to the
Capital. The lady for her part was anxious to show that she was to be
trusted, and deliberately treated Genji’s messenger without ceremony
of any kind, as though he were bound on some errand of merely domestic
import. He paid many subsequent visits to the house on the hill, always
with the greatest secrecy. Unfortunately the way there led nowhere
else, and knowing that fisher-folk are notorious gossips he began
to fear that his addiction to this particular road would be noticed
and commented upon. His visits now became far less frequent, and the
lady began to think that her early fears were soon to be fulfilled.
The old priest’s thoughts were, if the truth must be told, for
the time being much more frequently occupied with the coming of Genji
than with the coming of Amida.[15] He could not make out what had gone
wrong, and was in a terrible state of agitation. To make matters worse
he knew that such earthly considerations ought to leave him quite
unmoved and he was ashamed to discover how little his pious observances
had availed to render him indifferent to the blows of fortune.

Genji would not for all the world have had the news of his latest
adventure reach Murasaki as a piece of current gossip, even though it
were represented in the most harmless light. Her hold upon him was
indeed still strong as ever, and the mere idea of such a story reaching
her, of her feeling that she had been superseded, of a possible quarrel
or estrangement, filled him with shame and dismay. She was not indeed
given to jealousy; but more than once she had shown plainly that his
irregularities, so far from passing unobserved, were indeed extremely
distressing to her. How bitterly he now regretted those trivial
gallantries, so profitless to him, yet to her so miserably disquieting!
And even while he was still visiting the lady of the hillside, since
there was no other way of quieting his conscience concerning Murasaki,
he wrote to the Nijō-in more frequently and more affectionately than
ever before. At the end of one of these letters he added: ‘How it
grieves me to remember the many occasions when I have spoilt our
friendship for the sake of some passing whim or fancy in which (though
you could not believe it) my deeper feelings were not at all engaged.
And now I have another matter of this kind to confess, a passing dream,
the insignificance of which you can guess by the fact that I tell you
of it thus unasked. “Though with the shining seaweed of the shore
the fisherman a moment toys, yet seeks he but assuagement of a sorrow
that long ere this has filled his eye with burning tears.”’

Her answer showed no resentment and was couched in the tenderest terms.
But at the end, in reference to his disclosure, she wrote: ‘As regards
the “dream” which you could not forbear telling me, I have experience
enough in that direction to enable me to draw several conclusions. “Too
downrightly, it seems, have I obeyed it, our vow that sooner would the
Isle of Pines by the sea-waves be crossed....”’ But though her tone was
good-humoured, there was in all her letter an undercurrent of irony,
which disturbed him. He carried it about with him for a long while and
constantly re-read it. During this time his secret nocturnal excursions
were entirely abandoned, and the Lady of Akashi naturally imagined that
all her fears had now come true. He had amused himself to his fill and
had no longer any interest in what became of her. With no support, save
that of parents whose advanced age made it improbable that they could
much longer be of any assistance, she had long ago given up hope of
taking her place in the world with those of equal rank and attainments.
But she did now bitterly regret the waste of all those empty months and
years during which she had been so conscientiously guarded and kept—for
what? At last she had some experience of the usages which prevailed in
the ‘grand world’ outside, and she found them even less to her liking
than she had anticipated. She indulged however in no outburst of spleen
or disappointment, nor in her letters did she ever reproach him for
his long absence. He had indeed as time went on become more and more
attached to her, and it was only his desire to be able to allay the
anxiety of one who had after all a prior claim upon him that induced
him to suspend his visits to the lady on the hill. Henceforward
his nights at Akashi were again spent in solitude.

He amused himself by making sketches upon which he afterwards scribbled
whatever thoughts happened to be passing through his mind. These he
sent to Murasaki, inviting her comments. No method of correspondence
could have been better calculated to move and interest her. The
distance between them seemed in some sort to have been annihilated.
She too, at times when she was feeling out of spirits or at a loss for
employment, would also make sketches of the scenes around her, and at
the same time she jotted down all that was happening to her day by day
in the form of a commonplace book or diary.

What, she wondered, would she have to write in her diary? And he in his?

The New Year had come. At the Palace nothing was now talked of save the
Emperor’s illness, and the Court was full of restless speculation. The
only child of the present Emperor was a boy born to him by Princess
Jōkyōden, daughter of the new Minister of the Right. But he was
only two years old and therefore of no particular account. The Heir
Apparent, Fujitsubo’s son, was also a minor. The Emperor was fully
determined to resign the Throne to him at the earliest opportunity,
but should he do so it would be necessary to appoint a regent. There
were so few people to whom it would be in any way possible to entrust
the affairs of government that it seemed a pity Genji should be out
of the running. His presence was indeed becoming in every way more
and more imperative, and at last the Emperor decided to recall him,
whether Kōkiden approved or not. Since the end of the year her illness
had taken a more serious turn.[16] The Emperor too—although for
a time thanks to the immense efforts made on his behalf in consequence
of certain disastrous omens which had engendered something in the
nature of a natural panic, although for a time his eyes showed some
improvement—was soon in as bad a way as ever, and feeling very
uncertain of the future, he dictated an edict in which Genji was
commanded to return to the Capital by the end of the seventh month.
That sooner or later there would be a turn in his fortunes Genji had
always been convinced. But the shortness and uncertainty of life made
him little inclined to settle down quietly and wait for events to take
their course. This swift recall came therefore as an intense relief.
And yet, for one reason at any rate, he was by no means anxious to
leave the coast so soon. The priest too had never expected that Genji
would be with him very long; but the news of his immediate departure
came as something of a shock. However, it was a consolation to feel
that Genji was now definitely re-embarking upon the path of prosperity,
and that his partiality, should it continue, would be in the future
even more valuable than before. Genji now began again to visit the
upper house almost every evening. Since the beginning of the sixth
month the Lady of Akashi had been slightly indisposed and it was now
certain that she was with child. No sooner had a definite term been put
to their friendship than Genji’s feeling for her redoubled: surely in
those last days she was more charming than she had ever been before!
Here indeed, rash though his courtship had been, was one whom under no
circumstances he would ever feel that he had loved and cherished beyond
her deserts? She for her part sat in absolute silence before him, lost
in her own thoughts. Poor soul, he could not blame her.

When three years ago he had set out so reluctantly upon that miserable
journey to Suma, his only consolation had been to imagine the
joy and excitement with which on some far distant yet inevitable day
he would retrace his steps to the City. Now that day had come, and
to be returning was indeed very pleasant. But all the while, mingled
with delightful anticipations, was the strange fear that he might
never be able to re-visit the place of his banishment! His servants
however were all in high spirits, and this, combined with the bustle of
numerous friendly deputations from the Capital, created an atmosphere
of general liveliness and excitement, despite the obvious depression
that all these signs of departure brought to the host under whose roof
the numerous visitors were lodged. The seventh month had begun, and
the summer weather was even more delightful than usual. Why, wondered
Genji, was he, who took such pleasure in quiet and harmless pursuits,
doomed on every occasion to find himself involved in the most harrowing
and disastrous situations? It had not indeed escaped the notice of
those who knew him best that a fresh complication, of the kind they
already knew only too well, had arisen in his life. For several months
on end he had never once mentioned the lady’s name, and they began to
hope that the affair had run its course. But the curiously subdued
state of his spirits on the very eve of departure told them only too
plainly that this hope was premature. It was whispered that all this
trouble had arisen from Yoshikiyo’s indiscreet eloquence upon the
occasion when after Genji’s cure they had climbed the mountain summit
and looked down towards the western seas.[17] Yoshikiyo himself, as
indeed he had every reason to be, was very much irritated by the whole
affair.

Two days before his departure Genji visited the house on the hill some
hours earlier than was his wont. He had never before seen the
lady by full daylight, and her beauty astonished him. Such dignity
of bearing, such an air of proud decision he had not in the least
expected. This fresh discovery of her, this last-hour revelation filled
him with new longings and regrets. Must he lose her? Could not some
excuse be formed for bringing her to the Capital, for installing her
at Court? And to ease his feelings he began to discuss with her the
wildest plans as though they had been perfectly simple and practicable.

The austerities which he had practised during the earlier days of his
exile had left him still looking somewhat worn and thin. Yet such
was his beauty that while, touched by her misery, he sat beside her
and with tears in his eyes whispered the tenderest words of pity and
endearment, for a moment she felt that even if there had been but one
such night as that and after it he had disappeared forever, she would
still feel his love for her to have been the greatest happiness of her
life.

But for all his kindness he was a prince,—the inhabitant of a world
peopled not by creatures like herself, but by a remote and superior
order of beings. Such was the thought that even at moments like this
would obtrude itself with painful persistency. Oddly enough, though the
promise that she would play to him had been the excuse for his first
visit, she had never once touched her zithern since he had known her.
For this he had often scolded her, and now he determined to make a last
attempt. ‘Will you not play one small tune, so that I may carry it away
in my head to remember you by,’ he said, and sent to the lower house
for the zithern which he had brought with him from the Capital. He
tuned it with special care, and the few chords that he struck while he
did so floated with a strange distinctness through the still midnight
air. The old priest heard these sounds, and unable to contain himself
came bustling round to the women’s quarters with his Chinese
zithern in his arms and deposited it in the room where his daughter was
receiving her guest. Then he discreetly withdrew. Genji now renewed
his entreaties and at last she could resist no longer. He guessed at
once, by the way that she handled and tuned the instrument, that she
would prove to be a remarkable performer. Lady Fujitsubo used generally
to be considered the best zithern-player of the day, and though the
applause of the fashionable world was in part a tribute to her rank and
beauty, she was without question a very fine musician. But the Lady of
Akashi, in addition to a complete command of her instrument, played
with an intensity of feeling and a power of expression utterly unknown
to the princess. Such indeed was her playing that even he, who could
now so seldom get from music a pleasure that he had not experienced
many times before, was utterly taken aback. He could have listened
forever, and his only regret was that he had not forced her to play
to him months ago. Of course he must not lose her! And handing to her
his own zithern he begged her to keep it for him till they should
play together again. She answered with an acrostic poem in which she
prophesied that this loan was likely to remain forever on her hands.
And he, in indignation—‘Steadfast am I as the middle strings[18] of
this my zithern that I leave with you until we meet.’ ‘Who knows that
it may not be soon,’ he added; ‘Perhaps before these very strings have
fallen out of tune.’ Thus he sought to comfort her; but to her mind
one thought only was present,—that he was going away. She began to sob
bitterly.

On the day of his departure he was up long before sunrise. The setting
out of so large a party (for the house was now full of friends who had
come to escort him back to the City) occasioned a tremendous
bustle. Genji too was much preoccupied, but in the midst of these
distractions he found time to send her a message: ‘Because they have
left the sea behind them, the rising waves creep listlessly across the
sand. But I, a sinking wave, cast back disconsolate thoughts towards
the shore whence I retreat.’ And she: ‘My cabin by the shore the winds
have sheltered, and gladly now amid the receding wreckage of the
storm would I drift out to sea.’ His friends from the Capital noticed
that he was in great distress, and could only suppose that, despite
the untoward circumstances which had brought him to this place, he
had in the course of years become so attached to it that the actual
moment of parting was somewhat of a wrench. But they could not help
thinking that such a display of emotion was very excessive. On the
other hand Yoshikiyo and the rest saw their worst fears confirmed.
This was evidently a serious business, and they foresaw all kinds of
complications that might arise from it. These gentlemen were delighted
to be going home, but when it came to the actual moment of departure
they felt a certain regret at leaving this extremely agreeable coast,
and there were naturally many among them who had on their own account
to face somewhat painful scenes of farewell. Many affecting poems were
written and tearful speeches made; but what use would it be to record
them all?

In his preparations for the departure of the travellers the old
priest had surpassed himself. For every single person connected with
the expedition, down to the humblest carriers and menials, the most
sumptuous equipment was provided. It was indeed hard to imagine how
in these few weeks such elaborate preparations could possibly have
been made. The arrangements for Genji’s own comfort were of the most
extraordinary ingenuity; in fact the luxuries forced upon him filled so
many boxes that it required quite an army of porters to carry all
his luggage. Genji was indeed equipped more like a traveller setting
out from the Capital than like one returning from the provinces. There
seemed to be no imaginable contingency which the old priest had not
thought of. To the travelling cloak which had been specially designed
for that day’s journey the Lady of Akashi attached the poem: ‘That this
cloak of travel, cut and folded by the salt sea-shore, should bear a
stain or two of spray, you will not take amiss!’ Despite the noise and
confusion of departure, he found a moment in which to write the answer:
‘Though for a while I must wear it in remembrance, yet soon as certain
days and months are safely passed, once more no garment shall divide
us.’ This message he sent privately, and when he put on the new cloak
he was at pains to tell those about him that it was a present from the
old priest and worn at his especial desire. The cloak which he had
previously been wearing he sent to the house on the hill, where for
long afterwards the sight of it and the smell of the rare scent with
which it was perfumed awakened tantalizing memories in those from whose
thoughts he would in any case seldom have been absent.

The priest excused himself from accompanying the expedition even so
far as the frontier of the province, saying that in his present state
of grief and agitation he did not feel equal to so great an exertion.
‘Pray do not think me impertinent,’ he added, ‘but I ought perhaps to
remind you ... in fact, we none of us doubt for an instant.... But
quite at your own time and convenience, of course!’ He did not dare go
beyond these brief, disjointed hints, but Genji, so far from taking
offence, was extremely sorry for the old man, who, it was evident,
had taken the business to heart in the most unfortunate way. ‘There
is now a particular reason why I should cherish and remember
her,’ said Genji presently; ‘you may be sure that in a very little
while I shall see to it that she has her due. To leave you all at such
a moment grieves me more than I can say. But what would you have me
do?’ The lady herself was in a strange state of mind. She was still
convinced that the difference in rank between them precluded any
lasting union and was certain that in the long run she had no more
chance of happiness at the City than she had if left behind here in the
wilds. But when it came to his actually starting, she could not bear
to be left behind. Try as she might, she could not control herself.
His image perpetually haunted her and every effort to banish it ended
in a wild fit of sobbing. ‘It would have saved the poor girl untold
misery,’ said the mother, having in vain tried every means to distract
her, ‘if this wretched business had never begun. And how unnecessary it
all is! Nothing of the kind need ever have entered the child’s head,
but for the odious and perverse advice which certain people....’ ‘Hold
your tongue,’ the old priest said angrily. ‘This will all come right
in the end; he has told me so himself. He knows about her condition
and will do all that he can for her.’ ‘Come, child,’ he said, bringing
her a basin of hot water in his own hands; ‘you must get up at once
and let yourself be dressed. You really must not go on like this.
It is terrible, you know, terrible,’ and he stood at the corner of
the bed looking at her encouragingly. Not only the mother, but the
girl’s old nurse and most of the confidential servants were in a state
of indignation against their master and went about saying that his
misguided promptings had brought them all into this terrible trouble.
But the old man’s evident misery soon dismissed their anger. He went
about muttering to himself: ‘To think that I should have waited all
these years for a chance to do something that would help her! And just
when I thought everything was going so well, I find I have only
made the poor thing unhappy....’

So much did his mistake (for such he was now convinced that it was)
afflict the old man, that he became a little queer in the head. During
the day he did little but doze; but at night he would suddenly get
up and seated in an attitude of prayer would fumble with his hands
as though he had forgotten even how to use his rosary. One night his
disciples managed to persuade him to go for a walk in the moonlight.
Mumbling prayers as he went and quite unaware of his surroundings he
stumbled and fell headlong into the moat. He was soon fished out; but
in falling he had caught his leg against a large stone and done himself
considerable injury. During the illness which followed, his mind,
strangely enough, seemed to be somewhat easier and he appeared to be
worrying less about the unfortunate situation of his daughter.

Meanwhile Genji was on his homeward way. At Naniwa he halted to perform
the customary ceremony of Purification. He did not on this occasion
go to the Shrine of Sumiyoshi himself but sent a messenger to inform
the authorities that he was intending to perform his devotions there
quietly on some future occasion. He was now travelling so hurriedly
and with so large a retinue that a personal visit was impossible.
Apart from the halt at Naniwa he made no unnecessary discursions or
digressions, but pressed on with all possible speed to the Capital.

Upon his arrival the Nijō-in presented an extraordinary spectacle. The
friends who had accompanied him on the journey were here joined by
numerous others who had awaited him in the City. All of them now surged
in wild excitement through the Palace, some hurraying lustily, some
weeping with joy, and the scene soon became one of indescribable noise
and disorder.

And now Murasaki, who at the moment of his departure had vowed in her
poem that ‘could it but purchase an hour of respite, life itself was a
price she would not grudge to pay,’ was glad that the gift which in her
despair she had bartered so lightly, had not indeed been taken from her!

In these three years she had grown even handsomer than before. At
first he could not make out in what way it was that her appearance was
altered. But when they were alone together he noticed that her hair,
which even before he went away had begun to be almost too thick, had
been cleverly thinned out. He had to confess that this new way of
wearing it became her very well. But suddenly, while he watched her
with fond satisfaction, the pleasant thought that she would always be
near him was interrupted by a very different image. There rose before
his mind the figure of the lady whom he had left behind in that sad
mansion above the bay. Plainly as though she were with him he saw her
loneliness, her misery, her despair. Why was it that time after time
he of all people should find himself in this odious position? Lest
Murasaki should feel that things were passing through his mind which he
must hide from her, he began telling her about the lady of the shore.
But he took such evident pleasure in dilating upon this subject that
his frankness had the effect of convincing her that the matter was
a far more serious one than she had before supposed. ‘It is not for
myself I mind,’[19] she quoted, only half meaning him to understand.
How terrible that he had lost three whole years of her company, and
lost them, too, in punishment for those very infidelities which he
would now have given so much to undo!

Soon after his return all his original titles were restored and he
was accorded the rank of supernumerary President of Council; while
his supporters were re-established in offices equivalent to those of
which they had been deprived. Indeed so wide an amnesty was proclaimed
that the Court soon wore the aspect of a withered tree that one spring
morning suddenly begins to sprout again.

A message came summoning Genji to the Palace. Great excitement
prevailed among the Court attendants. It seemed to them that he looked
more handsome and flourishing than ever. Had he really spent the last
three years under such harrowing conditions as rumour had reported?
Among the gentlewomen present were some who had served the old Emperor
his father and these old ladies, who had always taken his side, now
pressed round him chattering and weeping. The Emperor had been somewhat
nervous about this interview. Anxious to make a good impression, he
had spent an immense while over his toilet. On this particular day
he was feeling somewhat stronger; but for a long while he had been
seriously out of health and he was looking sadly altered. They talked
quietly till nightfall. It was the fifteenth day of the month. The
weather was calm and fine and, as he sat in the moonlight, such a host
of memories crowded to the young Emperor’s mind that he shed a few
tears. He was indeed at that time full of the darkest forebodings.
‘Nothing entertaining has happened here,’ he said at last. ‘I used to
like it when you played to me; but of course it is a long time since
you did that....’ Genji answered with the poem: ‘For as many years as
the leech-baby[20] could not stand upon its feet have I been set adrift
upon the wide plains of the sea.’ The Emperor, who felt the sting of
this allusion, skilfully parried the thrust with the verse:
‘Round the Palace Pillar[21] long enough have we played hide-and-seek;
let us forget the rancour of wasted springtimes that we in amity might
better have employed.’

After this visit Genji’s first care was to perform the ceremonial Eight
Readings of the Lotus Sūtra in memory of his father the late Emperor.
He next visited the Crown Prince and found him grown almost beyond
recognition. The child was surprised and delighted to recover his old
playmate, whom he perfectly well remembered. Genji was relieved to
discover that the boy was unusually quick at his studies and promised,
so far as could at present be judged, to make a very satisfactory
successor to the Throne.

His agitation upon being admitted to Fujitsubo was not indeed such as
it would have been some years ago; but the meeting was an affecting one
and they had much to discuss together. One thing I had almost forgot:
by one of the priest’s servants who had come with them all the way
to the Capital he sent a number of letters to Akashi; among them a
long one to the priest’s daughter, in which, as he was able to convey
it to her secretly, he did his best, by dint of tender messages and
allusions, to comfort and console her. In it was the poem: ‘At Akashi
is all night spent[22] in weeping? And do the mists of morning hide the
long-looked-for light of day?’

At last Lady Gosechi,[23] who silently and unknown to all the world
had been grieving bitterly at Genji’s exile, was able to relieve her
feelings by taking action. It was natural and proper that she should
write to congratulate him upon his recall. She did so, but left
him to guess from whom the letter came. With it was the poem: ‘A
seafarer that with reluctant heart floated past Suma’s shore would
fain you saw her sleeve that since that day has never once grown dry.’
Her fine handwriting at once betrayed her and he replied: ‘With better
cause might I make tearful plaint, to whom you steered so close, yet
would not stay your course.’ Brief as their meeting had been, he still
preserved the happiest recollections of it and this sudden reminder of
her made him for a moment hope that their friendship might one day be
renewed. But what was he thinking of! Now and henceforward there were
to be no more frivolities of that kind. Thus he cautioned himself, and
the result was that even the Lady at the Village of Falling Flowers
received only a formal intimation of his return. To know that he was
to be seen and not to see him was worse than his being utterly out of
reach, and the poor lady was unhappier than ever now that he was again
at the Nijō-in.

[1] Instituted in China in the 6th century. It centred round the
reading of the _Jēn Wang Ching_ (Nanjio No. 17) in which Buddha
instructs the great kings of the earth how to preserve their countries
from calamity.

[2] A Court title. Yoshikiyo was son of the Governor of Harima and
had courted the Lady of Akashi. See vol. i, p. 138, where, following
another text, I have called him Yoshizane.

[3] It would be said that he was running after the Lady of Akashi, the
old recluse’s daughter.

[4] Lao Tzŭ, say the commentators; but this saying does not occur in
the _Tao Tē Ching_.

[5] The mirror-poem, p. 108.

[6] Evidently a Chinese tune. Attempts to identify it have hitherto
been very unconvincing.

[7] Priests who collected money for their community by going round
playing the _biwa_ at street-corners.

[8] Which he had taught to Murasaki.

[9] 898–930. Sixtieth Emperor of Japan.

[10] 810–823. Fifty-second Emperor of Japan.

[11] Po Chü-i. The reference is to his poem _The Lute Girl’s Song._

[12] A service performed at dawn, sunrise, midday, sunset, dusk and
nightfall.

[13] A double paper; light blue on a white ground.

[14] Rokujō.

[15] Buddha.

[16] There is some doubt about the punctuation of this and the
following sentence.

[17] See vol. i, pp. 137 seq. Some texts call Yoshikiyo ‘Yoshizane,’ as
I have done in vol. i. See above, p. 113.

[18] Which remained unaltered whatever tuning was adopted.

[19] ‘It is not for myself I mind; but since the Gods are just, for him
who is forsworn I am indeed afraid.’ No. 38 of the _Hundred Poems_; it
is by Lady Ukon, 10th century.

[20] The Royal Gods Izanagi and Isanami bore a leech-child; as at the
age of three it could not stand they cast it adrift in a boat.

[21] After a sort of game of hide-and-seek round the Pillar of the
Palace of Heaven these Gods met face to face and Izanagi exclaimed: ‘I
have met a lovely maiden’; whereupon they became husband and wife and
bore the leech-child.

[22] _Akashi_ means ‘spending the whole night.’

[23] See p. 129.

CHAPTER XIV

THE FLOOD GAUGE

Since the night of his so vivid and disquieting dream, the late Emperor
had been constantly in Genji’s thoughts. He longed to succour his
father’s soul, weighed down as it was (if the words of that nightly
apparition were indeed to be trusted) by a load of earthly sin. Now
that he was back in the City he was anxious to lose no time, and the
great ceremony of the Eight Readings, for which he had begun to make
arrangements soon after his return, was duly carried out in the Godless
Month.[1] The manner in which this function was attended showed that
Genji had fully regained his former ascendancy.

Ill though she was, Kōkiden still had sufficient interest in what went
on about her to be furious at this recrudescence of a force which she
confidently supposed herself to have annihilated. But the Emperor, much
as he stood in awe of her, was now obsessed by the idea that if he
again disobeyed the late Emperor’s injunction some terrible calamity
would overtake him. The feeling that he had successfully insisted
upon Genji’s recall quite braced him, and the pain in his eyes, which
had till recently been very troublesome, now began to show signs of
improvement. But he did not somehow feel that he was likely to be very
much longer on the Throne. There were many matters which he desired
to see satisfactorily settled while he was still capable of
attending to them, and he constantly summoned Genji to the Palace to
consult him upon the most confidential affairs of policy and state. In
doing so he was but following his real inclination; this was very well
understood in the country and the public at large was delighted to see
the Emperor once more asserting himself.

As the time drew near when he intended to renounce the Throne, the
Emperor became increasingly concerned with regard to the effect
that this step would have upon Lady Oborozuki’s career. ‘My poor
grand-father, the late Chief Minister, is gone,’ he said to her one
day; ‘and it does not look as though my mother[2] would be with us
much longer. I myself have no intention of remaining on the Throne. I
am afraid you will be left in a most tiresome position. I know that
there is some one whom you have always liked better than me. But I do
not think anyone could possibly be more attached to you than I am, and
it distresses me continually to think what will become of you when
I am gone. Even if your former friend is willing to look after you
again, however kind he is to you, I am quite certain he will take far
less trouble about you than I do.’ The colour rushed to her cheeks and
her eyes filled with tears. He saw that he had wounded her and, moved
to sudden pity by the spectacle of her humiliation and remorse, he
forgot all her misdeeds and continued in a gentler tone: ‘What a pity
that we have never had any children! I am sure you and he will have
some later on, and it will be a pity that they are his and not mine,
because they will only be commoners, you know.’ He went on for some
while discussing what would happen after he was dead, her distress and
remorse increasing at every word. Her charm was such that, despite his
jealousy, the Emperor had grown steadily more attached to her in
the years that had passed. But though his partiality had raised her to
a position of undisputed pre-eminence at Court, she had not at any time
been happy. At first she brooded incessantly upon Genji’s comparative
indifference towards her, but later, as her sense of responsibility
increased, she marvelled more and more at the childish recklessness
which had led her into that miserable adventure and, besides destroying
her own good name, had reacted so disastrously upon her seducer.

In the second month of the new year the Initiation Ceremony of the
Crown Prince was performed. He was only eleven years old but was big
for his age, and it was already apparent that he was developing an
extraordinary resemblance to his guardian, Prince Genji. In this the
world saw nothing to complain of; their future monarch could not, they
felt, have chosen a better model. But the Lady Abbess, his mother,
watched the growing resemblance with very different feelings and could
not but imagine that it was arousing the blackest suspicions.

The Emperor himself was greatly relieved to see that the boy was
shaping so well, and he now began to prepare Lady Kōkiden for the
news that he intended to vacate the Throne. His actual resignation
came suddenly, indeed before the end of the second month, and Kōkiden
was very much upset. To put matters right he assured her that his
abdication had but one motive: namely, that he might be free to devote
his poor abilities to looking after her. At this she was naturally
somewhat mollified.

Fujitsubo’s son accordingly became Emperor under the title Ryōzen, and
Lady Jōkyōden’s little son became Crown Prince. The new regime bore
somewhat the character of a Restoration and was marked by a return
to all the gaieties and festivities of the old Emperor’s reign. From
being President of Council, Genji became Palace Counsellor; it
was intended that he should fulfil the functions of Chief Minister, and
it was only because the two ministerial posts were already filled that
this less imposing title was given him. Genji however professed himself
quite unable to cope with the duties of so arduous a function, and
proposed that Aoi’s father, the Minister of the Left, should be asked
to assume control. But the old man pointed out that illness had long
ago obliged him to forgo the executive part of his duties. Since then
he had not grown any younger, and feared that his head was no longer
clear enough to deal with complicated affairs. Genji replied that in
the Other Land,[3] at times of change and uncertainty, even those who
had retreated far away among the hills had sometimes been prevailed
upon to return and lend their aid to a government that showed itself
to be well-disposed. Nor had such men ever considered that their white
hairs constituted a bar, but had come forward gladly to take office
under the new regime. And indeed for doing so they had always been
deemed true paladins of wisdom. ‘It is my desire,’ Genji concluded,
‘and that of the Council that you should resume the position which you
held before your health obliged you to withdraw, and we feel that in
doing so you may be sure of incurring no hostile criticism from any
quarter.’ It was quite true that retired Ministers had sometimes been
known to resume their functions. The old man withdrew his opposition
and allowed them to make him Grand Minister with Plenary Powers. He was
now sixty-three. Since the decline of his public influence, his whole
family had lived very much under a cloud. But now that he was again
in the ascendant they began to resume their old place in society. His
sons were soon once more entrusted with positions of great importance;
in particular, Tō no Chūjō became Privy Counsellor of the Second
Class. Chūjō’s daughter, who was now twelve years old, was being
trained for the Court, whither she was to be sent as soon as she was
old enough. The boy who had sung the Ballad of Takasago so prettily
some years ago, was already installed as one of the Emperor’s pages and
was thought to be doing very well. Besides these he had a number of
other children, all of them very promising, and Genji, whose exiguous
progeny was of small comfort to him, quite envied Chūjō the size and
prosperity of his young family.

Yūgiri, Genji’s son by Aoi, was a fine little fellow. He was already
attached to the suite of the new Crown Prince. The princess, Aoi’s
mother, remained entirely unmoved by the renewed good fortunes of her
husband and family. Indeed, this return to happier days only served
to awaken fresh memories of the daughter whose loss had marked the
beginning of all their troubles. Her one consolation had been that
by her death Aoi had been spared the torture which Genji’s disgrace
and banishment would have inflicted upon her proud and fastidious
nature. Now that he was restored to his former glories not even this
consideration remained valid. Genji continued to show her the same
attentions as before his exile and lost no opportunity of going over to
the Great Hall. Yūgiri’s old nurse and other members of the household
had during all these years remained faithfully at their posts, and
Genji contrived, in one way and another, to show each of them how much
he appreciated her patience and fidelity. The recipients of these small
favours were in a state of rapturous gratitude and delight.

He was also deeply touched by the conduct of the gentlewomen at
the Nijō-in, in whom he had formerly shown so little interest. He
determined henceforward to take more pains about them. He soon found
himself so much occupied in paying small attentions to Miss
Chūjō, Madam Nakatsukasa and other good ladies of his household, that
he scarcely ever had time to leave the house. He was also much taken up
with the rebuilding of a lodge which stood to the east of his palace,
on an estate which had belonged to his father. He took great trouble
over the work and had the place put in splendid order, for it was his
intention to lend it to unfortunate or unprotected persons, such as the
lady at ‘the village of falling flowers,’ whom he could best assist if
he had them near at hand.

Meanwhile he often wondered how the Lady of Akashi was faring, but
he was at this time so much occupied both with private and national
affairs that he could not get news of her as often as he would have
liked to do. He reckoned that her delivery was likely to take place
early in the third month, and about that time he contrived to send a
secret courier to Akashi and learnt that the event had already taken
place sixteen days ago. It was a girl, and everything had gone well.
This was Genji’s first daughter, and he felt quite excited. But how
callous he had been to let her go through all this alone! Why had he
not brought her with him to the City and looked after her while this
was happening? He felt, indeed, a sudden outburst of tenderness towards
her and of remorse at his own hardness of heart.

Astronomers had once told him that he would have three children, of
whom the eldest and youngest would eventually ascend the Throne, while
the middle one would rise to be Chief Minister. They had further
said it would be the lowest-born of the three mothers who would give
birth to the future Empress. All that had happened so far fitted in
very well with their prognostications. The prophecy that his children
would attain Imperial rank and lead the Government of the country had
been repeatedly made by sign-readers of all kinds; but during
the difficult times from which Genji had just emerged it appeared to
be wildly improbable that any of these hopes would be fulfilled. But
now the safe accession of Ryōzen to the Throne made him feel that
everything would happen as the soothsayers had foretold. That he
himself was not destined to achieve such honours had been generally
recognized and he had long ago given up regarding such a thing as
within the bounds of possibility. So well had this been recognized by
his father, the old Emperor, that although Genji was his favourite son
he had given special instructions that he was to remain a commoner.
As regards Ryōzen, it was not of course recognized in the world that
His Majesty was Genji’s son; but that, after all, did not in any way
invalidate the truth of the sign-readers’ prognostications.

But if this new child were really going to be empress it seemed almost
disrespectful to have allowed her to be born at so strange a place. He
must make amends to this future sovereign, and that he might soon be
able to lodge both mother and child in proper comfort, he ordered his
bailiffs to push through the rebuilding of the eastern lodge as rapidly
as possible.

It occurred to him that it would be very difficult for her to secure
a suitable wet-nurse at Akashi. He chanced to hear of a young woman,
a child of the old Emperor’s Lady-in-Attendance, who had recently,
under distressing circumstances, been left with an infant on her hands.
Both the Lady-in-Attendance and her husband, who had been one of the
Royal Chamberlains, were dead, and the girl had been left entirely to
her own devices; with the result which I have mentioned above. His
informant undertook to interview the girl and, if possible, persuade
her to take service at Akashi. She did not in point of fact need very
much persuasion. She was young and thoughtless and thoroughly
tired of sitting all day in a large tumble-down house with nothing to
do but stare in front of her. She could not imagine any service which
she would better like to enter than his, and at once agreed to go.
Genji was of course delighted; though he felt somewhat uncomfortable
at sending away a young girl to a place where she would enjoy so few
distractions. There were certain matters which it was necessary to
talk over with her, and in complete secrecy, with many precautions
against his absence being noticed at home, he contrived to visit the
young woman’s house. She did not actually withdraw her consent; but
she was now feeling very nervous about the whole business. Genji,
however, took so much trouble in explaining to her what she had to do
and in removing all her doubts and apprehensions that in the end she
put herself entirely at his disposal. It happened to be a lucky day,
and with many apologies for giving her so little time he asked her to
get ready for the journey. ‘It seems very hard,’ Genji said, ‘that you
should be packed off to the country like this to look after some one
else’s child. But I am particularly anxious that some one should be
there. I know by experience that it will be rather dull; but you must
make up your mind to put up with it for a time, just as I did.’ Having
thus encouraged her, he gave a detailed description of the place and
all that belonged to it.

She had sometimes done service at the Palace and this was not the first
time Genji had seen her. But her misfortunes had brought her very low
and she looked years older than when he saw her last. The house was
in a hopeless state of disrepair and its vast size, together with the
carefully planned copses and avenues which surrounded it, made the
place only the more depressing. How had she contrived to hold out
there so long? His sympathy was aroused. The charm of youth had
not after all entirely deserted her, and she was intelligent. He felt
inclined to prolong the interview and said laughing: ‘Now that it is
all arranged I feel quite sorry that you have agreed to go. What do
you feel about it?’ She felt indeed that if she were destined to enter
Genji’s service at all, it would have been agreeable to find herself
consigned to a rather less remote part of his household. He now recited
the verse: ‘Can this one moment of farewell indeed have been the sum
of all our friendship, whose separation seems now like the parting of
familiar friends?’ Smiling she answered him: ‘Your chagrin, I suspect,
is not that I must leave you, but springs from envy that _I_ not _you_
should go whither your heart is set.’ Her quickness delighted him
and, whatever truth there may have been in her ironic exposure of his
feelings, he was really sorry that she was going.

He sent her as far as the boundary of the City in a wheeled
carriage,[4] under the care of his most trusted personal servants, upon
whom he had enjoined absolute silence concerning this affair. Among the
baggage was a vast number of presents, from the Guardian Sword[5] down
to the most trifling articles such as might possibly be useful to the
Lady of Akashi at this crisis; upon the young nurse too he lavished
every small attention which his ingenuity could devise, determined to
mitigate so far as was possible the discomfort of her long journey.
It amused him to picture to himself the extravagant fuss which the
old priest, at all times so comically preoccupied with his daughter’s
fortunes, must be making in this latest crisis. Not but what he was
himself filled with the tenderest concern for the Lady’s welfare. Above
all, he must not let her feel at such a minute that there was now
or ever could be any obstacle to his fulfilling the promises concerning
which she herself had always been so sceptical, and in the letter which
he now sent he spoke in the most definite manner of his intentions
towards the child and his plans for her future life at the Capital.

The travellers proceeded as far as the borders of Settsu by boat, and
thence on horseback to Akashi with all possible speed, where their
arrival was welcomed by the old recluse with boundless gratitude and
delight. With raised hands he solemnly made obeisance in the direction
of the Capital, and the mother and child, marked henceforward with this
new and unhoped-for sign of princely favour, became invested in his
eyes with an almost alarming degree of sanctity. The child was indeed a
most exquisite creature, and the young nurse felt, from the moment it
was presented to her, that Genji’s care and anxiety on its behalf were
by no means ill-bestowed. In an instant the discomforts and perils of
her long journey seemed like an evil dream, from which she had suddenly
awaked to find this pretty and enticing infant lying in her arms.
Henceforward she had no thought but how best to tend and succour it.

The mother, it seemed, had for many months past been in very low
spirits. Her confinement had left her in a condition of extreme
weakness, and she was herself convinced that she would not recover.
These fresh tokens of Genji’s affection and concern could not fail
somewhat to revive her. For the first time she raised her head from
the pillows and received the messengers with every sign of interest
and delight. They informed her that they had been ordered to return
to the Capital without a moment’s delay. She contrived to write a few
hasty lines, in which little indeed could appear of all that at that
moment she was thinking and feeling. Yet these few words made an
impression upon their recipient the violence of which surprised and
disquieted him.

He had not himself told Murasaki about the birth of his child at
Akashi, nor was it likely that anyone else would in so many words have
done so. But he feared that some inkling of the matter might reach
her, and he finally made up his mind that it would be better for her
to know all about it. ‘I had far rather that this had not happened. It
is all the more irritating because I have for so long been hoping that
you would have a child; and that, now the child has come, it should be
some one else’s instead is very provoking. It is only a girl, you know,
which really makes it rather a different matter. It would perhaps have
been better from every point of view if I had left things as they were,
but this new complication makes that quite impossible. I think, indeed,
of sending for the child. I hope that when it arrives you will not feel
ill-disposed towards it.’ She flushed: ‘That is just the sort of thing
you always used to say,’ she answered. ‘It seems to me to show a very
strange state of mind. Of course I ought to put up with it, but there
are certain things which I do not see how I can be expected to get
used to....’ ‘Softly, softly,’ he answered, laughing at her unwonted
asperity, ‘who is asking you to get used to anything? I will tell you
what you are doing. You are inventing all sorts of feelings for me such
as I have never really had at all, and then getting cross with me for
having them. That is not a very amiable proceeding, is it?’ And having
gone on in this strain for some while, he became quite cheerful.

She thought of how they had longed for one another during the years of
his exile, of his constant letters and messages. This whole affair at
Akashi—what had it been but a pastime, a momentary distraction in the
midst of his disappointments and troubles? ‘You will understand
then,’ Genji continued, ‘that I was anxious to hear how things were
going on. I sent to enquire and have just heard that everything is
still as well as one can hope for. But if I start telling you about it
now I know we shall soon be at cross purposes again....’ ‘She is of
course very charming,’ he added presently, ‘but I think my feeling for
her had a good deal to do with the place and the circumstances....’ He
began to describe how exquisitely the smoke from the salt-kilns had
tapered across the evening sky; he spoke of the poems which they had
exchanged, of his first glimpse of her by night, of her delightful
playing on the zithern. Upon all these themes he enlarged with evident
satisfaction. Murasaki while she listened could not but remember how
particularly unhappy she had been just at the very time when the
episodes which Genji was now recalling with such relish were taking
place at Akashi. Even if this affair were, as he represented it to be,
a mere pastime of the moment, it was clear that he had been singularly
successful in his search for distraction. ‘Come,’ he said at last,
‘I am doing my best to show you that I am fond of you. You had best
be quick, if you are ever going to forgive me at all; life does not
last forever. Here am I trying so hard just now not to give you the
slightest cause for one speck of jealousy or suspicion. And now just
because of this unfortunate affair....’ So saying he sent for his large
zithern and tried to persuade her to play it with him as they were used
to do. But Murasaki could not help remembering his enthusiasm for the
playing of the Lady at Akashi. With such virtuosity she did not care to
compete, and say what he would he could not persuade her to play a note.

It sometimes happened that her usual good temper and gentleness would
thus all at once desert her, giving place to a fit of wild
jealousy and resentment. To Genji these outbursts were by no means
unattractive.

It occurred to him that the fifth day of the fifth month would be the
fiftieth day of the child’s life, and he knew that his absence from
the Prayers which would be held on that day would be extremely painful
to the mother. If only he had them with him in the Capital, what a
delightful affair he could make of this Fiftieth Day Ceremony! It was
really too bad that a daughter of his should have come into existence
in such an outlandish place as this. He ought never to have allowed
it. And this was his first daughter. If it had been a boy he did not
think he would have minded nearly so much. But this girl seemed very
important, for he felt that in a sense all his misfortunes had come to
him as a preliminary to her birth, and had, if one could put it so, no
other goal or object. He lost no time in sending a messenger to Akashi
with strict injunctions to arrive there on the fifth day without fail.
The messenger duly arrived, bearing with him the most touching and
gratifying tokens of Genji’s anxiety for the welfare of his friends. To
the Lady of Akashi he sent an acrostic poem, lamenting that he should
have left her to dwell, like the pine-tree that grows beneath the
northern cliff, in a place of shadows, to which not even the rejoicings
of the Fiftieth Day would bring an altering gleam. ‘My anxiety for you
both,’ his letter continued, ‘is becoming too great a torment for me to
bear. Things cannot go on like this and I have quite decided to bring
you to the Capital. Do not however think that my care for you will end
merely with that....’ She told her father of Genji’s decision, and this
time at any rate the old man had good cause for that mixture of joy and
weeping to which he was at all times prone. Looking round at Genji’s
Fiftieth Day presents which lay about in astonishing profusion
she realized how dark a day this would have been for her but for the
coming of this messenger from the City. As a second consolation she had
for the first time, in the nurse whom Genji had sent to her, some one
to whom she could confide the affairs of her heart, and this changed
her whole life. Her father had gathered about her, picking them up one
by one as opportunity offered, a collection of dames who, as regards
birth and upbringing, were quite the equals of the new nurse. But the
mountain solitudes of Akashi did not offer much scope for choice and
the poor ladies were one and all the most tottering and antiquated
relics of bygone Courts. Among them the new arrival felt incredibly
brisk and smart and in this gloomy company her opinion of herself went
up by leaps and bounds. She had endless stories about life at the
Capital; and when these failed, she had only to describe some occasion
at which Genji had figured or some incident showing the affection in
which he was held or the extent of the power which he now wielded
(subjects to which she continually returned with remarkable zest):
at once the Lady of Akashi’s cheeks would glow with pride. She ought
indeed to be happy that such a Prince as this should deign even to undo
and abandon her, leaving nothing to show for their love save the child
that had been begotten of it. The nurse was allowed to read Genji’s
letters, and though she did so with passionate interest, she could not
but feel somewhat jealous of her mistress’s strange and unforeseen good
fortune. At such times it would seem to the nurse that to her alone of
all mankind nothing good ever happened, till suddenly in Genji’s letter
she would come across some reference to herself: ‘What about the nurse?
How is she turning out?’ and so forth, or sometimes even more personal
enquiry about her health and spirits. Then for a long while the girl,
usually so despondent, would feel perfectly happy and contented.

To Genji’s Fiftieth Day letter the Lady of Akashi sent the following
reply: ‘Alas that to the little crane who calls to you from among the
numberless islands of the deep, you do not come, though the Fiftieth
Day[6] be come.’ ‘I am for a thousand reasons,’ she continued, ‘in
great despondency concerning our future; and for that very reason
occasional kindnesses such as you have to-day shown to me are all the
more precious. As for myself I do not rightly know what will become of
me. But I earnestly hope that our daughter at any rate may live to be a
consolation to you rather than an embarrassment and anxiety.’

Genji carried this letter about with him and constantly re-read it half
aloud to himself, pausing over every sentence with fond deliberation;
Murasaki could not fail to notice his preoccupation and once, hearing
him thus employed, she murmured the song: ‘Far from me have you drifted
as those boats that, starting from Mikuma shore, now row far out at
sea.’ She had not meant him to hear. But he looked up and said sharply:
‘Do you really think that it is so bad as that! I should have thought
you would understand exactly what such a letter as this must mean
to me. It is perfectly natural that I should be interested, deeply
interested in an occasional budget of news from a place where I spent
so long a time, and if in reading it I come across references which
remind me suddenly of some interesting event or experience of those
days, I think it is quite natural that I should occasionally break out
into an exclamation, or something of that sort. It would be much better
if you simply pretended not to hear. But here is the letter.’ He held
it out to her, but in such a way that she could only see the outer fold
upon which the address was written. Examining the writing she saw at
once that it was a flawless hand, such as the greatest lady in
the land would have had no cause to disown. From that moment she knew
what was in store for her; this would assuredly prove no fleeting fancy.

In spite of these preoccupations his thoughts sometimes turned towards
the Lady in the Village of Falling Flowers and he realized with dismay
that he had not once been near her since his return to the Capital. For
one thing, his new position in the Government had given him so much
business to look after and was attended by formalities and restrictions
which made it more than ever difficult for him to go about as he chose.
Part of the fault however was certainly hers; for, inured to a life
that offered few novelties or distractions, she was willing to accept
without ill-temper or complaint such treatment as others would have
found insufferable. But the fifth month at last brought him a little
leisure. Once more he thought of his obligation, and this time he
actually managed to slip away and make the long-deferred visit. It was
a comfort that here at least he was certain of not being treated to any
exhibition of fashionable tantrums, coquettishly withering glances or
well-calculated resentment; for he knew that, seldom as she saw him,
his interest in her was by far the most important fact in her life,
and a visit from him was not lightly to be sacrificed to some useless
outburst of jealousy or irritation.

The house had in these last years grown rapidly more and more
dilapidated and had indeed become a most melancholy-looking place.
After paying his respects to the elder sister he hastened to the main
entrance of the western wing and stood in the porch. It was near
midnight; the moon had sunk behind a bank of light clouds. It was with
feelings of inexpressible joy and agitation that she suddenly saw his
figure dimly outlined in the darkness. She had been sitting at
the lattice and, in her shyness, did not rise when she saw him. They
continued to converse thus, he in the porch and she at her window, but
there was in her manner no hint of unfriendliness or reprobation. What
a relief to encounter at last a disposition so grateful and unexacting!
Some water-fowl were clamouring quite close to the house. She recited
the verse: ‘Dare I admit you to a house so desolate that even the
shy water-birds regard it as their home?’ Her voice died away to a
whisper as she reached the last words in a way which he found strangely
alluring. What a lot of nice people there seemed to be in the world,
thought Genji. And the odd part of it was that it was just this very
fact which made life so difficult and fatiguing. He answered with the
verse: ‘If the cry of the water-fowl brings you always so promptly to
your door, _some_ visitor there must be whom it is your pleasure to
admit.’ This was of course mere word-play. He did not for a moment
suppose that any such agreeable adventures ever fell to her lot; nor
indeed that she would welcome them. For though she had had to wait
years for this visit, he felt confident that her fidelity had never
once wavered. She reminded him of his poem: ‘Gaze not into the sky....’
and of all that had befallen at that farewell scene on the eve of
his departure for Suma. ‘It seems strange,’ she said at last, ‘that I
of all people should so much have minded your being away, considering
how seldom I see you when you are here!’ But even this was said with
perfect gentleness and good humour. His reply to this charge was, you
may be sure, both prompt and conciliatory, and it was not long before
he had managed, by kindness of one sort or another, to make her, for
the moment at any rate, as happy as it is possible for any woman to be.

He often thought during these days of Lady Gosechi, and would
very much have liked to see her again; but the difficulties seemed too
great and he did not attempt it. Her parents saw plainly enough that
she had not got over her unfortunate attachment and did their best to
settle her future in some other way. But she for her part declared she
had given up all thought of lovers or marriage. ‘If only I had some
large convenient building,’ thought Genji, ‘where I could house these
friends of mine and be able to keep an eye not only on them, but on
any babies that might chance to get born, how much simpler life would
be!’ The new eastern wing was indeed promising to prove a very handsome
affair and thoroughly in the style of the moment. He was impatient to
get it finished, and now appointed special foremen to superintend the
different branches of the work and get it put through as quickly as
possible.

Not infrequently something would happen to remind him of the Lady
Oborozuki and despite all that had happened a fresh wave of longing
would beset him. She for her part had not only suffered but learnt
her lesson and utterly refused to have any dealings with him, which
made him feel very irritated and depressed. Now that the ex-Emperor
Suzaku was relieved of the cares of Government, he became somewhat more
animated and showed a certain amount of interest in music and other
Court diversions. It was curious that among all his Ladies-in-Waiting
and Ladies-of-the-Wardrobe it was to Lady Jōkyōden, the mother of the
Crown Prince, that he paid the least attention. Not even the singular
chance which made her mother of the Heir Apparent seemed able to
restore to her any particle of the ascendancy which she had lost when
Lady Oborozuki was taken into favour. She had indeed left the Emperor’s
Palace and now lived in apartments attached to those of the Crown
Prince, her son. Genji’s rooms at Court were in the old Shigeisa; the
Crown Prince was occupying the Nashitsubo, which was not far
away. Thus Genji, as a near neighbour, was constantly consulted by the
Prince’s staff and was often able to be of considerable assistance to
them.

As Fujitsubo had become a nun, her full rank could not be restored; but
she received a Royal Grant equivalent to that of an Empress Mother,[7]
together with the services of such State officers as usually wait
upon an ex-Empress. The whole of these additional resources went in
the celebration of those religious functions which had now become her
whole employment in life. For many years she had felt that it was
impossible for her to appear at Court and to her great distress her
son, the present Emperor, had grown up a stranger to her. Now that he
was safely on the Throne she could come and go as she pleased; and
indeed her constant presence at Court now became the greatest grievance
of her old rival Kōkiden, who saw in it the frustration of all the
schemes to which her whole life had been devoted. Genji bore Kōkiden
no malice and, without thrusting his services upon her, did what he
could to help her. The fact that these magnanimous overtures were met
with unrelenting hostility was observed by all at Court and made a most
painful impression.

Prince Hyōbukyō had treated Genji with marked coldness in the period
before his exile. Now that Genji’s fortunes were again on the ascendant
he appeared anxious to renew their former friendship; but Genji felt
little inclined to do so. That at a time when so many animosities were
in abeyance and so many broken friendships had been renewed Genji and
her brother should be on these very indifferent terms was to Fujitsubo
a source of great disappointment and anxiety.

Power was now pretty equally divided between Genji himself
and his father-in-law, the old Minister at the Great Hall. In the
eighth month of this year Tō no Chūjō’s daughter came to Court.
Her grandfather, the old Minister, was a conspicuous figure at the
Presentation and saw to it that the ceremony should lack no jot of its
traditional grandeur. It was well known that Prince Hyōbukyō would very
much have liked to see his second daughter in a similar position. But
Genji did not feel sufficiently friendly towards him to second this
design, particularly as there were many other young ladies who were
quite as well qualified to fill the post. Prince Hyōbukyō saw nothing
for it but to submit.

In the autumn Genji made his pilgrimage to the Shrine of Sumiyoshi,
where, as will be remembered, he had various vows to fulfil. The
occasion was made one of public importance and the splendour of his
cortège, in which all the greatest noblemen and courtiers of the day
vied with one another to take part, made a deep impression throughout
the kingdom. The Lady of Akashi had been unable to pay her accustomed
visit to the Shrine either last autumn or during the spring of this
year. She determined to renew the practice, and it so happened that she
arrived by boat at Sumiyoshi just as Genji’s magnificent procession
was passing along the shore. She saw throngs of servitors, laden with
costly offerings; she saw the Eastern Dancers,[8] in companies of ten,
riding by on horseback, men of picked stature, conspicuous in their
strange blue-striped dress. Not a word concerning Genji’s visit to
Sumiyoshi had reached her, and turning to some one who was standing
near she asked what procession this might be. ‘What procession?’ the
man exclaimed in astonishment. ‘Why, the Chief Minister’s!’ and a
shout of laughter went up at the notion that there could possibly exist
anybody in the world who had not heard of this all-important event,
laughter in which a number of rough scallawags who were standing by
joined as heartily as the rest.

She was confounded. That after all these long months of waiting it
should be thus she met him showed indeed to what a different world
he really belonged! Yet after all they were not quite strangers, he
and she. She was at least of more account in his eyes than these
wretches who had scoffed at her ignorance, than all this rabble who
cared nothing for him and had come here only that they might boast
of having shared in his triumph. How cruel an irony that she who
thought of him and him only, who painfully gathered together every
scrap of intelligence concerning his health and movements, should all
unwittingly have chosen this disastrous day for her journey, while all
the rest of the world resounded with the news of his coming; she hid
her face and wept. The procession moved on its way—innumerable green
cloaks, with here and there a scarlet one among them, bright as an
autumn maple-tree amid a grove of pines. In cavalcade after cavalcade
the varying colours flashed by, now dark, now light.[9] Among the
officers of the Sixth Grade there was one whose sheriff’s coat of
gold and green made him conspicuous; this was Ukon, the gentleman who
upon the occasion of Genji’s visit to the Imperial Tombs had recited
the verse: ‘Little, alas, they heed their worshippers....’[10] He had
become captain of the Quiver Bearers, and as such was attended by
more numerous officers than any other of the sheriffs. Among these
attendants was Yoshikiyo, who in a resplendent crimson cloak,
worn with an air of the utmost nonchalance, was perhaps the handsomest
figure in all the throng.

Here, prosperous and happy, were all the knights and gentlemen whom she
had seen at Akashi; then a pitiable band, now scattered amongst a vast
cohort of partisans and retainers. The young princes and courtiers who
rode with the procession had vied with one another in the magnificence
of their accoutrement. Such gorgeous saddles and trappings had rarely
been seen; and it may be imagined how they dazzled the eye of a country
girl, fresh from her hillside retreat. At last came Genji’s coach.
She could catch but a momentary glimpse of it; and of the face for
which she yearned with so ardent a longing she could see nothing at
all. Imitating the example of the great Tōru[11] he was attended by
boy outriders. They were charmingly dressed, their hair looped at the
sides and tied with purple ribbons. The ten of them were arranged
according to their height, and a very pretty sight they were as they
filed past in their dainty costumes. A boy rode by, clad in the dress
of a Court page, a person of some consequence evidently, for he was
obsequiously watched over and assisted, while a posse of boy grooms,
each differently dressed, yet forming between them a carefully designed
pattern, rode in his train. She was told that this was Prince Yūgiri,
Genji’s son by Lady Aoi. She thought of her own daughter for whom so
different a fate seemed to be reserved, and in sad submission bowed her
head towards the Shrine. The Governor of the Province had now appeared,
his arrival being attended by greater pomp than had ever before marked
his intercourse with a Minister on pilgrimage. The Lady of Akashi saw
clearly that even should she succeed in forcing her way through the
crowd, there was little chance that in the midst of all these
excitements the God would pay any attention to her insignificant
offering. She was on the point of going home again, since there seemed
to be no object in staying any longer, when it occurred to her that
she might at any rate row over to Naniwa and perform the ceremony of
Purification. This she did, while Genji, still unaware that she had
been so near him, spent the rest of the evening preforming his vows
within the Shrine. At last, thinking that by now the God ought to be
thoroughly content, Genji determined to enjoy himself a little into
the bargain; and the rest of the night was spent by the whole company
in the most lively fashion imaginable. Koremitsu and the rest made a
mental note that for certain kinds of religious observance there was
much to be said. It happened that Genji went outside for a little while
and Koremitsu, who was with him, recited an acrostic verse in which he
hinted that beneath the pine-trees of Sumiyoshi a less solemn stillness
now prevailed than when the Gods first ruled on earth. This could not
be denied, and indeed to Genji too a joyful time had succeeded to an
age of sadness. He therefore answered with the verse: ‘That from wild
waves whose onslaught drove me from my course this God delivered me,
I shall not soon forget.’ Koremitsu then went on to tell him how the
boat from Akashi, dismayed by the crowds that flocked the Shrine, had
put out again to sea. He hated to think that she had been there without
his knowing it; besides, he felt now that it was this very God of
Sumiyoshi who had given her to him for a bride. He could not let her go
back without a word from him to cheer her. To think that she had come
and gone without his even hearing that she was at hand would certainly
grieve her worst of all. But for the moment she had gone further up the
coast and there was nothing to be done.

After leaving Sumiyoshi he visited several places in the neighbourhood.
At Naniwa he too underwent the ceremony of Purification, together with
other ceremonies, particularly the Ablution of the Seven Streams.
As he passed the estuary of Horiye he murmured ‘Like the Tide-gauge
at Naniwa...,’[12] hardly knowing why the lines had come into his
head. Koremitsu, who was near his coach, overheard these words, and
regarding them as a command to him to produce writing materials (a
duty for which he was often in request) he whipped out a short-handled
pen from the folds of his dress and as soon as Genji’s coach came to a
standstill handed it in to him. Genji was amused by his promptness and
on a folded paper wrote the lines: ‘That once again our love to its
flood-mark shall rise, what better presage than this chance meeting
by the tide-gauge of the shore?’ This he sent across to Naniwa by the
hand of an underling who, from conversation with her servants, knew at
what address she was to be found. Much as she had suffered at seeing
him pass her by, it needed only this trifling message to allay all her
agitation. In a flutter of gratitude and pride she indited the answer:
‘How comes it[13] that to the least of those who bide as pilgrims in
this town you bear a love that mounts so high upon the flood-gauge
of your heart?’ She had that day been bathing in the Holy Waters at
the Shrine of Rain-coat Island, and she sent him her poem tied to a
prayer-strip which she had brought from the Shrine. When the message
reached Genji it was already growing dark; the tide was full, and the
cranes along the river-mouth had with one accord set up their strange
and moving cry. Touched by the beauty of the place and hour, he
suddenly lost all patience with the crowds that surged around him.
Could he but banish them all from his sight and find himself with only
the writer of this diffident poem at his side!

The journey back to the City was enlivened by many excursions and
entertainments, but all the while his thoughts continually returned
to the strange coincidence of that unhappy meeting. Quantities of
dancing-girls had attached themselves to his retinue. Despite their
total lack of sense or breeding, their company appeared to afford a
vast deal of satisfaction to the hot-blood young gentlemen who formed
Genji’s escort. This seemed to him very strange. One cannot enjoy
beautiful scenery or works of art in the company of any but the right
person; and surely if, in such matters as that, one is so easily put
off by commonness or stupidity, it must make some difference _whom_ one
chooses as partner in these far more intimate associations? He could
not indeed contrive to take the slightest interest in these creatures.
They on their side quickly perceived that they were not being a
success, and at once redoubled their efforts; with the consequence that
he found them only the more repulsive.

Next day was marked a ‘good day’ in the calendar, and Genji’s party
being safely on its way back to the Capital, the Lady of Akashi was
able to return to Sumiyoshi and pursue her devotions in peace, now at
last finding occasion to fulfil the many vows that had accumulated
since her last visit to the Shrine. Her recent glimpse of Genji in
all his glory had but increased the misgivings which day and night
beset her: amid such surroundings as that it was impossible that
so insignificant a person as herself should not rapidly sink into
obscurity and contempt. She did not expect to hear from him again till
he was back at Court. She was counting the days, when to her
surprise a messenger appeared. In a letter, which had evidently been
written during the journey, he named the actual date at which he should
send for her to the City. Once more he sought to dispel all her doubts
and anxieties; she could rely upon him implicitly; her position in his
household would, he besought her to believe, be neither equivocal nor
insecure. Nevertheless, she felt that she was embarking upon a perilous
voyage under skies which, however promising an aspect they might now
be wearing, might at any moment change to the threat of a hideous
disaster. Her father too, when it came to the prospect of actually
releasing her from his care, was exceedingly perturbed; indeed he
dreaded her departure for the Capital even more than he had feared the
prospect of her remaining forever buried in her rustic home. Her answer
to Genji was full of reservations and misgivings concerning her fitness
for the position which he promised her.

The retirement of the Emperor Suzaku had necessitated the appointment
of a new Vestal at Ise, and Lady Rokujō had brought her daughter back
again to the City. Genji had written the usual congratulations and
this had given her immense pleasure; but she had no desire to give
him the opportunity of once more distracting her as he had done in
those old days, and she had answered only in the most formal terms.
Consequently he had not, since her return, made any attempt to visit
her. He did indeed make some vague suggestion of a meeting; but these
hints were very half-hearted and it was a relief to him that they
were not taken. He had recently decided not to complicate his life by
outside relationships even of the most harmless kind: he simply had
not time. And particularly in a case of this sort he saw no object in
forcing his society upon some one who did not desire it. He was however
extremely curious to see how the Vestal Virgin, now known as Lady
Akikonomu, had grown up. Rokujō’s old palace in the Sixth Ward had been
admirably repaired and redecorated, and life there was in these days
by no means intolerable. Rokujō herself had gifts of character and
intelligence which the passage of years had not obliterated. Her own
personality and the unusual beauty of many of her gentlewomen combined
to make her house a meeting place for men of fashion, and though she
was herself at times very lonely, she was leading a life with which
she was on the whole by no means ill-contented, when her health gave
way. She felt at once that there was no hope for her, and oppressed
by the thought that she had for so long been living in a sinful
place,[14] she resolved to become a nun. This news was a great blow
to Genji. That he would ever again meet her as a lover, he had long
felt to be impossible. But he thought of her as a friend whose company
and conversation would always be among his greatest pleasures. That
she should have felt it necessary to take this solemn and irrevocable
step was a terrible shock, and on hearing what had happened he at once
hastened to her palace. It proved to be a most harrowing visit. He
found her in a state of complete collapse. Screens surrounded her bed;
his chair was placed outside them, as near as possible to her pillow,
and in this manner they conversed. It was evident that her strength was
rapidly failing. How bitterly he now repented that he had not come to
her sooner; had not proved, while yet there was time, that his passion
for her had never expired! He wept bitterly, and Rokujō on her side,
amazed to realize from the very intensity of his grief that during all
the years when she had imagined herself to be forgotten, she had never
been wholly absent from his thoughts, in a moment discarded all
her bitterness, and seeing that his distress was unendurable began with
the utmost tenderness to lead his thoughts to other matters. She spoke
after a while about her daughter, Lady Akikonomu, the former Virgin
of Ise, begging him to help her on in the world in any way he could.
‘I had hoped,’ she said, ‘having cast the cares of the world aside,
to live on quietly at any rate until this child of mine should have
reached an age when she could take her life into her own hands....’ Her
voice died away. ‘Even if you had not mentioned it, I should always
have done what I could to help her,’ answered Genji, ‘but now that you
have made this formal request to me, you may be sure that I shall make
it my business to look after her and protect her in every way that
lies in my power. You need have no further anxiety on that score....’
‘It will not be so easy,’ she answered. ‘Even a girl whose welfare
has been the sole object of devoted parents often finds herself in a
very difficult position if her mother dies and she has only her father
to rely upon. But your task will, I fear, be far harder than that of
a widowed father. Any kindness that you show the girl will at once
be misinterpreted; she will be mixed up in all sorts of unpleasant
bickerings and all your own friends will be set against her. And this
brings me to a matter which is really very difficult to speak about.
I wish I were so sure in my own mind that you would _not_ make love
to her. Had she my experience, I should have no fear for her. But
unfortunately she is utterly ignorant and indeed is just the sort of
person who might easily suffer unspeakable torment through finding
herself in such a position. I cannot help wishing that I could provide
for her future in some way that was not fraught with this particular
danger....’ What an extraordinary notion, thought Genji. How could she
have got such a thing into her head? ‘You are thinking of me as I
was years ago,’ he answered quickly. ‘I have changed a great deal since
then, as you would soon discover if you knew more about me....’

Out of doors it was now quite dark. The room where he was sitting
was lit only by the dim glow that, interrupted by many partitions,
filtered through from the great lamp in the hall. Some one had entered
the room. He peeped cautiously through a tear in one of the screens
which surrounded the bed. In the very uncertain light he could just
distinguish Rokujō’s form. Her hair was cropped, as is customary with
novices before the final tonsure; but elegantly and with taste, so that
her head, outlined against the pillows, made a delicate and charming
picture. On the far side of the bed he could distinguish a second
figure. This surely must be Lady Akikonomu. There was a point at which
the screens had been carelessly joined, and looking through this gap he
saw a young girl sitting in an attitude of deep dejection with her chin
resting on her hand. So far as he could judge from this very imperfect
view she was exceedingly good-looking. Her hair that hung loose to the
ground, the carriage of her head, her movements and expression,—all
had a singular dignity and grace; yet despite this proud air there was
something about her affectionate, almost appealing. But was he not
already beginning to take just that interest in her person against
which her mother had a few moments ago been warning him? He hastily
corrected his thoughts. Lady Rokujō now spoke again: ‘I am in great
pain,’ she said, ‘and fear that at any moment my end may come. I would
not have you witness my last agonies. Pray leave me at once.’ This she
said with great difficulty, her women supporting her on either side.
‘How glad I should have been,’ said Genji, ‘if my visit had made you
better. I am afraid it has only made you worse. I cannot bear to
leave you in such pain. Tell me what it is that hurts so much?’ And
so saying he made as though to come to her side. ‘Do not come to me!’
she cried out in terror, ‘I am grown hideous; you would not know me.
Does what I say seem to you very strange and disjointed? It may be that
my thoughts wander a little, for I am dying. Thank you for bearing
patiently with me at such a time. I am much easier in my mind now that
I have had this talk with you. I had meant to for a long time....’ ‘I
am touched,’ replied Genji, ‘that you should have thought of me as
a person to whom you could confide these requests. As you know, my
father the late Emperor had a very large number of sons and daughters;
for my part, I am not very intimate with any of them. But, when his
brother died, he also regarded Lady Akikonomu here as though she were
his own child and for that reason I have every right to regard her as
my sister and help her in just those ways which a brother might. It is
true that I am a great deal older than she is; but my own family is
sadly small,[15] and I could well afford to have some one else to look
after....’

After his return he sent incessantly to enquire after her progress and
constantly wrote to her. She died some eight days later. He was deeply
distressed, for a long while took no interest in anything that happened
and had not the heart to go even so far as the Emperor’s Palace. The
arrangements concerning her funeral and many other matters about which
she had left behind instructions fell entirely upon him, for there was
no one else to whom her people could apply. Fortunately the officers
who had been attached to Lady Akikonomu’s suite while she was at Ise
still remained in her service and they were able to give her a certain
amount of assistance. Before the funeral Genji called in person
and sent in a note to the bereaved lady of the house. A housekeeper
(one of the people from Ise) brought back word that her mistress was
completely overwhelmed by her loss and could not reply to him. He
sent in a second message reminding Lady Akikonomu that her mother had
solemnly committed her to his care and begging her not to regard him
as an alien intruder into her affairs. He then sent for the various
members of the household and gave them their instructions. He did so
with an air of confidence and authority which surprised those who
remembered for how long he had absented himself from that house. The
funeral was carried out with the utmost pomp, the bier being attended
not only by her servants, but by all Genji’s servants and retainers.

For a long while afterwards he was immersed in prayers and penances
and but seldom emerged from the seclusion of a thickly curtained
recess. To Lady Akikonomu he sent many messages of enquiry, to which
she now answered in her own hand. She had at first been too shy to do
so; much to the dismay of her old nurse, who explained to her that
not to answer letters is considered very uncivil. One day as he sat
watching the wild storms of sleet and snow that were sweeping in a
confused blizzard across the land, he could not help wondering how
Lady Akikonomu was faring in this rough weather and sent a messenger
to her palace. ‘I wonder how you like this storm,’ he wrote, and added
the poem: ‘I see a house of mourning; dark tempests threaten it, and
high amid the clouds hovers a ghost with anxious wing.’ It was written
on light blue paper tinged with grey; the penmanship and make-up of
the note were indeed purposely intended to be such as would impress a
young girl. So much did this elegant missive dazzle her inexperienced
eye that she again felt utterly unable to reply, and it was only
when one member of her household after another reproached her for such
rudeness and ingratitude that she at last took up a sheet of heavily
scented dark-grey paper and in brush-strokes so faint as to be scarcely
distinguishable wrote the poem: ‘Would that like the snow-flakes when
they are weary of falling I might sink down upon the earth and end my
days.’ There was nothing very remarkable about the writing, but it
was an agreeable hand and one which bore unmistakable traces of the
writer’s lineage. He had formed a high opinion of her at the time when
she first went to Ise and had very much regretted her withdrawal from
the world. Now she was an ordinary person again, and, if he wished to
cultivate her acquaintance, entirely at his disposal; but this very
fact (as was usual with him) caused a revulsion of feeling. To go
forward in the direction where fewest obstacles existed seemed to him
to be taking a mean advantage. Although he was, in his attentions to
Lady Akikonomu, merely fulfilling her mother’s request, he knew quite
well how every one at Court was expecting the story to end. Well, for
once in a way their expectations would be disappointed. He was fully
determined to bring her up with the utmost propriety and, so soon as
the Emperor reached years of discretion, to present her at Court; in
fact, to adopt her as his daughter,—a thing which, considering the
smallness of his family, it was natural for him to do. He constantly
wrote her letters full of kindness and encouragement, and occasionally
called at her palace. ‘What I should really like,’ he said one day,
‘would be for you to look upon me, if you will forgive my putting it in
that way, as a substitute for your dear mother. Can you not sometimes
treat me as though I were an old friend? Can you not trust me with
some of the secrets you used to confide to her?’ Such appeals merely
embarrassed her. She had lived so secluded a life that to open
her mouth at all in a stranger’s presence seemed to her a terrible
ordeal, and her gentlewomen were in the end obliged to make such
amends as they could. It was a comfort that many of her officers and
gentlewomen were closely connected with the Imperial Family and would,
if his project for installing her in the Palace did not come to naught,
be able to help her to assert herself. He would have been glad to know
more about her appearance, but she always received him from behind
her curtains, and he neither felt justified in taking the liberties
that are accorded to a parent nor did he feel quite sure enough of
himself to wish to put his parental feelings to the test. He was
indeed very uncertain with regard to his own intentions, and for the
present mentioned his plans about her to nobody. He saw to it that the
Memorial Service was carried out with great splendour, devoting to the
arrangement of it a care that deeply gratified the bereaved household.
Life there was becoming more and more featureless and depressing as the
weeks went by. One by one Lady Akikonomu’s servants and retainers were
finding other employment. The Palace stood at the extreme outer edge
of the Sixth Ward, in a district which was very little frequented, and
the melancholy bells which went on tolling and tolling in innumerable
adjacent temples reduced her every evening to a state of abject
misery. She had always been used to spend a great deal of time in her
mother’s company, and even when she was sent to Ise, though no parent
had ever before accompanied the Vestal Virgin, they still remained
unseparated. It can be imagined then that her mother’s loss left her
peculiarly helpless and desolate; and the thought that Rokujō, who
had travelled so far for her sake, should now set out upon this last
journey all alone, caused her unspeakable pain. Many suitors both high
and low, under cover of paying attentions to one or other of her
gentlewomen, now began to frequent the house. Genji however had in his
best fatherly style exacted a promise from the lady’s old nurse that
she would allow no matchmaking to go on in the house. Above all he
feared that some of her women might wish for their own ends to keep
these gentlemen hanging about the premises. It soon however became
apparent that there was no danger of this. The ladies concerned knew
that their doings would probably reach Genji’s ears, and they were far
too anxious to stand well with him to dream of abusing their position.
The suitors soon found that their advances were not met with the
slightest encouragement.

It will be remembered that at the time of Lady Akikonomu’s departure
for Ise the retired Emperor Suzaku had, when presiding at the
magnificent farewell ceremony in the Daigoku Hall, been greatly struck
with her beauty. This impression had remained with him, and on her
return to the Capital he begged Rokujō to let her daughter come to him,
promising that she should take her place as the equal of his sister,
the former Vestal of Kamo, and the other princesses, his sisters and
kinswomen whom he sheltered under his roof. This proposal did not
please her. She feared that where so many exalted personages were
gathered together her daughter would be likely to receive but scant
attention. Moreover Suzaku was at the time in very bad health, and if
he should fail to recover, his dependants might be left in a precarious
position. Now that her mother was dead it was all the more desirable
to establish her in a manner which offered some prospect of security.
When therefore Suzaku repeated his invitation, this time in somewhat
insistent terms, Lady Akikonomu’s friends were placed in an awkward
position. Genji’s private plan of affiancing her to the boy-Emperor
would, now that Suzaku had displayed so marked an inclination towards
her, be difficult to pursue without too deeply offending his
brother. Another consideration weighed with him: he was becoming more
and more fascinated by the girl’s beauty and he was in no hurry to
commit her to other hands. Under the circumstances he thought the best
thing he could do was to talk the matter over with Lady Fujitsubo.
‘I am in great difficulties over this business,’ he said. ‘As you
know, the girl’s mother was a woman of singularly proud and sensitive
temperament. I am ashamed to say that, following my own wanton and
selfish inclinations, I behaved in such a way as to do great injury to
her reputation, with the consequence that henceforward she on her side
harboured against me a passionate resentment, while I on mine found
myself branded not only by her but also by the world at large as a
profligate and scamp. Till the very last I was never able to recover
her confidence; but on her death-bed she spoke to me of Akikonomu’s
future in a way which she would never have done had she not wholly
regained her good opinion of me. This was a great weight off my mind.
Even had these peculiar relations not existed between us, her request
was one which even to a stranger I could hardly have refused. And as it
was, you may imagine how gladly I welcomed this chance of repairing,
even at this late hour, the grievous wrong which my light-mindedness
had inflicted upon her during her lifetime. His Majesty is of course
many years younger than Akikonomu;[16] but I do not think it would be
a bad thing if he had some older and more experienced person in his
entourage. However, it is for you to decide....’ ‘I am of the same
opinion,’ Fujitsubo replied. ‘It would of course be very imprudent
to offend the retired Emperor. But surely the mother’s wishes are a
sufficient excuse. If I were you I should pretend you know nothing
about the retired Emperor’s inclination towards her and present
her at the Palace without more ado. As a matter of fact, Suzaku now
cares very little about such matters. What energy he still possesses
is spent on prayers and meditation. I do not think you will find that
he minds very much one way or the other....’ ‘All the same, I think it
will be best under the circumstances if the request for Akikonomu’s
Presentation came from you,’ said Genji. ‘I could then seem merely to
be adding my solicitations to yours. You will think that in weighing
the pros and cons of the matter with such care I am over-scrupulous;
and indeed I fear that you have found me rather tedious. It is simply
that I am extremely anxious people should not think me lacking in
respect towards my brother....’ It soon became apparent that, in
accordance with Fujitsubo’s advice, he had decided to disregard the
retired Emperor’s wishes. But it was in Genji’s own palace and not, for
the moment at any rate, in the Emperor’s household that Lady Akikonomu
was to be installed. He explained the circumstances to Murasaki.
‘She is just about your age,’ he said, ‘and you will find her a very
agreeable companion. I think you will get on famously together....’
Murasaki at once took to the idea and was soon busy with preparations
for the reception of the visitor.

Fujitsubo was all this while extremely exercised in mind concerning
the future of her niece, the youngest daughter of Prince Hyōbukyō, for
Genji’s estrangement from the father seemed to block every avenue of
advancement. Tō no Chūjō’s daughter, as the grandchild of the Senior
Minister, was treated on all sides with the utmost deference and
consideration, and she had now become the Emperor’s favourite playmate.
‘My brother’s little girl is just the same age as the Emperor,’ said
Fujitsubo one day; ‘he would enjoy having her to play at dolls with
him sometimes, and it would be a help to the older people who
are looking after him.’ But quite apart from affairs of state, Genji
had (as Fujitsubo knew) such a multiplicity of private matters to
attend to and was plagued from morning till night by such a variety of
irritating applications and requests that she had not the heart to keep
on bothering him. It was something that a person like Lady Akikonomu
would soon be at the Emperor’s side; for Fujitsubo herself was in very
poor health and, though she sometimes visited the Palace, she could
not look after her son’s education as she would have liked to do. It
was necessary that there should be some one grown up to keep an eye on
him, and though she would dearly like to have seen her niece installed
as his playmate, she was extremely glad of the arrangement whereby a
sensible creature like Lady Akikonomu was to have him in her constant
care.

[1] Tenth month. The Shintō gods become inaccessible during this month;
but the Buddhas are, apparently, still available.

[2] Lady Kōkiden.

[3] China.

[4] As opposed to a Sedan-chair. A carriage drawn by oxen is meant;
this was a great luxury.

[5] Used at the birth-ceremonies of a Princess.

[6] _Ika_—Fiftieth Day; but also ‘Why do you not come?’

[7] The taxes paid by 2,000 households.

[8] These men accompanied a Minister of State on pilgrimages to the
great Shintō shrines, danced in front of the shrine and afterwards took
part in horse-races round it.

[9] The higher officers wore cloaks of deeper hue, i.e. dipped more
often in the dye and therefore more costly.

[10] See above, p. 114.

[11] For the extravagances of this statesman, see _Nō Plays of Japan_,
p. 293.

[12] ‘As to the tide-gauge at Naniwa that now lies bare, so to our love
the flood tide shall at last return.’

[13] Pun on Naniwa, name of town and _nani wa_ ‘How comes it?’ Here
and in the preceding poem there is also a play on _miozukushi_ =
tide-gauge, and _mi wo tsukushi_ = with all one’s heart and soul.’

[14] A Shintō shrine, offensive to Buddha.

[15] Aoi’s son Yūgiri was his only acknowledged child.

[16] Akikonomu was now nineteen; the boy-Emperor Ryōzen, seven.

CHAPTER XV

THE PALACE IN THE TANGLED WOODS

While Genji, like Yukihira of old, ‘dragged his leaky pails’ along
the shore of Suma, his absence had been mourned, in varying ways
and degrees, by a very large number of persons in the Capital. Even
those who stood in no need of patronage or protection and had through
his departure lost only the amenities of a charming friendship were
deeply distressed. For some of them, such as Murasaki, this sad time
was mitigated by constant messages from his place of exile; some were
privileged to busy their needles upon such garments as his altered
state prescribed, or were allowed the consolation of rendering him
other small services such as in his present difficulties he was likely
to require. But there were others who, though they had received his
favours, had done so unknown to the world, and these ladies now learned
of Genji’s last hours at the Capital from the casual gossip of some
friend who had no idea that the matter was of any particular concern
to them. Needless to say they feigned a like indifference; but such
concealment costs one dear and not a few hearts were broken in the
process.

Among those who fared worst during his absence was the lady at the
Hitachi Palace.[1] During the period after her father’s death there
had been no one to take care of her and she had for a while led a very
wretched existence. But then came the unexpected apparition of
Genji. His letters and visits, which to him in the crowded days of his
glory were insignificant acts of courtesy, implying no more than a very
mild degree of interest and affection, were to their recipient, with
her narrow and unvarying life, like the reflection of a star when it
chances to fall into a bowl of water. It was but natural, she thought,
that when the outcry against him began Genji should no longer find time
for an attachment which had in any case played only a very subordinate
part in his life, particularly as the attacks upon him were part of a
widespread movement which could not but be causing him the greatest
anxiety. Then came his exile and at last his triumphant return. But
still she heard no word from him.

In old days when she heard nothing from him for a week or two she
would become a little tearful it is true, but she still managed to
carry on her ordinary existence. Now months, years had passed; long
ago she had given up all hope, and sank into a condition of settled
apathy and gloom. ‘Poor princess!’ said the elderly gentlewomen who
waited upon her. ‘Really she has had the worst possible luck! To see
this glorious apparition suddenly descending upon her like a God or
Buddha out of the sky—not that he meant very much by it; but she,
poor lady, could never get over the surprise of his noticing her at
all—and then for him to disappear without a word! She knows of course
that it is not from her that he has run away to Suma; it all comes of
this new government! But still, one cannot help being very sorry for
the poor young creature.’ She had indeed during the time after her
father’s death become gradually inured to a life of extreme monotony
and isolation; but Genji’s visits had awakened in her quite new
ambitions; for the first time in her life she began to feel herself
drawn towards the world of taste and fashion. This made her
renewed state of poverty and isolation all the more difficult to bear.
The fact that Genji frequented the house had for the time being induced
a certain number of other visitors to present themselves. But since
his departure one visitor after another, having grown more and more
remiss in his attentions, finally ceased to come at all. Her father’s
ladies-in-waiting were all very advanced in years and every now and
then one of them would die; the other servants, both indoors and out,
were continually seeking better service, and hardly a month passed
but some member of her staff either died or drifted away. The palace
grounds, which had for long years past been allowed to sink into a sad
state of neglect, had now become a mere jungle. Foxes had made their
lairs in the garden walks, while from the ornamental plantations, now
grown into dank and forbidding woods, the voice of the screech-owl
sounded day and night alike; so little was there now any sign of
human habitation in that place, so dim was the daylight that pierced
those tangled thickets. The few servants who still lingered on in
the midst of all this desolation began to declare that tree-spirits
and other fearsome monsters had established themselves in the palace
grounds and were every day becoming more open and venturesome in their
habits. ‘There is no sense in continuing to live like this,’ one of
these ladies said. ‘Nowadays all the government officials are building
themselves handsome houses. Several of them have for a long time past
had their eye on all your timber and have been making enquiries in the
neighbourhood whether you might not be prevailed upon to part with
it. If only you would consent to do so, you might with the proceeds
easily buy some newer place that would be less depressing to live in.
You are really asking too much of the few servants that remain with
you....’ ‘Hush, how can you suggest such a thing!’ answered the
princess. ‘What would people think if they heard you? So long as I
am alive no such disrespect to my poor Father’s memory shall ever be
committed. I know quite well that the grounds have become rather wild
and dismal; but this was his home, his dear spirit haunts the place,
and I feel that so long as I am here I am never far off from him. That
has become my only comfort....’ She broke off in tears, and it was
impossible to allude to the subject again. Her furniture too, though
entirely out of fashion, was much of it very beautiful in an old-world
way, and enquiries were constantly coming from those who made it their
business to understand such matters and had heard that she possessed
a work by such and such a master of some particular time and school.
Such proposals she regarded merely as an ill-bred comment upon her
poverty and indeed complained of them bitterly to the aforementioned
gentlewoman. ‘But, Madam,’ the lady protested, ‘it is not at all
an unusual thing....’ And to convince her mistress that funds must
somehow or other be procured she began to call her attention to various
dilapidations, the repair of which could not safely be deferred for a
single day. But it made no difference. The idea of selling any of her
possessions seemed to the princess utterly untenable. ‘If he had not
meant me to keep them, he would not have put them here,’ she said; ‘I
cannot bear to think of them becoming ornaments in ordinary, worldly
people’s houses. I do not think he would wish me to...,’ and that was
all that could be got out of her.

Visitors and even letters were now absolutely unknown at the Hitachi
Palace. True, her elder brother the Zen priest on the rare occasions
when he came up to the Capital, usually visited the palace. But he did
little more than poke his head in and go away. He was a particularly
vague and unpractical sort of man, who even among his fellow
clerics ranked as unusually detached from all worldly considerations.
In fact he was a saint, and consequently very unlikely to notice that
the whole place was overgrown with weeds and bushes, still less to
suggest any means of clearing them away.

Meanwhile, the state of affairs was becoming very acute. The once
elegant courtyard was thickly overgrown with weeds; and lusty hemlock
clumps were fast destroying the gables and eaves of the roof. The main
eastern and western gates of the park were barricaded by huge masses
of mugwort and it was impossible to open them. This might have given
the inhabitants of the palace a certain comforting sense of security,
had it not been for the fact that the walls which surrounded the estate
were everywhere either broken down or upon the point of falling. Horse
and oxen from the neighbouring pastures soon found their way through
these gaps, and when the summer came they began to make free with
the palace lawns in a way which scandalized the little herd-boys who
were in charge of them. At the time of the autumn equinox there were
very heavy gales, and one day the main roof of the servants’ wing
was blown right away, leaving only a ceiling of thin match-boarding,
a mere shell, which would not have withstood the mildest shower of
rain. At this the under-servants left in a body. Henceforward the few
inhabitants of the palace led a pitiable existence, not even getting
enough to eat, for there was no one to make up the fires or prepare
their food. Thieves and vagabonds had the place completely at their
mercy; but fortunately it never occurred to them to go near it.
How could so desolate a ruin contain anything worth meddling with?
They shook their heads and trudged on. But strangely enough, had
he penetrated those savage thickets, an enterprising burglar would
have found, amid a tangled mass of wreckage, a drawing-room[2]
perfectly appointed in every detail, each ornament, each screen and
article of furniture still standing exactly where the late prince had
left it. True, there was no longer anyone to dust this last-surviving
room, and it needed dusting badly. Never mind, it was a real room;
not just a living-place, but a noble apartment with everything in it
handsome and dignified just as it ought to be. And here, year in and
year out, her whole life was spent.

Solitary people with a great deal of time on their hands seem usually
to turn to old ballads and romances for amusement and distraction,
but for such employments the princess showed little inclination. Even
in the lives of those who have no particular interest in poetry there
are usually periods of inactivity during which they take to exchanging
verses with some sympathetic correspondent—verses which, if they are
young, generally contain affecting references to various kinds of plant
and tree. But the princess’s father had imbued her with the belief
that all outward display of emotion is undignified and ill-bred; she
felt that what he would really have liked best would have been for her
to communicate with no one at all, and she had long given up writing
even to the few relations with whom she might have been expected
occasionally to correspond.

At rare intervals she would open an old-fashioned chest and fiddle for
a while with a number of ancient picture-scrolls, illustrations of such
stories as _The Chinese Prefect_, _The Mistress of Hakoya_, _Princess
Kaguya_[3] and the like. Then there were some poems which, though
all of very ancient date, were excellently chosen, with the names of
the poets and the titles of the poems written in a nice clear hand at
the side, so that one could really tell what one was reading. They were
written on the best Kanya and Michinoku papers, now grown somewhat
puffy with age,[4] and though it cannot be supposed that she could
derive much pleasure from reading the same familiar pages over and over
again, yet it was noticed that in her hours of deepest depression she
would often sit with the books spread open before her. As for reading
the Sūtras or performing those Buddhist ceremonies which have now
become so indispensable an element in fashionable life, she would have
shuddered at the thought, and would not have dreamed of so much as
touching a rosary, even though no one was there to see. Such was the
arduous standard of conduct which this lady imposed upon herself.

Of her old servants only Jijū, the daughter of her foster-nurse, had
survived the general exodus of the last few years. Jijū’s friend, the
former Vestal of Kamo, whose company had been one of her distractions,
was dead, and the poor lady’s existence had become such as no one could
reasonably be expected to endure. A sister of the princess’s mother
had fallen on evil days and ended by marrying a provincial official.
She now lived at the Capital, and as she had daughters, together with
a bevy of unusually agreeable young waiting-women, Jijū occasionally
visited the house, where indeed she was quite at home, for both her
parents had been friends of the family. But the princess herself, with
her usual unsociability, absolutely refused to hold any communication
with her aunt’s household. ‘I am afraid the princess looks upon
me as a very vulgar person,’ the aunt said to Jijū one day. ‘She still
thinks, despite the wretched manner in which she now lives, that to
have such relations as we is a disgrace to her. At any rate I suppose
that is why she is so careful never to come near us.’ It was in this
somewhat malicious tone that she always discussed her niece’s behaviour.

I have noticed that people of quite common origin who have risen in
the world can in a very short time achieve a perfect imitation of
aristocratic importance. And similarly, if through some accident an
aristocrat falls into low company, he generally exhibits a meanness
so thorough-going that it is hard to believe he has been at any pains
to acquire it. Of this second tendency the princess’s aunt was a good
example. She knew that after her unfortunate marriage the people at the
Hitachi Palace had regarded her as a disgrace to the family. Now that
the prince was dead and Suyetsumu herself was in circumstances of such
difficulty, there seemed to be quite a good chance that the princess
might eventually have to take shelter under her aunt’s roof. This was
what the aunt herself was looking forward to. It was her revenge.
She saw the princess installed as a dependant, fetching and carrying
for her daughters. And what an ideal drudge she would make, being so
priggish and strait-laced that it would never be necessary to keep an
eye upon her! ‘You ought to bring her round to see us sometimes,’ the
aunt would say to Jijū, ‘and if you could get her to bring her zithern,
so much the better; we have heard so much about her playing.’ Jijū did
her best, and the princess, docile as usual, admitted that there was
everything to be said in favour of paying an occasional visit. But when
it came to the point, panic overwhelmed her. She would do anything,
anything that Jijū asked; but she would not make friends. And so,
greatly to the aunt’s discomfiture, the matter was dropped.

About this time her uncle was appointed treasurer to a provincial
district. He intended to take his family with him, and was anxious to
equip his daughters with attendants whom it would be pleasant to name
in the ears of provincial visitors. The chance of being able to exhibit
a real princess as a member of their staff was not to be thrown away
and the aunt returned once more to the attack. ‘I am very worried at
having to go so far away from you,’ she sent word by Jijū. ‘We have not
had the pleasure of seeing you much lately; but it was a great comfort
to me to feel that I was near at hand and could help you if anything
went wrong. I am most anxious that, if possible, we should not be
separated....’ All this had no effect whatever. ‘The conceited little
fool! I have no patience with her,’ the aunt cried out at last. ‘She
may have these grand ideas about herself if she chooses; but no one
else is going to take much notice of a creature that goes on year after
year living in the hole-and-corner way that she does; least of all this
famous Prince Genji, with whom she pretends to be so intimate.’

At last came Genji’s pardon and recall, celebrated in every part of the
kingdom by riotous holiday-making and rejoicing. His friends of either
sex were soon vying with one another in demonstrations of good will and
affection. These testimonies to his popularity, pouring in from persons
of every rank and condition in life, naturally touched him deeply,
and in these stirring days it would have been strange indeed if many
minor affairs had not escaped his memory. But for her the time of his
restoration was far harder to bear than that of his exile. For whereas
she had before confidently looked forward to his return, counting upon
it as we count upon the winter trees to bud again in spring, this
glorious home-coming and restoration, when at last they came, brought
joy to every hut and hovel in the land, but to her only a hundredfold
increase of her former misery. For of what comfort to her were his
triumphs, if she must hear of them from other lips?

The aunt had the satisfaction of seeing her prophecies fulfilled.
It was of course out of the question that anyone would own to an
acquaintance with a person living in such miserable squalor as now
surrounded the princess. There are those, says the _Hokkekyō_,[5]
whom even Buddha and his saints would have hard work to redeem; and
certainly this lady had allowed her affairs to drift into a disorder
which the most generous patron would shrink from attempting to set
straight. This contempt for all the rest of the world, this almost
savage unsociability, was of course no invention of her own; it was
merely an attempt to perpetuate the haughty demeanour of the late
prince and princess, her parents. But this did not make the young
princess’s attitude any less irritating and ridiculous. ‘There is still
time to change your mind,’ said her aunt one day. ‘A change of scene—a
journey through the mountains, for example, is often very beneficial
to people who have some trouble on their minds. I am sure you think
that life in the provinces is very uncomfortable and disagreeable, but
I can assure you that while you are with us you will never have to
stay anywhere quite so higgledy-piggledy....’ The wretched old women
who still dragged on their existence in the palace eagerly watched the
princess’s face while their fate was being decided. Surely she would
not throw away this opportunity of escape! To their consternation they
soon saw that her aunt’s appeal was not making the slightest impression
upon her. Jijū, for her part, had recently become engaged to a young
cousin of the provincial treasurer’s, who was to accompany him
to his province, and she was therefore pledged to go down to Tsukushi,
whether the princess joined the party or not. She was however deeply
attached to her mistress and very loath indeed to leave her in her
present condition. She therefore discussed the matter with her again,
and did everything in her power to persuade the princess to accompany
them; only to make the extraordinary discovery that Suyetsumu was still
from day to day living in the hope that the visitor from whom she
had for all those years had no word would suddenly reappear and put
everything to rights again. ‘He was very fond of me,’ she said. ‘It is
only because he has been unhappy himself that he has not remembered
to write to me. If he had the slightest idea of what is happening
to us here, he would come at once....’ So she had been thinking for
years, and though the general structure of the house fell every day
into a more fantastic state of dilapidation, she still persisted as
obstinately as ever in retaining every trifling article of furniture
and decoration in exactly the place where it had always been. She spent
so much of her time in tears that a certain part of her face had now
become as red as the flower which the hillman carries over his ear; so
that her appearance, particularly when she showed her face in profile,
would have struck a casual visitor as somewhat forbidding. But of
this I will say no more; it is perhaps always a mistake to enter into
matters of that kind.

As the cold weather came on, existence at the Hitachi Palace rapidly
became more and more difficult. The princess sat staring in front of
her, plunged in unbroken gloom. Meanwhile Genji celebrated the ritual
of the Eight Readings, in memory of his father, the old Emperor. He
took great trouble in choosing the priests for this ceremony and
succeeded finally in assembling a notable band of dignitaries.
Among them none was more renowned for the sanctity of his life and
the wide range of his studies than Princess Suyetsumu’s brother, the
Abbot of Daigoji. On his way back from the ceremony, he looked in for a
moment at the Hitachi Palace. ‘I have just been celebrating the Eight
Readings in Prince Genji’s palace,’ he said; ‘a magnificent ceremony!
It is a pleasure to take part in such a service as that! I cannot
imagine anything more beautiful and impressive. A veritable paradise—I
say it in all reverence—a veritable paradise on earth; and the
prince himself, so calm and dignified, you might have thought him an
incarnation of some holy Buddha or Bodhisat. How came so bright a being
to be born into this dim world of ours?’ So saying, he hurried off to
his temple. Unlike ordinary, worldly men and women he never wasted
time in discussing sordid everyday affairs or gossiping about other
people’s business. Consequently he made no allusion to the embarrassed
circumstances in which his sister was living. She sometimes wondered
whether even the Saints whom he worshipped would, if they had found
some one in a like situation, really have succeeded in behaving with so
splendid an indifference.

She was indeed beginning to feel that she could hold out no longer,
when one day her aunt suddenly arrived at the palace. This lady was
quite prepared to meet with the usual rebuffs; but having on this
occasion come in a comfortable travelling coach stored with everything
that the princess could need during a journey she did not for an
instant doubt that she would gain her point. With an air of complete
self-confidence she bustled towards the front gate. No sooner had the
porter begun trying to open it than she realized into what a pitch of
decay her niece’s property had fallen. The doors were off their hinges,
and as soon as they were moved tottered over sideways, and it
was not till her own menservants come to the rescue that, after a
tremendous shouldering and hoisting, a passage was cleared through
which she could enter the grounds. What did one do next? Even such a
heap of gimcrack ruins as this presumably had some apertures which
were conventionally recognized as doors and windows. A lattice door
on the southern side of the house was half open and here the visitors
halted. It did not seem possible that any human being was within hail;
but to their astonishment, from behind a smoke-stained, tattered
screen-of-state the maid Jijū suddenly appeared. She was looking very
haggard, but though age and suffering had greatly changed her, she was
still a well-made, pleasing woman; ‘at any rate far more presentable
than her mistress,’ thought the visitors. ‘We are just starting,’ cried
out the aunt to the lady of the house, who, as she guessed, was seated
behind this sooty screen: ‘I have come to take Jijū away. I am afraid
you will find it very difficult to get on without her, but even if
you will not deign to have any dealings with us yourself, I am sure
you will not be so inconsiderate as to stand in this poor creature’s
way....’ She put in so moving a plea on behalf of Jijū that there
ought by rights to have been tears in her eyes. But she was in such
high spirits at the prospect of travelling as a provincial governor’s
wife that a smile of pleasant anticipation played upon her lips all
the while. ‘I know quite well,’ she continued, ‘that the late prince
was not at all proud of his connexion with us, and I am sure it was
quite natural that when you were a child you should pick up his way
of thinking and feeling. But that is a long time ago now. You may say
that it was my fault we did not meet. But really while celebrities such
as Prince Genji were frequenting the house I was not at all sure that
humble people like ourselves would be welcome. However, one of the
advantages of being of no importance is that we humdrum creatures
are not subject to the same violent ups and downs as you exalted
people. I for my part was very sorry to see your fortunes declining
so rapidly as they have done of late, but so long as I was near at
hand I was quite happy about you and did not consider it my duty to
interfere. But now that I am going away to another part of the country,
I confess I feel very uneasy....’ ‘It would be delightful to go with
you. Most people would be very glad indeed.... But I think that as long
as the place holds together at all I had better go on as I am....’
That was all that could be got out of her. ‘Well, that is for you to
decide,’ said the aunt at last, ‘but I should not think that anyone
has ever before buried himself alive in such a god-forsaken place. I
am sure that if you had asked him in time Prince Genji would have been
delighted to put things straight for you; indeed, with a touch here
and there no doubt he would soon have made the place more sumptuous
than the Jade Emperor’s[6] Palace. But unfortunately he is now entirely
preoccupied with this young daughter of Prince Hyōbukyō, and will do
nothing for anyone else. He used to lead a roving life, distributing
his favours in all sorts of directions. But now that has all stopped,
and under these circumstances it is very unlikely to occur to him that
a person living buried away in the middle of such a jungle as this,
is all the time expecting him to rush round and take her affairs in
hand.’ The princess knew that this was only too true and she now began
to weep bitterly. Yet she showed no signs of changing her mind, and
the Chancellor’s wife, after wasting the whole afternoon in tormenting
her, exclaimed at last: ‘Well then, I shall take Jijū. Make haste,
please, please; it is getting late!’ Weeping and flustered Jijū drew
her mistress back into the alcove: ‘I never meant to go,’ she
whispered, ‘but this lady seems so very anxious to take me. I think
perhaps I will travel with them part of the way and then come back
again. There is a great deal of truth in all that she has been saying.
But then, on the other hand, I do not like to upset you by leaving. It
is terrible to have to decide so quickly....’ So she whispered; but
though the princess loved her dearly and was stung to the quick that
even this last friend should be making ready to desert her, she said
not a word to encourage Jijū to stay, but only sobbed more bitterly
than before. She was wondering what she could give to her maid to keep
in remembrance of her long service in the family. Perhaps some cloak
or dress? Unfortunately all her clothes were far too worn and soiled
to give away. She remembered that somewhere in the house was a rather
pretty box containing some plaited strands of her own hair, her fine
glossy hair that grew seven feet long. This would be her present,
and along with it she would give one of those boxes of delicious
clothes-scent that still survived from the old days when her parents
were alive. These she handed to Jijū together with an acrostic poem in
which she compared her departure to the severing of this plaited tress
of hair. ‘Your Mama told me always to look after you,’ she said, ‘and
whatever happened to me I should never dream of sending you away. I
think however that you are probably right to go, and only wish that
some one nicer were taking charge of you....’ ‘I know Mama wished me to
stay with you,’ said Jijū at last through her tears. ‘But quite apart
from that, we have been through such terrible times together in these
last years that I cannot bear to go off heaven knows where and leave
you here to shift for yourself. But, Madam, “By the Gods of Travel to
whom I shall make offering upon my way, I swear that never can _I_
be shorn from you like this tress of severed hair.”’ Suddenly
the voice of the aunt broke in upon them shouting impatiently: ‘What
has become of Jijū? Be quick, now, it is getting quite dark!’ Hardly
knowing what she did, Jijū climbed into the coach and as it drove away
stared helplessly at the dilapidated house.

So at last Jijū had left her; Jijū who for years past, though in sore
need of a little pleasure and distraction, had never once asked for
a single day’s holiday! But this was not the end of the princess’s
troubles; for now even the few old charwomen who still remained in the
house—poor doddering creatures who could never have persuaded anyone
else to employ them—began threatening to leave. ‘Do you think I blame
her?’ said one of them, speaking of Jijū’s departure. ‘Not I! What had
she to stay for, I ask you. And come to that, I should like to know
why we go on putting up with it all.’ And they began with one accord
remembering influential patrons who had at one time or another promised
to employ them. No, decidedly they would not stay in the place any
longer.

These conversations, which took place in the princess’s hearing, had
the most disquieting effect upon her. The Frosty Month[7] had now
come. In the open country around, though snow and hail frequently
fell, they tended to melt between-whiles. But in the wilderness that
surrounded the Hitachi Palace vast drifts of snow, protected by the
tangled overgrowth from any ray of sunlight, piled higher and higher,
till one might have fancied oneself in some valley among the Alps of
Koshi. Through these arctic wastes not even the peasants would consent
to press their way and the palace was for weeks on end entirely cut off
from the outer world.

The princess sat staring at the snow. Life had been dull enough before,
but at any rate she had some one at hand whose chatter at
times broke in upon her gloom. But now Jijū’s laughter, Jijū’s tears
were gone, and as she lay day and night alike behind her crumbling
curtains-of-state the princess was consumed by a loneliness and misery
such as she had never known before.

Meanwhile, at the Nijō Palace, Genji remained wholly absorbed in the
girl from whom he had so long been separated, and it was only a few
very particular friends who heard any news of him at all. He did
sometimes think of the Hitachi Palace and wondered whether the princess
could still be living there all alone. But he was in no great hurry to
discover, and the New Year passed without his having taken any steps
about her. In the fourth month he decided to call upon the ladies
in the Village of Falling Flowers, and having obtained Murasaki’s
permission he set out one evening, clad in his usual disguise. For days
it had rained unceasingly. But now, just at the moment when the heavy
rain stopped and only a few scattered drops were falling, the moon
rose; and soon it was one of those exquisite late spring nights through
whose moonlight stillness he had in earlier years so often ridden out
on errands of adventure. Busy with memories of such excursions he had
not noticed where he was driving, when suddenly looking up he saw a
pile of ruined buildings surrounded by plantations so tangled and
overgrown that they wore the aspect of a primeval jungle. Over a tall
pine-tree a trail of wisteria blossoms was hanging; it quivered in the
moonlight, shaken by a sudden puff of wind that carried with it when
it reached him a faint and almost imperceptible odour of flowers. It
was for orange-blossom that he had set out that night; but here too
was a flower that had a fragrance worth enjoying. He leaned out of the
carriage window. They were passing by a willow whose branches swept
the ground; with the crumbling away of the wall which had once
supported it the tree had fallen forward till its trunk was almost
prostrate. Surely he had seen these grounds before? Why, yes, this must
be—suddenly it all came back to him. Of course it was that strange
lady’s house. He was driving past the Hitachi Palace. Poor creature, he
must discover at once what had become of her; and stopping his carriage
and calling to Koremitsu, who as usual on occasions of the kind was in
attendance upon him, he asked him whether this was not indeed Princess
Suyetsumu’s place. ‘Why certainly!’ said Koremitsu. ‘In that case,’
said Genji, ‘I should like to find out whether the same people are
still living there. I have not time to pay a personal visit now, but
I should like you to go in and enquire. Make sure that you discover
exactly how things stand. It looks so silly if one calls on the wrong
people.’

After a particularly dismal morning spent in staring blankly in front
of her the princess had fallen asleep and dreamed that her father, the
late prince, was still alive and well. After such a dream as that she
woke up more miserable than ever. The window side of the room had been
flooded in the recent rains; but taking a cloth she began mopping up
the water and trying to find a place where she could put her chair.
While she did so the stress of her sufferings stirred her to a point
of mental alertness which she did not often reach. She had composed
a poem, and suddenly she recited the lines: ‘To the tears I shed in
longing for him that is no more, are added the ceaseless drippings that
patter from my broken roof!’

Meanwhile Koremitsu had made his way into the house and was wandering
this way and that looking for some sign of life. He spent a long while
in poking into all sorts of corners and at last concluded that the
place had been abandoned as uninhabited. He was just setting out to
report this to Genji when the moon came out from behind a cloud,
lighting up the front of the house. He then noticed a trellis roll-door
which was half pulled up. A curtain behind it moved. It almost seemed
as though some one were there. Koremitsu, feeling oddly enough quite
nervous, turned back and approached this door, clearing his throat
loudly as he did so. In answer to this signal a very aged, decrepit
voice answered from within the room. ‘Well, what is it? Who are you?’
‘It is Koremitsu,’ he answered, ‘could you tell Jijū that I should like
to speak to her?’ ‘Jijū?’ the aged voice answered, ‘you cannot speak
to her, she has gone away. But would not I do just as well?’ The voice
was incredibly ancient and croaking, but he recognized it as that of
one of the gentlewomen whom he used to meet here in former days. To
those within, inured as they were to years of absolute isolation, the
sudden apparition of this figure wrapped in a great hunting cloak, was
a mystery so startling and inexplicable that for a while it did not
occur to them that their visitor could be other than some fox-spirit
or will-o’-the-wisp masquerading in human form. But the apparition
behaved with reassuring gentility and coming right up to the doorway
now addressed them as follows: ‘I must make it my business to find
out exactly how matters stand. If you can assure me that, on your
mistress’s side, nothing has changed since the time when we used to
come here, then I think you will find His Highness my master no less
ready to help you than he was in days gone by. Can I trust you to let
her know that we halted here to-night? I must be able to report to my
master that his message is in safe hands....’ The old lady and her
companions burst out laughing. ‘Listen to him!’ they cried, ‘asking
whether Madam has altered her way of life, whether she has taken to
new friends! Do you suppose, young man, that if she were not
waiting day and night for this famous prince of yours, she would still
be living in this wilderness? Why, if there had been a soul in the
world to help us, we should have shifted from these tumbledown quarters
a long while ago. Just let Prince Genji have a look at the place for
himself; he’ll soon know how things stand! Yes, and we have been living
like this for years; I shouldn’t think anyone in the world has ever
been through such times as we have in this house. I tell you it’s a
wonder we’ve been able to bear it for so long, such a life as we and
our poor young lady have been leading....’ They soon got launched upon
a recital of their sufferings and misfortunes, which wandered so far
from the purpose in hand that Koremitsu, growing impatient, at last
interrupted them. ‘Enough, enough,’ he cried; ‘that will do to go on
with. I will go to Prince Genji at once and tell him of this.’

‘What a long time you have been!’ exclaimed Genji, when Koremitsu
finally reappeared. ‘Are things in the palace much as they used to be?
The whole place is so overgrown with creepers and bushes that I hardly
recognize it.’ Koremitsu described how he at last discovered signs of
life in the house and finally recognized the voice of Shōshō, Jijū’s
old aunt, who had told him the lamentable tale which he now repeated.

Genji was horror-stricken at what he heard. How she must have suffered,
buried away month after month amid all this disorder and decay! He was
appalled at his own cruelty. How was it conceivable that he should have
left her all this while to her own devices? ‘Now then, what am I to
do?’ he said at last. ‘If I am to visit the poor lady I had much rather
it was not at this time of night; but if I do not go in now, I may not
get another chance for a long while. I am afraid that what the old
ladies said is only too true; if she were not counting upon my return,
she would scarcely have gone on living such a life as you have
just heard described....’ He was about to go straight into the house,
but suddenly he hesitated. Would it not be better first of all to send
in a very nice friendly note and discover whether she really insisted
upon seeing him? But then he remembered the extraordinary difficulty
with which she penned an answer. If she had not very much improved in
this respect since his last dealings with her, he might easily spend
the rest of the night waiting for his messenger to return with her
reply. He had just dismissed that idea as impracticable when Koremitsu
broke in: ‘Pardon me, you have no notion how difficult it is to force
a way through the brambles. Let me go first and shake the dew off the
long branches. Then you will not get quite so wet.’

Accordingly Koremitsu went in front lashing the bushes with his
riding-whip. But when they got under the trees such showers shook
down on them from the branches (for the woods were still wet with the
recent rains) that Koremitsu was obliged to go and fetch his master’s
umbrella, quoting as he held it aloft the old song about the dense
forests of Miyagi-no, where ‘the drippings from wet boughs are worse
than rain.’ Even so, the ends of Genji’s trousers became dripping
wet before he reached the house. It was by no means easy even in old
days to distinguish which was supposed to be the front door. By now
such architectural features as doors and lobbies had long ago become
merged in the general dilapidation. Genji’s entry, though effected
by a somewhat undignified scramble, had at any rate the advantage of
being completely private and unobserved. At last, just as she had
always predicted, Genji had come back! But in the midst of her elation
a sudden panic seized her. How could she meet him in the miserable
dress that she was wearing? All seemed lost, when she remembered
the clothes that her aunt had brought for her to travel in. She had
thought at the time that her father would have considered them very
unsuitable and had put them aside after a mere hasty glance. The
servants had packed them in a scented Chinese trunk and now brought
them out, smelling deliciously fragrant. She could not receive him in
what she was wearing and she had nothing else to change into. Much as
she disapproved of her aunt’s taste, what could she do but let them
dress her in these new-fangled clothes? Thus equipped she took her seat
behind the smoky curtains-of-state and waited. Presently Genji entered
the room. ‘It is a long time since we have held any communication, is
it not?’ he said, ‘but on my side at any rate that does not mean that
there has been any change of feeling. I was all the while expecting to
hear from you and was determined that I would not be the first to give
a sign of life. At last however the sight of the familiar tree-groups
by your gate overcame this resolution and I could not forbear....’ So
saying he lifted one corner of the curtains that surrounded her daïs
and peeped in. As in old days she was utterly overcome by confusion,
and sat for some while unable to make any kind of rejoinder. At last,
almost inaudibly, she murmured something about its being ‘kind of him
to have found his way ... through all those wet bushes ... such a
scramble!’

‘I am afraid you have been having a very dull time,’ he went on;
‘but pray give me credit for to-night’s persistence. It showed some
devotion, did it not, that I should have forced my way into the heart
of this tangled, dripping maze, without a word of invitation or
encouragement? I am sure you will forgive me for neglecting you for so
long when I tell you that for some while past I have seen absolutely
no one. Not having received a word of any kind from you, I
could not suppose that you were particularly anxious to see me. But
henceforward I am going to assume, whether you write to me or no, that
I shall not be unwelcome. There now! After that, if I ever behave badly
again you will really have some cause to complain.’ So unhappy was he
at the thought of all that she must have suffered during those years
of penury and isolation that, in his desire to make amends, he soon
began saying things which he did not quite mean. He even had thoughts
of giving up his intended excursion and staying here for the night. But
the princess seemed to be so painfully conscious of the deficiencies
in her domestic arrangements and in general so completely overwhelmed
by the presence of a visitor, that after passing some time in rather
unsuccessful efforts to make further conversation, he began looking
for an opportunity to slip quietly away. There came into his mind
the old song: ‘The tree I planted spreads its boughs so high.’[8] He
had not indeed planted those great pine-trees that closed about the
ruined palace on every side, but it seemed to him that they had shot up
surprisingly since he first visited the place. How quickly the years
had sped! And from the thought of what she must have been through
during all this time he passed naturally to the recollection of his own
misfortunes and adventures. ‘Yes, when one comes to think of it, it is
indeed a long time,’ he said at last. ‘At Court there have been great
changes, many of them for the worse. Some day when I have plenty of
time I must tell you of my exile and the strange outcast life we led
on those deserted shores. You too, no doubt, have much to tell of all
that has befallen you in these last dull and dreary days. I could wish
indeed that you had many friends to whom you could confide your
sorrows. But if for the moment I am the only one, make what use of me
you can. You will find that, whatever my faults may be, as a listener I
have much to recommend me.’

The moon was now sinking. The main western door stood wide open, and
as the covered gallery which had formerly run along that side of
the house had now completely crumbled away, the moonlight streamed
unimpeded into the room where they were sitting. Looking about him he
recognized one after another the familiar fittings and ornaments. Not
a thing was missing from its place. It was strange indeed to contrast
the absolutely unchanged aspect of this corner of the house with the
surrounding wreckage and desolation. He remembered the old story of
the unfilial son who so much enjoyed pulling down the pagoda which his
poor father had erected. The princess could not indeed prevent the
outward fabric of her father’s palace from falling into decay; but it
was astonishing how little trace the passage of time had left upon the
inner room in which he had once taken such pride.

Genji’s thoughts returned to the princess herself. She was the shyest,
the most awkward creature he had ever met; and yet there was something
extraordinarily distinguished about her movements and bearing. She
interested him, as indeed she had always done; so much so that he had
fully intended not to lose sight of her. How should he ever forgive
himself for allowing her affairs to drift into this deplorable
condition? The truth was, he had been entirely absorbed in his own
troubles and projects. But that was no excuse.

Had his ultimate destination that night been some scene of lively
modern entertainment, the contrast would have been fatal. But the
Village of Falling Flowers struck him on this occasion as particularly
staid and dreary, and he left with the impression that the latter
hours of the night had been by no means more agreeably spent than the
former.

The time of the Kamo Festival had come. On the eve of the festival-day
Genji was to undergo the ritual of Purification and the presents which
are customary in connexion with this occasion began pouring in thick
and fast. Much of his time was spent in acknowledging them; but he did
not forget his promise to the lady at Hitachi. The first thing to do
was to make her palace habitable; and sending for his most reliable
bailiffs he explained to them what he wanted done. Soon a host of
workmen were clearing away the undergrowth, while carpenters went
round with planks and stays, here patching a hole, there shoring up
a tottering wall or replacing some rotten beam, till at last all was
tolerably weather-tight and secure. The mere fact that Genji’s men
were at work upon the building at once set the gossips talking and the
most absurd stories were circulated. Somewhat embarrassed by all this
Genji himself remained at a distance, but he wrote a long letter to the
princess, telling her of the new rooms which he was now adding to his
palace and offering her accommodation in them, so soon as the place was
ready. ‘You had better be looking round for a few nice young maids and
pages to bring with you,’ he told her. Nor did he forget to enquire
individually after each of the queer old waiting-ladies, an attention
which put them into such high spirits that the old palace had hardly
room enough to hold them, as now gazing up at the sky, now staring in
the direction from which the messenger had come, they gave unbridled
vent to their gratitude and admiration. It was well known in society
that Genji took little interest in the common run of women. Even the
mildest flirtation with such persons seemed to hold no attraction
for him; their conversation would have bored him and indeed he
scarcely seemed to notice their existence. Those few favoured persons
with whom he was generally known to have been on terms of intimacy were
in every case women of entirely exceptional qualities. That one who in
general showed such discrimination should single out as the recipient
of his attentions a creature who could not lay claim to a single merit
either of person or intellect, caused universal astonishment. This much
at any rate was agreed, that though no one had heard anything about it,
the affair must in reality be of very long standing.

The retainers and dependants who, thinking that the Hitachi Palace
would never see better days, had a short while ago been in such a
hurry to seek other employment, now one after another came begging to
re-enter the princess’s service. She at any rate knew how to behave
towards those who waited upon her—treated them even with perhaps an
exaggerated consideration. Whereas in the houses to which they had
betaken themselves, belonging for the most part to wholly uncultured
and undistinguished members of the petty bureaucracy, their experiences
had been such as they would never have imagined to be possible; and
they made no secret of the fact that they heartily repented of their
recent experiment.

Prince Genji’s influence was now greater than it had ever been in the
days before his disaster. The mere fact that he was known to take an
interest in the Hitachi Palace was enough to invest the place with a
certain glamour. Visitors began to make their appearance, and soon the
once deserted hills presented quite a busy and animated scene. One
thing which had made the house so depressing was the fact that it was
wholly shut in by bushes and trees. This jungle Genji now ordered to
be reduced to tolerable dimensions; he had the ponds cleared and
pleasant streams were made to run in and out among the flower-beds. All
this work was performed with remarkable despatch, for even the lowest
labourers and serfs knew that it was in their interest to please a lady
who, for whatever reason it might be, evidently stood high in Genji’s
esteem.

She lived for two years more in the old palace, at the end of which
time she moved into the new Eastern Wing that Prince Genji had been
building. He did not spend much time in her company, but she was
well content merely to feel that they inhabited the same domain, and
whenever he had occasion to visit that part of the house he would look
in upon her for a few minutes, that she might not feel she was wholly
neglected. Her aunt’s astonishment when in due time she returned to the
Capital—Jijū’s delight at her mistress’s good fortune and shame at the
thought that she had not held out a little longer in the princess’s
service—all this remains yet to be told. I would indeed have been glad
to carry my story a little further, but at this moment my head is
aching and I am feeling very tired and depressed. Provided a favourable
opportunity presents itself and I do not forget to, I promise I will
tell you all about it on some future occasion.

[1] Suyetsumuhana. See vol. i, ch. vi. I shall henceforward call her
Suyetsumu.

[2] Such a term must only be taken as a rough equivalent.

[3] Of these three romances the first is quite unknown; the second
must have been a Taoist fairy story, for ‘Hakoya’ is the ‘Miao-ku-shē’
of Chuang Tzŭ, Chapter I,—a divine mountain inhabited by mysterious
sages. The third is either identical with the _Taketori Monogatari_
(‘The Bamboo-cutter’s Story’) or at any rate treated the same theme.

[4] Kanya River (‘Paper-makers’ River’) is between Hirano and Kitano,
near Kyōto. Michinoku paper, from the province of that name, was made
of spindle-wood. These stout Japanese papers become thick and fluffy
with age.

[5] The _Saddharmapundarika Sūtra_.

[6] The sovereign divinity of the Chinese Taoists.

[7] Eleventh month.

[8] ‘I knew it not, but an old man must I be indeed; the pine-tree that
with my hands I planted spreads its boughs so high.’

CHAPTER XVI

A MEETING AT THE FRONTIER

It will be remembered that the year after the old Emperor’s death
Iyo no Suke[1] was sent as governor to a distant province and that
his wife, the lady of the Broom-tree episode, was prevailed upon to
accompany him. Vague rumours reached her concerning Genji’s banishment;
it was said that he was in disgrace and was living somewhere along the
shores of Suma. Though obliged to feign indifference, she was indeed
naturally very much distressed and longed to write to him. But though
‘the wind sometimes blew across the Tsukubane hills’[2] she dared not
trust her secret to so fickle a breeze, and while she waited for some
securer messenger the months and years went swiftly by. It had at one
time seemed as though Genji’s banishment might last indefinitely,
far longer in any case than Iyo no Suke’s short term of office. But
in the end it so turned out that Genji had already been back in the
Capital for a year when Iyo’s governorship expired. By an odd chance
it happened that on the very day when the ex-governor and his party
were to enter the Barrier at Ōsaka, Genji was to pass through this same
barrier on his way to Ishiyama where he was to attend a service in the
Temple of Kwannon. Ki no Kami and various other friends and relations
of the ex-governor had come out from the City to meet him, and
from them the returning provincials learnt that Genji with a vast
ceremonial procession would shortly be passing along their road. Iyo
no Suke, wishing to reach the Barrier while things were still quiet,
set out with his party long before daylight. But his wagons crowded
with women and their luggage jolted along so slowly that when daylight
came they were still trailing along the coast-road at Uchi-ide. News
now came that Genji’s procession had crossed the Awata Road. Already
his first outriders were in sight. So dense was even this vanguard of
the great procession that to press past it was out of the question.
Accordingly, at the foot of the Frontier Hill Iyo called a halt. The
wagons were drawn up along the wayside, and the oxen released from the
yoke were soon browsing here and there among the fir-trees. Meanwhile
the travellers sat in the shelter of a neighbouring copse, waiting for
the procession to pass.

Although this was but a portion of Iyo no Suke’s train, for he had
sent some wagons on in advance while others were still to follow, it
seemed a very large party; no less than ten coaches, with such a blaze
of shawls, scarves and gaily coloured favours protruding from their
windows that they looked more like the coaches from which ladies of
fashion view the departure of Vestals to Ise or Kamo than the workaday
vehicles in which rustic persons are usually conveyed to the Capital.

In honour of Genji’s return to public life the pilgrimage to Ishiyama
was on this occasion carried out with unusual solemnity, and at the
head of the procession rode vast throngs of noblemen and courtiers,
most of whom stared with considerable curiosity at this cluster of gay
equipages drawn up along the roadside.

It was the last day of the ninth month, and autumn leaves in many
tints of red and brown stood out against a dull background of
colourless winter grass. Suddenly from behind the frontier guardhouse
there burst forth a blaze of many-coloured travelling cloaks, some
richly embroidered, some batik-dyed, of every pattern and hue. Genji’s
coach was passing. He too scanned the party by the roadside, but
instantly lowered the carriage blind. He had recognized, among those
who had come out to meet the travellers, his page and message-carrier
Utsusemi’s brother—a child in those old days but now Captain of the
Guard. He bade one of his equerries call this young man to his side and
when he arrived said to him laughingly: ‘I hope your sister notices how
attentive I am to her. It is not often that I go all the way to the
Barrier to meet my friends!’ He spoke lightly, but his heart beat fast
and there rose up in his mind a host of tender memories to which in
this hasty message it would have been useless to allude.

It was years since Utsusemi had spoken of Genji; yet she had never
forgotten what had passed between them and it needed only these few
words from him to renew all the misery in which her yearning for him
had plunged her long ago.

When Genji returned from Ishiyama, Utsusemi’s brother, the Captain
of the Guard, came out towards the Barrier to meet him and made his
excuses for having taken a day’s leave in honour of his sister’s
return. As a boy he had been very good-looking and Genji had taken a
great fancy to him. But despite the fact that he owed everything to
Genji, without whose patronage he would never have been able to enter
the Imperial Guard at all, still less to obtain promotion, no sooner
had his master’s fortunes begun to decline than this young man, fearing
to offend those in power, entered the service of his brother-in-law,
the provincial governor. Genji, though he showed no resentment
at the time, found this dereliction very hard to forgive. Their old
relations were never resumed; but the Captain was still numbered among
the favourite gentlemen of his household. Iyo no Suke’s son, Ki no
Kami, had become governor of Kawachi and was consequently no longer
on the spot. The younger son, Ukon no Jō, had, as will be remembered,
followed Genji into exile and now stood very high in his favour. His
position was envied not only by this young Captain of the Guard but by
many another who in the days of Genji’s adversity had thought it wiser
to leave him to his fate.

Soon after this Genji sent for the Captain[3] and gave him a letter to
be taken to his sister. ‘So was this affair, which he thought had come
to an end long ago, still dragging on after all these years?’ the young
man asked himself as he carried the letter to Iyo no Suke’s house. ‘Did
not our meeting of the other day seem almost as though it had been
arranged by Fate? Surely you too must have felt so.’ With the letter
was the acrostic poem: ‘Though on this lake-side Fate willed that we
should meet, upon its tideless shore no love-shell[4] can we hope to
find.’ ‘How bitterly I envied the Guardian of the Pass,’[5] he added.

‘I hope you will send an answer,’ said the Captain. ‘He has got it into
his head that I behaved badly to him some time ago. I should be very
glad if I could get back on to the old terms with him. I do not myself
see much point in correspondences of this kind; but when anyone writes
to me such a letter as I suppose this to be, I take care to write a
civil answer. No one blames me for that; and still less is a woman
thought the worse of for showing that a little harmless flattery
does not altogether displease her.’

She was still the same shy, inexperienced girl of years ago; her
brother’s tone profoundly shocked her and she had no intention of
carrying on a flirtation for his benefit. But naturally enough she
_did_ feel flattered at the reception of such a note and in the end
consented to reply. With her letter was an acrostic poem in which she
said that the Barrier of Ōsaka had been no barrier to her tears, nor
the Hill of Ōsaka a true hill of meeting.[6]

She was connected in his mind with the most delightful and also
perhaps the most painful moment in his life. Hence his thoughts tended
frequently to recur to her, and he continued to write to her from time
to time.

Meanwhile Iyo no Suke, who was now a very old man, began to decline
in health, and feeling that his end was near, he called his sons to
him and discussed with them the disposition of his worldly affairs.
But what evidently concerned him above all was the future of his young
wife. They must promise him to yield to her wishes in everything and
to treat her exactly as they had done during his lifetime. Still
unsatisfied by their assurances he sent for them over and over again
at every hour of the night and day and exacted fresh promises. But
Utsusemi, after all that she had suffered already, could not believe
that happiness of any kind could ever be in her fate. She saw herself,
so soon as her husband was dead, bandied about unwanted from one
relation’s house to another, and the prospect appalled her. Iyo knew
only too well what was passing in her mind. He desired so persistently
to comfort and protect her that, could life be prolonged by mere
anxiety to live, he would never have deserted her. For her indeed
he would gladly have forgone the joys of Paradise that his ghost
might linger on earth and keep her from all harm. Thus, profoundly
distrusting the intention of his sons and full of the blackest
forebodings, he died at last after a bitter struggle against fate, and
only when his will could no longer hold out against the encroachments
of sickness and old age.

For a while, with their father’s dying injunctions fresh in their ears,
the step-sons treated her with at any rate superficial kindness; but
this soon wore off and she began to find her position in the house
exceedingly unpleasant. This no doubt lay rather in the nature of
the circumstances themselves than in any particular ill-will on the
part of her guardians. But she felt herself to be the object of a
deliberate persecution and her life became one continual succession
of tears and lamentations. The only one of the brothers who seemed to
have any sympathy with her was Ki no Kami: ‘Please keep nothing back
from me,’ he said. ‘My father was so anxious that I should help you
and how can I, unless you entrust your secrets to me?’ Then he took to
following her about. She remembered how amorous he had always been.
Soon his intentions became perfectly apparent. She had suffered enough
already in her life; why should she sit down and wait quietly for the
fresh miseries which fate had now in store for her? Without a word to
anybody she sent for her confessor and took the vows of a nun. Her
waiting-women and servants were naturally aghast at this sudden step.
Ki no Kami took it as a personal affront. ‘She did it simply to spite
me,’ he told people; ‘but she is young yet and will soon be wondering
how on earth she is going to support such an existence for the rest
of her life,’—sagacity which did not impress his hearers quite as he
intended.

[1] Utsusemi’s husband. See vol. i, chapters 2 and 3.

[2] ‘The wind that blows across the ridge, that blows across the hills,
would that it might carry a message to him that I love.’

[3] Utsusemi’s brother; the ‘boy’ of vol. i, ch. 3.

[4] _Kai-nashi_ = ‘no shell’; but also ‘no profit.’

[5] I.e. Iyo no Suke.

[6] Ō-saka means ‘Hill of Meeting’; _seki_ means a barrier, but also a
flood-dam. See above, p. 25.

CHAPTER XVII

THE PICTURE COMPETITION

It will be remembered that after Rokujō’s death Genji decided that her
daughter Princess Akikonomu had best come and live with him till the
time came for her Presentation at Court. At the last minute, however,
he altered his mind, for such a step seemed too direct a provocation to
Princess Akikonomu’s admirer, the young ex-Emperor Suzaku. But though
he did not remove her from her palace in the Sixth Ward he felt his
responsibilities towards this unfortunate orphan very keenly and paid
her many lengthy visits. He had now definitely arranged with Fujitsubo
that Akikonomu was soon to enter the Emperor’s Palace; but he was
careful not to betray in public any knowledge of this plan, and to the
world at large he seemed merely to be giving the girl such general
guidance and support as might be expected from a guardian and family
friend.

Suzaku was indeed bitterly disappointed at the intelligence that the
Princess had been handed over to a mere infant such as the present
Emperor. He often thought of writing to her but at the same time
dreaded the scandal which would ensue if his attachment became known.
When however the day of Presentation at last arrived his caution
suddenly deserted him, and he sent to Akikonomu’s palace an assortment
of the most costly and magnificent gifts which his treasury could
supply—comb-boxes, scrap-boxes, cases for incense-jars; all of the most
exquisite workmanship and material; with these was a supply of
the most precious perfumes both for burning and for the scenting of
clothes, so that the bales in which these gifts arrived scented the
air for a full league on every side. This extravagant magnificence,
besides relieving Suzaku’s feelings, had another very definite object.
It was particularly intended to annoy the lady’s guardian, to whom, as
Suzaku very well knew, the contents of these packages would immediately
be shown. It so happened that Genji was actually at Akikonomu’s palace
when the scented bales arrived; her servants at once showed them to him
and told him whence they came. He picked up at random one of a pair of
comb-boxes; it was a work of fascinating elegance and delicacy. Near
it was a box for combs such as are worn in the hair, decorated with a
pattern of flowers. In the very centre of one petal was an inscription.
Looking closer he read the poem:

‘Come not again!’[1] Because it fell to me,
Who least would have it so,
At Heaven’s command your exile to ordain;
To others, not to me who bade you go,
You come again!

Somehow or other, in cases of this kind, Genji could never help
imagining what he himself would feel if he were in the same position.
Supposing that he had fallen in love with some one all those years ago
and that the beloved person had gone away immediately to some far-off
place; and suppose that he, instead of forgetting all about her as
might have been expected, had waited patiently year after year and,
when at last she returned, had been told that she was to be handed
over to some one else—he saw on reflection that the situation was
really very painful. Judging from his own experience he knew that
Suzaku’s complete lack of employment, now that he had resigned
all his official duties, would gravely aggravate the case. Yes, he
must indeed be passing through a period of terrible agitation! He was
now extremely sorry that he had ever suggested the Presentation of the
young Princess. He had indeed in the past good reason to resent his
brother’s conduct towards him. But lately Suzaku had shown nothing
but affability.... He stood for a long while lost in thought. It was
all very perplexing. Turning at last to Akikonomu’s gentlewomen who
were inspecting these magnificent presents, he asked whether their
mistress had already composed her answering poem. ‘And surely a letter
must also have come with these things?’ he added. There was indeed a
letter and the gentlewomen had read it, but they very much doubted
whether it was fit for Genji’s eyes and made no offer to produce it.
The princess herself was distressed by this exhibition of devotion
on the part of one with whom she could no longer have any dealings.
What answer could she possibly contrive? But her maids were pressing
round her, insisting that it would be intolerably rude to allow the
messengers to depart without handing to them a word of thanks, and
Genji was telling her that not to reply was out of the question; a
few words would suffice. No doubt they were right. She felt very much
embarrassed by Suzaku’s attentions; but she remembered distinctly how
handsome, how distinguished he had seemed to her on that day of the
farewell ceremony. There had been tears in his eyes, and though it all
happened so many years ago she could recall as distinctly as if it
were yesterday the vague feelings of childish sympathy and admiration
which her meeting with the young Emperor had aroused in her on that
last morning when she went to the Palace for her Crowning. With these
memories were blended others; thoughts, for example, of her mother Lady
Rokujō and of the long exile which they had shared. She wrote no
letter, but only the poem:

“Come not again!” I wept to hear those words,
Thinking you willed it so,
When Heaven’s command my exile did ordain;
Now hearing that it grieved you I should go,
I weep again.

The messengers who had brought the presents were richly rewarded and
sent upon their way. Genji would very much have liked to see her reply,
but she refused to show it to him.

She was small and frail. How well Suzaku, with his almost girlish
beauty, would have suited her; while as for the Emperor, he was years
her junior, scarcely out of the nursery. Did she too (though she
certainly breathed no word of complaint) secretly resent the steps
which he had taken for her worldly advancement? This idea troubled him
sorely; but it was by now far too late to undo the arrangement, and the
best he could do was to stay with her for a little while and advise her
as kindly and discreetly as possible how to conduct herself in the new
life that was before her. He then interviewed the Court chamberlains
who were to arrange her Presentation, and having settled everything
satisfactorily with them he made his way to the Inner Palace. He did
not wish it to appear that he was himself standing sponsor for the new
arrival nor that he was in the Palace as her relative or guardian. He
therefore gave his coming the appearance of an ordinary ceremonial
visit.

Princess Akikonomu’s palace was famous for the unusual number of
good-looking gentlewomen who were in service there. Many of these
had recently been living at their homes, but they now assembled in
full force, and arriving with their mistress at Court created a most
dazzling impression. Were Rokujō alive, with what solicitude
would she be watching over that day’s momentous proceedings, thought
Genji, as he saw the procession arrive; and remembering her singular
gifts and lively intelligence, he felt how great a loss she was not to
himself only, but to the whole life of the Court. So rare indeed (as it
now seemed to him) was her perfection both of mind and person that he
seldom encountered among his acquaintance talent or accomplishment of
any kind without immediately recalling how slender these attainments
would seem if set beside those of Lady Rokujō.

On the day of the Presentation Fujitsubo was at the Palace. When she
told the Emperor that some one new was coming to see him, he listened
very earnestly and attentively. He was an intelligent and lively child,
very forward for his age. After telling him all about the princess,
‘So you see she is rather an important lady,’ Fujitsubo continued,
‘and when she comes this evening you must be very polite to her and
not play any of your tricks....’ The Emperor said nothing, but he
thought to himself that if the lady were indeed so grown up and so
important, far from wanting to tease her he would be very frightened
of her indeed. Great was his delight then when very late that evening
there arrived at the Palace a very shy, shrinking girl, very small and
fragile, not indeed looking like a grown-up person at all. He thought
her very pretty; but he was much more at his ease with Chūjō’s little
daughter, who had lived at the Palace for some while and was very
sociable and affectionate, while the new princess was terribly silent
and shy. Still, though he found her rather difficult to get on with,
he felt, partly owing to the deference with which, as Prince Genji’s
ward, she was treated by every one else at Court, and partly owing to
the magnificence with which she was served and apparelled—he felt
that she was in some way which he did not understand a person of very
great importance. In the evenings indeed he allowed the one to wait
upon him as often as the other; but when he wanted a partner in some
game or some one to amuse him in the early part of the day, it was
seldom Akikonomu for whom he sent.

Tō no Chūjō had presented his daughter at Court with the express
intention that she should one day share the Throne. The presence
of this formidable rival at the Palace could not fail to cause him
considerable anxiety.

The poem with which Princess Akikonomu had acknowledged the
ex-Emperor’s gifts had but served to increase his agitation. He knew
that he must now banish all thought of her from his mind; but it was
hard indeed to do so. He was brooding now over his loss, when Genji
arrived on a visit. They talked for a long while about many different
matters, and in the course of this conversation mention was made of the
ceremonies upon the occasion of Lady Akikonomu’s departure for Ise.
This was a subject which they had often discussed before; but now,
as on previous occasions, the conversation terminated without Suzaku
making the slightest allusion to the real reason why this topic so
much interested him. Genji naturally did not betray his knowledge of
the secret; but he was envious to know exactly how far this mysterious
passion went, and he could not restrain himself from experimenting upon
his brother with various anecdotes concerning the lady in question
and her recent admission to the Emperor’s suite. It was apparent in a
moment that Suzaku suffered acutely while these subjects were being
discussed, and Genji, ashamed of his unkindness, hastily turned the
conversation to other matters.

At such a ceremony as that of the crowning of the Vestal the Emperor
meets the lady whom he is to initiate face to face and during
the whole proceedings no curtain or screen divides them. Suzaku must
therefore at least know what Princess Akikonomu looked like; which
was more than Genji did, for she had till this day never received him
except in an unlighted room or behind her curtains-of-state. In what
exactly did her charm consist? What was it that had kindled in the
ex-Emperor’s heart a passion that had survived the lapse of so many
years? The problem intrigued him and he almost envied his brother
the knowledge which he must possess on the subject. She was indeed
evidently of a very melancholy, indolent disposition. If only she would
sometimes forget herself, show a little of the impetuosity of youth,
then in course of time he might hope for a moment to catch a glimpse
of her as she really was! But while her gravity and reticence seemed
to become every day more pronounced, all his dealings with her tended
only to confirm his conviction that underneath all this reserve was
concealed an interesting and admirable character.

Now that all the Emperor’s time was divided between the two princesses
of his retinue, Prince Hyōbukyō had given up all idea of presenting
his second daughter at Court. Perhaps an opportunity would occur later
on when the Emperor was of an age to perceive for himself that such a
match was by no means to be despised. Meanwhile his favour seemed to
be pretty equally divided between the two existing claimants. He was
particularly interested in pictures and had as a result of this taste
himself acquired considerable skill. It happened that Lady Akikonomu
painted very charmingly, and so soon as he discovered this the Emperor
began constantly sending for her to paint pictures with him. Among
the serving-women in the Palace he had always taken an interest in
any who were said to be fond of pictures; and it was natural that
when he discovered painting to be the favourite occupation of
the pretty princess he should become very much attached to her. Hers
were not solemn pictures, but such clever, quick sketches; so that
just to watch her do them was an exciting game. And when, sitting so
charmingly beside him on the divan, she paused and held her brush in
the air for a moment wondering where to put the next stroke, she looked
so daring that the little Emperor’s heart was completely captivated.
Soon he was going to her rooms at all hours, and Tō no Chūjō became
seriously alarmed lest his own daughter should lose her primacy.
But he was determined not to be outdone, and being of an extremely
ingenious and resourceful nature he soon had a plan for putting an end
to this menacing situation. He sent for all the most skilful painters
in the land and under strict bond of secrecy set them to work upon a
collection of pictures which was to be like nothing that had ever been
seen before. They were to be illustrations to romances, which would
be preferable to purely ingenious subjects, the significance being
more easily grasped by a young mind and all the most interesting and
exciting stories were chosen. In addition to these illustrations there
was to be a set of ‘Months,’ a very attractive subject, with texts
specially written for the occasion. In due time Princess Chūjō[2]
showed them to the Emperor, who was naturally very much interested
and soon afterwards asked for them again, saying that he thought
Princess Akikonomu would like to see them. At this Princess Chūjō
began to make difficulties, and though His Majesty promised to show
them to no one else and carry them with the greatest care straight to
the other princess’s apartments, she refused to part with them.
Genji heard of this and was amused to see that Tō no Chūjō could still
throw himself into these absurd conspiracies with the same childish
excitement as in their young days. ‘I am very sorry,’ he said to the
Emperor, ‘to hear that Princess Chūjō hides her pictures from you and
will not let you take them away and study them at your ease. It seems,
too, that she was quite cross and quarrelsome about it, which was most
reprehensible. But I have some very nice pictures, painted a long while
ago. I will send them to you.’

At the Nijō-in there were whole cupboards full of pictures both old
and new. Taking Murasaki with him he now inspected their contents
and together they went through the whole collection, putting on one
side those which were most likely to appeal to modern taste. There
were naturally many illustrations of the _Everlasting Wrong_[3] and
the story of Wang Chao-chün,[4] both of them very interesting and
moving subjects, but unfortunately quite inappropriate to the present
occasion. These therefore had to be excluded. But it occurred to Genji
that his own sketches made during his sojourn at Suma and Akashi might
be of interest, and sending for the box in which they were kept he took
advantage of this occasion to go through them with Murasaki. Even some
one seeing them without any knowledge of the circumstances under which
they were painted would, if possessed of the slightest understanding
of such matters, have at once been profoundly moved by these drawings.
It may be imagined then with what emotion they were examined by one to
whom each scene came as an answer to the questionings and anxieties
of some evil dream from which it seemed there could be no awakening.
She told him more of what she had suffered in those unforgettable
days than she had ever done before. Why had he not sometimes sent such
pictures as these? How they would have comforted and reassured her.
And she recited the verse: ‘Better had it been for me when I was alone
to look at pictures of the realms where fishers dwell, than stare at
nothing, as I did all day long!’ Genji was deeply moved and with tears
in his eyes he answered with the verse: ‘It was an evil time; yet never
once in all those days was my heart sore as now when, hand in hand, we
view the pictured past.’

To one other person only had he shown them—the ex-Empress Fujitsubo.
Going through the whole collection sketch by sketch, in order to choose
out the best and also to give as good an idea as possible of the
different estuaries and bays, he could not help wondering all the time
how things were faring in the house of his host at Akashi.

On hearing of the preparations that were taking place at the Nijō-in,
Tō no Chūjō went through his pictures again and had them all fitted out
with the most elegant ivory-rollers, backings and ribbons.[5] It was
about the tenth day of the third month. The weather was delightful,
things were looking at their best and every one was in a good temper;
moreover it was a time at which no particular fêtes or ceremonies
occupied the Court, so that uninterrupted attention could be now given
to those lighter pastimes in which the Emperor so much delighted,
and whole days were spent unrolling painting after painting. The one
ambition of every one at Court was to rout out and bring to the Palace
some picture which should particularly catch the young Emperor’s fancy.
Both Akikonomu’s partisans and those of Lady Chūjō had brought forward
vast numbers of scrolls. On the whole, illustrated romances proved to
be the most popular. Akikonomu’s side was strongest in ancient
works of well-established reputation; while Lady Chūjō patronized all
the cleverest modern painters, so that her collection, representing as
it did all that most appealed to the fashionable tastes of the moment,
made at first sight a more dazzling impression. The Emperor’s own
ladies-in-waiting were divided in opinion. Some of the most intelligent
were on the side of the ancients; others favoured the present day. But
on the whole modern works tended to win their approval.

It happened that Fujitsubo was paying one of her periodical visits to
the Court, and having given a casual inspection to the exhibits of both
parties she decided to suspend her usual religious observances and
devote herself to a thorough study of all these works, for painting was
a matter in which she had always taken a deep interest. Hearing the
animated discussions which were taking place between the supporters
of modern and ancient art, she suggested that those present should be
formed into two teams. On Lady Akikonomu’s side the principal names
were Heinaishi no Suke, Jijū no Naishi, Shōshō no Myōbu; on Lady
Chūjō’s,—Daini no Naishi no Suke, Chūjō no Myōbu and Hyōye no Myōbu.
These were considered the cleverest women of the day, and Fujitsubo
promised herself very good entertainment from such an interchange of
wit and knowledge as their rivalry was likely to afford.

In the first contest that archetype and parent of all romances, _The
Bamboo Cutter’s Story_,[6] was matched against the tale of Toshikage
in _The Hollow Tree_. The partisans of antiquity defended their choice
as follows: ‘We admit that this story, like the ancient bamboo-stem in
which its heroine was found, has in the course of ages become a
little loose in the joints. But the character of Lady Kaguya herself,
so free from all stain of worldly impurity, so nobly elevated both in
thought and conduct, carries us back to the Age of the Gods, and if
such a tale fails to win your applause, this can only be because it
deals with matters far beyond the reach of your frivolous feminine
comprehensions.’ To this the other side replied: ‘The Sky Land to which
Lady Kaguya was removed is indeed beyond our comprehensions, and we
venture to doubt whether any such place exists. But if we regard merely
the mundane part of your story, we find that the heroine emanated from
a bamboo joint. This gives to the story from the start an atmosphere
of low life which we for our part consider very disagreeable. We are
told that from the lady’s person there emanated a radiance which lit up
every corner of her foster-father’s house. But these fireworks, if we
remember aright, cut a very poor figure when submitted to the august
light of his Majesty’s Palace. Moreover the episode of the fireproof
ratskin ends very tamely, for after Abe no Ōshi[7] had spent thousands
of gold pieces in order to obtain it, no sooner was it put to the test
than it disappeared in a blaze of flame. Still more lamentable was
the failure of Prince Kuramochi[7] who, knowing that the journey to
Fairyland was somewhat difficult, did not attempt to go there but had a
branch of the Jewel Tree fabricated by his goldsmith; a deception which
was exposed at the first scratch.’

The picture was painted by Kose no Ōmi[8] and the text was in the hand
of Ki no Tsurayki.[9] It was on Kanya paper backed with Chinese
silk. The cover was of a reddish violet tinge, the rollers being of
sandal-wood,—by no means an extraordinary get-up. The moderns then
proceeded to defend their own exhibit; ‘Toshikage,’[10] they said,
‘though buffeted by wind and wave, pitched headlong into a stormy sea
and in the end cast up upon an unknown shore, pursued, undaunted by
suffering and disaster, the purpose which he had set before him, and
succeeded at last in displaying, both at the foreign Court[11] and in
our own country, the marvellous talent which it had cost him so much to
acquire. The adventures of so dauntless a character, affording as they
do a comparison between the manners of the Land Beyond the Sea and of
our own Land of Sunrise, cannot fail to be of interest; moreover the
same contrast has been maintained in the style of the pictures as in
the matter of the text.’

It was painted on thick white paper such as poem-slips are made of, the
outer cover was of blue paper and the roller of yellow jade. The artist
was Tsunenori;[12] the scribe, Onō no Michikaze,[13]—a combination
that could hardly have been more dazzling in its fashionableness
and modernity. Against such claims as these the partisans of the
antique were quite unable to prevail and Lady Chūjō’s side scored the
overwhelming victory.

In the next contest the _Tales of Ise_[14] were pitted against the
story of Shō Sammi.[15] A long discussion ensued; but here
again the fact that _Shō Sammi_ deals with persons in a comfortable
and prosperous situation, presents scenes of Court life and shows the
world as we know it to-day could not fail to render this work far more
attractive to the majority of these young critics. An opposite opinion
was voiced by Heinaishi, who recited the verse: ‘Shall we leave the
deep heart of Ise’s waters unexplored till time shall have effaced
their secret, like a footprint that the tide washes from the shore?’
‘Shall the fame of Narihira,’[16] she added, ‘be eclipsed by modern
tittle-tattle dressed up in the finery of a specious style?’ To this
Daini no Naishi no Suke replied with the verse: ‘Upon the topmost
regions of the sky[17] our hero’s heart is set; with scorn he views
your shoals, upon which, heavy as a thousand watery fathoms, the ages
rest.’

‘Well,’ said Fujitsubo, ‘ambition such as that of Prince Hyōye[18] is
no doubt a very valuable quality; but I sincerely hope that admiration
for him and his like will never cause us to let the fame of Captain
Laigo[19] sink into decay!’ And she recited the verse: ‘Has the old
fisherman of Ise shore, like seaweed that the ebbing tide reveals, so
long been flattered by the public eye, only to sink at last beneath the
rising sea of scorn?’

These feminine discussions are capable of continuing, more or less at
cross-purposes for an indefinite length of time. It would indeed be
impossible to record all the arguments and counter-arguments that were
expended over even one of these pictures. Moreover the younger and
less considered of the gentlewomen present, though any one of
them would have given her eyes not to miss any of the paintings that
were being unrolled, were hustled into the background, even though
they belonged to the Emperor’s own or to Lady Fujitsubo’s household,
and were scarcely able to see anything at all. This occasioned much
jealousy and heart-burning.

Presently Genji arrived at the Palace and was greatly diverted by the
spectacle of this disorderly and embittered combat. ‘If you will get
up another competition,’ he said, ‘I will arrange for the Emperor to
be present and will myself make the awards.’ In preparation for this
event, which he had indeed been contemplating for some time, he made a
further selection from the pictures which he had recently put aside,
and having done so he could not resist inserting among them the two
scrolls of his sketches made at Suma and Akashi. Tō no Chūjō meanwhile,
determined not to be outdone, was straining every nerve in preparation
for the new contest. It was indeed a moment in the history of our
country when the whole energy of the nation seemed to be concentrated
upon the search for the prettiest method of mounting paper-scrolls. In
arranging the conditions of the contest Genji had said: ‘My idea is
that it should be confined to paintings already in existence; we do not
want a lot of new work hurriedly executed for this special purpose....’
But Tō no Chūjō could not resist the temptation to set some of his
favourite masters to work, and improvising a little studio with a
secret door he strove to steal a march on his rivals. The secrecy was
not however as well maintained as he could have desired; even Suzaku,
in his secluded apartments, heard the story and determined to put his
own collection at the service of Princess Akikonomu. He had a series of
‘Festivals All the Year Round,’ painted by various famous old masters;
texts explaining these pictures had been added by no less a hand
than that of the Emperor Daigo.[20] Why should he not order a series
of paintings illustrating the principal events of his own reign? Among
these subjects one would naturally be the crowning of the Vestal at
the Daigoku Hall upon the day of her departure for Ise. He entrusted
this scene to Kose no Kimmochi[21] and it may be imagined with what
care and insistence he discussed every detail of a work so dear to his
heart. It was encased in a delicately fretted box of aloes-wood. The
pattern on the wrappings and decorations of the roll was a heart-shaped
crest formed by leaves of the same tree. Nothing could have been more
delightfully up-to-date. He sent it by the hand of the Captain of the
Senior Bodyguard, who was one of his retainers. There was no message,
save for a poem written on the picture just by where the Vestal was
shown arriving in her litter at the Daigoku Hall: ‘Though I no longer
within the Circle of the Gods a place may take, yet unforgotten is the
concourse which in those hours with bright Divinities I held.’

To return no answer would show too great a disrespect towards one who
had once occupied the Throne, and though these attentions distressed
her she broke off a piece of the ritual comb which he had fastened
in her hair on that day long ago, and tying to it the verse ‘Not yet
forgotten is that high converse, and once again within the Precinct of
the Gods oh were it but my lot to stray!’ she wrapped the broken comb
in Chinese paper of deep colour and gave it to the messenger, whom she
rewarded with many handsome presents. The ex-Emperor when he opened
the packet was deeply moved, and for the first time regretted that he
had so soon resigned the Throne. Not unnaturally he was feeling
somewhat bitterly against Prince Genji; but he realized that he had
himself, in past days, deserved none too well at his brother’s hands.
Most of the ex-Emperor’s pictures had belonged to his mother, the
Empress Kōkiden; unfortunately a considerable part of her collection
had however come into the possession of Lady Chūjō, who was her
grand-daughter.

The ex-Emperor’s wife, Lady Oborozuki, was also extremely interested
in painting and had shown the utmost discrimination in forming her
collection.

When the great day came, though there had not been much time for
preparation everything was arranged in the most striking and effective
manner. The ladies-in-waiting belonging to the two sides stood drawn up
in line on either side of the Imperial Throne; the courtiers, very much
on the alert, were ranged up in the verandah of the small back room.
Lady Chūjō’s party (the left) exhibited their pictures in boxes of
purple sandal-wood mounted on sapan-wood stands, over which was thrown
a cover of Chinese brocade worked on a mauve ground. The carpet on
which the boxes stood was of Chinese fine-silk, dyed to the colour of
grape-juice. Six little girls were in attendance to assist in handling
the boxes and scrolls; they were dressed in mantles with white scarves
lined with pink; their tunics were of scarlet, worn with facings blue
outside and light green within.

Akikonomu’s boxes were of aloes-wood arranged on a low table of similar
wood, but lighter in colour. The carpet was of Korean brocade on a
blue-green ground. The festoons hanging round the table and the design
of the table-legs were carefully thought out and in the best taste.
The little girls in attendance wore blue mantles, with willow-coloured
scarves; their tunics, brown outside and yellow within. When all the
boxes were duly arranged on their stands, the Emperor’s own ladies
took up their places, some with Lady Chūjō’s supporters, some with the
opposing side. At the summons of the herald Genji and Tō no Chūjō now
appeared and with them Genji’s half-brother, Prince Sochi no Miya,
who among the various arts which he cultivated was particularly fond
of painting. He had received no official summons on this particular
occasion, but had in the end yielded to Genji’s entreaties that he
would come and help him in his difficult task. Prince Sochi was at once
called to the Emperor’s side and appointed part-umpire in the coming
contest. An amazing collection of paintings had been assembled and
assuredly the task of the judges was no light one. A great impression
was made when Akikonomu’s side produced the famous series of ‘Four
Seasons’ by noted masters of antiquity. Both the charming fancy
displayed in the choice of episodes for illustration and the easy,
flowing character of the brush-strokes rendered these works highly
attractive; and the modern paintings on paper, being necessarily
limited in size, sometimes, especially in landscape, made a certain
impression of incompleteness. Yet the far greater richness both of
brushwork and invention gave even to the more trivial of these modern
works a liveliness which made them compare not unfavourably with the
masterpieces of the past. Thus it was very difficult indeed to reach
any decision, save that to-day, as on the previous occasion, both sides
had produced many works of absorbing interest.

The sliding-screen of the breakfast-room was now pushed aside and Lady
Fujitsubo entered. Remembering how learned she was in these matters
Genji felt somewhat shy, and contented himself henceforward as exhibit
after exhibit was produced with an occasional comment or suggestion,
discreetly thrown in only when some point of especial difficulty
threatened an indefinite delay. The contest was still undecided when
night fell.

At last the moment arrived when there was only one more picture to
show on each side. Amid intense excitement Princess Akikonomu’s side
produced the roll containing Genji’s sketches at Suma. Tō no Chūjō was
aghast. His daughter’s side too had reserved for their last stroke
one of the most important works at their disposition; but against the
prospect of so masterly a hand working at complete leisure and far
from the distracting influences which beset an artist in town, Lady
Chūjō’s supporters at once knew that they could not hope to prevail.
An additional advantage was given to Genji’s paintings by the pathos
of the subject. That during those years of exile he had endured a
cheerless and monotonous existence those present could well conjecture.
But when they saw, so vividly presented, both the stern manner of his
life and in some sort even the feelings which this rustic life had
aroused in one used to every luxury and indulgence, they could not but
be deeply moved, and there were many (Prince Sochi no Miya among them)
who could scarcely refrain from tears. Here were presented in the most
vivid manner famous bays and shores of the Suma coast, so renowned in
story yet to these city folk so utterly unknown and unimagined. The
text was written in cursive Chinese characters, helped out here and
there with a little native script, and unlike the business day-to-day
journals that men generally keep it was varied by the insertion of an
occasional poem or song. The spectators now clamoured only for more
specimens of Genji’s handiwork, and it would have been impossible at
that moment to interest them in anything else. It seemed to them as
though all the interest and beauty of the many pictures which they
had been examining had in some strange manner accumulated and
attached themselves to this one scroll. By universal and ungrudging
consent Princess Akikonomu’s side was awarded the victory.

It was already nearing the dawn when Genji, feeling somewhat
discursive, sent round the great tankard and presently began telling
stories to the company. ‘From my earliest childhood,’ he said at last,
‘I have always been fond of books; and my father the late Emperor,
fearing that I might become wholly absorbed in my studies, used to say
to me: “Perhaps learning carries with it inevitably so great a share
of the world’s esteem that, to redress the balance, the scholar, once
he advances beyond a certain stage of learning, is doomed to pay for
his enviable attainments either by ill health or poverty. Those who
are born to greatness may be certain that, whether they exert their
minds or not, the advantages of noble birth will suffice to distinguish
them from their fellows; and for you of all men the acquisition of
such ill-starred accomplishments would be entirely superfluous. I
sincerely hope that you will not allow them to occupy too much of your
time.” He arranged that most of my lessons should be in practical
subjects connected with national administration and economy. I got on
fairly well, but there was no branch in which I showed any particular
aptitude. It was only in painting, which my preceptors considered a
very trivial and unbecoming pastime, that I displayed any unusual
talent. Often I used to wonder whether I should ever get the chance of
using this gift to the full, for the time allotted to these lighter
distractions was very short. At last, with my unexpected retirement
to a remote shore, the longed-for opportunity arrived. On every side
the great sea spread about me; I began to learn its secrets, became
so intimate with its every mood and aspect that where these sketches
fail it is not for lack of understanding, but because there came
at last a point where my brush could no longer keep pace with the
visions that beset my brain. Not having previously had any opportunity
of showing these sketches to His Majesty, I took advantage of this
occasion to display them. But I fear that my action in using them for
this competition will when reflected upon provoke very unfavourable
comments....’ The conversation was carried on by Prince Sochi no Miya:
‘I know, of course,’ he said, ‘that mere industry will not carry one
far in any art; his heart must be in the matter. But all the same there
is a great deal which can simply be learnt from masters; so that a
man, without any understanding of what is really important, will often
easily succeed in imitating the outward forms and procedures of an art.
But painting and draughts demand an extraordinary degree of natural
equipment and also furnish us with the strangest surprises; for some
apparently half-witted fellow, who does not seem capable of any useful
activity, will turn out to be a genius at draughts or painting! On the
other hand I have occasionally come across instances where intelligent
children of good family have possessed what I may term a general
superiority, showing an unusual capacity in every form of art and
learning.

‘My father the late Emperor gave personal attention to the training
of all his children, both girls and boys, in every imaginable art and
accomplishment. But it was in your education, Genji, that he took by
far the greatest interest, and it was to you, whom he considered most
likely to profit by it, that he was at pains to hand on the great
store of information which in the course of his long life he had
here and there acquired. In literature of course you were far ahead
of any of us; just as you were in other less important matters, such
as playing upon the zithern, which was indeed perhaps your principal
accomplishment. But I remember that, in addition to this, you
played reasonably well on the flute, guitar, and great zithern; as
indeed your father often mentioned with wonder. These talents of
yours were well known at Court, and I for my part had heard that
you occasionally amused yourself with brushes and paints. But I had
always supposed that this was a mere pastime, and I confess that
the masterpieces which you have exhibited before us to-day took me
completely by surprise. I assure you that even the great ink-painters
of antiquity would feel no small uneasiness should their works be set
beside these sketches of yours. You are indeed a prodigy!’ He spoke
rather thickly and indistinctly, for he was already a little bit
fuddled with wine; and being for the same reason somewhat lachrymose,
when mentioning his late father’s name he suddenly burst into tears.

It was towards the end of the month and the late moon had at last
risen. The rooms where they were assembled were still dark, but the
sky outside was already aglow with dawn. The Keeper of Books and
Instruments was asked to bring out the zitherns. Tō no Chūjō took the
_wagon_,[22] which he played, if not so well as Genji, at any rate in
a very distinguished manner. Sochi no Miya took the great-zithern and
Genji the _kin_.[23] The lute was played by Akikonomu’s gentlewoman
Shōshō no Myōbu. There was a certain courtier who had a genius for
beating time; he was now sent for and a most agreeable concert ensued.
Dawn was spreading fast. Colour began to come into the flowers, and the
features of those sitting by became dimly discernible in the growing
light. The birds were singing lustily; a pleasant morning had begun.

Presents were now distributed to the guests by Lady Fujitsubo on behalf
of the Emperor; Prince Sochi no Miya received in addition the
special tribute of a cloak from the wardrobe, in recognition of his
services as umpire.

Genji gave instructions that the Suma scroll should be left with
Fujitsubo. Hearing that it was only one of a series, she begged to be
shown the rest. ‘You shall see them all in good time,’ Genji said;
‘there are far too many of them to go through at one sitting.’ The
little Emperor, too, seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the proceedings,
which was a great comfort to those who had engineered them.

When Tō no Chūjō saw with what zest Genji supported his ward Princess
Akikonomu even in such trifling matters as this contest he again
became a little uneasy about Lady Chūjō’s position. But observing the
situation closely, he noted that the young Emperor, who certainly began
by being very deeply attached to his little playmate, after the first
excitement of recognizing this new companion with her interesting
grown-up accomplishments had passed away, settled down again quite
happily to his old love. For the present at any rate there was no need
for anxiety.

Genji had a strong presentiment the Court ceremony and festivals of the
reign were destined to be taken as a model in future times. It was for
this reason that even in the matter of private pastimes and receptions
he took great pains that everything should be carried out in the most
perfectly appropriate and pleasurable manner. Hence life at Court
during this period became one long series of exquisitely adjusted pomps
and festivities.

Genji was still haunted by the impermanence of worldly things, and now
that the Emperor was beginning to reach years of discretion he often
thought quite seriously of embracing a monastic life. It seemed to him
that in history one so often reads of men who at an immature age rose
to high position and became conspicuous figures in the world only
to fall, after a very short time, into disaster and ignominy. With
regard to himself he had felt since his exile that if the position in
which he now found himself was beyond that to which he was properly
entitled, this was only fate’s kind compensation for the indignities to
which in his early life he had suddenly been exposed. But now the debt
which fortune owed him was fully discharged and he could not believe
that he was far from the brink of some fresh disaster. He would have
liked to shut himself away in some retired corner and devote himself to
meditations upon the life to come; he did indeed choose a quiet site on
a hill near the City and build a hermitage there, which he even went
so far as to furnish with images and holy books. But so many questions
arose concerning the education of his children and their future at
Court, that there could be no question of his actually taking his vows,
at any rate for some considerable time; and what exactly he had in mind
when he began building this hermitage it would be hard to say.

[1] The formula with which the Emperor despatches the Vestal of Ise.

[2] Chūjō’s daughter. Actually she is called Kōkiden, but this is a
name of another character in the book, and as the use of it would lead
to confusion, I have given her a name which links her to her father.

[3] The story of Ming Huang and Yang Kuei-fei; a long poem by Po Chū-i.

[4] A Chinese princess given to a Tartar king in marriage and carried
away into the north.

[5] For tying up the rolls.

[6] A 9th-century story about a fairy who was found in a bamboo-stem,
set various fantastic ordeals to her lovers and finally disappeared in
the Land Above the Sky. It is written in a rather disjointed style.
Translated by Victor Dickins in _Japanese Texts_. See above, p. 15.

[7] One of the suitors.

[8] Also called Aimi. Successor of Kose no Kanaoka, who founded the
Kose school in the 9th century.

[9] 883–946 A.D. Editor of the _Kokinshū_, the first official anthology
of poetry.

[10] Having set out from Japan to China he was wrecked on the coast
of Persia, where he acquired a magic zithern and the knowledge of
unearthly tunes, armed with which he won great fame as a musician in
China and Japan. See Aston’s _History of Japanese Literature_, p. 76,
and above, p. 16.

[11] China.

[12] Asukabe Tsunenori, flourished about 964 A.D.

[13] Also called Ono no Dōfū, the most celebrated calligraphist of
Japan.

[14] A collection of short love-episodes, each centring round a poem or
poems. See Aston’s _History of Japanese Literature_, p. 80.

[15] Already lost in the 15th century.

[16] Hero of the _Tales of Ise_.

[17] I.e., upon promotion at Court. Courtiers were called ‘men above
the clouds.’

[18] Presumably the hero of the tale of Shō Sammi.

[19] Narihira, hero of the _Tales of Ise_.

[20] 898–930, a great patron of literature, and himself an important
poet and calligrapher.

[21] Grandson of the great Kose no Kanaoka. Flourished about 960 A.D.

[22] Japanese zithern.

[23] Chinese zithern.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE WIND IN THE PINE-TREES

The new quarters which Genji had built to the east of his palace were
now ready and the lady from the Village of Falling Flowers was duly
installed there. The western wing and connecting galleries of the
Nijō-in had been arranged in offices for the clerks whom he employed
in his capacity as Grand Minister. In the eastern wing he intended to
establish the Lady of Akashi. The women’s quarters at the back of the
palace he enlarged considerably, making several sets of very agreeable
and comfortable apartments; these he destined for those ladies who
having in the past received some mark of favour which, though fleeting,
had generally been coupled with handsome promises, now looked to him
for recognition and support. He kept the Grand Bedchamber of the Palace
open, and though he lived chiefly in the new building, he continued to
use the other from time to time and none of the necessary furniture was
removed.

He wrote frequently to Akashi and many times begged her to come up
to the Capital. But she had heard so many stories of how others had
suffered at his hands,—how he had again and again toyed with the
affections not only of humble creatures such as herself, but of the
greatest ladies in the land, only to cast them aside a few months later
with the most callous indifference. Surely it would be foolish not
to take warning? If this was his conduct towards persons of rank and
influence, what sort of treatment could she, a friendless girl, expect?
What part could she hope to play save the humiliating one of a foil
to the young princess who was Genji’s lawful bride? Suppose she
accepted his offer, suppose she let him instal her in this new house,
how often would he come near her? Sometimes perhaps on his way to
Murasaki’s room he might look in casually for a moment; more she could
not expect. She saw herself the butt of every lewd wit in his palace.
No; she would never consent.

But there were other considerations. Should she continue to bring up
her baby daughter in this sequestered spot, how could the child ever
hope to take its place among the princes and princesses of the Blood?
Little as she trusted Genji, she must not cut off her child from all
possibility of an ultimate transference to the Capital. Her parents too
realized with dismay that her prospect at the City was none too bright;
but on the whole they inclined towards a move.

There was a certain estate near the Ōi River[1] which her mother
had inherited (it had belonged to Nakatsukasa no Miya, the mother’s
paternal grandfather). Successive heirs failed to claim it and for two
years the place had been falling into decay. A fresh plan had occurred
to the old recluse and his wife. They summoned the caretaker of the
place, a descendant of the man whom Nakatsukasa had originally left
in charge and said to him: ‘We had intended to quit the world forever
and end our earthly days in this inaccessible retreat. But certain
unexpected events in our family have made it necessary that we should
again seek a residence within easy reach of the Capital. After our long
absence from the Court we should feel utterly lost and bewildered were
we to plunge straight into the bustle of the town, and it occurred
to us that while we are looking for some quiet, old house to live in
permanently, it might be a good thing to use this place at Ōi which you
have been looking after for us!’ ‘I am afraid you will be very
disappointed when you see it,’ said the man. ‘For years past no one
has been in possession and everything is tumbling to pieces. I have
been making shift myself to live in a room which has indeed a kind of
ceiling, but no roof! And since the spring they have been building
this new hermitage for Prince Genji close by, and this has changed the
whole character of the district. The place is crowded with workmen;
for the hermitage, by what I can make out, is going to be a very grand
affair. If what you are looking for is a quiet, unfrequented spot you
will certainly be badly disappointed.’ His remarks had the opposite
effect to that which he had intended. To learn that at Ōi they would be
living as it were under Genji’s very wing was an astonishing piece of
news. He ordered the man to put the large repairs in hand at once; what
wanted setting to rights indoors they could see to at leisure later
on. This did not at all suit the caretaker. ‘If you want to know,’ he
said sulkily, ‘I reckon this place belongs to me as much as to anyone.
I have been living there quietly all these years and this is the first
I have heard of anybody putting in a claim to it. When I first took
things in hand the pastures and rice-fields were all running to waste,
and his lordship Mimbu no Tayū told me before he died that I could
have them for my very own and do what I could with them as payment of
certain sums which he then owed me.’ What he was really frightened of
was that, if the family came into residence, they would lay claim to
some of the live stock and grain that their land had produced. He had
suddenly grown very red in the face, his voice quivered with anger and
his whole aspect was so grim and even menacing that the old recluse
hastened to reassure him: ‘I am not in any way interested in the farm
or its produce,’ he said; ‘with regard to them please go on just as
before. As a matter of fact I _have_ got the title-deeds somewhere
here, but it is a long time since I attended to business matters
of any kind and it might take me a long while to find these papers. I
will remember to look into the question and see how it stands....’ The
steward soon cooled down. He noted that the old priest was evidently
on friendly terms with Genji. This decided him to be civil. And after
all, even if the presence of his masters might for the moment be rather
inconvenient, he would later on have plenty of opportunities for
reimbursing himself. Mollified by these reflections he set the repairs
in hand at once.

Genji meanwhile had no notion of what was afoot and could not
understand why, after all his entreaties, the Lady of Akashi still hung
back. He did not at all like the idea of their child being brought up
amid such uncivilized surroundings. Moreover, if the story afterwards
became known, it would certainly seem as though he had been reluctant
to acknowledge the child and had behaved with great heartlessness in
making no proper provision for it or for the mother.

But at last the house at Ōi was ready and a letter came from Akashi
describing how, with no idea that he was building in the district, they
had suddenly remembered the existence of the place and were making
plans for living there. He understood quite well the object of this
move. The Lady of Akashi was determined that if their intercourse was
to be resumed it must be in a place where she would not be subjected to
a humiliating contact with her rivals. To avoid this she was evidently
prepared to make every conceivable sacrifice. He was curious to know
more about her future plan of retreat and sent Koremitsu, who was
always employed in confidential missions of this kind, to investigate
the place a little and let him know if there was anything he could
do to assist the new-comers at Ōi. Koremitsu reported that the house
was in a very agreeable situation which somehow reminded one of the
seaside. ‘It sounds just the place for her,’ said Genji. The
hermitage which he was building was to the south of Daikakuji, which
temple, in the beauty of its groves and cascades, it even bid fair
to rival. The house where the family from Akashi was coming to live
was right on the river, among the most delightful pine-woods, and the
unpretentious way in which it was planned, in one long building without
galleries or side-wings, gave it rather the air of a farmhouse than of
a gentleman’s mansion. As regards furniture Koremitsu told him what was
most needed and he saw to it that these wants were supplied.

A member of Genji’s personal servants now arrived at Akashi to assist
the family in their removal. When she found herself actually faced
with the prospect of leaving these shores and inlets, near which so
great a part of her life had been spent, the Lady of Akashi was filled
with consternation. The present plan was that her father should stay
on at Akashi alone, and the idea of leaving him made her very unhappy.
Looking back over the whole affair, with all its consequences, she was
amazed to think that she had ever drifted into this miserable union,
which had brought nothing but trouble and confusion upon herself and
those for whom she cared. She found herself envying those whose fortune
it had been never to cross this prince’s path. Her father, seeing the
house full of the servants and retainers whom Genji had sent from the
Capital, could not deny to himself that here indeed was the fulfilment
of his every dream and prayer. He had secured his daughter’s future.
But what about his own? How would his life be endurable without her?
He brooded on this night and day, but never showed what was passing
in his mind, save for saying once or twice to his wife: ‘Do you think
even if I went with you I should see much of the little girl[2]?’ The
mother was also much distressed. For years past her husband had
slept in his little hermitage and had lived an entirely separate life,
engrossed in his meditations and devotions. There was little reason
to suppose that, even should she stay behind, he would give her very
much of his society, and virtually she would be living without any
companionship or support. But though he was a spectator of their lives
rather than a participator in them, his casual exits and entrances had
become the rock in which her whole existence was rooted; the prospect
of separation appalled her. He was a strange creature; but she had long
ago given up expecting him to play in any sense a husband’s part. His
odd appearance, his eccentric opinions, their lonely life,—all these
she had learnt to tolerate in the belief that this at any rate was the
last stage of her disillusionment, the final and unalterable ordeal
which death alone would end. Suddenly she found herself face to face
with this undreamed-of parting, and her heart shrank. The wet-nurse
and other young persons whom at the time of the child’s birth Genji
had sent from the Capital were beginning to become very restive and
the prospect of the coming journey delighted them. Yet even the most
frivolous among them could not leave these creeks and sandy bays
without a pang; and there were some who, knowing that it might never be
their lot to visit such scenes again, came near to adding the salt of
tears to sleeves already splashed by the breakers of the rising tide.

Autumn had begun and the country was at its loveliest. At dawn upon
the day fixed for their departure a chill wind was blowing and insects
filled the air with their interminable cry. The Lady of Akashi, already
awake, kept going to her window and looking out across the sea. Her
father had returned early from celebrating the night service in his
chapel; it was with trembling lips that he had performed the familiar
ceremonies. But now that the day of parting had come no words
of sorrow or ill-omen must be spoken. So each was determined, but it
was no easy matter to keep things going. The child was brought in,
its infant beauty shining like a jewel in the greyness of the dawn.
The grandfather never wearied of holding it in his arms and, young as
it was, an understanding seemed to have grown up between them. He was
indeed astonished by the readiness with which the child accepted a
companion whose appearance and manners, so different from those of its
regular attendants, might have been expected to have alarmed it in the
highest degree. Moreover there seemed something inappropriate, almost
sinister in their alliance. Yet for long he had scarcely let it be a
minute out of his sight. How should he live without it? He did not
want to spoil the journey by an outburst of unrestrained grief; yet
utterly silent he could not remain, and reciting the verse: ‘While for
good speed upon their road and happiness to come I pray, one thing the
travellers will not deny me, an old man’s right to shed a foolish tear
or two,’ he tried to hide his tears with his sleeve, exclaiming: ‘No, I
ought not to; I should not do it!’

His wife stood weeping at his side; there was one thing that she could
not disguise from herself: after long years both of his life and her
own that had been spent in an unceasing protest against the pleasures
and frivolities of the world, it was to those same frivolities and in
pursuit of the most worldly ambitions that her husband was sending
her away from him: ‘Together we left the city,’ she cried; ‘how all
alone shall I re-find the paths down which you led me over heath and
hill?’ The Lady of Akashi also recited a poem in which she said that
even to those who seem to have parted forever, life with its turns
and chances brings strange reunions to pass. She besought her father
to come at least part of the way with them; but he seemed to
regard it as utterly impossible that he should venture away from his
seaside retreat, and it was evident that he regarded the negotiation
even of the short road down to the sea as the most venturesome and
nerve-racking business.

‘When I first put worldly ambitions aside,’ said the old man, ‘and
contented myself with a mere provincial post, I made up my mind
that, come what might, you, my dear daughter, should not suffer from
my having sacrificed my own prospects; and how best, despite the
remoteness of our home, to fit you for the station of life to which you
properly belonged became my one thought and care. But my experience as
Governor taught me much; I realized my incapacity for public affairs,
and knew that if I returned to the City it would only be to play the
wretched part of ex-Governor. My resources were much diminished and
were I to set up house again at the Capital it would be on a very
different scale from before. I knew that I should be regarded as a
failure both in my private and public life, a disgrace to the memory of
my father who occupied the highest station in the State; moreover my
acceptance of a provincial governorship had everywhere been regarded
as the end of my career, and as for myself, I could not but think that
it was indeed best it should be so. But you were now growing up and
your future had to be thought of. How could I allow you to waste your
beauty in this far corner of the earth like a brocade that is never
taken from the drawer? But no better prospect seemed to present itself,
and in my despair I called upon Buddha and all the gods to help me.
That, living as we did, any fresh acquaintances should ever be formed
by us seemed out of the question. Yet all the time I believed that
some strange chance would one day befall us. And what indeed could
have been more utterly unforeseen than the circumstance which at last
brought so distinguished a guest to our home? In this I could
not but see the hand of Heaven, and my only anxiety was lest too great
an inequality of rank should divide you. But since the birth of this
child, that fear has not so much troubled me, for I feel that your
union is fated to be a lasting one. A child of Royal Blood cannot, we
must allow, pass all its days in a village by the sea, and though this
parting costs me dear I am determined never again to tamper with the
world that I have renounced. Princes are the lamps that light this
world, and though they may for a time be destined to cast confusion
upon the quiet of rusticity, soon they must perforce return to their
true firmament; while those whom they have left smile back, as I do
now, into the lowly Sphere[3] from whence they sprang. Should you hear
that I am dead, do not tease yourselves concerning the welfare of my
soul, and above all, while less than death divides us, do not worry
over what may be befalling me.’ Thus he poured out all that was passing
through his mind and at last he added in conclusion: ‘You may be sure
that each of the six times of Prayer, till the day when the smoke rises
from my pyre, I shall pray with all my heart for the happiness of the
little princess....’

Hitherto he had spoken with great self-possession; but now his face
began to pucker.

There was so much baggage to be transported that a vast quantity of
wagons would have been required had the whole party proceeded by road.
To send some of the stuff by road and the rest by sea was in many ways
inconvenient; moreover Genji’s retainers did not wish to be recognized
on the journey, and for all these reasons it seemed best that the
whole party should proceed by water. They set sail at the hour of the
Dragon, and soon their ship, like that of the old poet’s story,[4]
was lost amid the morning mists far out across the bay. The old
priest stood gazing after it lost in a bewildered trance of grief
from which it seemed as though he would never awake. The wind was
fresh and favourable, and they arrived at the City punctually at the
hour they had announced. Wishing to attract no notice they left their
large baggage on board and travelled inland as quickly as possible.
The house at Ōi at once took their fancy and was, as Koremitsu had
noticed, in some curious way very reminiscent of the seaside, so that
they soon felt quite at home. The mother had known this place as a
girl and moving recollections crowded to her mind at every turn. By
Genji’s orders a covered gallery had been added to the house, which was
a great improvement, and the course of the stream had also been very
successfully altered. Much still remained to be done, but for the most
part only such small jobs as could easily be finished off later on,
when they had got things straight and settled in. On their arrival they
found that entertainment had been prepared for them at Genji’s command
by one of his confidential servants. He intended to come himself at the
earliest opportunity, but many days passed before he could contrive
an excuse for slipping away. The Lady of Akashi had made sure that he
would be there to welcome her. She therefore spent the first days at Ōi
in the deepest depression, regretting her old home and quite at a loss
how to occupy her time. At last she took out the zithern which Genji
had given to her at Akashi. She was feeling at the moment particularly
desperate, and as she had the part of the house where she was sitting
entirely to herself she gave vent to her feelings in a somewhat wild
improvisation, which soon startled her mother from the couch where she
was lying and brought her to the player’s side. With the music of the
zithern was blended the sighing of the wind in the great pine-woods
that lay behind the house. ‘An altered and a lonely woman to
this my native village I return. But still unchanged the wind blows
music through the trees.’ So the mother sang, and the daughter: ‘Far
off is now the dear companion of my happier days, and none is here who
comprehends the broken language of my lute.’

While things were going thus dismally at Ōi, Genji was feeling very
uneasy. To have established the people from Akashi so close to the
Capital and then neglect them entirely was indeed a monstrous way to
behave; but circumstances made it very difficult for him to escape
unobserved. He had not said anything to Murasaki about the move to
Ōi, but such things have a way of getting round, and he decided that
it would be better not to explain his absence in a note. He therefore
wrote to her one morning as follows: ‘There are various matters at
Katsura[5] which I ought to have looked into a long while ago; but I
did not at all want the bother of going there and have kept on putting
it off. Some people whom I promised to visit have settled near by and I
am afraid I shall have to go and see them too. Then I ought to go over
to my hermitage at Saga and see the Buddha there before it is painted.
So I am afraid I shall have to be away for two or three days.’

Some faint echo of the business at Ōi had reached her, but in a very
garbled form. She heard that Genji was hurriedly building a large new
mansion on his estate at Katsura. This was of course quite untrue.
Murasaki at once concluded that the mansion at Katsura was intended
for the Lady of Akashi and depressed by this she wrote in answer:
‘Do you know the story of the woodman[6] who waited so long that
leaves sprouted from the handle of his axe? Do not imagine that
I shall be quite so patient as that....’ It was evident that she was
out of humour with him! ‘How crotchety you are!’ he said. ‘In the past
you did indeed have some excuse; but now I have entirely changed my
habits. Anyone who knows me would tell you as much.’ It took the whole
morning to coax her back into a reasonable frame of mind. At last
very secretly, with no outriders of any kind save for a few intimate
personal attendants, and taking every precaution lest he should be
spied on or followed, he set out for Ōi and arrived there just as it
was growing dark. Even when dressed in the plain hunting clothes that
he wore at Akashi he had seemed to the Lady of the Shore a figure of
unimaginable brilliance; and now when he appeared in full Court dress
(he had indeed made himself as splendid as possible for the occasion)
she was completely overwhelmed by his magnificence and soon, in
contemplating this dazzling spectacle, the whole household recovered
from the gloom into which they had been plunged. The little princess
had of course to be fetched and it was naturally with considerable
emotion that he now saw his child for the first time. It was indeed a
pity that he should make its acquaintance in this belated manner. What
nonsense people talk about children, he thought. Every one used to make
such a fuss about Yūgiri, Princess Aoi’s child, and pretend it was so
remarkably handsome. Such people were mere time-servers and flatterers.
If it had not been the Prime Minister’s grandchild no one would have
seen anything remarkable about it at all. But here was a very different
story. If this little creature did not grow up into a woman of quite
exceptional beauty, he was indeed very much mistaken. The child smiled
at him with such innocent surprise and had such a perfect little face
and air that he at once took an immense fancy to it. The nurse who when
he had first sent her to Akashi was already losing her looks,
had now grown quite middle-aged. He asked her many questions about
her experiences in these last months, to which she replied frankly
and without any shyness. He felt sorry that he had sent her to waste
the last hours of her vanishing youth in so dull a place and now said
sympathetically: ‘Here too you are a long way from everything and it
is not at all easy for me to come over. I wish you would persuade your
mistress to make use of the apartments I originally offered her....’
‘We must see how we get on,’ the Lady of Akashi interposed.

That night at least she had no reason to complain of neglect and day
came only too swiftly. During the morning he gave fresh instructions
to the retainers who were responsible for the redecoration of the
house, and presently a number of people who farmed on and around his
Katsura estate came to pay their respects, having heard beforehand that
he was about to visit his properties in this neighbourhood. As they
were there, he thought he had better make them useful and set them
to work repairing some places in the Lodge where the shrubs had been
trodden down. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘that some of the artificial rocks
have rolled over and almost disappeared under the grass. I must get my
people to hoist them up again into some position in which they will
not look quite so pointless. However this is not the kind of garden
that looks the better for too much trouble being taken with it; and you
may not be staying here very long. It will not do to make everything
here too nice or it will soon be as hard to go away from here as it
was to leave Akashi.’ Soon they fell to talking of those old days,
now laughing, now weeping, but all the time divinely happy. Once her
mother came and peeped at them as they sat talking and the sight of
their happiness made her forget that she herself was old, was wretched.
Wreathed in smiles she hobbled away from the room. A little later
she was watching him standing in his shirt-sleeves instructing the
workmen how to utilize the little spring of water that issued near the
gallery of the eastern wing. He had no idea that he was being watched,
till happening to come across a tray for flower-offerings and other
religious gear lying about the house, he suddenly thought of the pious
old lady and said to his companion: ‘By the way, did your mother come
with you? I had quite forgotten she might be here or I should not be
going about the house dressed in this fashion.’ He sent for his cloak
and going up to the curtain-of-state behind which he was told the old
lady would probably be sitting, he said in a gentle tone: ‘Madam, I
have come to thank you; for it is your doing that the little girl
thrives so well. Your prayers and devotions it is that have lightened
the load of her _karma_ and caused her to grow up so fine and healthy
a child. I know well enough what it must have cost you to leave the
house which had become your sanctuary and mingle once more with the
follies of this transitory world. I know too what anxiety you must be
in, concerning the husband whom you have left.... For this and much
else, Madam, I have come to thank you....’ ‘That you should guess how
dear it cost me to come back to the turmoil of the world, and that in
these kind words you should tell me my exertions have not been made in
vain, is in itself sufficient reward for all that I have endured, and
justifies a life drawn out beyond the allotted span.’ So the pious old
lady spoke and then continued, weeping: ‘I have been in great anxiety
concerning this ‘twin-leaved pine,’[7] and while we dwelt under the
shadow of those wild cliffs I scarce dared hope that it would at last
find room to spread and grow. But now I pray more confidently,—though
still afraid that from roots[8] so lowly no valiant stem can ever
spring....’

There was in her speech and bearing a courtly dignity which pleased
him, and he led her on to talk of the time when her grandfather, the
old Prince, was living at the house. While she spoke the sound of
running water reached them. It came from the buried spring near the
eastern wall of the house; the workmen had just finished clearing it.
It seemed like the voice of one suddenly aroused from lethargy by the
mention of old familiar names. ‘I, that was mistress here, scarce know
the way from room to room; only this crystal spring remembers still and
meditates the ancient secrets of the house.’ She murmured this poem
softly to herself and did not know that he had heard what she said. But
it had not escaped him; indeed, he thought it by no means lacking in
beauty and power of expression.

As he stood looking down at her, full of interest and compassion, the
aged lady thought him more beautiful than anything she could have ever
dreamed would exist in the world. He now drove over to his hermitage at
Saga and arranged for the Reading of the _Samantabhadra Sūtra_ and the
meditations on Amitābha and Shākyamuni to take place every month on the
fourteenth, fifteenth and last days respectively, together with other
rituals for which he now made the final arrangements. The decoration
of the Buddha Hall and the provision of the necessary altars and
furniture was then discussed and various duties assigned to those in
charge of the place. He returned to Ōi by moonlight. It was strangely
like those nights of old when he used to visit her at the house on the
hill. It seemed natural enough that, as in those days, she should bring
out a zithern (it was indeed his own, which he had given her), and
soon, stirred by his presence and the beauty of the night, she began
to finger the instrument. He noticed at once that true to her promise
she had not altered the tuning since that last night at Akashi, and it
seemed as though all that had happened since were obliterated and
he were still listening to that farewell tune.

He was conscious of no inequality between herself and him. Despite
her mixed descent and rustic upbringing there was about her an air of
personal distinction which made ample amends for her lack of breeding
and worldly experience. Her looks had indeed greatly improved since he
knew her, and as he gazed, now at her, now at the lovely child, he felt
that both of them were destined to occupy henceforward a very large
share of his attention. But what was he to do? It would indeed be a
great pity that the child should grow up in an obscure country-house.
Most people would no doubt think him perfectly justified in taking it
away with him to the Nijō-in and bringing it up in whatever way he
chose. But he knew that this would be a terrible blow to the mother and
could not bring himself to suggest it. He sat watching the two of them
with tears in his eyes. The little creature had at first been rather
shy with him. But now it was quite at its ease, prattled and laughed in
his face and in fact showed every sign of wanting to make friends with
him. The infant in this expansive mood seemed to him more entrancing
than ever. He took it up in his arms, and watching the tenderness with
which he held it the mother felt that its fortunes were indeed secure.
Next day he was to return to the Capital. He therefore returned to
rest for a while; but the news that he was shortly to leave this house
spread with disconcerting rapidity to his tenants at Katsura and the
anterooms were soon full of visitors waiting to escort him on his
journey. A number of courtiers had also discovered his whereabouts and
were waiting to pay their respects. While he was being dressed, Genji
said petulantly: ‘This is intolerable. If I am being tracked down even
to such a place as this, where can I ever hope to hide my head?’
And with a mob of visitors pressing round him he was swept away to
his carriage. At a window by which they had to pass, stationed there
as though by accident, was the child’s nurse with the infant in her
arms. Stroking its face tenderly as he passed, Genji said to her: ‘I
should have been sorry not to see this child. But it has all been so
hurried.... Better than nothing perhaps.... But “your village is so far
away”....’[9] ‘We shall expect rather more from your Highness than
we did in the old days when we really were a long way off,’ the nurse
replied. The little princess stretched out her hand as though trying to
hold him back. Pausing for a while he turned and said: ‘It is terrible
to have such a sentimental disposition as mine. I cannot bear to part
from those I am fond of even if it be only for a single day. But where
is your mistress? Why did not she too come to bid me good-bye? Tell her
that it is barbarous....’ The nurse smiled and withdrawing into the
house delivered the message. But so far from being unconcerned at his
departure, the Lady of Akashi was so much agitated that she had sunk
helpless upon her bed, and it was some while before she could muster
enough strength to rise. At last, after Genji, not knowing what was
amiss, had in his heart passed severe censure upon her coyness, she
arrived in the front-room supported by her ladies and sank into a seat
where, though she was partly hidden by a curtain, he got a fair view
of her face. Such delicacy of feature, such distinction, such grace
would not he thought have done discredit to an Emperor’s daughter.
He went up to the window, pulled aside the curtain and whispered a
few words of farewell. Then he hastened to rejoin his companions; but
looking back for an instant over his shoulder he saw that, though
all this time she had remained motionless and silent, she was
following him intently with her eyes. He had in old days been somewhat
too slender for his height; now he had filled out a little and she
found this slightly robuster air very becoming. He must indeed have
expended considerable thought upon his appearance, every detail down
to the elegantly adjusted billowing of his wide, puffy trousers being
calculated with the nicest eye for effect. Such at any rate was her
impression as he passed out of sight that morning,—a view perhaps
somewhat coloured by partiality.

Ukon, the brother of Ki no Kami, had relinquished his office of
Treasurer, and having been appointed Quiver-bearer to His Majesty had
this year been formally invested as an officer of the 5th rank. He
now came to relieve Genji of his sword, and looking in the direction
from which his master had come saw the Lady of Akashi’s form dimly
outlined at the window. He had himself formed some slight acquaintance
with her during the period of Genji’s exile and wished to discover
whether she still had a liking for him. He therefore drew one of her
maids-of-honour aside and said: ‘I have not forgotten those hours of
pleasant intercourse, but fear to give offence. Sometimes when, waking
before the dawn, I hear the rustling of the wind among the trees, I
think for a moment that I am back at Akashi, or listening again to
the waves that beat upon the shore. At such moments I long to break
the silence with some message or token; but till now no proper means
has come to hand....’ He purposely spoke in such a way that she might
not understand him unless she were already aware of his feelings
towards her mistress. ‘The clouds that hang eight-fold about this
lonely hillside screen us from the world no less securely than the
mist-wreaths of that sequestered bay. I for my part thought that of
my friends in those days “none save the ancient pine-tree”[10]
remembered me, and it is good news indeed to hear that by you at
least....’ She could not have been wider of the mark![11] He was
now very sorry that he had in old days so scrupulously avoided all
reference to this attachment. He would have explained himself further,
but Genji was waiting; and calling out with an assumed cheerfulness
‘Let us talk of this another time,’ he hastened to rejoin his master.
Already the outriders were clearing intruders from the road and amid
great clatter and bustle the procession started on its way. Two
officious gentlemen, the Captain of the Guard and a certain Hyoye no
Kami, rode at the back of Genji’s coach. ‘I object to being tracked
down like this,’ said Genji wearily, ‘when I go to pay a quiet visit
to private friends.’ ‘The moonlight was so exquisite last night,’ they
said in self-defence, ‘that we could not bear having been left behind,
and this morning we groped our way through the early mist to find you.
The maple-leaves in the Capital are not yet quite at their best; but
in the open country the colours are marvellous. We should have been
here sooner, had we not become involved in a hawking party that one of
the chamberlains has got up.’ ‘I must go back to Katsura first,’ said
Genji; and accordingly the party set out in that direction. It was no
easy matter on the spur of the moment to provide entertainment for
so large a number of persons. However, the cormorant-fishers who ply
their trade on the Katsura river were hastily sent for, and promised
to secure food enough for the whole party. Their strange, clipped talk
reminded Genji of the fishermen at Suma and greatly diverted him. The
falconers, who had decided to camp in the open country, sent a present
of small snipe, each bird tied to a bunch of sedge-leaves. They played
at the game[12] of floating wine-cups down the stream. So many
times were the cups set afloat and so steep were the banks of the
stream that the game proved somewhat dangerous. But the wine made them
reckless and they were still shouting out their couplets long after
it grew dark. At last the moon rose and it was time for the music to
begin. The most skilful performers on zithern, lute, _wagon_, and
various wind instruments were called upon and were soon playing such
tunes as were best suited to the place and hour. A gentle breeze blew
down the stream blending its whisperings with the music of pipe and
string. Higher and higher the moon rose above them; never had night
been so radiant and still. It was already very late when a band of four
or five courtiers made their appearance. They had come straight from
the Palace where the Emperor had been giving a concert. ‘This is the
first of the Six Fast Days,’ His Majesty had suddenly exclaimed. ‘I
expected that Genji would be here. What has become of him?’ Some one
then informed His Majesty of Genji’s present whereabouts and messengers
were at once despatched to Katsura bearing a letter in which the
Emperor declared himself envious of the pleasant excursion in which his
Minister had found time to indulge. With this letter was the poem: ‘How
pleasantly the shadow of the laurel-tree must fall upon the waters in
the village beyond the stream!’[13] Genji answered with due humility
and respect. The messengers found this moonlight concert even more
agreeable than the one which they had left and had soon settled down
to drink and listen for the second time that night. When at last they
rose it was proper that they should not be sent away empty-handed. As
there was nothing here to give to them Genji sent a note to Ōi: ‘Have
you anything that would do to give to some messengers from the Court?’
After looking round for a little they sent such objects as they
could lay hands on. There were two boxes full of clothes. For the chief
messenger, who was now anxious to return to the Palace, he selected a
lady’s dress of very handsome stuff.

The company now became extremely animated. Poem followed poem in a
swift exchange, and even Genji’s conversation, usually equable and
restrained, began to take so extravagant a turn that his hearers would
gladly have kept him talking thus till the end of the time. As for
things at home, he reflected,—the harm was already done. The rishi’s
axe must by now have blossomed, aye, and withered too. Why not one more
day? But no; that would never do; and the party broke up hastily.

They set out for the Capital, each wearing on his head the
bright-coloured scarf with which, according to his rank and station,
he had been presented the night before and with these gay patches that
bobbed up here and there in the morning mist blended the colours of the
flowers in the gardens through which they passed.

There was with them a certain member of the Night Watch famous for
his singing of ancient ballads, and to cheer the company he now sang
with great spirit the ballad ‘Ho, my pony’; whereupon his companions
doffed their scarves and wound them round the singer’s head. The
wind fluttered through the many-coloured ends that dangled about his
shoulders, weaving as gay a brocade as that with which the storms of
autumn carpet a forest floor.

The news of his swift return or at least some faint echo of it reached
the Lady of Akashi in her chamber, making her feel more than ever
desolate. To Genji it suddenly occurred that he had never written
the customary[14] letter. Other things had indeed been occupying his
attention; but he wished he had remembered.

On his return to the Nijō-in he rested for a little while and
then went to tell Murasaki about his country visit ‘I am very sorry
that I was away longer than I led you to expect,’ he said; ‘those
wretched fellows hounded me down and, try as I might, I could not get
rid of them. I am very tired this morning. I think, if you will excuse
me, I must get some more sleep,’ and so saying he retired to his own
room. When they met later he saw that things were not going well, but
for a time pretended not to notice. At last she became so tiresome that
he said somewhat sharply: ‘This is ridiculous. You know quite well
that there can never be any comparison between her position and yours.
Surely you had better drop this absurd affectation and make the best of
me now I am here.’

He had promised to be at the Palace before nightfall, and now rose
to go. But before he left the room she saw him go into a corner and
scribble a hasty note. She guessed at once to whom it was addressed.
What a long time it was taking! He seemed to have a great deal to
say. Her women saw him giving it to a messenger with many whispered
instructions and they were duly indignant.

He was supposed to be on duty all night at the Palace. But he was
impatient to put matters right, and though it was very late indeed
before he could get away he hurried back to Murasaki at the first
opportunity of escape. While he was with her, the messenger returned
from Ōi with an answer in his hand. Genji read it without any attempt
at concealment, and finding it to be of the most harmless description,
he handed it to her saying: ‘Please tear it up when you have read
it, and do not leave the pieces lying about; pieces make such a bad
impression! In my position one has to be so careful.’

He came and sat by her couch; but he was thinking all the time of the
Lady at Ōi and wishing he could be with her. For a long while he sat
gazing into the lamp and did not speak a word.

The letter which he had handed to Murasaki was spread open before her;
but she was not reading it. ‘I am sure you have been peeping,’ he said
at last. ‘That way of reading letters is very tiring,’ and he smiled
at her with such evident affection that the tears welled to her eyes.
‘There is something I want to talk to you about,’ he said, bending over
her; ‘I have seen the little girl and, as a matter of fact, taken a
great fancy to her. I naturally want to do as well for her as I can,
but under the circumstances that is far from easy, and I am rather
worried about it. I want you to think about the matter a little, and
see if you cannot help me. What can be done? For example, would you be
willing to have her here and bring her up as your own child? She is
almost three years old, and at that age they are so pretty and innocent
that it is very hard indeed to harden one’s heart against them. It is
getting to be time that she came out of her long clothes. Would you be
very much upset if I asked you to take charge of the ceremony?’[15] ‘I
was cross just now,’ she said; ‘but I knew you were thinking all the
while about other things, and there seemed to be no use in pretending
we were friends if we were not. I should love to look after the little
girl. She is just the age I like best.’ She laughed with joy at the
thought of having such a creature in her arms, for she was passionately
fond of children. Should he try to secure the child? Genji was still
very doubtful. Visits to Ōi were very difficult to arrange, and he
seldom contrived to get there except on the two days in each month when
he went over to hear the service at his chapel near Saga.

Thus though the Lady of Akashi fared considerably better than the
Weaving Lady[16] in the story and though her expectations were of the
most moderate description, it would have been strange had these hurried
visits contented her.

[1] Also called the Katsura River. Runs near Saga (to the east of
Kyōto) where Genji was building his hermitage.

[2] The Lady of Akashi’s child.

[3] The metaphor is of souls sinking back into lower incarnations.

[4] See Waley, _Japanese Poetry_ (Oxford, 1920), p. 56.

[5] Where Genji had an estate.

[6] A Chinese named Wang Chih. He watched a couple of hermits playing
chess in a cave. The game absorbed his attention so completely that it
seemed to him to last only a few minutes; but when it was over he found
that years had elapsed and leaves had actually sprouted from the wood
of his axe.

[7] Two-year-old child.

[8] Referring to the Lady of Akashi’s comparatively humble birth.

[9] Quoting the old song: ‘Your village is so far away that I must go
back almost as soon as I come. Yet short as our meetings are perhaps we
should be still unhappier without them.’

[10] Allusion to an old poem.

[11] The lady was unaware that he had been in love with her mistress
and imagined it was of his feelings for herself that Ukon was speaking.

[12] Each competitor had to improvise a verse before the cup reached
him.

[13] Many puns. _Katsura_ = ‘laurel.’ Also, a _katsura_-tres was
supposed to grow in the moon.

[14] The ‘next morning’ letter.

[15] The _mogi_ or ‘First Putting On of the Skirt.’

[16] The two stars, Weaving Lady and Plough Boy, meet only on the
seventh day of the seventh month.

Transcriber’s Notes.

1. Italicized text is indicated with leading and trailing underscores.

2. Footnotes have been renumbered and placed at the end of each
chapter.

3. The bastard-title page prior to the main title page and the
half-title page preceding the main text have both been omitted.
They contained the words “THE SACRED TREE”.

4. The original landscape orientation of the genealogical tables
has changed to a portrait orientation by the transcriber in
order to provide a better view for eReaders. Each table has
has been separated by two blank lines for clarity.

5. In order to facilitate word wrapping, ellipses in the middle of
a sentence have been replaced with a group of three periods. This
group has a leading and, unless a comma is present, trailing blank
space added. Ellipses at the end of a sentence do not have a
leading blank space, but closing punctuation has been added if
needed.

6. Missing periods and quotation marks silently added.

7. Except as mentioned above and in the Change List that follows,
every effort has been made to replicate this first-edition text
as faithfully as possible, including non-standard punctuation,
inconsistently hyphenated words, and other inconsistencies.

Change List:

Page 17
earliers writers lack changed to
earlier writers lack

Page 176
uncertainity changed to
uncertainty.

Page 203
Village of Falling Fowers changed to
Village of Falling Flowers.

Page 264
himslf changed to
himself.

Page 287
existance changed to
existence.

*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "The Sacred Tree: Being the Second Part of ‘The Tale of Genji’" ***

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