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
                                1925

                                 To
                           BERYL DE ZOETE




                              PREFACE


Readers of the _Diaries of Court Ladies of Old Japan_, translated by
Madame Omori and Professor Doi, will remember that the second of the
three diaries is that of a certain Murasaki Shikibu. The little that
is known of this lady’s life has been set forth by Miss Amy Lowell
in her Introduction to that book. A few dates, most of them very
insecure, will be found in Appendix I of this volume. It is, however,
certain that Murasaki was born in the last quarter of the tenth
century, that she lost her husband in 1001, and that a few years later
she became lady-in-waiting to the Empress Akiko. We know that she was
chosen for this post on account of her proficiency in Chinese, a
subject which the young Empress was anxious to study. Akiko was then
about sixteen, so that Murasaki’s position in the house was what,
in our parlance, we should call that of ‘governess’ rather than of
lady-in-waiting. Akiko, though officially espoused to the Emperor,
was still living at home, and her father soon began to pay somewhat
embarrassing attentions to the new governess. From the Diary we know
that on one occasion at any rate his solicitations were refused. Was
the _Tale of Genji_ or any part of it already written when Murasaki
came to Court? We only know that in a passage of the Diary which
apparently refers to the year 1008 she speaks of her novel having
been read out loud to the Emperor. His majesty’s comment (‘This is
a learned lady; she must have been reading the Chronicle of Japan’)
shows that what was read to him must have been the opening chapter of
the tale. For in the whole work there is only one sentence which could
possibly remind any one of the _Nihongi_ (‘Chronicle of Japan’), and
that is the conclusion of Chapter I. So though we may be certain that
the first few books were already written in 1008, it is quite possible
that the whole fifty-four were not finished till long afterwards.
But from the _Sarashina Diary_, the first of the three contained in
the _Court Ladies of Old Japan_, we know that the _Tale of Genji_ in
its complete form was already a classic in the year 1022. The unknown
authoress of this diary spent her childhood in a remote province. Her
great pleasure was to read romances; but except at the Capital they
were hard to come by. She prays fervently to Buddha to bring her
quickly to Kyoto, and let her read ‘dozens and dozens of stories.’
In 1022 she at last arrives at Court and her wildest dreams are
fulfilled. Packed in a big box her aunt sends round ‘the fifty-odd
chapters of _Genji_’ and a whole library of shorter fairy-tales and
romances. ‘Are there really such people as this in the world? Were
Genji my lover, though he should come to me but once in the whole
year, how happy I should be! Or were I Lady Ukifune in her mountain
home, gazing as the months go by at flowers, red autumn leaves,
moonlight and snow; happy, despite loneliness and misfortune, in the
thought that at any moment the wonderful letter might come....’

Such were the _rêveries_ of one who read the _Tale of Genji_ more than
nine hundred years ago. I think that, could they but read it in the
original, few readers would feel that in all those centuries the charm
of the book had in any way evaporated. The task of translation in
such a case is bound to be arduous and discouraging; but I have all
the time been spurred by the belief that I am translating by far the
greatest novel of the East, and one which, even if compared with
the fiction of Europe, takes its place as one of the dozen greatest
masterpieces of the world.




                              CONTENTS


                                                 PAGE
        PREFACE                                     7
        LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS             11
        GENEALOGICAL TABLES                        13
  CHAPTER
  I.    KIRITSUBO                                  17
  II.   THE BROOM-TREE                             39
  III.  UTSUSEMI                                   81
  IV.   YŪGAO                                      92
  V.    MURASAKI                                  135
  VI.   THE SAFFRON-FLOWER                        180
  VII.  THE FESTIVAL OF RED LEAVES                211
  VIII. THE FLOWER FEAST                          239
  IX.   AOI                                       250
        APPENDICES                                297




                   LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS

                           (ALPHABETICAL)


  Aoi, Princess               Genji’s wife.

  Asagao, Princess            Daughter of Prince Momozono. Courted in
                              vain by Genji from his 17th year onward.

  Emperor, The                Genji’s father.

  Fujitsubo                   The Emperor’s consort. Loved by Genji.
                              Sister of Prince Hyōbukyō; aunt of
                              Murasaki.

  Genji, Prince               Son of the Emperor and his concubine
                              Kiritsubo.

  Hyōbukyō, Prince            Brother of Fujitsubo; father of Murasaki.

  Iyo no Suke                 Husband of Utsusemi.

  Ki no Kami                  Son of Iyo no Kami, also called Iyo no
                              Suke.

  Kiritsubo                   Concubine of the Emperor; Genji’s mother.

  Kōkiden                     The Emperor’s original consort; later
                              supplanted by Kiritsubo and Fujitsubo
                              successively.

  Koremitsu                   Genji’s retainer.

  Left, Minister of the       Father of Aoi.

  Momozono, Prince            Father of Princess Asagao.

  Murasaki                    Child of Prince Hyōbukyō. Adopted by
                              Genji. Becomes his second wife.

  Myōbu                       A young Court lady who introduces Genji
                              to Princess Suyetsumuhana.

  Nokiba no Ogi               Ki no Kami’s sister.

  Oborozukiyo, Princess       Sister of Kōkiden.

  Ōmyōbu                      Fujitsubo’s maid.

  Right, Minister of the      Father of Kōkiden.

  Rokujō,                     Princess Widow of the Emperor’s brother,
                              Prince Zembō. Genji’s mistress from his
                              17th year onward.

  Shōnagon                    Murasaki’s nurse.

  Suyetsumuhana, Princess     Daughter of Prince Hitachi. A timid and
                              eccentric lady.

  Tō no Chūjō                 Genji’s brother-in-law and great friend.

  Ukon                        Yūgao’s maid.

  Utsusemi                    Wife of the provincial governor, Iyo no
                              Suke. Courted by Genji.

  Yūgao                       Mistress first of Tō no Chūjō then of
                              Genji. Dies bewitched.




                        GENEALOGICAL TABLES


  ┌ Prince Zembō, _m_. Lady Rokujō, and died young.
  │ │
  │ └ Vestal Virgin of Ise.
  │
  │
  ├ THE EMPEROR.
  │ │
  │ └ Heir Apparent (his mother was Kōkiden).
  │   │
  │   ├ San no Miya.
  │   │ │
  │   │ └ Kaoru Genji.
  │   │
  │   └ Genji (his mother was Kiritsubo).
  │
  │
  ├ Prince Momozono.
  │ │
  │ └ Princess Asagao.
  │
  └ Princess Ōmiya, _m_. the Minister of the Left.
    │
    ├ Aoi.
    │ │
    │ └ Yūgiri.
    │
    └ Tō no Chūjō.
      │
      └ Kashiwagi.


  MINISTER OF THE RIGHT.
  │
  ├ Kōkiden (eldest daughter).
  │
  └ Oborozukiyo (sixth daughter).


  A FORMER EMPEROR.
  │
  ├ Prince Hyōbukyō.
  │ │
  │ └ Murasaki (Genji’s second wife).
  │
  └ Fujitsubo.
    │
    └ Child (supposed to be the Emperor’s, really Genji’s).


  IYO NO KAMI (husband of Utsusemi).
  │
  ├ Ki no Kami (by a former marriage).
  │
  └ Nokiba no Ogi (by a former marriage).




                             CHAPTER I

                            KIRITSUBO[1]


At the Court of an Emperor (he lived it matters not when) there was
among the many gentlewomen of the Wardrobe and Chamber one, who though
she was not of very high rank was favoured far beyond all the rest; so
that the great ladies of the Palace, each of whom had secretly hoped
that she herself would be chosen, looked with scorn and hatred upon
the upstart who had dispelled their dreams. Still less were her former
companions, the minor ladies of the Wardrobe, content to see her
raised so far above them. Thus her position at Court, preponderant
though it was, exposed her to constant jealousy and ill will; and
soon, worn out with petty vexations, she fell into a decline, growing
very melancholy and retiring frequently to her home. But the Emperor,
so far from wearying of her now that she was no longer well or gay,
grew every day more tender, and paid not the smallest heed to those
who reproved him, till his conduct became the talk of all the land;
and even his own barons and courtiers began to look askance at an
attachment so ill-advised. They whispered among themselves that in the
Land Beyond the Sea such happenings had led to riot and disaster.
The people of the country did indeed soon have many grievances to
show: and some likened her to Yang Kuei-fei, the mistress of Ming
Huang.[2] Yet, for all this discontent, so great was the sheltering
power of her master’s love that none dared openly molest her.

Her father, who had been a Councillor, was dead. Her mother, who never
forgot that the father was in his day a man of some consequence,
managed despite all difficulties to give her as good an upbringing as
generally falls to the lot of young ladies whose parents are alive and
at the height of fortune. It would have helped matters greatly if
there had been some influential guardian to busy himself on the
child’s behalf. Unfortunately, the mother was entirely alone in the
world and sometimes, when troubles came, she felt very bitterly the
lack of anyone to whom she could turn for comfort and advice. But to
return to the daughter. In due time she bore him a little Prince who,
perhaps because in some previous life a close bond had joined them,
turned out as fine and likely a man-child as well might be in all the
land. The Emperor could hardly contain himself during the days of
waiting.[3] But when, at the earliest possible moment, the child was
presented at Court, he saw that rumour had not exaggerated its beauty.
His eldest born prince was the son of Lady Kōkiden, the daughter of
the Minister of the Right, and this child was treated by all with the
respect due to an undoubted Heir Apparent. But he was not so fine a
child as the new prince; moreover the Emperor’s great affection for
the new child’s mother made him feel the boy to be in a peculiar sense
his own possession. Unfortunately she was not of the same rank as the
courtiers who waited upon him in the Upper Palace, so that despite
his love for her, and though she wore all the airs of a great lady, it
was not without considerable qualms that he now made it his practice
to have her by him not only when there was to be some entertainment,
but even when any business of importance was afoot. Sometimes indeed
he would keep her when he woke in the morning, not letting her go back
to her lodging, so that willy-nilly she acted the part of a
Lady-in-Perpetual-Attendance.

Seeing all this, Lady Kōkiden began to fear that the new prince, for
whom the Emperor seemed to have so marked a preference, would if she
did not take care soon be promoted to the Eastern Palace.[4] But she
had, after all, priority over her rival; the Emperor had loved her
devotedly and she had born him princes. It was even now chiefly the
fear of her reproaches that made him uneasy about his new way of life.
Thus, though his mistress could be sure of his protection, there were
many who sought to humiliate her, and she felt so weak in herself that
it seemed to her at last as though all the honours heaped upon her had
brought with them terror rather than joy.

Her lodging was in the wing called Kiritsubo. It was but natural that
the many ladies whose doors she had to pass on her repeated journeys
to the Emperor’s room should have grown exasperated; and sometimes,
when these comings and goings became frequent beyond measure, it would
happen that on bridges and in corridors, here or there along the way
that she must go, strange tricks were played to frighten her or
unpleasant things were left lying about which spoiled the dresses of
the ladies who accompanied her.[5] Once indeed some one locked the
door of a portico, so that the poor thing wandered this way and
that for a great while in sore distress. So many were the miseries
into which this state of affairs now daily brought her that the
Emperor could no longer endure to witness her vexations and moved her
to the Kōrōden. In order to make room for her he was obliged to shift
the Chief Lady of the Wardrobe to lodgings outside. So far from
improving matters he had merely procured her a new and most embittered
enemy!

The young prince was now three years old. The Putting on of the
Trousers was performed with as much ceremony as in the case of the
Heir Apparent. Marvellous gifts flowed from the Imperial Treasury and
Tribute House. This too incurred the censure of many, but brought no
enmity to the child himself; for his growing beauty and the charm of
his disposition were a wonder and delight to all who met him. Indeed
many persons of ripe experience confessed themselves astounded that
such a creature should actually have been born in these latter and
degenerate days.

In the summer of that year the lady became very downcast. She
repeatedly asked for leave to go to her home, but it was not granted.
For a year she continued in the same state. The Emperor to all her
entreaties answered only ‘Try for a little while longer.’ But she was
getting worse every day, and when for five or six days she had been
growing steadily weaker her mother sent to the Palace a tearful plea
for her release. Fearing even now that her enemies might contrive to
put some unimaginable shame upon her, the sick lady left her son
behind and prepared to quit the Palace in secret. The Emperor knew
that the time had come when, little as he liked it, he must let her
go. But that she should slip away without a word of farewell was more
than he could bear, and he hastened to her side. He found her
still charming and beautiful, but her face very thin and wan. She
looked at him tenderly, saying nothing. Was she alive? So faint was
the dwindling spark that she scarcely seemed so. Suddenly forgetting
all that had happened and all that was to come, he called her by a
hundred pretty names and weeping showered upon her a thousand
caresses; but she made no answer. For sounds and sights reached her
but faintly, and she seemed dazed, as one that scarcely remembered she
lay upon a bed. Seeing her thus he knew not what to do. In great
trouble and perplexity he sent for a hand litter. But when they would
have laid her in it, he forbad them, saying ‘There was an oath between
us that neither should go alone upon the road that all at last must
tread. How can I now let her go from me?’ The lady heard him and ‘At
last!’ she said; ‘Though that desired _at last_ be come, because I go
alone how gladly would I live!’

Thus with faint voice and failing breath she whispered. But though she
had found strength to speak, each word was uttered with great toil and
pain. Come what might, the Emperor would have watched by her till the
end, but that the priests who were to read the Intercession had
already been dispatched to her home. She must be brought there before
nightfall, and at last he forced himself to let the bearers carry her
away. He tried to sleep but felt stifled and could not close his eyes.
All night long messengers were coming and going between her home and
the Palace. From the first they brought no good news, and soon after
midnight announced that this time on arriving at the house they had
heard a noise of wailing and lamentation, and learned from those
within that the lady had just breathed her last. The Emperor lay
motionless as though he had not understood.

Though his father was so fond of his company, it was thought better
after this event that the Prince should go away from the Palace. He
did not understand what had happened, but seeing the servants all
wringing their hands and the Emperor himself continually weeping, he
felt that it must have been something very terrible. He knew that even
quite ordinary separations made people unhappy; but here was such a
dismal wailing and lamenting as he had never seen before, and he
concluded that this must be some very extraordinary kind of parting.

When the time came for the funeral to begin, the girl’s mother cried
out that the smoke of her own body would be seen rising beside the
smoke of her child’s bier. She rode in the same coach with the Court
ladies who had come to the funeral. The ceremony took place at Atago
and was celebrated with great splendour. So overpowering was the
mother’s affection that so long as she looked on the body she still
thought of her child as alive. It was only when they lighted the pyre
she suddenly realized that what lay upon it was a corpse. Then, though
she tried to speak sensibly, she reeled and almost fell from the
coach, and those with her turned to one another and said ‘At last she
knows.’

A herald came from the palace and read a proclamation which promoted
the dead lady to the Third Rank. The reading of this long proclamation
by the bier was a sad business. The Emperor repented bitterly that he
had not long ago made her a Lady-in-Waiting, and that was why he now
raised her rank by one degree. There were many who grudged her even
this honour; but some less stubborn began now to recall that she had
indeed been a lady of uncommon beauty; and others, that she had very
gentle and pleasing manners; while some went so far as to say it was a
shame that anybody should have disliked so sweet a lady, and that
if she had not been singled out unfairly from the rest, no one would
have said a word against her.

The seven weeks of mourning were, by the Emperor’s order, minutely
observed. Time passed, but he still lived in rigid seclusion from the
ladies of the Court. The servants who waited upon him had a sad life,
for he wept almost without ceasing both day and night.

Kōkiden and the other great ladies were still relentless, and went
about saying ‘it looked as though the Emperor would be no less
foolishly obsessed by her memory than he had been by her person.’ He
did indeed sometimes see Kōkiden’s son, the first-born prince. But
this only made him long the more to see the dead lady’s child, and he
was always sending trusted servants, such as his own old nurse, to
report to him upon the boy’s progress. The time of the autumn equinox
had come. Already the touch of the evening air was cold upon the skin.
So many memories crowded upon him that he sent a girl, the daughter of
his quiver-bearer, with a letter to the dead lady’s house. It was
beautiful moonlit weather, and after he had despatched the messenger
he lingered for a while gazing out into the night. It was at such
times as this that he had been wont to call for music. He remembered
how her words, lightly whispered, had blended with those strangely
fashioned harmonies, remembered how all was strange, her face, her
air, her form. He thought of the poem which says that ‘real things in
the darkness seem no realer than dreams’ and he longed for even so dim
a substance as the dream-life of those nights.

The messenger had reached the gates of the house. She pushed them back
and a strange sight met her eyes. The old lady had for long been a
widow and the whole charge of keeping the domain in repair had fallen
upon her daughter. But since her death the mother, sunk in age and
despair, had done nothing to the place, and everywhere the weeds
grew high; and to all this desolation was added the wildness of the
autumn gale. Great clumps of mugwort grew so thick that only the
moonlight could penetrate them. The messenger alighted at the entrance
of the house. At first the mother could find no words with which to
greet her, but soon she said: ‘Alas, I have lingered too long in the
world! I cannot bear to think that so fine a messenger as you have
pressed your way through the dewy thickets that bar the road to my
house,’ and she burst into uncontrollable weeping. Then the
quiver-bearer’s daughter said ‘One of the Palace maids who came here,
told his Majesty that her heart had been torn with pity at what she
saw. And I, Madam, am in like case.’ Then after a little hesitation
she repeated the Emperor’s message: “For a while I searched in the
darkness of my mind, groping for an exit from my dream; but after long
pondering I can find no way to wake. There is none here to counsel me.
Will you not come to me secretly? It is not well that the young prince
should spend his days in so desolate and sad a place. Let him come
too!” This he said and much else, but confusedly and with many sighs;
and I, seeing that the struggle to hide his grief from me was costing
him dear, hurried away from the Palace without hearing all. But here
is a letter that he sent.’

‘My sight is dim’ said the mother. ‘Let me hold His letter to the
light.’ The letter said:

‘I had thought that after a while there might be some blurring, some
slight effacement. But no. As days and months go by, the more
senseless, the more unendurable becomes my life. I am continually
thinking of the child, wondering how he fares. I had hoped that his
mother and I together would watch over his upbringing. Will you not
take her place in this, and bring him to me as a memory of the
past?’ Such was the letter, and many instructions were added to it
together with a poem which said ‘_At the sound of the wind that binds
the cold dew on Takagi moor, my heart goes out to the tender lilac
stems_.’

It was of the young prince that he spoke in symbol; but she did not
read the letter to the end. At last the mother said ‘Though I know
that long life means only bitterness, I have stayed so long in the
world that even before the Pine Tree of Takasago I should hide my head
in shame. How then should I find courage to go hither and thither in
the great Palace of a Hundred Towers? Though the august summons should
call me time and again, myself I could not obey. But the young prince
(whether he may have heard the august wish I know not) is impatient to
return, and, what is small wonder, seems very downcast in this place.
Tell his Majesty this, and whatever else of my thoughts you have here
learnt from me. For a little child this house is indeed a sorry
place....’ ‘They say that the child is asleep’ the quiver-bearer’s
daughter answered. ‘I should like to have seen him and told the
Emperor how he looks; but I am awaited at the Palace and it must be
late.’

She was hastening away, but the mother: ‘Since even those who wander
in the darkness of their own black thoughts can gain by converse a
momentary beam to guide their steps, I pray you sometimes to visit me
of your own accord and when you are at leisure. In years past it was
at times of joy and triumph that you came to this house, and now this
is the news you bring! Foolish are they indeed who trust to fortune!
From the time she was born until his death, her father, who knew his
own mind, would have it that she must go to Court and charged me again
and again not to disappoint his wishes if he were to die. And so,
though I thought that the lack of a guardian would bring her into
many difficulties, I was determined to carry out his desire. At Court
she found that favours only too great were to be hers, and all the
while must needs endure in secrecy the tokens of inhuman malice; till
hatred had heaped upon her so heavy a load of cares that she died as
it were murdered. Indeed, the love that in His wisdom He deigned to
show her (or so sometimes it seems to me in the uncomprehending
darkness of my heart) was crueller than indifference.’

So she spoke, till tears would let her speak no more; and now the
night had come.

‘All this’ the girl answered ‘He himself has said; and further: “That
thus against My will and judgment I yielded helplessly to a passion so
reckless that it caused men’s eyes to blink was perhaps decreed for
the very reason that our time was fated to be so short; it was the
wild and vehement passion of those who are marked down for instant
separation. And though I had vowed that none should suffer because of
my love, yet in the end she bore upon her shoulders the heavy hatred
of many who thought that for her sake they had been wronged.”

‘So again and again have I heard the Emperor speak with tears. But now
the night is far spent and I must carry my message to the Palace
before day comes.’

So she, weeping too, spoke as she hurried away. But the sinking moon
was shining in a cloudless sky, and in the grass-clumps that shivered
in the cold wind, bell-crickets tinkled their compelling cry. It was
hard to leave these grass-clumps, and the quiver-bearer’s daughter,
loth to ride away, recited the poem which says ‘Ceaseless as the
interminable voices of the bell-cricket, all night till dawn my tears
flow.’ The mother answered ‘Upon the thickets that teem with myriad
insect voices falls the dew of a Cloud Dweller’s tears’; for the
people of the Court are called _dwellers above the clouds_. Then
she gave the messenger a sash, a comb and other things that the dead
lady had left in her keeping,—gifts from the Emperor which now, since
their use was gone, she sent back to him as mementoes of the past. The
nurse-maids who had come with the boy were depressed not so much at
their mistress’s death as at being suddenly deprived of the daily
sights and sensations of the Palace. They begged to go back at once.
But the mother was determined not to go herself, knowing that she
would cut too forlorn a figure. On the other hand if she parted with
the boy, she would be daily in great anxiety about him. That was why
she did not immediately either go with him herself or send him to the
Palace.

The quiver-bearer’s daughter found the Emperor still awake. He was,
upon pretext of visiting the flower-pots in front of the Palace which
were then in full bloom, waiting for her out of doors, while four or
five trusted ladies conversed with him.

At this time it was his wont to examine morning and evening a picture
of The Everlasting Wrong,[6] the text written by Teiji no In,[7] with
poems by Ise[8] and Tsurayuki,[9] both in Yamato speech, and in that
of the men beyond the sea, and the story of this poem was the common
matter of his talk.

Now he turned to the messenger and asked eagerly for all her news. And
when she had given him a secret and faithful account of the sad place
whence she had come, she handed him the mother’s letter: ‘His
Majesty’s gracious commands I read with reverence deeper than I can
express, but their purport has brought great darkness and confusion
to my mind.’ All this, together with a poem in which she compared
her grandchild to a flower which has lost the tree that sheltered it
from the great winds, was so wild and so ill-writ as only to be
suffered from the hand of one whose sorrow was as yet unhealed.

Again the Emperor strove for self-possession in the presence of his
messenger. But as he pictured to himself the time when the dead lady
first came to him, a thousand memories pressed thick about him, and
recollection linked to recollection carried him onward, till he
shuddered to think how utterly unmarked, unheeded all these hours and
days had fled.

At last he said ‘I too thought much and with delight how with most
profit might be fulfilled the wish that her father the Councillor left
behind him; but of that no more. If the young Prince lives occasion
may yet be found.... It is for his long life that we must pray.’

He looked at the presents she had brought back and ‘Would that like
the wizard you had brought a kingfisher-hairpin as token of your visit
to the place where her spirit dwells’ he cried, and recited the poem:
_Oh for a master of magic who might go and seek her, and by a message
teach me where her spirit dwells_.

For the picture of Kuei-fei, skilful though the painter might be, was
but the work of a brush, and had no living fragrance. And though the
poet tells us that Kuei-fei’s grace was as that of ‘the hibiscus of
the Royal Lake or the willows of the Wei-yang Palace,’ the lady in the
picture was all paint and powder and had a simpering Chinesified air.

But when he thought of the lost lady’s voice and form, he could find
neither in the beauty of flowers nor in the song of birds any fit
comparison. Continually he pined that fate should not have allowed
them to fulfil the vow which morning and evening was ever talked of
between them,—the vow that their lives should be as the twin birds
that share a wing, the twin trees that share a bough. The rustling of
the wind, the chirping of an insect would cast him into the deepest
melancholy; and now Kōkiden, who for a long while had not been
admitted to his chamber, must needs sit in the moonlight making music
far on into the night! This evidently distressed him in the highest
degree and those ladies and courtiers who were with him were equally
shocked and distressed on his behalf. But the offending lady was one
who stood much upon her dignity and she was determined to behave as
though nothing of any consequence had taken place in the Palace.

And now the moon had set. The Emperor thought of the girl’s mother in
the house amid the thickets and wondered, making a poem of the
thought, with what feelings she had watched the sinking of the autumn
moon: ‘for even we Men above the Clouds were weeping when it sank.’

He raised the torches high in their sockets and still sat up. But at
last he heard voices coming from the Watch House of the Right and knew
that the hour of the Bull[10] had struck. Then, lest he should be
seen, he went into his chamber. He found he could not sleep and was up
before daybreak. But, as though he remembered the words ‘he knew not
the dawn was at his window’ of Ise’s poem,[11] he showed little
attention to the affairs of his Morning Audience, scarcely touched his
dried rice and seemed but dimly aware of the viands on the great
Table, so that the carvers and waiting-men groaned to see their
Master’s plight; and all his servants, both men and women kept on
whispering to one another ‘What a senseless occupation has ours
become!’ and supposed that he was obeying some extravagant vow.

Regardless of his subjects’ murmurings, he continually allowed his
mind to wander from their affairs to his own, so that the scandal of
his negligence was now as dangerous to the State as it had been
before, and again there began to be whispered references to a certain
Emperor of another land. Thus the months and days passed, and in the
end the young prince arrived at Court. He had grown up to be a child
of unrivalled beauty and the Emperor was delighted with him. In the
spring an heir to the Throne was to be proclaimed and the Emperor was
sorely tempted to pass over the first-born prince in favour of the
young child. But there was no one at Court to support such a choice
and it was unlikely that it would be tolerated by the people; it would
indeed bring danger rather than glory to the child. So he carefully
concealed from the world that he had any such design, and gained great
credit, men saying ‘Though he dotes on the boy, there is at least some
limit to his folly.’ And even the great ladies of the Palace became a
little easier in their minds.

The grandmother remained inconsolable, and impatient to set out upon
her search for the place where the dead lady’s spirit dwelt, she soon
expired. Again the Emperor was in great distress; and this time the
boy, being now six years old, understood what had happened and wept
bitterly. And often he spoke sadly of what he had seen when he was
brought to visit the poor dead lady who had for many years been so
kind to him. Henceforward he lived always at the Palace. When he
became seven he began to learn his letters, and his quickness was so
unusual that his father was amazed. Thinking that now no one would
have the heart to be unkind to the child, the Emperor began to take
him to the apartments of Kōkiden and the rest, saying to them ‘Now
that his mother is dead I know that you will be nice to him.’ Thus the
boy began to penetrate the Royal Curtain. The roughest soldier,
the bitterest foeman could not have looked on such a child without a
smile, and Kōkiden did not send him away. She had two daughters who
were indeed not such fine children as the little prince. He also
played with the Court Ladies, who, because he was now very pretty and
bashful in his ways, found endless amusement, as indeed did everyone
else, in sharing his games. As for his serious studies, he soon learnt
to send the sounds of zithern and flute flying gaily to the clouds.
But if I were to tell you of all his accomplishments, you would think
that he was soon going to become a bore.

At this time some Koreans came to Court and among them a
fortune-teller. Hearing this, the Emperor did not send for them to
come to the Palace, because of the law against the admission of
foreigners which was made by the Emperor Uda.[12] But in strict
secrecy he sent the Prince to the Strangers’ quarters. He went under
the escort of the Secretary of the Right, who was to introduce him as
his own son. The fortune teller was astonished by the boy’s lineaments
and expressed his surprise by continually nodding his head: ‘He has
the marks of one who might become a Father of the State, and if this
were his fate, he would not stop short at any lesser degree than that
of Mighty King and Emperor of all the land. But when I look again—I
see that confusion and sorrow would attend his reign. But should he
become a great Officer of State and Counsellor of the Realm I see no
happy issue, for he would be defying those kingly signs of which I
spoke before.’

The Secretary was a most talented, wise and learned scholar, and now
began to conduct an interesting conversation with the fortune teller.
They exchanged essays and poems, and the fortune-teller made a
little speech, saying ‘It has been a great pleasure to me on the eve
of my departure to meet with a man of capacities so unusual; and
though I regret my departure I shall now take away most agreeable
impressions of my visit.’ The little prince presented him with a very
nice verse of poetry, at which he expressed boundless admiration and
offered the boy a number of handsome presents. In return the Emperor
sent him a large reward from the Imperial Treasury. This was all kept
strictly secret. But somehow or other the Heir Apparent’s grandfather,
the Minister of the Right, and others of his party got wind of
it and became very suspicious. The Emperor then sent for native
fortune-tellers and made trial of them, explaining that because of
certain signs which he had himself observed he had hitherto refrained
from making the boy a prince. With one accord they agreed that he had
acted with great prudence and the Emperor determined not to set the
child adrift upon the world as a prince without royal standing or
influence upon the mother’s side. For he thought ‘My own power is very
insecure. I had best set him to watch on my behalf over the great
Officers of State.’ Thinking that he had thus agreeably settled the
child’s future, he set seriously to work upon his education, and saw
to it that he should be made perfect in every branch of art and
knowledge. He showed such aptitude in all his studies that it seemed a
pity he should remain a commoner and as it had been decided that it
would arouse suspicion if he were made a prince, the Emperor consulted
with certain doctors wise in the lore of the planets and phases of the
moon. And they with one accord recommended that he should be made a
Member of the Minamoto (or Gen) Clan. So this was done. As the years
went by the Emperor did not forget his lost lady; and though many
women were brought to the Palace in the hope that he might take
pleasure in them, he turned from them all, believing that there was
not in the world any one like her whom he had lost. There was at that
time a lady whose beauty was of great repute. She was the fourth
daughter of the previous Emperor, and it was said that her mother, the
Dowager Empress, had brought her up with unrivalled care. A certain
Dame of the Household, who had served the former Emperor, was
intimately acquainted with the young Princess, having known her since
childhood and still having occasion to observe her from without. ‘I
have served in three courts’ said the Dame ‘and in all that time have
seen none who could be likened to the departed lady, save the daughter
of the Empress Mother. She indeed is a lady of rare beauty.’ So she
spoke to the Emperor, and he, much wondering what truth there was in
it, listened with great attention. The Empress Mother heard of this
with great alarm, for she remembered with what open cruelty the
sinister Lady Kōkiden had treated her former rival, and though she did
not dare speak openly of her fears, she was managing to delay the
girl’s presentation, when suddenly she died.

The Emperor, hearing that the bereaved Princess was in a very desolate
condition, sent word gently telling her that he should henceforward
look upon her as though she were one of the Lady Princesses his
daughters. Her servants and guardians and her brother, Prince
Hyōbukyō, thought that life in the Palace might distract her and would
at least be better than the gloomy desolation of her home, and so they
sent her to the Court. She lived in apartments called Fujitsubo
(Wistaria Tub) and was known by this name. The Emperor could not deny
that she bore an astonishing resemblance to his beloved. She was
however of much higher rank, so that everyone was anxious to please
her, and, whatever happened, they were prepared to grant her the
utmost licence: whereas the dead lady had been imperilled by the
Emperor’s favour only because the Court was not willing to accept her.

His old love did not now grow dimmer, and though he sometimes found
solace and distraction in shifting his thoughts from the lady who had
died to the lady who was so much like her, yet life remained for him a
sad business.

Genji (‘he of the Minamoto clan’), as he was now called, was
constantly at the Emperor’s side. He was soon quite at his ease with
the common run of Ladies in Waiting and Ladies of the Wardrobe, so it
was not likely he would be shy with one who was daily summoned to the
Emperor’s apartments. It was but natural that all these ladies should
vie eagerly with one another for the first place in Genji’s
affections, and there were many whom in various ways he admired very
much. But most of them behaved in too grown-up a fashion; only one,
the new princess, was pretty and quite young as well, and though she
tried to hide from him, it was inevitable that they should often meet.
He could not remember his mother, but the Dame of the Household had
told him how very like to her the girl was, and this interested his
childish fancy, and he would like to have been her great friend and
lived with her always. One day the Emperor said to her ‘Do not be
unkind to him. He is interested because he has heard that you are so
like his mother. Do not think him impertinent, but behave nicely to
him. You are indeed so like him in look and features that you might
well be his mother.’

And so, young though he was, fleeting beauty took its hold upon his
thoughts; he felt his first clear predilection.

Kōkiden had never loved this lady too well, and now her old enmity to
Genji sprang up again; her own children were reckoned to be of quite
uncommon beauty, but in this they were no match for Genji, who was so
lovely a boy that people called him Hikaru Genji or Genji the
Shining One; and Princess Fujitsubo, who also had many admirers, was
called Princess Glittering Sunshine.

Though it seemed a shame to put so lovely a child into man’s dress, he
was now twelve years old and the time for his Initiation was come. The
Emperor directed the preparations with tireless zeal and insisted upon
a magnificence beyond what was prescribed. The Initiation of the Heir
Apparent, which had last year been celebrated in the Southern Hall,
was not a whit more splendid in its preparations. The ordering of the
banquets that were to be given in various quarters, and the work of
the Treasurer and Grain Intendant he supervised in person, fearing
lest the officials should be remiss; and in the end all was
perfection. The ceremony took place in the eastern wing of the
Emperor’s own apartments, and the Throne was placed facing towards the
east, with the seats of the Initiate to-be and his Sponsor (the
Minister of the Left) in front.

Genji arrived at the hour of the Monkey.[13] He looked very handsome
with his long childish locks, and the Sponsor, whose duty it had just
been to bind them with the purple filet, was sorry to think that all
this would soon be changed and even the Clerk of the Treasury seemed
loath to sever those lovely tresses with the ritual knife. The
Emperor, as he watched, remembered for a moment what pride the mother
would have taken in the ceremony, but soon drove the weak thought from
his mind.

Duly crowned, Genji went to his chamber and changing into man’s dress
went down into the courtyard and performed the Dance of Homage, which
he did with such grace that tears stood in every eye. And now the
Emperor, whose grief had of late grown somewhat less insistent, was
again overwhelmed by memories of the past.

It had been feared that his delicate features would show to less
advantage when he had put aside his childish dress; but on the
contrary he looked handsomer than ever.

His sponsor, the Minister of the Left, had an only daughter whose
beauty the Heir Apparent had noticed. But now the father began to
think he would not encourage that match, but would offer her to Genji.
He sounded the Emperor upon this, and found that he would be very glad
to obtain for the boy the advantage of so powerful a connection.

When the courtiers assembled to drink the Love Cup, Genji came and
took his place among the other princes. The Minister of the Left came
up and whispered something in his ear; but the boy blushed and could
think of no reply. A chamberlain now came over to the Minister and
brought him a summons to wait upon His Majesty immediately. When he
arrived before the Throne, a Lady of the Wardrobe handed to him the
Great White Inner Garment and the Maid’s Skirt,[14] which were his
ritual due as Sponsor to the Prince. Then, when he had made him drink
out of the Royal Cup, the Emperor recited a poem in which he prayed
that the binding of the purple filet might symbolize the union of
their two houses; and the Minister answered him that nothing should
sever this union save the fading of the purple band. Then he descended
the long stairs and from the courtyard performed the Grand
Obeisance.[15] Here too were shown the horses from the Royal Stables
and the hawks from the Royal Falconry, that had been decreed as
presents for Genji. At the foot of the stairs the Princes and
Courtiers were lined up to receive their bounties, and gifts of every
kind were showered upon them. That day the hampers and fruit baskets
were distributed in accordance with the Emperor’s directions by the
learned Secretary of the Right, and boxes of cake and presents lay
about so thick that one could scarcely move. Such profusion had not
been seen even at the Heir Apparent’s Initiation.

That night Genji went to the Minister’s house, where his betrothal was
celebrated with great splendour. It was thought that the little Prince
looked somewhat childish and delicate, but his beauty astonished
everyone. Only the bride, who was four years older, regarded him as a
mere baby and was rather ashamed of him.

The Emperor still demanded Genji’s attendance at the Palace, so he did
not set up a house of his own. In his inmost heart he was always
thinking how much nicer _she_[16] was than anyone else, and only
wanted to be with people who were like her, but alas no one was the
least like her. Everyone seemed to make a great deal of fuss about
Princess Aoi, his betrothed; but he could see nothing nice about her.
The girl at the Palace now filled all his childish thoughts and this
obsession became a misery to him.

Now that he was a ‘man’ he could no longer frequent the women’s
quarters as he had been wont to do. But sometimes when an
entertainment was a-foot he found comfort in hearing her voice dimly
blending with the sound of zithern or flute and felt his grown-up
existence to be unendurable. After an absence of five or six days he
would occasionally spend two or three at his betrothed’s house. His
father-in-law attributing this negligence to his extreme youth was not
at all perturbed and always received him warmly. Whenever he came the
most interesting and agreeable of the young people of the day were
asked to meet him and endless trouble was taken in arranging games to
amuse him.

The Shigeisa, one of the rooms which had belonged to his mother, was
allotted to him as his official quarters in the Palace, and the
servants who had waited on her were now gathered together again and
formed his suite. His grandmother’s house was falling into decay. The
Imperial Office of Works was ordered to repair it. The grouping of the
trees and disposition of the surrounding hills had always made the
place delightful. Now the basin of the lake was widened and many other
improvements were carried out. ‘If only I were going to live here with
someone whom I liked,’ thought Genji sadly.

Some say that the name of Hikaru the Shining One was given to him in
admiration by the Korean fortune-teller.[17]

[1] This chapter should be read with indulgence. In it Murasaki, still
under the influence of her somewhat childish predecessors, writes in a
manner which is a blend of the Court chronicle with the conventional
fairy-tale.

[2] Famous Emperor of the T‘ang dynasty in China; lived A.D. 685–762.

[3] The child of an Emperor could not be shown to him for several
weeks after its birth.

[4] I.e. be made Heir Apparent.

[5] She herself was of course carried in a litter.

[6] A poem by the Chinese writer Po Chü-i about the death of Yang
Kuei-fei, favourite of the Emperor Ming Huang. _See_ Giles, _Chinese
Literature_, p. 169.

[7] Name of the Emperor Uda after his retirement in A.D. 897.

[8] Poetess, 9th century.

[9] Famous poet, 883–946 A.D.

[10] 1 A.M.

[11] A poem by Lady Ise written on a picture illustrating Po Chü-i’s
_Everlasting Wrong_.

[12] Reigned 889–897. The law in question was made in 894.

[13] 3 P.M.

[14] These symbolized the unmanly life of childhood which Genji had
now put behind him.

[15] The _butō_, a form of kowtow so elaborate as to be practically a
dance.

[16] Fujitsubo.

[17] This touch is reminiscent of early chronicles such as the
_Nihongi_, which delight in alternative explanations. In the
subsequent chapters such archaisms entirely disappear.




                             CHAPTER II

                           THE BROOM-TREE


Genji the Shining One.... He knew that the bearer of such a name could
not escape much scrutiny and jealous censure and that his lightest
dallyings would be proclaimed to posterity. Fearing then lest he
should appear to after ages as a mere good-for-nothing and trifler,
and knowing that (so accursed is the blabbing of gossips’ tongues) his
most secret acts might come to light, he was obliged always to act
with great prudence and to preserve at least the outward appearance of
respectability. Thus nothing really romantic ever happened to him and
Katano no Shōshō[1] would have scoffed at his story.

While he was still a Captain of the Guard and was spending most of his
time at the Palace, his infrequent visits to the Great Hall[2] were
taken as a sign that some secret passion had made its imprint on his
heart. But in reality the frivolous, commonplace, straight-ahead
amours of his companions did not in the least interest him, and it was
a curious trait in his character that when on rare occasions, despite
all resistance, love did gain a hold upon him, it was always in the
most improbable and hopeless entanglement that he became involved.

It was the season of the long rains. For many days there had not been
a fine moment and the Court was keeping a strict fast. The people at
the Great Hall were becoming very impatient of Genji’s long residence
at the Palace, but the young lords, who were Court pages, liked
waiting upon Genji better than upon anyone else, always managing to
put out his clothes and decorations in some marvellous new way. Among
these brothers his greatest friend was the Equerry, Tō no Chūjō, with
whom above all other companions of his playtime he found himself
familiar and at ease. This lord too found the house which his
father-in-law, the Minister of the Right, had been at pains to build
for him, somewhat oppressive, while at his father’s house he, like
Genji, found the splendours somewhat dazzling, so that he ended by
becoming Genji’s constant companion at Court. They shared both studies
and play and were inseparable companions on every sort of occasion, so
that soon all formalities were dispensed with between them and the
inmost secrets of their hearts freely exchanged.

It was on a night when the rain never ceased its dismal downpour.
There were not many people about in the palace and Genji’s rooms
seemed even quieter than usual. He was sitting by the lamp, looking at
various books and papers. Suddenly he began pulling some letters out
of the drawers of a desk which stood near by. This aroused Tō no
Chūjō’s curiosity. ‘Some of them I can show to you’ said Genji, ‘but
there are others which I had rather....’ ‘It is just those which I
want to see. Ordinary, commonplace letters are very much alike and I
do not suppose that yours differ much from mine. What I want to see
are passionate letters written in moments of resentment, letters
hinting consent, letters written at dusk....’

He begged so eagerly that Genji let him examine the drawers. It was
not indeed likely that he had put any very important or secret
documents in the ordinary desk; he would have hidden them away much
further from sight. So he felt sure that the letters in these drawers
would be nothing to worry about. After turning over a few of them,
‘What an astonishing variety!’ Tō no Chūjō exclaimed and began
guessing at the writers’ names, and made one or two good hits. More
often he was wrong and Genji, amused by his puzzled air, said very
little but generally managed to lead him astray. At last he took the
letters back, saying ‘But you too must have a large collection. Show
me some of yours, and my desk will open to you with better will.’ ‘I
have none that you would care to see,’ said Tō no Chūjō, and he
continued: ‘I have at last discovered that there exists no woman of
whom one can say “Here is perfection. This is indeed she.” There are
many who have the superficial art of writing a good running hand, or
if occasion requires of making a quick repartee. But there are few who
will stand the ordeal of any further test. Usually their minds are
entirely occupied by admiration for their own accomplishments, and
their abuse of all rivals creates a most unpleasant impression. Some
again are adored by over-fond parents. These have been since childhood
guarded behind lattice windows[3] and no knowledge of them is allowed
to reach the outer-world, save that of their excellence in some
accomplishment or art; and this may indeed sometimes arouse our
interest. She is pretty and graceful and has not yet mixed at all with
the world. Such a girl by closely copying some model and applying
herself with great industry will often succeed in really mastering one
of the minor and ephemeral arts. Her friends are careful to say
nothing of her defects and to exaggerate her accomplishments, and
while we cannot altogether trust their praise we cannot believe that
their judgment is entirely astray. But when we take steps to test
their statements we are invariably disappointed.’

He paused, seeming to be slightly ashamed of the cynical tone which he
had adopted, and added ‘I know my experience is not large, but that is
the conclusion I have come to so far.’ Then Genji, smiling: ‘And are
there any who lack even one accomplishment?’ ‘No doubt, but in such a
case it is unlikely that anyone would be successfully decoyed. The
number of those who have nothing to recommend them and of those in
whom nothing but good can be found is probably equal. I divide women
into three classes. Those of high rank and birth are made such a fuss
of and their weak points are so completely concealed that we are
certain to be told that they are paragons. About those of the middle
class everyone is allowed to express his own opinion, and we shall
have much conflicting evidence to sift. As for the lower classes, they
do not concern us.’

The completeness with which Tō no Chūjō disposed of the question
amused Genji, who said ‘It will not always be so easy to know into
which of the three classes a woman ought to be put. For sometimes
people of high rank sink to the most abject positions; while others of
common birth rise to be high officers, wear self-important faces,
redecorate the inside of their houses and think themselves as good as
anyone. How are we to deal with such cases?’

At this moment they were joined by Hidari no Uma no Kami and Tō
Shikibu no Jō, who said they had also come to the Palace to keep the
fast. As both of them were great lovers and good talkers, Tō no Chūjō
handed over to them the decision of Genji’s question, and in the
discussion which followed many unflattering things were said. Uma
no Kami spoke first. ‘However high a lady may rise, if she does not
come of an adequate stock, the world will think very differently of
her from what it would of one born to such honours; but if through
adverse fortune a lady of highest rank finds herself in friendless
misery, the noble breeding of her mind is soon forgotten and she
becomes an object of contempt. I think then that taking all things
into account, we must put such ladies too into the “middle class.” But
when we come to classify the daughters of Zuryō,[4] who are sent to
labour at the affairs of distant provinces,—they have such ups and
downs that we may reasonably put them too into the middle class.

‘Then there are Ministers of the third and fourth classes without
Cabinet rank. These are generally thought less of even than the
humdrum, ordinary officials. They are usually of quite good birth, but
have much less responsibility than Ministers of State and consequently
much greater peace of mind. Girls born into such households are
brought up in complete security from want or deprivation of any kind,
and indeed often amid surroundings of the utmost luxury and splendour.
Many of them grow up into women whom it would be folly to despise;
some have been admitted at Court, where they have enjoyed a quite
unexpected success. And of this I could cite many, many instances.’

‘Their success has generally been due to their having a lot of money,’
said Genji smiling. ‘You should have known better than to say that,’
said Tō no Chūjō, reproving him, and Uma no Kami went on: ‘There are
some whose lineage and reputation are so high that it never occurs to
one that their education could possibly be at fault; yet when we meet
them, we find ourselves exclaiming in despair “How can they have
contrived to grow up like this?”

‘No doubt the perfect woman in whom none of those essentials is
lacking must somewhere exist and it would not startle me to find her.
But she would certainly be beyond the reach of a humble person like
myself, and for that reason I should like to put her in a category of
her own and not to count her in our present classification.

‘But suppose that behind some gateway overgrown with vine-weed, in a
place where no one knows there is a house at all, there should be
locked away some creature of unimagined beauty—with what excitement
should we discover her! The complete surprise of it, the upsetting of
all our wise theories and classifications, would be likely, I think,
to lay a strange and sudden enchantment upon us. I imagine her father
rather large and gruff; her brother, a surly, ill-looking fellow.
Locked away in an utterly blank and uninteresting bed-room she will be
subject to odd flights of fancy, so that in her hands the arts that
others learn as trivial accomplishments will seem strangely full of
meaning and importance; or perhaps in some particular art she will
thrill us by her delightful and unexpected mastery. Such a one may
perhaps be beneath the attention of those of you who are of flawless
lineage. But for my part I find it hard to banish her ...’ and here he
looked at Shikibu no Jō, who wondered whether the description had been
meant to apply to his own sisters, but said nothing. ‘If it is
difficult to choose even out of the top class ...’ thought Genji, and
began to doze.

He was dressed in a suit of soft white silk, with a rough cloak
carelessly slung over his shoulders, with belt and fastenings untied.
In the light of the lamp against which he was leaning he looked so
lovely that one might have wished he were a girl; and they thought
that even Uma no Kami’s ‘perfect woman,’ whom he had placed in a
category of her own, would not be worthy of such a prince as Genji.

The conversation went on. Many persons and things were discussed. Uma
no Kami contended that perfection is equally difficult to find in
other spheres. The sovereign is hard put to it to choose his
ministers. But he at least has an easier task than the husband, for he
does not entrust the affairs of his kingdom to one, two or three
persons alone, but sets up a whole system of superiors and subordinates.

But when the mistress of a house is to be selected, a single
individual must be found who will combine in her person many diverse
qualities. It will not do to be too exacting. Let us be sure that the
lady of our choice possesses certain tangible qualities which we
admire; and if in other ways she falls short of our ideal, we must be
patient and call to mind those qualities which first induced us to
begin our courting.

But even here we must beware; for there are some who in the
selfishness of youth and flawless beauty are determined that not a
dust-flick shall fall upon them. In their letters they choose the most
harmless topics, but yet contrive to colour the very texture of the
written signs with a tenderness that vaguely disquiets us. But such a
one, when we have at last secured a meeting, will speak so low that
she can scarcely be heard, and the few faint sentences that she
murmurs beneath her breath serve only to make her more mysterious than
before. All this may seem to be the pretty shrinking of girlish
modesty; but we may later find that what held her back was the very
violence of her passions.

Or again, where all seems plain sailing, the perfect companion will
turn out to be too impressionable and will upon the most inappropriate
occasions display her affections in so ludicrous a way that we begin
to wish ourselves rid of her.

Then there is the zealous house-wife, who regardless of her appearance
twists her hair behind her ears and devotes herself entirely to the
details of our domestic welfare. The husband, in his comings and
goings about the world, is certain to see and hear many things which
he cannot discuss with strangers, but would gladly talk over with an
intimate who could listen with sympathy and understanding, someone who
could laugh with him or weep if need be. It often happens too that
some political event will greatly perturb or amuse him, and he sits
apart longing to tell someone about it. He suddenly laughs at some
secret recollection or sighs audibly. But the wife only says lightly
‘What is the matter?’ and shows no interest.

This is apt to be very trying.

Uma no Kami considered several other cases. But he reached no definite
conclusion and sighing deeply he continued: ‘We will then, as I have
suggested, let birth and beauty go by the board. Let her be the
simplest and most guileless of creatures so long as she is honest and
of a peaceable disposition, that in the end we may not lack a place of
trust. And if some other virtue chances to be hers we shall treasure
it as a godsend. But if we discover in her some small defect, it shall
not be too closely scrutinized. And we may be sure that if she is
strong in the virtues of tolerance and amiability her outward
appearance will not be beyond measure harsh.

‘There are those who carry forbearance too far, and affecting not to
notice wrongs which cry out for redress seem to be paragons of misused
fidelity. But suddenly a time comes when such a one can restrain
herself no longer, and leaving behind her a poem couched in pitiful
language and calculated to rouse the most painful sentiments of
remorse, she flies to some remote village in the mountains or some
desolate seashore, and for a long while all trace of her is lost.

‘When I was a boy the ladies-in-waiting used to tell me sad tales of
this kind. I never doubted that the sentiments expressed in them were
real, and I wept profusely. But now I am beginning to suspect that
such sorrows are for the most part affectation. She has left behind
her (this lady whom we are imagining) a husband who is probably still
fond of her; she is making herself very unhappy, and by disappearing
in this way is causing him unspeakable anxiety, perhaps only for the
ridiculous purpose of putting his affection to the test. Then comes
along some admiring friend crying “What a heart! What depth of
feeling!” She becomes more lugubrious than ever, and finally enters a
nunnery. When she decided on this step she was perfectly sincere and
had not the slightest intention of ever returning to the world. Then
some female friend hears of it and “Poor thing” she cries; “in what an
agony of mind must she have been to do this!” and visits her in her
cell. When the husband, who has never ceased to mourn for her, hears
what she has become, he bursts into tears, and some servant or old
nurse, seeing this, bustles off to the nunnery with tales of the
husband’s despair, and “Oh Madam, what a shame, what a shame!” Then
the nun, forgetting where and what she is, raises her hand to her head
to straighten her hair, and finds that it has been shorn away. In
helpless misery she sinks to the floor, and do what she will, the
tears begin to flow. Now all is lost; for since she cannot at every
moment be praying for strength, there creeps into her mind the sinful
thought that she did ill to become a nun and so often does she commit
this sin that even Buddha must think her wickeder now than she was
before she took her vows; and she feels certain that these terrible
thoughts are leading her soul to the blackest Hell. But if the _karma_
of their past lives should chance to be strongly weighted against a
parting, she will be found and captured before she has taken her final
vows. In such a case their life will be beyond endurance unless she be
fully determined, come good or ill, this time to close her eyes to all
that goes amiss.

‘Again there are others who must needs be forever mounting guard over
their own and their husband’s affections. Such a one, if she sees in
him not a fault indeed but even the slightest inclination to stray,
makes a foolish scene, declaring with indignation that she will have
no more to do with him.

‘But even if a man’s fancy should chance indeed to have gone somewhat
astray, yet his earlier affection may still be strong and in the end
will return to its old haunts. Now by her tantrums she has made a rift
that cannot be joined. Whereas she who when some small wrong calls for
silent rebuke, shows by a glance that she is not unaware; but when
some large offence demands admonishment knows how to hint without
severity, will end by standing in her master’s affections better than
ever she stood before. For often the sight of our own forbearance will
give our neighbour strength to rule his mutinous affections.

‘But she whose tolerance and forgiveness know no bounds, though this
may seem to proceed from the beauty and amiability of her disposition,
is in fact displaying the shallowness of her feeling: “The unmoored
boat must needs drift with the stream.” Are you not of this mind?’

Tō no Chūjō nodded. ‘Some’ he said ‘have imagined that by arousing a
baseless suspicion in the mind of the beloved we can revive a waning
devotion. But this experiment is very dangerous. Those who recommend
it are confident that so long as resentment is groundless one need
only suffer it in silence and all will soon be well. I have observed
however that this is by no means the case.

‘But when all is said and done, there can be no greater virtue in
woman than this: that she should with gentleness and forbearance meet
every wrong whatsoever that falls to her share.’ He thought as he said
this of his own sister, Princess Aoi; but was disappointed and piqued
to discover that Genji, whose comments he awaited, was fast asleep.

Uma no Kami was an expert in such discussions and now stood preening
his feathers. Tō no Chūjō was disposed to hear what more he had to say
and was now at pains to humour and encourage him.

‘It is with women’ said Uma no Kami ‘as it is with the works of
craftsmen. The wood-carver can fashion whatever he will. Yet his
products are but toys of the moment, to be glanced at in jest, not
fashioned according to any precept or law. When times change, the
carver too will change his style and make new trifles to hit the fancy
of the passing day. But there is another kind of artist, who sets more
soberly about his work, striving to give real beauty to the things
which men actually use and to give to them the shapes which tradition
has ordained. This maker of real things must not for a moment be
confused with the carver of idle toys.

‘In the Painters’ Workshop too there are many excellent artists chosen
for their proficiency in ink-drawing; and indeed they are all so
clever it is hard to set one above the other. But all of them are at
work on subjects intended to impress and surprise. One paints the
Mountain of Hōrai; another a raging sea-monster riding a storm;
another, ferocious animals from the Land beyond the sea, or faces of
imaginary demons. Letting their fancy run wildly riot they have no
thought of beauty, but only of how best they may astonish the
beholder’s eye. And though nothing in their pictures is real, all is
probable. But ordinary hills and rivers, just as they are, houses such
as you may see anywhere, with all their real beauty and harmony of
form—quietly to draw such scenes as this, or to show what lies behind
some intimate hedge that is folded away far from the world, and thick
trees upon some unheroic hill, and all this with befitting care for
composition, proportion, and the like,—such works demand the highest
master’s utmost skill and must needs draw the common craftsman into a
thousand blunders. So too in handwriting, we see some who aimlessly
prolong their cursive strokes this way or that, and hope their
flourishes will be mistaken for genius. But true penmanship preserves
in every letter its balance and form, and though at first some letters
may seem but half-formed, yet when we compare them with the copy-books
we find that there is nothing at all amiss.

‘So it is in these trifling matters. And how much the more in judging
of the human heart should we distrust all fashionable airs and graces,
all tricks and smartness, learnt only to please the outward gaze! This
I first understood some while ago, and if you will have patience with
me I will tell you the story.’

So saying, he came and sat a little closer to them, and Genji woke up.
Tō no Chūjō, in wrapt attention, was sitting with his cheek propped
upon his hand. Uma no Kami’s whole speech that night was indeed very
much like a chaplain’s sermon about the ways of the world, and was
rather absurd. But upon such occasions as this we are easily led on
into discussing our own ideas and most private secrets without the
least reserve.

‘It happened when I was young, and in an even more humble position
than I am to-day’ Uma no Kami continued. ‘I was in love with a girl
who (like the drudging, faithful wife of whom I spoke a little
while ago) was not a full-sail beauty; and I in my youthful vanity
thought she was all very well for the moment, but would never do for
the wife of so fine a fellow as I. She made an excellent companion in
times when I was at a loose end; but she was of a disposition so
violently jealous, that I could have put up with a little less
devotion if only she had been somewhat less fiercely ardent and
exacting.

‘Thus I kept thinking, vexed by her unrelenting suspicions. But then I
would remember her ceaseless devotion to the interests of one who was
after all a person of no account, and full of remorse I made sure that
with a little patience on my part she would one day learn to school
her jealousy.

‘It was her habit to minister to my smallest wants even before I was
myself aware of them; whatever she felt was lacking in her she strove
to acquire, and where she knew that in some quality of mind she still
fell behind my desires, she was at pains never to show her deficiency
in such a way as might vex me. Thus in one way or another she was
always busy in forwarding my affairs, and she hoped that if all down
to the last dew drop (as they say) were conducted as I should wish,
this would be set down to her credit and help to balance the defects
in her person which meek and obliging as she might be could not (she
fondly imagined) fail to offend me; and at this time she even hid
herself from strangers lest their poor opinion of her looks should put
me out of countenance.

‘I meanwhile, becoming used to her homely looks, was well content with
her character, save for this one article of jealousy; and here she
showed no amendment. Then I began to think to myself “Surely, since
she seems so anxious to please, so timid, there must be some way of
giving her a fright which will teach her a lesson, so that for a while
at least we may have a respite from this accursed business.” And
though I knew it would cost me dear, I determined to make a pretence
of giving her up, thinking that since she was so fond of me this would
be the best way to teach her a lesson. Accordingly I behaved with the
greatest coldness to her, and she as usual began her jealous fit and
behaved with such folly that in the end I said to her, “If you want to
be rid for ever of one who loves you dearly, you are going the right
way about it by all these endless poutings over nothing at all. But if
you want to go on with me, you must give up suspecting some deep
intrigue each time you fancy that I am treating you unkindly. Do this,
and you may be sure I shall continue to love you dearly. It may well
be that as time goes on, I shall rise a little higher in the world and
then....”

‘I thought I had managed matters very cleverly, though perhaps in the
heat of the moment I might have spoken somewhat too roughly. She
smiled faintly and answered that if it were only a matter of bearing
for a while with my failures and disappointments, that did not trouble
her at all, and she would gladly wait till I became a person of
consequence. “But it is a hard task” she said “to go on year after
year enduring your coldness and waiting the time when you will at last
learn to behave to me with some decency; and therefore I agree with
you that the time has come when we had better go each his own way.”
Then in a fit of wild and uncontrollable jealousy she began to pour
upon me a torrent of bitter reproaches, and with a woman’s savagery
she suddenly seized my little finger and bit deep into it. The
unexpected pain was difficult to bear, but composing myself I said
tragically “Now you have put this mark upon me I shall get on worse
than ever in polite society; as for promotion, I shall be considered a
disgrace to the meanest public office and unable to cut a genteel
figure in any capacity, I shall be obliged to withdraw myself
completely from the world. You and I at any rate shall certainly not
meet again,” and bending my injured finger as I turned to go, I
recited the verse “As on bent hand I count the times that we have met,
it is not one finger only that bears witness to my pain.” And she, all
of a sudden bursting into tears ... “If still in your heart only you
look for pains to count, then were our hands best employed in
parting.” After a few more words I left her, not for a moment thinking
that all was over.

‘Days went by, and no news. I began to be restless. One night when I
had been at the Palace for the rehearsal of the Festival music, heavy
sleet was falling; and I stood at the spot where those of us who came
from the Palace had dispersed, unable to make up my mind which way to
go. For in no direction had I anything which could properly be called
a home. I might of course take a room in the Palace precincts; but I
shivered to think of the cheerless grandeur that would surround me.
Suddenly I began to wonder what she was thinking, how she was looking;
and brushing the snow off my shoulders, I set out for her house. I own
I felt uneasy; but I thought that after so long a time her anger must
surely have somewhat abated. Inside the room a lamp showed dimly,
turned to the wall. Some undergarments were hung out upon a large,
warmly-quilted couch, the bed-hangings were drawn up, and I made sure
that she was for some reason actually expecting me. I was priding
myself on having made so lucky a hit, when suddenly, “Not at home!”;
and on questioning the maid I learnt that she had but that very night
gone to her parents’ home, leaving only a few necessary servants
behind. The fact that she had till now sent no poem or conciliatory
message seemed to show some hardening of heart, and had already
disquieted me. Now I began to fear that her accursed suspiciousness
and jealousy had but been a stratagem to make me grow weary of her,
and though I could recall no further proof of this I fell into great
despair. And to show her that, though we no longer met, I still
thought of her and planned for her, I got her some stuff for a dress,
choosing a most delightful and unusual shade of colour, and a material
that I knew she would be glad to have. “For after all” I thought “she
cannot want to put me altogether out of her head.” When I informed her
of this purchase she did not rebuff me nor make any attempt to hide
from me, but to all my questions she answered quietly and composedly,
without any sign that she was ashamed of herself.

‘At last she told me that if I went on as before, she could never
forgive me; but if I would promise to live more quietly she would take
me back again. Seeing that she still hankered after me I determined to
school her a little further yet, and said that I could make no
conditions and must be free to live as I chose. So the tug of war went
on; but it seems that it hurt her far more than I knew, for in a
little while she fell into a decline and died, leaving me aghast at
the upshot of my wanton game. And now I felt that, whatever faults she
might have had, her devotion alone would have made her a fit wife for
me. I remembered how both in trivial talk and in consideration of
important matters she had never once shown herself at a loss, how in
the dyeing of brocades she rivalled the Goddess of Tatsuta who tints
the autumn leaves, and how in needlework and the like she was not less
skilful than Tanabata, the Weaving-lady of the sky.’

Here he stopped, greatly distressed at the recollection of the lady’s
many talents and virtues.

‘The Weaving-lady and the Herd boy’ said Tō no Chūjō ‘enjoy a love
that is eternal. Had she but resembled the Divine Sempstress in
this, you would not, I think, have minded her being a little less
skilful with her needle. I wonder that with this rare creature in mind
you pronounce the world to be so blank a place.’

‘Listen’ replied Uma no Kami ‘About the same time there was another
lady whom I used to visit. She was of higher birth than the first; her
skill in poetry, cursive writing, and lute-playing, her readiness of
hand and tongue were all marked enough to show that she was not a
woman of trivial nature; and this indeed was allowed by those who knew
her. To add to this she was not ill-looking and sometimes, when I
needed a rest from my unhappy persecutress, I used to visit her
secretly. In the end I found that I had fallen completely in love with
her. After the death of the other I was in great distress. But it was
no use brooding over the past and I began to visit my new lady more
and more often. I soon came to the conclusion that she was frivolous
and I had no confidence that I should have liked what went on when I
was not there to see. I now visited her only at long intervals and at
last decided that she had another lover.

‘It was during the Godless Month,[5] on a beautiful moonlight night.
As I was leaving the Palace I met a certain young courtier, who, when
I told him that I was driving out to spend the night at the
Dainagon’s, said that my way was his and joined me. The road passed my
lady’s house and here it was that he alighted, saying that he had an
engagement which he should have been very sorry not to fulfil. The
wall was half in ruins and through its gaps I saw the shadowy waters
of the lake. It would not have been easy (for even the moonbeams
seemed to loiter here!) to hasten past so lovely a place, and when he
left his coach I too left mine.

‘At once this man (whom I now knew to be that other lover whose
existence I had guessed) went and sat unconcernedly on the bamboo
skirting of the portico and began to gaze at the moon. The
chrysanthemums were just in full bloom, the bright fallen leaves were
tumbling and tussling in the wind. It was indeed a scene of wonderful
beauty that met our eyes. Presently he took a flute out of the folds
of his dress and began to play upon it. Then putting the flute aside,
he began to murmur “Sweet is the shade”[6] and other catches. Soon a
pleasant-sounding native zithern[7] began to tune up somewhere within
the house and an ingenious accompaniment was fitted to his careless
warblings. Her zithern was tuned to the autumn-mode, and she played
with so much tenderness and feeling that though the music came from
behind closed shutters it sounded quite modern and passionate,[8] and
well accorded with the soft beauty of the moonlight. The courtier was
ravished, and as he stepped forward to place himself right under her
window he turned to me and remarked in a self-satisfied way that
among the fallen leaves no other footstep had left its mark. Then
plucking a chrysanthemum, he sang:

  Strange that the music of your lute,
  These matchless flowers and all the beauty of the night,
  Have lured no other feet to linger at your door!

and then, beseeching her pardon for his halting verses, he begged her
to play again while one was still near who longed so passionately to
hear her. When he had paid her many other compliments, the lady
answered in an affected voice with the verse:

  Would that I had some song that might detain
  The flute that blends its note
  With the low rustling of the autumn leaves.

and after these blandishments, still unsuspecting, she took up the
thirteen-stringed lute, and tuning it to the _Banjiki_ mode[9] she
clattered at the strings with all the frenzy that fashion now demands.
It was a fine performance no doubt, but I cannot say that it made a
very agreeable impression upon me.

‘A man may amuse himself well enough by trifling from time to time
with some lady at the Court; will get what pleasure he can out of it
while he is with her and not trouble his head about what goes on when
he is not there. This lady too I only saw from time to time, but such
was her situation that I had once fondly imagined myself the only
occupant of her thoughts. However that night’s work dissolved the last
shred of my confidence, and I never saw her again.

‘These two experiences, falling to my lot while I was still so young,
early deprived me of any hope from women. And since that time my view
of them has but grown the blacker. No doubt to you at your age they
seem very entrancing, these “dew-drops on the grass that fall if they
are touched,” these “glittering hailstones that melt if gathered in
the hand.” But when you are a little older you will think as I do.
Take my advice in this at least; beware of caressing manners and soft,
entangling ways. For if you are so rash as to let them lead you
astray, you will soon find yourselves cutting a very silly figure
in the world.’

Tō no Chūjō as usual nodded his assent, and Genji’s smile seemed such
as to show that he too accepted Uma no Kami’s advice. ‘Your two
stories were certainly very dismal’ he said, laughing. And here Tō no
Chūjō interposed: ‘I will tell you a story about myself. There was a
lady whose acquaintance I was obliged to make with great secrecy. But
her beauty well rewarded my pains, and though I had no thought of
making her my wife I grew so fond of her that I soon found I could not
put her out of my head and she seemed to have complete confidence in
me. Such confidence indeed that when from time to time I was obliged
to behave in such a way as might well have aroused her resentment, she
seemed not to notice that anything was amiss, and even when I
neglected her for many weeks, she treated me as though I were still
coming every day. In the end indeed I found this readiness to receive
me whenever and however I came very painful, and determined for the
future to merit her strange confidence.

‘Her parents were dead and this was perhaps why, since I was all she
had in the world, she treated me with such loving meekness, despite
the many wrongs I did her. I must own that my resolution did not last
long, and I was soon neglecting her worse than before. During this
time (I did not hear of it till afterwards) someone who had discovered
our friendship began to send her veiled messages which cruelly
frightened and distressed her. Knowing nothing of the trouble she was
in, although I often thought of her I neither came nor wrote to her
for a long while. Just when she was in her worst despair a child was
born, and at last in her distress she plucked a blossom of the flower
that is called “Child of my Heart” and sent it to me.’

And here Tō no Chūjō’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Well’ said Genji ‘and did she write a message to go with it?’ ‘Oh
nothing very out-of-the-ordinary’ said Tō no Chūjō. ‘She wrote:
“Though tattered be the hillman’s hedge, deign sometimes to look with
kindness upon the Child-flower that grows so sweetly there.” This
brought me to her side. As usual she did not reproach me, but she
looked sad enough, and when I considered the dreary desolation of this
home where every object wore an aspect no less depressing than the
wailing voices of the crickets in the grass, she seemed to me like
some unhappy princess in an ancient story, and wishing her to feel
that it was for the mother’s sake and not the child’s that I had come,
I answered with a poem in which I called the Child-flower by its other
name “Bed-flower,” and she replied with a poem that darkly hinted at
the cruel tempest which had attended this Bed-flower’s birth. She
spoke lightly and did not seem to be downright angry with me; and when
a few tears fell she was at great pains to hide them, and seemed more
distressed at the thought that I might imagine her to be unhappy than
actually resentful of my conduct towards her. So I went away with an
easy mind and it was some while before I came again. When at last I
returned she had utterly disappeared, and if she is alive she must be
living a wretched vagrant life. If while I still loved her she had but
shown some outward sign of her resentment, she would not have ended
thus as an outcast and wanderer; for I should never have dared to
leave her so long neglected, and might in the end have acknowledged
her and made her mine forever. The child too was a sweet creature, and
I have spent much time in searching for them, but still without success.

‘It is, I fear, as sorrowful a tale as that which Uma no Kami has told
you. I, unfaithful, thought that I was not missed; and she, still
loved, was in no better case than one whose love is not returned.
I indeed am fast forgetting her; but she, it may be, cannot put me out
of her mind and I fear there may be nights when thoughts that she
would gladly banish burn fiercely in her breast; for now I fancy she
must be living a comfortless and unprotected life.’

‘When all is said and done’ said Uma no Kami ‘my friend, though I pine
for her now that she is gone, was a sad plague to me while I had her,
and we must own that such a one will in the end be sure to make us
wish ourselves well rid of her. The zithern-player had much talent to
her credit, but was a great deal too light-headed. And your diffident
lady, Tō no Chūjō, seems to me to be a very suspicious case. The world
appears to be so constructed that we shall in the end be always at a
loss to make a reasoned choice; despite all our picking, sifting and
comparing we shall never succeed in finding this in all ways and to
all lengths adorable and impeccable female.’

‘I can only suggest the Goddess Kichijō’[10] said Tō no Chūjō ‘and I
fear that intimacy with so holy and majestic a being might prove to be
impracticable.’

At this they all laughed and Tō no Chūjō continued: ‘But now it is
Shikibu’s turn and he is sure to give us something entertaining. Come
Shikibu, keep the ball rolling!’ ‘Nothing of interest ever happens to
humble folk like myself’ said Shikibu; but Tō no Chūjō scolded him for
keeping them waiting and after reflecting for a while which anecdote
would best suit the company, he began: ‘While I was still a student at
the University, I came across a woman who was truly a prodigy of
intelligence. One of Uma no Kami’s demands she certainly fulfilled,
for it was possible to discuss with her to advantage both public
matters and the proper handling of one’s private affairs. But not only
was her mind capable of grappling with any problems of this kind;
she was also so learned that ordinary scholars found themselves, to
their humiliation, quite unable to hold their own against her.

‘I was taking lessons from her father, who was a Professor. I had
heard that he had several daughters, and some accidental circumstance
made it necessary for me to exchange a word or two with one of them
who turned out to be the learned prodigy of whom I have spoken. The
father, hearing that we had been seen together, came up to me with a
wine-cup in his hand and made an allusion to the poem of The Two
Wives.[11] Unfortunately I did not feel the least inclination towards
the lady. However I was very civil to her; upon which she began to
take an affectionate interest in me and lost no opportunity of
displaying her talents by giving me the most elaborate advice how best
I might advance my position in the world. She sent me marvellous
letters written in a very far-fetched epistolary style and entirely in
Chinese characters; in return for which I felt bound to visit her, and
by making her my teacher I managed to learn how to write Chinese
poems. They were wretched, knock-kneed affairs, but I am still
grateful to her for it. She was not however at all the sort of woman
whom I should have cared to have as a wife, for though there may be
certain disadvantages in marrying a complete dolt, it is even worse to
marry a blue-stocking. Still less do princes like you and Genji
require so huge a stock of intellect and erudition for your support!
Let her but be one to whom the _karma_ of our past lives draws us in
natural sympathy, what matter if now and again her ignorance
distresses us? Come to that, even men seem to me to get along very
well without much learning.’

Here he stopped, but Genji and the rest, wishing to hear the end
of the story, cried out that for their part they found her a most
interesting woman. Shikibu protested that he did not wish to go on
with the story, but at last after much coaxing, pulling a comical wry
face he continued: ‘I had not seen her for a long time. When at last
some accident took me to the house, she did not receive me with her
usual informality but spoke to me from behind a tiresome screen. Ha,
Ha, thought I foolishly, she is sulking; now is the time to have a
scene and break with her. I might have known that she was not so
little of a philosopher as to sulk about trifles; she prided herself
on knowing the ways of the world and my inconstancy did not in the
least disturb her.

‘She told me (speaking without the slightest tremor) that having had a
bad cold for some weeks she had taken a strong garlic-cordial, which
had made her breath smell rather unpleasant and that for this reason
she could not come very close to me. But if I had any matter of
special importance to discuss with her she was quite prepared to give
me her attention. All this she had expressed with solemn literary
perfection. I could think of no suitable reply, and with an “at your
service” I rose to go. Then, feeling that the interview had not been
quite a success, she added, raising her voice “Please come again when
my breath has lost its smell.” I could not pretend I had not heard. I
had however no intention of prolonging my visit, particularly as the
odour was now becoming definitely unpleasant, and looking cross I
recited the acrostic “On this night marked by the strange behaviour of
the spider, how foolish to bid me come back to-morrow”[12] and calling
over my shoulder “There is no excuse for you”! I ran out of the
room. But she, following me “If night by night and every night we met,
in daytime too I should grow bold to meet you face to face.” Here in
the second sentence she had cleverly concealed the meaning “If I had
had any reason to expect you, I should not have eaten garlic.”’

‘What a revolting story’ cried the young princes, and then, laughing,
‘He must have invented it.’ ‘Such a woman is quite incredible; it must
have been some sort of ogress. You have shocked us, Shikibu!’ and they
looked at him with disapproval. ‘You must try to tell us a better
story than that.’ ‘I do not see how any story could be better’ said
Shikibu, and left the room.

‘There is a tendency among men as well as women’ said Uma no Kami ‘so
soon as they have acquired a little knowledge of some kind, to want to
display it to the best advantage. To have mastered all the
difficulties in the Three Histories and Five Classics is no road to
amiability. But even a woman cannot afford to lack all knowledge of
public and private affairs. Her best way will be without regular study
to pick up a little here and a little there, merely by keeping her
eyes and ears open. Then, if she has her wits at all about her, she
will soon find that she has amassed a surprising store of information.
Let her be content with this and not insist upon cramming her letters
with Chinese characters which do not at all accord with her feminine
style of composition, and will make the recipient exclaim in despair
“If only she could contrive to be a little less mannish!” And many of
these characters, to which she intended the colloquial pronunciation
to be given, are certain to be read as Chinese, and this will give the
whole composition an even more pedantic sound than it deserves. Even
among our ladies of rank and fashion there are many of this sort, and
there are others who, wishing to master the art of verse-making,
in the end allow it to master them, and, slaves to poetry, cannot
resist the temptation, however urgent the business they are about or
however inappropriate the time, to make use of some happy allusion
which has occurred to them, but must needs fly to their desks and work
it up into a poem. On festival days such a woman is very troublesome.
For example on the morning of the Iris Festival, when everyone is busy
making ready to go to the temple, she will worry them by stringing
together all the old tags about the “matchless root”[13] or on the 9th
day of the 9th month, when everyone is busy thinking out some
difficult Chinese poem to fit the rhymes which have been prescribed,
she begins making metaphors about the “dew on the chrysanthemums,”
thus diverting our attention from the far more important business
which is in hand. At another time we might have found these
compositions quite delightful; but by thrusting them upon our notice
at inconvenient moments, when we cannot give them proper attention,
she makes them seem worse than they really are. For in all matters we
shall best commend ourselves if we study men’s faces to read in them
the “Why so?” or the “As you will” and do not, regardless of times and
circumstances, demand an interest and sympathy that they have not
leisure to give.

‘Sometimes indeed a woman should even pretend to know less than she
knows, or say only a part of what she would like to say....’

All this while Genji, though he had sometimes joined in the
conversation, had in his heart of hearts been thinking of one person
only, and the more he thought the less could he find a single trace of
those shortcomings and excesses which, so his friends had declared,
were common to all women. ‘There is no one like her’ he thought,
and his heart was very full. The conversation indeed had not brought
them to a definite conclusion, but it had led to many curious
anecdotes and reflections. So they passed the night, and at last, for
a wonder, the weather had improved. After this long residence at the
Palace Genji knew he would be expected at the Great Hall and set out
at once. There was in Princess Aoi’s air and dress a dignified
precision which had something in it even of stiffness; and in the very
act of reflecting that she, above all women, was the type of that
single-hearted and devoted wife whom (as his friends had said last
night) no sensible man would lightly offend, he found himself
oppressed by the very perfection of her beauty, which seemed only to
make all intimacy with her the more impossible.

He turned to Lady Chūnagon, to Nakatsukasa and other attendants of the
common sort who were standing near and began to jest with them. The
day was now very hot, but they thought that flushed cheeks became
Prince Genji very well. Aoi’s father came, and standing behind the
curtain, began to converse very amiably. Genji, who considered the
weather too hot for visits, frowned, at which the ladies-in-waiting
tittered. Genji, making furious signs at them to be quiet, flung
himself on to a divan. In fact, he behaved far from well.

It was now growing dark. Someone said that the position of the Earth
Star[14] would make it unlucky for the Prince to go back to the Palace
that night; and another: ‘You are right. It is now set dead against
him.’ ‘But my own palace is in the same direction!’ cried Genji. ‘How
vexing! where then shall I go?’ and promptly fell asleep. The
ladies-in-waiting however, agreed that it was a very serious matter
and began discussing what could be done. ‘There is Ki no Kami’s
house’ said one. This Ki no Kami was one of Genji’s gentlemen in
waiting. ‘It is in the Middle River’ she went on; ‘and delightfully
cool and shady, for they have lately dammed the river and made it flow
right through the garden.’ ‘That sounds very pleasant’ said Genji,
waking up, ‘besides they are the sort of people who would not mind
one’s driving right in at the front gate, if one had a mind to.’[15]

He had many friends whose houses lay out of the unlucky direction. But
he feared that if he went to one of them, Aoi would think that, after
absenting himself so long, he was now merely using the Earth Star as
an excuse for returning to more congenial company. He therefore
broached the matter to Ki no Kami, who accepted the proposal, but
stepping aside whispered to his companions that his father Iyo no
Kami, who was absent on service, had asked him to look after his young
wife.[16] ‘I am afraid we have not sufficient room in the house to
entertain him as I could wish.’ Genji overhearing this, strove to
reassure him, saying ‘It will be a pleasure to me to be near the lady.
A visit is much more agreeable when there is a hostess to welcome us.
Find me some corner behind her partition...!’ ‘Even then, I fear you
may not find ...’ but breaking off Ki no Kami sent a runner to his
house, with orders to make ready an apartment for the Prince. Treating
a visit to so humble a house as a matter of no importance, he started
at once, without even informing the Minister, and taking with him only
a few trusted body-servants. Ki no Kami protested against the
precipitation, but in vain.

The servants dusted and aired the eastern side-chamber of the Central
Hall and here made temporary quarters for the Prince. They were at
pains to improve the view from his windows, for example by altering
the course of certain rivulets. They set up a rustic wattled hedge and
filled the borders with the choicest plants. The low humming of
insects floated on the cool breeze; numberless fireflies wove
inextricable mazes in the air. The whole party settled down near where
the moat flowed under the covered bridge and began to drink wine.

Ki no Kami went off in a great bustle, saying that he must find them
something to eat. Genji, quietly surveying the scene, decided this was
one of those middle-class families which in last night’s conversation
had been so highly commended. He remembered that he had heard the lady
who was staying in the house well spoken of and was curious to see
her. He listened and thought that there seemed to be people in the
western wing. There was a soft rustling of skirts, and from time to
time the sound of young and by no means disagreeable voices. They did
not seem to be much in earnest in their efforts to make their
whispering and laughter unheard, for soon one of them opened the
sliding window. But Ki no Kami crying ‘What are you thinking of?’
crossly closed it again. The light of a candle in the room filtered
through a crack in the paper-window. Genji edged slightly closer to
the window in the hope of being able to see through the crack, but
found that he could see nothing. He listened for a while, and came to
the conclusion that they were sitting in the main women’s apartments,
out of which the little front room opened. They were speaking very
low, but he could catch enough of it to make out that they were
talking about him.

‘What a shame that a fine young Prince should be taken so young and
settled down for ever with a lady that was none of his choosing!’

‘I understand that marriage does not weigh very heavily upon him’
said another. This probably meant nothing in particular, but Genji,
who imagined they were talking about what was uppermost in his own
mind, was appalled at the idea that his relations with Lady Fujitsubo
were about to be discussed. How could they have found out? But the
subsequent conversation of the ladies soon showed that they knew
nothing of the matter at all, and Genji stopped listening. Presently
he heard them trying to repeat the poem which he had sent with a
nose-gay of morning-glory to Princess Asagao, daughter of Prince
Momozono.[17] But they got the lines rather mixed up, and Genji began
to wonder whether the lady’s appearance would turn out to be on a
level with her knowledge of prosody.

At this moment Ki no Kami came in with a lamp which he hung on the
wall. Having carefully trimmed it, he offered Genji a tray of fruit.
This was all rather dull and Genji by a quotation from an old
folk-song hinted that he would like to meet Ki no Kami’s other guests.
The hint was not taken. Genji began to doze, and his attendants sat
silent and motionless.

There were in the room several charming boys, sons of Ki no Kami, some
of whom Genji already knew as pages at the Palace. There were also
numerous sons of Iyo no Kami; with them was a boy of twelve or
thirteen who particularly caught Genji’s fancy. He began asking whose
sons the boys were, and when he came to this one Ki no Kami replied
‘he is the youngest son of the late Chūnagon, who loved him dearly,
but died while this boy was still a child. His sister married my
father and that is why he is living here. He is quick at his books,
and we hope one day to send him to Court, but I fear that his lack
of influence....’

‘Poor child!’ said Genji. ‘His sister, then, is your step-mother, is
that not so? How strange that you should stand in this relationship
with so young a girl! And now I come to think of it there was some
talk once of her being presented at Court, and I once heard the
Emperor asking what had become of her. How changeable are the fortunes
of the world.’ He was trying to talk in a very grown-up way.

‘Indeed, Sir’ answered Ki no Kami, ‘her subsequent state was humbler
than she had reason to expect. But such is our mortal life. Yes, yes,
and such has it always been. We have our ups and downs—and the women
even more than the men.’

_Genji:_ ‘But your father no doubt makes much of her?’

_Ki no Kami:_ ‘Makes much of her indeed! You may well say so. She
rules his house, and he dotes on her in so wholesale and extravagant a
fashion that all of us (and I among the foremost) have had occasion
before now to call him to order, but he does not listen.’

_Genji:_ ‘How comes it then that he has left her behind in the house
of a fashionable young Courtier? For he looks like a man of prudence
and good sense. But pray, where is she now?’

_Ki no Kami:_ ‘The ladies have been ordered to retire to the common
room, but they have not yet finished all their preparations.’

Genji’s followers, who had drunk heavily, were now all lying fast
asleep on the verandah. He was alone in his room, but could not get to
sleep. Having at last dozed for a moment, he woke suddenly and noticed
that someone was moving behind the paper-window of the back wall.
This, he thought, must be where she is hiding, and faintly curious
he sauntered in that direction and stood listening. ‘Where are you?’ I
say ‘Where are you?’ whispered someone in a quaint, hoarse voice,
which seemed to be that of the boy whom Genji had noticed earlier in
the evening. ‘I am lying over here’ another voice answered. ‘Has the
stranger gone to sleep yet? His room must be quite close to this; but
all the same how far off he seems!’ Her sleepy voice was so like the
boy’s, that Genji concluded this must be his sister.

‘He is sleeping in the wing, I saw him to-night. All that we have
heard of him is true enough. He is as handsome as can be’ whispered
the boy. ‘I wish it were to-morrow; I want to see him properly’ she
answered drowsily, her voice seeming to come from under the bed
clothes. Genji was rather disappointed that she did not ask more
questions about him. Presently he heard the boy saying ‘I am going to
sleep over in the corner-room. How bad the light is’ and he seemed to
be trimming the lamp. His sister’s bed appeared to be in the corner
opposite the paper-window. ‘Where is Chūjō?’ she called. ‘I am
frightened, I like to have someone close to me.’ ‘Madam’ answered
several voices from the servants’ room, ‘she is taking her bath in the
lower house. She will be back presently.’ When all was quiet again,
Genji slipped back the bolt and tried the door. It was not fastened on
the other side. He found himself in an ante-room with a screen at the
end, beyond which a light glimmered. In the half-darkness he could see
clothes boxes and trunks strewn about in great disorder. Quietly
threading his way among them, he entered the inner room from which the
voices had proceeded. One very minute figure was couched there who, to
Genji’s slight embarrassment, on hearing his approach pushed aside the
cloak which covered her, thinking that he was the maid for whom she
had sent. ‘Madam, hearing you call for Chūjō[18] I thought that I
might now put at your service the esteem in which I have long secretly
held you.’ The lady could make nothing of all this, and terrified out
of her wits tried hard to scream. But no sound came, for she had
buried her face in the bed clothes.

‘Please listen’ said Genji. ‘This sudden intrusion must of course seem
to you very impertinent. You do not know that for years I have waited
for an occasion to tell you how much I like and admire you, and if
to-night I could not resist the temptation of paying this secret
visit, pray take the strangeness of my behaviour as proof of my
impatience to pay a homage that has long been due.’ He spoke so
courteously and gently and looked so kind that not the devil himself
would have taken umbrage at his presence. But feeling that the
situation was not at all a proper one for a married lady she said
(without much conviction) ‘I think you have made a mistake.’ She spoke
very low. Her bewildered air made her all the more attractive, and
Genji, enchanted by her appearance, hastened to answer: ‘Indeed I have
made no mistake; rather, with no guide but a long-felt deference and
esteem, I have found my way unerringly to your side. But I see that
the suddenness of my visit has made you distrust my purpose. Let me
tell you then that I have no evil intentions and seek only for someone
to talk with me for a while about a matter which perplexes me.’ So
saying he took her up in his arms (for she was very small) and was
carrying her through the ante-room when suddenly Chūjō, the servant
for whom she had sent before, entered the bedroom. Genji gave an
astonished cry and the maid, wondering who could have entered the
ante-room, began groping her way towards them. But coming closer she
recognized by the rich perfume of his dress that this could be none
other than the Prince. And though she was sorely puzzled to know
what was afoot, she dared not say a word. Had he been an ordinary
person, she would soon have had him by the ears. ‘Nay’ she thought
‘even if he were not a Prince I should do best to keep my hands off
him; for the more stir one makes, the more tongues wag. But if I
should touch this fine gentleman ...,’ and all in a flutter she found
herself obediently following Genji to his room. Here he calmly closed
the door upon her, saying as he did so ‘You will come back to fetch
your mistress in the morning.’ Utsusemi herself was vexed beyond
measure at being thus disposed of in the presence of her own
waiting-maid, who could indeed draw but one conclusion from what she
had seen. But to all her misgivings and anxieties Genji, who had the
art of improvising a convincing reply to almost any question, answered
with such a wealth of ingenuity and tender concern, that for awhile
she was content. But soon becoming again uneasy, ‘This must all be a
dream—that you, so great a Prince, should stoop to consider so humble
a creature as I, and I am overwhelmed by so much kindness. But I think
you have forgotten what I am. A Zuryō’s wife! there is no altering
that, and you...!’ Genji now began to realize how deeply he had
distressed and disquieted her by his wild behaviour, and feeling
thoroughly ashamed of himself he answered: ‘I am afraid I know very
little about these questions of rank and precedence. Such things are
too confusing to carry in one’s head. And whatever you may have heard
of me I want to tell you for some reason or other I have till this day
cared nothing for gallantry nor ever practised it, and that even you
cannot be more astonished at what I have done to-night than I myself
am.’ With this and a score of other speeches he sought to win her
confidence. But she, knowing that if once their talk became a jot less
formal, she would be hard put to it to withstand his singular
charm, was determined, even at the risk of seeming stiff and awkward,
to show him that in trying so hard to put her at her ease he was only
wasting his time, with the result that she behaved very boorishly
indeed. She was by nature singularly gentle and yielding, so that the
effort of steeling her heart and despite her feelings, playing all the
while the part of the young bamboo-shoot which though so green and
tender cannot be broken, was very painful to her; and finding that she
could not longer think of arguments with which to withstand his
importunity, she burst into tears; and though he was very sorry for
her, it occurred to him that he would not gladly have missed that
sight. He longed however to console her, but could not think of a way
to do so, and said at last, ‘Why do you treat me so unkindly? It is
true that the manner of our meeting was strange, yet I think that Fate
meant us to meet. It is harsh that you should shrink from me as though
the World and you had never met.’ So he chided her, and she: ‘If this
had happened long ago before my troubles, before my lot was cast,
perhaps I should have been glad to take your kindness while it
lasted, knowing that you would soon think better of your strange
condescension. But now that my course is fixed, what can such meetings
bring me save misery and regret? _Tell none that you have seen my
home_’ she ended, quoting the old song.[19] ‘Small wonder that she is
sad’ thought Genji, and he found many a tender way to comfort her. And
now the cock began to crow. Out in the courtyard Genji’s men were
staggering to their feet, one crying drowsily ‘How I should like to go
to sleep again,’ and another ‘Make haste there, bring out his Honour’s
coach.’ Ki no Kami came out into the yard, ‘What’s all this hurry? It
is only when there are women in his party that a man need hasten
from a refuge to which the Earth star has sent him. Why is his
Highness setting off in the middle of the night?’

Genji was wondering whether such an opportunity would ever occur
again. How would he be able even to send her letters? And thinking of
all the difficulties that awaited him, he became very despondent.
Chūjō arrived to fetch her mistress. For a long while he would not let
her go, and when at last he handed her over, he drew her back to him
saying ‘How can I send news to you? For, Madam,’ he said raising his
voice that the maid Chūjō might hear ‘such love as mine, and such
pitiless cruelty as yours have never been seen in the world before.’
Already the birds were singing in good earnest. She could not forget
that she was no one and he a Prince. And even now, while he was
tenderly entreating her, there came unbidden to her mind the image of
her husband Iyo no Suke, about whom she generally thought either not
at all or with disdain. To think that even in a dream he might see her
now, filled her with shame and terror.

It was daylight. Genji went with her to the partition door. Indoors
and out there was a bustle of feet. As he closed the door upon her, it
seemed to him a barrier that shut him out from all happiness. He
dressed, and went out on to the balcony. A blind in the western wing
was hastily raised. There seemed to be people behind who were looking
at him. They could only see him indistinctly across the top of a
partition in the verandah. Among them was one, perhaps, whose heart
beat wildly as she looked...?

The moon had not set, and though with dwindled light still shone crisp
and clear in the dawn. It was a daybreak of marvellous beauty. But in
the passionless visage of the sky men read only their own comfort or
despair; and Genji, as with many backward glances he went upon his
way, paid little heed to the beauty of the dawn. He would send her a
message? No, even that was utterly impossible. And so, in great
unhappiness he returned to his wife’s house.

He would gladly have slept a little, but could not stop trying to
invent some way of seeing her again; or when that seemed hopeless,
imagining to himself all that must now be going on in her mind. She
was no great beauty, Genji reflected, and yet one could not say that
she was ugly. Yes, she was in every sense a member of that Middle
Class upon which Uma no Kami had given them so complete a dissertation.

He stayed for some while at the Great Hall, and finding that, try as
he might, he could not stop thinking about her and longing for her, at
last in despair he sent for Ki no Kami and said to him ‘Why do you not
let me have that boy in my service,—the Chūnagon’s son, whom I saw at
your house? He is a likely looking boy, and I might make him my
body-servant, or even recommend him to the Emperor.’ ‘I am sensible of
your kindness’ said Ki no Kami, ‘I will mention what you have said to
the boy’s sister.’ This answer irritated Genji, but he continued: ‘And
has this lady given you step-brothers my lord?’ ‘Sir, she has been
married these two years, but has had no child. It seems that in making
this marriage she disobeyed her father’s last injunctions, and this
has set her against her husband.’

_Genji:_ ‘That is sad indeed. I am told that she is not ill-looking.
Is that so?’

_Ki no Kami:_ ‘I believe she is considered quite passable. But I have
had very little to do with her. Intimacy between step-children and
step-parents is indeed proverbially difficult.’

Five or six days afterwards Ki no Kami brought the boy. He was not
exactly handsome, but he had great charm and (thought Genji) an air of
distinction. The Prince spoke very kindly to him and soon completely
won his heart. To Genji’s many questions about his sister he made such
answers as he could, and when he seemed embarrassed or tongue-tied
Genji found some less direct way of finding out what he wanted to
know, and soon put the boy at his ease. For though he vaguely realized
what was going on and thought it rather odd, he was so young that he
made no effort to understand it, and without further question carried
back a letter from Genji to his sister.

She was so much agitated by the sight of it that she burst into tears
and, lest her brother should perceive them, held the letter in front
of her face while she read it. It was very long. Among much else it
contained the verse ‘Would that I might dream that dream again! Alas,
since first this wish was mine, not once have my eye-lids closed in
sleep.’

She had never seen such beautiful writing, and as she read, a haze
clouded her eyes. What incomprehensible fate had first dragged her
down to be the wife of a Zuryō, and then for a moment raised her so
high? Still pondering, she went to her room.

Next day, Genji again sent for the boy, who went to his sister saying
‘I am going to Prince Genji. Where is your answer to his letter?’
‘Tell him’ she answered ‘that there is no one here who reads such
letters.’ The boy burst out laughing. ‘Why, you silly, how could I say
such a thing to him. He told me himself to be sure to bring an
answer.’ It infuriated her to think that Genji should have thus taken
the boy into his confidence and she answered angrily, ‘He has no
business to talk to you about such things at your age. If that is
what you talk about you had better not go to him any more.’ ‘But he
sent for me’ said the boy, and started off.

‘I was waiting for you all yesterday’ said Genji when the boy
returned. ‘Did you forget to bring the answer? Did you forget to
come?’ The child blushed and made no reply. ‘And now?’ ‘She said
there is no one at home who reads such letters.’ ‘How silly, what can
be the use of saying such things?’, and he wrote another letter and
gave it to the boy, saying: ‘I expect you do not know that I used to
meet your sister before her marriage. She treats me in this scornful
fashion because she looks upon me as a poor-spirited, defenceless
creature. Whereas she has now a mighty Deputy Governor to look after
her. But I hope that you will promise to be my child not his. For he
is very old, and will not be able to take care of you for long.’

The boy was quite content with this explanation, and admired Genji
more than ever. The prince kept him always at his side, even taking
him to the Palace. And he ordered his Chamberlain to see to it that he
was provided with a little Court suit. Indeed he treated him just as
though he were his own child.

Genji continued to send letters; but she, thinking that the boy, young
as he was, might easily allow a message to fall into the wrong hands
and that then she would lose her fair name to no purpose, feeling too
(that however much he desired it) between persons so far removed in
rank there could be no lasting union, she answered his letters only in
the most formal terms.

Dark though it had been during most of the time they were together,
she yet had a clear recollection of his appearance, and could not deny
to herself that she thought him uncommonly handsome. But she very much
doubted if he on his side really knew what she was like; indeed
she felt sure that the next time they met he would think her very
plain and all would be over.

Genji meanwhile thought about her continually. He was for ever calling
back to memory each incident of that one meeting, and every
recollection filled him with longing and despair. He remembered how
sad she had looked when she spoke to him of herself, and he longed to
make her happier. He thought of visiting her in secret. But the risk
of discovery was too great, and the consequences likely to be more
fatal to her even than to himself.

He had been many days at the Palace, when at last the Earth Star again
barred the road to his home. He set out at once, but on the way
pretended that he had just remembered the unfavourable posture of the
stars. There was nothing to do but seek shelter again in the house on
the Middle River. Ki no Kami was surprised but by no means
ill-pleased, for he attributed Genji’s visit to the amenity of the
little pools and fountains which he had constructed in his garden.

Genji had told the boy in the morning that he intended to visit the
Middle River, and since he had now become the Prince’s constant
companion, he was sent for at once to wait upon him in his room. He
had already given a message to his sister, in which Genji told her of
his plan. She could not but feel flattered at the knowledge that it
was on her account he had contrived this ingenious excuse for coming
to the house. Yet she had, as we have seen, for some reason got it
into her head that at a leisurely meeting she would not please him as
she had done at that first fleeting and dreamlike encounter, and she
dreaded adding a new sorrow to the burden of her thwarted and unhappy
existence. Too proud to let him think that she had posted herself in
waiting for him, she said to her servants (while the boy was busy
in Genji’s room) ‘I do not care to be at such close quarters with our
guest, besides I am stiff, and would like to be massaged; I must go
where there is more room,’ and so saying she made them carry her
things to the maid Chūjō’s bedroom in the cross-wing.

Genji had purposely sent his attendants early to bed, and now that all
was quiet, he hastened to send her a message. But the boy could not
find her. At last when he had looked in every corner of the house, he
tried the cross-wing, and succeeded in tracking her down to Chūjō’s
room. It was too bad of her to hide like this, and half in tears he
gasped out ‘Oh how can you be so horrid? What will he think of you?’
‘You have no business to run after me like this’ she answered angrily,
‘It is very wicked for children to carry such messages. But’ she
added, ‘you may tell him I am not well, that my ladies are with me,
and I am going to be massaged....’ So she dismissed him; but in her
heart of hearts she was thinking that if such an adventure had
happened to her while she was still a person of consequence, before
her father died and left her to shift for herself in the world, she
would have known how to enjoy it. But now she must force herself to
look askance at all his kindness. How tiresome he must think her! And
she fretted so much at not being free to fall in love with him, that
in the end she was more in love than ever. But then she remembered
suddenly that her lot had long ago been cast. She was a wife. There
was no sense in thinking of such things, and she made up her mind once
and for all never again to let foolish ideas enter her head.

Genji lay on his bed, anxiously waiting to see with what success so
young a messenger would execute his delicate mission. When at last the
answer came, astonished at this sudden exhibition of coldness, he
exclaimed in deep mortification ‘This is a disgrace, a hideous
disgrace,’ and he looked very rueful indeed. For a while he said no
more, but lay sighing deeply, in great distress. At last he recited
the poem ‘I knew not the nature of the strange tree[20] that stands on
Sono plain, and when I sought the comfort of its shade, I did but lose
my road,’ and sent it to her. She was still awake, and answered with
the poem ‘Too like am I in these my outcast years to the dim tree that
dwindles from the traveller’s approaching gaze.’ The boy was terribly
sorry for Genji and did not feel sleepy at all, but he was afraid
people would think his continual excursions very strange. By this
time, however, everyone else in the house was sound asleep. Genji
alone lay plunged in the blackest melancholy. But even while
he was raging at the inhuman stubbornness of her new-found and
incomprehensible resolve, he found that he could not but admire her
the more for this invincible tenacity. At last he grew tired of lying
awake; there was no more to be done. A moment later he had changed his
mind again, and suddenly whispered to the boy ‘Take me to where she is
hiding!’ ‘It is too difficult’ he said, ‘she is locked in and there
are so many people there. I am afraid to go with you.’ ‘So be it’ said
Genji, ‘but you at least must not abandon me’ and he laid the boy
beside him on his bed. He was well content to find himself lying by
this handsome young Prince’s side, and Genji, we must record, found
the boy no bad substitute for his ungracious sister.

[1] The hero of a lost popular romance. It is also referred to by
Murasaki’s contemporary Sei Shōnagon in Chapter 145 of her _Makura no
Sōshi_.

[2] His father-in-law’s house, where his wife Princess Aoi still
continued to live.

[3] Japanese houses were arranged somewhat differently from ours and
for many of the terms which constantly recur in this book (_kichō_,
_sudare_, _sunoko_, etc.) no exact English equivalents can be found.
In such cases I have tried to use expressions which without being too
awkward or unfamiliar will give an adequate general idea of what is
meant.

[4] Provincial officials. Murasaki herself came of this class.

[5] The tenth month.

[6] From the _saibara_ ballad, _The Well of Asuka_: ‘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.’

[7] The ‘Japanese zithern’; also called _wagon_. A species of _koto_.

[8] As opposed to the formal and traditional music imported from
China.

[9] See _Encyclopedia de la Musique_, p. 247. Under the name Nan-lü
this mode was frequently used in the Chinese love-dramas of the
fourteenth century. It was considered very wild and moving.

[10] Goddess of Beauty.

[11] A poem by Po Chü-i pointing out the advantages of marrying a
poor wife.

[12] There is a reference to an old poem which says: ‘I know that
to-night my lover will come to me. The spider’s antics prove it
clearly’ Omens were drawn from the behaviour of spiders. There is also
a pun on _hiru_ ‘day’ and _hiru_ ‘garlic,’ so that an ordinary person
would require a few moments’ reflection before understanding the poem.

[13] The irises used for the Tango festival (5th day of 5th month) had
to have nine flowers growing on a root.

[14] The ‘Lord of the Centre,’ i.e. the planet Saturn.

[15] I.e. people with whom one can be quite at ease. It was usual to
unharness one’s bulls at the gate.

[16] Ki no Kami’s step-mother.

[17] We learn later that Genji courted this lady in vain from his
seventeenth year onward. Though she has never been mentioned before,
Murasaki speaks of her as though the reader already knew all about
her. This device is also employed by Marcel Proust.

[18] Chūjō means ‘Captain,’ which was Genji’s rank at the time.

[19] _Kokinshū_ 811, an anonymous love-poem.

[20] The _hahakigi_ or ‘broom-tree’ when seen in the distance appears
to offer ample shade; but when approached turns out to be a skimpy bush.




                            CHAPTER III

                              UTSUSEMI


Genji was still sleepless. ‘No one has ever disliked me before’ he
whispered to the boy. ‘It is more than I can bear. I am sick of myself
and of the world, and do not want to go on living any more.’ This
sounded so tragic that the boy began to weep. The smallness and
delicacy of his build, even the way in which his hair was cropped,
gave him an astonishing resemblance to his sister, thought Genji, who
found his sympathy very endearing. At times he had half thought of
creeping away from the boy’s side and searching on his own account for
the lady’s hiding-place; but soon abandoned a project which would only
have involved him in the most appalling scandal. So he lay, waiting
for the dawn. At last, while it was still dark, so full of his own
thoughts that he quite forgot to make his usual parting speech to his
young page, he left the house. The boy’s feelings were very much hurt,
and all that day he felt lonely and injured. The lady, when no answer
came from Genji, thought that he had changed his mind, and though she
would have been very angry if he had persisted in his suit, she was
not quite prepared to lose him with so little ado.

But this was a good opportunity once and for all to lock up her heart
against him. She thought that she had done so successfully, but found
to her surprise that he still occupied an uncommonly large share of
her thoughts. Genji, though he felt it would have been much better
to put the whole business out of his head, knew that he had not the
strength of mind to do so and at last, unable to bear his wretchedness
any longer he said to the boy ‘I am feeling very unhappy. I keep on
trying to think of other things, but my thoughts will not obey me. I
can struggle no longer. You must watch for a suitable occasion, and
then contrive some way of bringing me into the presence of your
sister.’ This worried the boy, but he was inwardly flattered at the
confidence which Genji placed in him. And an opportunity soon
presented itself.

Ki no Kami had been called away to the provinces, and there were only
women in the house. One evening when dusk had settled upon the quiet
streets the boy brought a carriage to fetch him. He knew that the lad
would do his best, but not feeling quite safe in the hands of so young
an accomplice, he put on a disguise, and then in his impatience, not
waiting even to see the gates closed behind him, he drove off at top
speed. They entered unobserved at a side-gate, and here he bade Genji
descend. The brother knew that as he was only a boy, the watchman and
gardeners would not pay any particular attention to his movements, and
so he was not at all uneasy. Hiding Genji in the porch of the
double-door of the eastern wing, he purposely banged against the
sliding partition which separated this wing from the main part of the
house, and that the maids might have the impression he did not mind
who heard him enter he called out crossly ‘Why is the door shut on a
hot night like this?’ ‘“My lady of the West”[1] has been here since
this morning, and she is playing _go_ with my other lady.’ Longing to
catch sight of her, even though she were with a companion, Genji stole
from his hiding-place, and crept through a gap in the curtains. The
partition door through which the boy had passed was still open,
and he could see through it, right along the corridor into the room on
the other side. The screen which protected the entrance of this room
was partly folded, and the curtains which usually concealed the divan
had, owing to the great heat, been hooked up out of the way, so that
he had an excellent view.

The lady sitting near the lamp, half-leaning against the middle pillar
must, he supposed, be his beloved. He looked closely at her. She
seemed to be wearing an unlined, dark purple dress, with some kind of
scarf thrown over her shoulders. The poise of her head was graceful,
but her extreme smallness had the effect of making her seem somewhat
insignificant. She seemed to be trying all the while to hide her face
from her companion, and there was something furtive about the
movements of her slender hands, which she seemed never to show for
more than a moment.

Her companion was sitting right opposite him, and he could see her
perfectly. She wore an underdress of thin white stuff, and thrown
carelessly over it a cloak embroidered with red and blue flowers. The
dress was not fastened in front, showing a bare neck and breast,
showing even the little red sash which held up her drawers. She had
indeed an engagingly free and easy air. Her skin was very white and
delicate, she was rather plump, but tall and well built. The poise of
her head and angle of her brow were faultless, the expression of her
mouth and eyes was very pleasing and her appearance altogether most
delightful. Her hair grew very thick, but was cut short so as to hang
on a level with her shoulders. It was very fine and smooth. How
exciting it must be to have such a girl for one’s daughter! Small
wonder if Iyo no Kami was proud of her. If she was a little less
restless, he thought, she would be quite perfect.

The game was nearly over, she was clearing away the unwanted pieces.
She seemed to be very excitable and was making a quite unnecessary
commotion about the business. ‘Wait a little’ said her companion very
quietly, ‘here there is a stalemate. My only move is to counter-attack
over there....’ ‘It is all over’ said the other impatiently ‘I am
beaten, let us count the score;’ and she began counting, ‘ten, twenty,
thirty, forty’ on her fingers. Genji could not help remembering the
old song about the wash-house at Iyo (‘eight tubs to the left, nine
tubs to the right’) and as this lady of Iyo, determined that nothing
should be left unsettled, went on stolidly counting her losses and
gains, he thought her for the moment slightly common. It was strange
to contrast her with Utsusemi,[2] who sat silent, her face
half-covered, so that he could scarcely discern her features. But when
he looked at her fixedly, she, as though uneasy under this gaze of
which she was not actually aware, shifted in her seat, and showed him
her full profile. Her eyelids gave the impression of being a little
swollen, and there was at places a certain lack of delicacy in the
lines of her features, while her good points were not visible. But
when she began to speak, it was as though she were determined to make
amends for the deficiencies of her appearance and show that she had,
if not so much beauty, at any rate more sense than her companion.

The latter was now flaunting her charms with more and more careless
abandonment. Her continual laughter and high spirits were certainly
rather engaging, and she seemed in her way to be a most entertaining
person. He did not imagine that she was very virtuous, but that was
far from being altogether a disadvantage.

It amused him very much to see people behaving quite naturally
together. He had lived in an atmosphere of ceremony and reserve.
This peep at everyday life was a most exciting novelty, and though he
felt slightly uneasy at spying in this deliberate way upon two persons
who had no notion that they were observed, he would gladly have gone
on looking, when suddenly the boy, who had been sitting by his
sister’s side, got up, and Genji slipped back again into his proper
hiding-place. The boy was full of apologies at having left him waiting
for so long: ‘But I am afraid nothing can be done to-day; there is
still a visitor in her room.’ ‘And am I now to go home again? ‘said
Genji; ‘that is really too much to ask.’ ‘No, no, stay here, I will
try what can be done, when the visitor has gone.’ Genji felt quite
sure that the boy would manage to find some way of cajoling his
sister, for he had noticed that though a mere child, he had a way of
quietly observing situations and characters, and making use of his
knowledge.

The game of _go_ must now be over. A rustling of skirts and pattering
of feet showed that the household was not retiring to rest. ‘Where is
the young master?’ Genji heard a servant saying, ‘I am going to fasten
this partition door,’ and there was the sound of bolts being slipped.
‘They have all gone to bed’ said Genji, ‘now is the time to think of a
plan.’ The boy knew that it would be no use arguing with his sister or
trying beforehand in any way to bend her obstinate resolution. The
best thing to be done under the circumstances was to wait till no one
was about, and then lead Genji straight to her. ‘Is Ki no Kami’s
sister still here?’ asked Genji, ‘I should like just to catch a
glimpse of her.’ ‘But that is impossible’ said the boy ‘She is in my
sister’s room.’ ‘Indeed’ said Genji, affecting surprise. For though he
knew very well where she was he did not wish to show that he had
already seen her. Becoming very impatient of all these delays, he
pointed out that it was growing very late, and there was no time to be
lost.

The boy nodded, and tapping on the main door of the women’s quarters,
he entered. Everyone was sound asleep. ‘I am going to sleep in the
ante-room’ the boy said out loud; ‘I shall leave the door open so as
to make a draught;’ and so saying he spread his mattress on the
ground, and for a while pretended to be asleep. Soon however, he got
up and spread a screen as though to protect him from the light, and
under its shadow Genji slipped softly into the room.

Not knowing what was to happen next, and much doubting whether any
good would come of the venture, with great trepidation he followed the
boy to the curtain that screened the main bedroom, and pulling it
aside entered on tip-toe. But even in the drab garments which he had
chosen for his disguise, he seemed to the boy to cut a terribly
conspicuous figure as he passed through the midnight quietness of the
house.

Utsusemi meanwhile had persuaded herself that she was very glad Genji
had forgotten to pay his threatened visit. But she was still haunted
by the memory of their one strange and dreamlike meeting, and was in
no mood for sleep. But near her, as she lay tossing, the lady of the
_go_ party, delighted by her visit and all the opportunities it had
afforded for chattering to her heart’s content, was already asleep.
And as she was young and had no troubles she slept very soundly. The
princely scent which still clung to Genji’s person reached the bed.
Utsusemi raised her head, and fancied that she saw something move
behind a part of the curtain that was only of one thickness. Though it
was very dark she recognized Genji’s figure. Filled with a sudden
terror and utter bewilderment, she sprang from the bed, threw a
fragile gauze mantle over her shoulders, and fled silently from the
room.

A moment later Genji entered. He saw with delight that there was only
one person in the room, and that the bed was arranged for two. He
threw off his cloak, and advanced towards the sleeping figure. She
seemed a more imposing figure than he had expected, but this did not
trouble him. It did indeed seem rather strange that she should be so
sound asleep. Gradually he realized with horror that it was not she at
all. ‘It is no use’ thought Genji ‘saying that I have come to the
wrong room, for I have no business anywhere here. Nor is it worth
while pursuing my real lady, for she would not have vanished like this
if she cared a straw about me.’ What if it were the lady he had seen
by the lamplight? She might not after all prove a bad exchange! But no
sooner had he thought this than he was horrified at his own frivolity.

She opened her eyes. She was naturally somewhat startled, but did not
seem to be at all seriously put out. She was a thoughtless creature in
whose life no very strong emotion had ever played a part. Hers was the
flippancy that goes with inexperience, and even this sudden visitation
did not seem very much to perturb her.

He meant at first to explain that it was not to see her that he had
come. But to do so would have been to give away the secret which
Utsusemi so jealously guarded from the world. There was nothing for
it, but to pretend that his repeated visits to the house, of which the
lady was well aware, had been made in the hope of meeting her! This
was a story which would not have withstood the most cursory
examination; but, outrageous as it was, the girl accepted it without
hesitation.

He did not by any means dislike her, but at that moment all his
thoughts were busy with the lady who had so mysteriously vanished. No
doubt she was congratulating herself in some safe hiding-place upon
the absurd situation in which she had left him. Really, she was the
most obstinate creature in the world! What was the use of running
after her? But all the same she continued to obsess him.

But the girl in front of him was young and gay and charming. They were
soon getting on very well together.

‘Is not this kind of thing much more amusing than what happens with
people whom one knows?’ asked Genji a little later. ‘Do not think
unkindly of me. Our meeting must for the present remain a secret. I am
in a position which does not always allow me to act as I please. Your
people too would no doubt interfere if they should hear of it, which
would be very tiresome. Wait patiently, and do not forget me.’ These
rather tepid injunctions did not strike her as at all unsatisfactory,
and she answered very seriously ‘I am afraid it will not be very easy
for me even to write to you. People would think it very odd.’ ‘Of
course we must not let ordinary people into our secret’ he answered,
‘but there is no reason why this little page should not sometimes
carry a message. Meanwhile not a word to anyone!’ And with that he
left her, taking as he did so Utsusemi’s thin scarf which had slipped
from her shoulders when she fled from the room.

He went to wake his page who was lying not far away. The boy sprang
instantly to his feet, for he was sleeping very lightly, not knowing
when his help might be required. He opened the door as quietly as he
could. ‘Who is that?’ someone called out in great alarm. It was the
voice of an old woman who worked in the house. ‘It is I’ answered the
boy uneasily. ‘What are you walking about here for at this time of
night?’ and scolding as she came, she began to advance towards the
door. ‘Bother her’ thought the boy, but he answered hastily ‘It’s all
right, I am only going outside for a minute;’ but just as Genji passed
through the door, the moon of dawn suddenly emerged in all her
brightness. Seeing a grown man’s figure appear in the doorway ‘Whom
have you got with you?’ the old lady asked, and then answering her own
question ‘Why it is Mimbu! what an outrageous height that girl has
grown to!’ and continuing to imagine that the boy was walking with
Mimbu, a maid-servant whose lankiness was a standing joke in the
house, ‘and you will soon be as big as she is, little Master!’ she
cried, and so saying came out through the door that they had just
passed through. Genji felt very uncomfortable, and making no answer on
the supposed Mimbu’s behalf, he stood in the shadow at the end of the
corridor, hiding himself as best he could. ‘You have been on duty,
haven’t you dear?’ said the old lady as she came towards them. ‘I have
been terribly bad with the colic since yesterday and was lying up, but
they were shorthanded last night, and I had to go and help, though I
did feel very queer all the while.’ And then, without waiting for them
to answer, ‘Oh, my pain, my poor pain’ she muttered ‘I can’t stop here
talking like this’ and she hobbled past them without looking up.

So narrow an escape made Genji wonder more than ever whether the whole
thing was worth while. He drove back to his house, with the boy riding
as his postillion.

Here he told him the story of his evening’s adventure. ‘A pretty mess
you made of it!’ And when he had finished scolding the boy for his
incompetence, he began to rail at the sister’s irritating prudishness.
The poor child felt very unhappy, but could think of nothing to say in
his own or his sister’s defence.

‘I am utterly wretched’ said Genji. ‘It is obvious that she would not
have behaved as she did last night unless she absolutely detested me.
But she might at least have the decency to send civil answers to my
letters. Oh, well, I suppose Iyo no Kami is the better man....’ So he
spoke, thinking that she desired only to be rid of him. Yet when
at last he lay down to rest, he was wearing her scarf hidden under his
dress. He had put the boy by his side, and after giving much vent to
his exasperation, he said at last ‘I am very fond of you, but I am
afraid in future I shall always think of you in connection with this
hateful business, and that will put an end to our friendship.’ He said
it with such conviction that the boy felt quite forlorn.

For a while they rested, but Genji could not sleep, and at dawn he
sent in haste for his ink-stone. He did not write a proper letter, but
scribbled on a piece of folded paper, in the manner of a writing
exercise, a poem in which he compared the scarf which she had dropped
in her flight to the dainty husk which the cicada sheds on some bank
beneath a tree.

The boy picked the paper up, and thrust it into the folds of his dress.

Genji was very much distressed at the thought of what the other lady’s
feelings must be; but after some reflection he decided that it would
be better not to send any message.

The scarf, to which still clung the delicate perfume of its owner, he
wore for long afterwards beneath his dress.

When the boy got home he found his sister waiting for him in very
ill-humour. ‘It was not your doing that I escaped from the odious
quandary in which you landed me! And even so pray what explanation can
I offer to my friend?’ ‘A fine little clown the Prince must think you
now. I hope you are ashamed of yourself.’

Despite the fact that both parties were using him so ill, the boy drew
the rescued verses from out the folds of his dress and handed them to
her. She could not forbear to read them. What of this discarded
mantle? Why should he speak of it? _The coat that the fishers of Iseo
left lying upon the shore ..._[3] those were the words that came into
her mind, but they were not the clue. She was sorely puzzled.

Meanwhile the Lady of the West[4] was feeling very ill at ease. She
was longing to talk about what had happened, but must not do so, and
had to bear the burden of her impatience all alone. The arrival of
Utsusemi’s brother put her into a great state of excitement. No letter
for her? she could not understand it at all, and for the first time a
cloud settled upon her gay confiding heart.

Utsusemi, though she had so fiercely steeled herself against his love,
seeing such tenderness hidden under the words of his message, again
fell to longing that she were free, and though there was no undoing
what was done she found it so hard to go without him that she took up
the folded paper and wrote in the margin a poem in which she said that
her sleeve, so often wet with tears, was like the cicada’s
dew-drenched wing.

[1] Ki no Kami’s sister, referred to later in the story as Nokiba no
Ogi.

[2] This name means ‘cicada ‘and is given to her later in the story in
reference to the scarf which she ‘discarded as a cicada sheds its
husk.’ But at this point it becomes grammatically important that she
should have a name and I therefore anticipate.

[3] Allusion to the old poem, ‘Does he know that since he left me my
eyes are wet as the coat that the fishers ... left lying upon the
shore?’

[4] The visitor.




                             CHAPTER IV

                               YŪGAO


It was at the time when he was secretly visiting the lady of the Sixth
Ward.[1] One day on his way back from the Palace he thought that he
would call upon his foster-mother who, having for a long while been
very ill, had become a nun. She lived in the Fifth Ward. After many
enquiries he managed to find the house; but the front gate was locked
and he could not drive in. He sent one of his servants for Koremitsu,
his foster-nurse’s son, and while he was waiting began to examine the
rather wretched looking by-street. The house next door was fenced with
a new paling, above which at one place were four or five panels of
open trellis-work, screened by blinds which were very white and bare.
Through chinks in these blinds a number of foreheads could be seen.
They seemed to belong to a group of ladies who must be peeping with
interest into the street below.

At first he thought they had merely peeped out as they passed; but he
soon realized that if they were standing on the floor they must be
giants. No, evidently they had taken the trouble to climb on to some
table or bed; which was surely rather odd!

He had come in a plain coach with no outriders. No one could possibly
guess who he was, and feeling quite at his ease he leant forward
and deliberately examined the house. The gate, also made of a kind of
trellis-work, stood ajar, and he could see enough of the interior to
realize that it was a very humble and poorly furnished dwelling. For a
moment he pitied those who lived in such a place, but then he
remembered the song ‘Seek not in the wide world to find a home; but
where you chance to rest, call that your house’; and again, ‘Monarchs
may keep their palaces of jade, for in a leafy cottage two can sleep.’

There was a wattled fence over which some ivy-like creeper spread its
cool green leaves, and among the leaves were white flowers with petals
half unfolded like the lips of people smiling at their own thoughts.
‘They are called Yūgao, “Evening Faces,”’ one of his servants told
him; ‘how strange to find so lovely a crowd clustering on this
deserted wall!’ And indeed it was a most strange and delightful thing
to see how on the narrow tenement in a poor quarter of the town they
had clambered over rickety eaves and gables and spread wherever there
was room for them to grow. He sent one of his servants to pick some.
The man entered at the half-opened door, and had begun to pluck the
flowers, when a little girl in a long yellow tunic came through a
quite genteel sliding door, and holding out towards Genji’s servant a
white fan heavily perfumed with incense, she said to him ‘Would you
like something to put them on? I am afraid you have chosen a
wretched-looking bunch,’ and she handed him the fan. Just as he was
opening the gate on his way back, the old nurse’s son Koremitsu came
out of the other house full of apologies for having kept Genji waiting
so long—‘I could not find the key of the gate’ he said. ‘Fortunately
the people of this humble quarter were not likely to recognize you and
press or stare; but I am afraid you must have been very much bored
waiting in this hugger-mugger back street,’ and he conducted Genji
into the house. Koremitsu’s brother, the deacon, his brother-in-law
Mikawa no Kami and his sister all assembled to greet the Prince,
delighted by a visit with which they had not thought he was ever
likely to honour them again.

The nun too rose from her couch: ‘For a long time I had been waiting
to give up the world, but one thing held me back: I wanted you to see
your old nurse just once again as you used to know her. You never came
to see me, and at last I gave up waiting and took my vows. Now, in
reward for the penances which my Order enjoins, I have got back a
little of my health, and having seen my dear young master again, I can
wait with a quiet mind for the Lord Amida’s Light,’ and in her
weakness she shed a few tears.

‘I heard some days ago’ said Genji ‘that you were very dangerously
ill, and was in great anxiety. It is sad now to find you in this
penitential garb. You must live longer yet, and see me rise in the
world, that you may be born again high in the ninth sphere of Amida’s
Paradise. For they say that those who died with longings unfulfilled
are burdened with an evil Karma in their life to come.’

People such as old nurses regard even the most blackguardly and
ill-favoured foster-children as prodigies of beauty and virtue. Small
wonder then if Genji’s nurse, who had played so great a part in his
early life, always regarded her office as immensely honourable and
important, and tears of pride came into her eyes while he spoke to her.

The old lady’s children thought it very improper that their mother,
having taken holy orders, should show so lively an interest in a human
career. Certain that Genji himself would be very much shocked, they
exchanged uneasy glances. He was on the contrary deeply touched. ‘When
I was a child’ he said ‘those who were dearest to me were early
taken away, and although there were many who gave a hand to my
upbringing, it was to you only, dear nurse, that I was deeply and
tenderly attached. When I grew up I could not any longer be often in
your company. I have not even been able to come here and see you as
often as I wanted to. But in all the long time which has passed since
I was last here, I have thought a great deal about you and wished that
life did not force so many bitter partings upon us.’

So he spoke tenderly. The princely scent of the sleeve which he had
raised to brush away his tears filled the low and narrow room, and
even the young people, who had till now been irritated by their
mother’s obvious pride at having been the nurse of so splendid a
prince, found themselves in tears.

Having arranged for continual masses to be said on the sick woman’s
behalf, he took his leave, ordering Koremitsu to light him with a
candle. As they left the house he looked at the fan upon which the
white flowers had been laid. He now saw that there was writing on it,
a poem carelessly but elegantly scribbled: ‘The flower that puzzled
you was but the _Yūgao_, strange beyond knowing in its dress of
shining dew.’ It was written with a deliberate negligence which seemed
to aim at concealing the writer’s status and identity. But for all
that the hand showed a breeding and distinction which agreeably
surprised him. ‘Who lives in the house on the left?’ he asked.
Koremitsu, who did not at all want to act as a go-between, replied
that he had only been at his mother’s for five or six days and had
been so much occupied by her illness that he had not asked any
questions about the neighbours. ‘I want to know for a quite harmless
reason’ said Genji. ‘There is something about this fan which raises a
rather important point. I positively must settle it. You would oblige
me by making enquiries from someone who knows the neighbourhood.’
Koremitsu went at once to the house next door and sent for
the steward. ‘This house’ the man said ‘belongs to a certain
Titular-Prefect. He is living in the country, but my lady is still
here; and as she is young and loves company, her brothers who are in
service at the Court often come here to visit her.’ ‘And that is about
all one can expect a servant to know’ said Koremitsu when he repeated
this information. It occurred at once to Genji that it was one of
these Courtiers who had written the poem. Yes, there was certainly a
self-confident air in the writing. It was by someone whose rank
entitled him to have a good opinion of himself. But he was
romantically disposed; it was too painful to dismiss altogether the
idea that, after all, the verses might really have been meant for him,
and on a folded paper he wrote: ‘Could I but get a closer view, no
longer would they puzzle me—the flowers that all too dimly in the
gathering dusk I saw.’ This he wrote in a disguised hand and gave to
his servant. The man reflected that though the senders of the fan had
never seen Genji before, yet so well known were his features, that
even the glimpse they had got from the window might easily have
revealed to them his identity. He could imagine the excitement with
which the fan had been despatched and the disappointment when for so
long a time no answer came. His somewhat rudely belated arrival would
seem to them to have been purposely contrived. They would all be agog
to know what was in the reply, and he felt very nervous as he
approached the house.

Meanwhile, lighted only by a dim torch, Genji quietly left his nurse’s
home. The blinds of the other house were now drawn and only the
fire-fly glimmer of a candle shone through the gap between them.

When he reached his destination[2] a very different scene met his
eyes. A handsome park, a well-kept garden; how spacious and
comfortable it all was! And soon the magnificent owner of these
splendours had driven from his head all thought of the wooden paling,
the shutters and the flowers.

He stayed longer than he intended, and the sun was already up when he
set out for home. Again he passed the house with the shutters. He had
driven through the quarter countless times without taking the
slightest interest in it; but that one small episode of the fan had
suddenly made his daily passage through these streets an event of
great importance. He looked about him eagerly, and would have liked to
know who lived in all the houses.

For several days Koremitsu did not present himself at Genji’s palace.
When at last he came, he explained that his mother was growing much
weaker and it was very difficult for him to get away. Then drawing
nearer, he said in a low voice ‘I made some further enquiries, but
could not find out much. It seems that someone came very secretly in
June and has been living there ever since; but who she really is not
even her own servants know. I have once or twice peeped through a hole
in the hedge and caught a glimpse of some young women; but their
skirts were rolled back and tucked in at their belts, so I think they
must have been waiting-maids. Yesterday some while after sunset I saw
a lady writing a letter. Her face was calm, but she looked very
unhappy, and I noticed that some of her women were secretly weeping.’
Genji was more curious than ever.

Though his master was of a rank which brought with it great
responsibilities, Koremitsu knew that in view of his youth and
popularity the young prince would be thought to be positively
neglecting his duty if he did not indulge in a few escapades, and that
everyone would regard his conduct as perfectly natural and proper
even when it was such as they would not have dreamed of permitting to
ordinary people.

‘Hoping to get a little further information,’ he said, ‘I found an
excuse for communicating with her, and received in reply a very
well-worded answer in a cultivated hand. She must be a girl of quite
good position.’ ‘You must find out more’ said Genji; ‘I shall not be
happy till I know all about her.’

Here perhaps was just such a case as they had imagined on that rainy
night: a lady whose outward circumstances seemed to place her in that
‘Lowest Class’ which they had agreed to dismiss as of no interest; but
who in her own person showed qualities by no means despicable.

But to return for a moment to Utsusemi. Her unkindness had not
affected him as it would have affected most people. If she had
encouraged him he would soon have regarded the affair as an appalling
indiscretion which he must put an end to at all costs; whereas now he
brooded continually upon his defeat and was forever plotting new ways
to shake her resolution.

He had never, till the day of his visit to the foster-nurse, been
interested in anyone of quite the common classes. But now, since that
rainy night’s conversation, he had explored (so it seemed to him)
every corner of society, including in his survey even those categories
which his friends had passed over as utterly remote and improbable. He
thought of the lady who had, so to speak, been thrown into his life as
an extra. With how confiding an air she had promised that she would
wait! He was very sorry about her, but he was afraid that if he wrote
to her Utsusemi might find out and that would prejudice his chances.
He would write to her afterwards....

Suddenly at this point Iyo no Suke himself was announced. He had
just returned from his province, and had lost no time in paying his
respects to the prince. The long journey by boat had made him look
rather swarthy and haggard. ‘Really’ thought Genji ‘he is not at all
an attractive man!’ Still it was possible to talk to him; for if a man
is of decent birth and breeding, however broken he may be by age or
misfortune, he will always retain a certain refinement of mind and
manners which prevent him from becoming merely repulsive. They were
beginning to discuss the affairs of Iyo’s province and Genji was even
joking with him, when a sudden feeling of embarrassment came over him.
Why should those recollections make him feel so awkward? Iyo no Suke
was quite an old man, it had done him no harm. ‘These scruples are
absurd’ thought Genji. However, she was right in thinking it was
too queer, too ill-assorted a match; and remembering Uma no Kami’s
warnings, he felt that he had behaved badly. Though her unkindness
still deeply wounded him, he was almost glad for Iyo’s sake that she
had not relented.

‘My daughter is to be married’ Iyo was saying ‘And I am going to take
my wife back with me to my province.’ Here was a double surprise. At
all costs he must see Utsusemi once again. He spoke with her brother
and the boy discussed the matter with her. It would have been
difficult enough for anyone to have carried on an intrigue with the
prince under such circumstances as these. But for her, so far below
him in rank and beset by new restrictions, it had now become
unthinkable. She could not however bear to lose all contact with him,
and not only did she answer his letters much more kindly than before,
but took pains, though they were written with apparent negligence, to
add little touches that would give him pleasure and make him see that
she still cared for him. All this he noticed, and though he was vexed
that she would not relent towards him, he found it impossible to
put her out of his mind.

As for the other girl, he did not think that she was at all the kind
of person to go on pining for him once she was properly settled with a
husband; and he now felt quite happy about her.

It was autumn. Genji had brought so many complications into his life
that he had for some while been very irregular in his visits to the
Great Hall, and was in great disgrace there. The lady[3] in the grand
mansion was very difficult to get on with; but he had surmounted so
many obstacles in his courtship of her that to give her up the moment
he had won her seemed absurd. Yet he could not deny that the blind
intoxicating passion which possessed him while she was still
unattainable, had almost disappeared. To begin with, she was far too
sensitive; then there was the disparity of their ages,[4] and the
constant dread of discovery which haunted him during those painful
partings at small hours of the morning. In fact, there were too many
disadvantages.

It was a morning when mist lay heavy over the garden. After being many
times roused Genji at last came out of Rokujō’s room, looking very
cross and sleepy. One of the maids lifted part of the folding-shutter,
seeming to invite her mistress to watch the prince’s departure. Rokujō
pulled aside the bed-curtains and tossing her hair back over her
shoulders looked out into the garden. So many lovely flowers were
growing in the borders that Genji halted for a while to enjoy them.
How beautiful he looked standing there, she thought. As he was nearing
the portico the maid who had opened the shutters came and walked by
his side. She wore a light green skirt exquisitely matched to the
season and place; it was so hung as to show to great advantage
the grace and suppleness of her stride. Genji looked round at her.
‘Let us sit down for a minute on the railing here in the corner,’ he
said. ‘She seems very shy’ he thought, ‘but how charmingly her hair
falls about her shoulders,’ and he recited the poem: ‘Though I would
not be thought to wander heedlessly from flower to flower, yet this
morning’s pale convolvulus I fain would pluck!’ As he said the lines
he took her hand and she answered with practised ease: ‘You hasten, I
observe, to admire the morning flowers while the mist still lies about
them,’ thus parrying the compliment by a verse which might be
understood either in a personal or general sense. At this moment a
very elegant page wearing the most bewitching baggy trousers came
among the flowers brushing the dew as he walked, and began to pick a
bunch of the convolvuli. Genji longed to paint the scene.

No one could see him without pleasure. He was like the flowering tree
under whose shade even the rude mountain peasant delights to rest. And
so great was the fascination he exercised that those who knew him
longed to offer him whatever was dearest to them. One who had a
favourite daughter would ask for nothing better than to make her
Genji’s handmaiden. Another who had an exquisite sister was ready for
her to serve in his household, though it were at the most menial
tasks. Still less could these ladies who on such occasions as this
were privileged to converse with him and stare at him as much as they
pleased, and were moreover young people of much sensibility—how could
they fail to delight in his company and note with much uneasiness that
his visits were becoming far less frequent than before?

But where have I got to? Ah, yes. Koremitsu had patiently continued
the enquiry with which Genji entrusted him. ‘Who the mistress is’ he
said, ‘I have not been able to discover; and for the most part
she is at great pains not to show herself. But more than once in the
general confusion, when there was the sound of a carriage coming along
past that great row of tenement houses, and all the maid-servants were
peering out into the road, the young lady whom I suppose to be the
mistress of the house slipped out along with them. I could not see her
clearly, but she seemed to be very pretty.

‘One day, seeing a carriage with outriders coming towards the house,
one of the maids rushed off calling out “Ukon, Ukon, come quickly and
look. The Captain’s carriage is coming this way.” At once a
pleasant-faced lady no longer young, came bustling out. “Quietly,
quietly” she said holding up a warning finger; “how do you know it is
the Captain? I shall have to go and look,” and she slipped out. A sort
of rough drawbridge leads from the garden into the lane. In her
excitement the good lady caught her skirt in it and falling flat on
her face almost tumbled into the ditch: “A bad piece of work His
Holiness of Katsuragi[5] made here!” she grumbled; but her curiosity
did not seem to be at all damped and she stared harder than ever at
the approaching carriage. The visitor was dressed in a plain, wide
cloak. He had attendants with him, whose names the excited
servant-girls called out as one after another they came near enough to
be recognized; and the odd thing is that the names were certainly
those of Tō no Chūjō’s[6] grooms and pages.’

‘I must see that carriage for myself’ said Genji. What if this should
be the very lady whom Chūjō, at the time of that rainy night’s
conversation, despaired of rediscovering? Koremitsu, noting that Genji
was listening with particular attention continued: ‘I must tell you
that I too have reason to be interested in this house, and while
making enquiries on my own account I discovered that the young lady
always addresses the other girls in the house as though they were her
equals. But when, pretending to be taken in by this comedy, I began
visiting there, I noticed that though the older ladies played their
part very well, the young girls would every now and then curtsey or
slip in a “My Lady” without thinking; whereupon the others would
hasten to cover up the mistake as best they might, saying anything
they could think of to make it appear that there was no mistress among
them,’ and Koremitsu laughed as he recollected it.

‘Next time I come to visit your mother’ said Genji, ‘you must let me
have a chance of peeping at them.’ He pictured to himself the queer,
tumbled-down house. She was only living there for the time being; but
all the same she must surely belong to that ‘bottom class’ which they
had dismissed as having no possible bearing on the discussion. How
amusing it would be to show that they were wrong and that after all
something of interest might be discovered in such a place!

Koremitsu, anxious to carry out his master’s every wish and intent
also on his own intrigue, contrived at last by a series of ingenious
stratagems to effect a secret meeting between Genji and the mysterious
lady. The details of the plan by which he brought this about would
make a tedious story, and as is my rule in such cases I have thought
it better to omit them.

Genji never asked her by what name he was to call her, nor did he
reveal his own identity. He came very poorly dressed and—what was most
unusual for him—on foot. But Koremitsu regarded this as too great a
tribute to so unimportant a lady, and insisted upon Genji riding his
horse, while he walked by his side. In doing so he sacrificed his
own feelings; for he too had reasons for wishing to create a good
impression in the house, and he knew that by arriving in this rather
undignified way he would sink in the estimation of the inhabitants.
Fortunately his discomfiture was almost unwitnessed, for Genji took
with him only the one attendant who had on the first occasion plucked
the flowers—a boy whom no one was likely to recognize; and lest
suspicions should be aroused, he did not even take advantage of his
presence in the neighbourhood to call at his foster-nurse’s house.

The lady was very much mystified by all these precautions and made
great efforts to discover something more about him. She even sent
someone after him to see where he went to when he left her at
day-break; but he succeeded in throwing his pursuer off the scent and
she was no wiser than before. He was now growing far too fond of her.
He was miserable if anything interfered with his visits; and though he
utterly disapproved of his own conduct and worried a great deal about
it, he soon found that he was spending most of his time at her house.

He knew that at some time or another in their lives even the soberest
people lose their heads in this way; but hitherto he had never really
lost his, or done anything which could possibly have been considered
very wrong. Now to his astonishment and dismay he discovered that even
the few morning hours during which he was separated from her were
becoming unendurable. ‘What is it in her that makes me behave like a
madman?’ he kept on asking himself. She was astonishingly gentle and
unassuming, to the point even of seeming rather apathetic, rather
deficient perhaps in depth of character and emotion; and though she
had a certain air of girlish inexperience, it was clear that he was
not by any means her first lover; and certainly she was rather
plebeian. What was it exactly that so fascinated him? He asked
himself the question again and again, but found no answer.

She for her part was very uneasy to see him come to her thus in shabby
old hunting-clothes, trying always to hide his face, leaving while it
was still dark and everyone was asleep. He seemed like some
demon-lover in an old ghost-tale, and she was half-afraid. But his
smallest gesture showed that he was someone out of the ordinary, and
she began to suspect that he was a person of high rank, who had used
Koremitsu as his go-between. But Koremitsu obstinately pretended to
know nothing at all about his companion, and continued to amuse
himself by frequenting the house on his own account.

What could it mean? She was dismayed at this strange love-making
with—she knew not whom. But about her too there was something
fugitive, insubstantial. Genji was obsessed by the idea that, just as
she had hidden herself in this place, so one day she would once more
vanish and hide, and he would never be able to find her again. There
was every sign that her residence here was quite temporary. He was
sure that when the time came to move she would not tell him where she
was going. Of course her running away would be proof that she was not
worth bothering about any more, and he ought, thankful for the
pleasure they had had together, simply to leave the matter at that.
But he knew that this was the last thing he would be likely to do.

People were already beginning to be suspicious, and often for several
nights running he was unable to visit her. This became so intolerable
that in his impatience he determined to bring her secretly to the
Nijō-in.[7] There would be an appalling outcry if she were discovered;
but that must be risked.

‘I am going to take you somewhere very nice where no one will disturb
us’ he said at last. ‘No, No’ she cried; ‘your ways are so strange, I
should be frightened to go with you.’ She spoke in a tone of childish
terror, and Genji answered smiling: ‘One or the other of us must be a
fox-in-disguise.[8] Here is a chance to find out which it is!’ He
spoke very kindly, and suddenly, in a tone of absolute submission, she
consented to do whatever he thought best. He could not but be touched
at her willingness to follow him in what must appear to her to be the
most hazardous and bizarre adventure. Again he thought of Tō no
Chūjō’s story on that rainy night, and could not doubt that this must
indeed be Chūjō’s fugitive lady. But he saw that she had some reason
for wishing to avoid all questions about her past, and he restrained
his curiosity. So far as he could see she showed no signs of running
away; nor did he believe that she would do so as long as he was
faithful. Tō no Chūjō, after all, had for months on end left her to
her own devices. But he felt that if for an instant she suspected him
of the slightest leaning in any other direction it would be a bad
business.

It was the fifteenth night of the eighth month. The light of an
unclouded full-moon shone between the ill-fitting planks of the roof
and flooded the room. What a queer place to be lying in! thought
Genji, as he gazed round the garret, so different from any room he had
ever known before. It must be almost day. In the neighbouring houses
people were beginning to stir, and there was an uncouth sound of
peasant voices: ‘Eh! how cold it is! I can’t believe we shall do much
with the crops this year.’ ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen about
my carrying-trade’ said another; ‘things look very bad.’ Then (banging
on the wall of another house) ‘Wake up, neighbour. Time to start.
Did he hear, d’you think?’ and they rose and went off each to the
wretched task by which he earned his bread.

All this clatter and bustle going on so near her made the lady very
uncomfortable, and indeed so dainty and fastidious a person must often
in this miserable lodging have suffered things which would make her
long to sink through the floor. But however painful, disagreeable or
provoking were the things that happened, she gave no sign of noticing
them. That being herself so shrinking and delicate in her ways she
could yet endure without a murmur the exasperating banging and bumping
that was going on in every direction, aroused his admiration, and he
felt that this was much nicer of her than if she had shuddered with
horror at each sound. But now, louder than thunder, came the noise of
the threshing-mills, seeming so near that they could hardly believe it
did not come from out of the pillow itself. Genji thought that his
ears would burst. What many of the noises were he could not at all
make out; but they were very peculiar and startling. The whole air
seemed to be full of crashings and bangings. Now from one side, now
from another, came too the faint thud of the bleacher’s mallet, and
the scream of wild geese passing overhead. It was all too distracting.

Their room was in the front of the house. Genji got up and opened the
long, sliding shutters. They stood together looking out. In the
courtyard near them was a clump of fine Chinese bamboos; dew lay thick
on the borders, glittering here no less brightly than in the great
gardens to which Genji was better accustomed. There was a confused
buzzing of insects. Crickets were chirping in the wall. He had often
listened to them, but always at a distance; now, singing so close to
him, they made a music which was unfamiliar and indeed seemed far
lovelier than that with which he was acquainted. But then,
everything in this place where one thing was so much to his liking,
seemed despite all drawbacks to take on a new tinge of interest and
beauty. She was wearing a white bodice with a soft, grey cloak over
it. It was a poor dress, but she looked charming and almost
distinguished; even so, there was nothing very striking in her
appearance—only a certain fragile grace and elegance. It was when she
was speaking that she looked really beautiful, there was such pathos,
such earnestness in her manner. If only she had a little more spirit!
But even as she was he found her irresistible and longed to take her
to some place where no one could disturb them: ‘I am going to take you
somewhere not at all far away where we shall be able to pass the rest
of the night in peace. We cannot go on like this, parting always at
break of day.’ ‘Why have you suddenly come to that conclusion?’ she
asked, but she spoke submissively. He vowed to her that she should be
his love in this and in all future lives and she answered so
passionately that she seemed utterly transformed from the listless
creature he had known, and it was hard to believe that such vows were
no novelty to her.

Discarding all prudence he sent for the maid Ukon and bade her order
his servants to fetch a coach. The affair was soon known to all the
household, and the ladies were at first somewhat uneasy at seeing
their mistress carried off in this fashion; but on the whole they did
not think he looked the sort of person who would do her any harm. It
was now almost daylight. The cocks had stopped crowing. The voice of
an old man (a pilgrim preparing for the ascent of the Holy Mountain)
sounded somewhere not far away; and, as at each prayer he bent forward
to touch the ground with his head, they could hear with what pain and
difficulty he moved. What could he be asking for in his prayers, this
old man whose life seemed fragile as the morning dew? Namu tōrai
no dōshi ‘Glory be to the Saviour that shall come’: now they could
hear the words. ‘Listen’ said Genji tenderly, ‘is not that an omen
that our love shall last through many lives to come? ‘And he recited
the poem: ‘Do not prove false this omen of the pilgrim’s chant: that
even in lives to come our love shall last unchanged.’

Then unlike the lovers in the ‘Everlasting Wrong’ who prayed that they
might be as the ‘twin birds that share a wing’ (for they remembered
that this story had ended very sadly) they prayed ‘May our love last
till Maitreya comes as a Buddha into the World.’ But she, still
distrustful, answered his poem with the verse: ‘Such sorrow have I
known in this world that I have small hope of worlds to come.’ Her
versification was still a little tentative.[9]

She was thinking with pleasure that the setting moon would light them
on their way, and Genji was just saying so when suddenly the moon
disappeared behind a bank of clouds. But there was still great beauty
in the dawning sky. Anxious to be gone before it was quite light, he
hurried her away to the coach and put Ukon by her side.

They drove to an untenanted mansion which was not far off. While he
waited for the steward to come out Genji noticed that the gates were
crumbling away; dense shinobu-grass grew around them. So sombre an
entrance he had never seen. There was a thick mist and the dew was so
heavy that when he raised the carriage-blind his sleeve was drenched.
‘Never yet has such an adventure as this befallen me’ said Genji; ‘so
I am, as you may imagine, rather excited,’ and he made a poem in which
he said that though love’s folly had existed since the beginning of
the world, never could man have set out more rashly at the break of
day into a land unknown. ‘But to you this is no great novelty?’
She blushed and in her turn made a poem: ‘I am as the moon that walks
the sky not knowing what menace the cruel hills may hold in store;
high though she sweeps, her light may suddenly be blotted out.’

She seemed very depressed and nervous. But this he attributed to the
fact that she had probably always lived in small houses where
everything was huddled together, and he was amused at the idea that
this large mansion should overawe her. They drove in, and while a room
was being got ready they remained in the carriage which had been drawn
up alongside of the balustrade. Ukon, looking very innocent all the
while, was inwardly comparing this excursion with her mistress’s
previous adventures. She had noticed the tone of extreme deference
with which this latest lover had been received by the steward, and had
begun to draw her own conclusions.

The mist was gradually clearing away. They left the coach and went
into the room which had been prepared for them. Though so quickly
improvised, their quarters were admirably clean and well-provided, for
the steward’s son had previously been a trusted house-servant of
Genji’s and had also worked at the Great Hall. Coming now to their
room he offered to send for some of Genji’s gentlemen, ‘For’ he said
‘I cannot bear to see you going unattended.’ ‘Do nothing of the kind’
said Genji; ‘I have come here because I do not wish to be disturbed.
No one but yourself is to know that I have used this house,’ and he
exacted a promise of absolute secrecy. No regular meal had been
prepared, but the steward brought them a little rice porridge. Then
they lay down again to sleep together for the first time in this
unfamiliar and so strangely different place.

The sun was high when they woke. Genji went and opened the shutters
himself. How deserted the garden looked! Certainly here there was no
one to spy upon them. He looked out into the distance: dense
woods fast turning to jungle. And nearer the house not a flower or
bush, but only unkempt, autumn grasslands, and a pond choked with
weeds. It was a wild and desolate place. It seemed that the steward
and his men must live in some outbuilding or lodge at a distance from
the house; for here there was no sign or sound of life. ‘It is, I must
own, a strange and forsaken place to which we have come. But no ghost
or evil fairy will dare molest you while _I_ am here.’

It pained her very much that he still was masked;[10] and indeed such
a precaution was quite out of keeping with the stage at which they had
now arrived. So at last, reciting a poem in which he reminded her that
all their love down to this moment when ‘the flower opened its petals
to the evening dew’ had come from a chance vision seen casually from
the street, half-turning his face away, for a moment he let her see
him unmasked. ‘What of the “shining dew”’ he asked using the words
that she had written on the fan. ‘How little knew I of its beauty who
had but in the twilight doubted and guessed...!’; so she answered his
poem in a low and halting voice. She need not have feared, for to him,
poor as the verses were, they seemed delightful. And indeed the beauty
of his uncovered face, suddenly revealed to her in this black
wilderness of dereliction and decay, surpassed all loveliness that she
had ever dreamed of or imagined. ‘I cannot wonder that while I still
set this barrier between us, you did not choose to tell me all that I
longed to know. But now it would be very unkind of you not to tell me
your name.’ ‘I am like the fisherman’s daughter in the song’[11] she
said, ‘“I have no name or home.”’ But for all that she would not tell
him who she was, she seemed much comforted that he had let her
see him. ‘Do as you please about it’ said Genji at last; but for a
while he was out of temper. Soon they had made it up again; and so the
day passed. Presently Koremitsu came to their quarters, bringing fruit
and other viands. He would not come in, for he was frightened that
Ukon would rate him mercilessly for the part he had played in
arranging the abduction of her mistress. He had now come to the
conclusion that the Lady must possess charms which he had wholly
overlooked, or Genji would certainly never have taken all this trouble
about her, and he was touched at his own magnanimity in surrendering
to his master a prize which he might well have kept for himself. It
was an evening of marvellous stillness. Genji sat watching the sky.
The lady found the inner room where she was sitting depressingly dark
and gloomy. He raised the blinds of the front room, and came to sit
with her. They watched the light of the sunset glowing in each other’s
eyes, and in her wonder at his adorable beauty and tenderness she
forgot all her fears. At last she was shy with him no longer, and he
thought that the new-found boldness and merriment became her very
well. She lay by his side till night. He saw that she was again
wearing the plaintive expression of a frightened child; so quickly
closing the partition-door he brought in the great lamp, saying:
‘Outwardly you are no longer shy with me; but I can see that deep down
in your heart there is still some sediment of rancour and distrust. It
is not kind to use me so,’ and again he was cross with her.

What were the people at the Palace thinking? Would he have been sent
for? How far would the messengers pursue their search? He became quite
agitated. Then there was the great lady in the Sixth Ward.[12] What a
frenzy she must be in! This time, however, she really had good
cause to be jealous. These and other unpleasant considerations were
crowding into his head, when looking at the girl who lay beside him so
trustfully, unconscious of all that was going on in his mind, he was
suddenly filled with an overwhelming tenderness towards her. How
tiresome the other was, with her eternal susceptibilities, jealousies
and suspicions! For a while at any rate he would stop seeing her. As
the night wore on they began sometimes to doze. Suddenly Genji saw
standing over him the figure of a woman, tall and majestic: ‘You who
think yourself so fine, how comes it that you have brought to toy with
you here this worthless common creature, picked up at random in the
streets? I am astonished and displeased,’ and with this she made as
though to drag the lady from his side. Thinking that this was some
nightmare or hallucination, he roused himself and sat up. The lamp had
gone out. Somewhat agitated he drew his sword and laid it beside him,
calling as he did so for Ukon. She came at once, looking a good deal
scared herself. ‘Please wake the watchman in the cross-wing,’ he said,
‘and tell him to bring a candle.’ ‘All in the dark like this? How can
I?’ she answered. ‘Don’t be childish,’ said Genji laughing and clapped
his hands.[13] The sound echoed desolately through the empty house. He
could not make anyone hear; and meanwhile he noticed that his mistress
was trembling from head to foot. What should he do? He was still
undecided, when suddenly she burst out into a cold sweat. She seemed
to be losing consciousness. ‘Do not fear, Sir’ said Ukon ‘all her life
she has been subject to these nightmare fits.’ He remembered now how
tired she had seemed in the morning and how she had lain with her eyes
turned upwards as though in pain. ‘I will go myself and wake someone’
he said; ‘I am tired of clapping with only echoes to answer me.
Do not leave her!’ and drawing Ukon towards the bed he went in the
direction of the main western door. But when he opened it, he found
that the lamp in the cross-wing had also gone out. A wind had risen.
The few attendants he had brought with him were already in bed. There
was indeed only the steward’s son (the young man who had once been
Genji’s body-servant), and the one young courtier who had attended him
on all his visits. They answered when he called and sprang to their
feet. ‘Come with a candle,’ he said to the steward’s son, ‘and tell my
man to get his bow and keep on twanging the string as loud as he can.
I wonder anyone should sleep so soundly in such a deserted place. What
has happened to Koremitsu?’ ‘He waited for some time, but as you
seemed to have no need of him, he went home, saying he would be back
at day-break.’

Genji’s man had been an Imperial Bowman, and making a tremendous din
with his bow he strode towards the steward’s lodge crying ‘Fire, Fire’
at the top of his voice. The twanging of the bow reminded Genji of the
Palace. The roll-call of night courtiers must be over; the Bowman’s
roll-call must be actually going on. It was not so very late.

He groped his way back into the room. She was lying just as he had
left her, with Ukon face downwards beside her. ‘What are you doing
there’ he cried? ‘Have you gone mad with fright? You have heard no
doubt that in such lonely places as this, fox-spirits sometimes try to
cast a spell upon men. But, dear people, you need not fear. I have
come back, and will not let such creatures harm you.’ And so saying he
dragged Ukon from the bed. ‘Oh, Sir’ she said ‘I felt so queer and
frightened that I fell flat down upon my face; and what my poor lady
must be going through I dare not think.’ ‘Then try not to add to her
fright’ said Genji, and pushing her aside bent over the prostate
form. The girl was scarcely breathing. He touched her; she was quite
limp. She did not know him.

Perhaps some accursed thing, some demon had tried to snatch her spirit
away; she was so timid, so childishly helpless. The man came with the
candle. Ukon was still too frightened to move. Genji placed a screen
so as to hide the bed and called the man to him. It was of course
contrary to etiquette that he should serve Genji himself and he
hesitated in embarrassment, not venturing even to ascend the dais.
‘Come here’ said Genji impatiently; ‘use your common-sense.’
Reluctantly the man gave him the light, and as he held it towards the
bed, he saw for a moment the figure which had stood there in his dream
still hovering beside the pillow; suddenly it vanished. He had read in
old tales of such apparitions and of their power, and was in great
alarm. But for the moment he was so full of concern for the lady who
now lay motionless on the bed, that he gave no thought to that
menacing vision, and lying down beside her, began gently to move her
limbs. Already they were growing cold. Her breathing had quite
stopped. What could he do? To whom could he turn for help? He ought to
send for a priest. He tried to control himself, but he was very young,
and seeing her lying there all still and pale, he could contain
himself no longer and crying ‘Come back to me, my own darling, come
back to life. Do not look at me so strangely!’ he flung his arms about
her. But now she was quite cold. Her face was set in a dull, senseless
stare.

Suddenly Ukon, who had been so busy with her own fears, came to
herself again, and set up the most dismal weeping. He disregarded her.
Something had occurred to him. There was a story of how a certain
minister was waylaid by a demon as he passed through the Southern
Hall. The man, Genji remembered, had been prostrate with fear; but in
the end he revived and escaped. No, she could not really be dead,
and turning to Ukon he said firmly: ‘Come now, we cannot have you
making such a hideous noise in the middle of the night.’ But he
himself was stunned with grief, and though he gave Ukon distracted
orders scarce knew what he was doing. Presently he sent for the
steward’s son and said to him: ‘Someone here has had a fright and is
in a very bad way. I want you to go to Koremitsu’s house and tell him
to come as quickly as he can. If his brother the priest is there too,
take him aside and tell him quietly that I should like to see him at
once. But do not speak loud enough for the nun their mother to hear;
for I would not have her know of this excursion.’ But though he
managed to say the words, his brain was all the while in a hideous
turmoil. For added to the ghastly thought that he himself had caused
her death there was the dread and horror with which the whole place
now inspired him.

It was past midnight. A violent storm began to rise, sighing dismally
as it swept the pine-trees that clustered round the house. And all the
while some strange bird—an owl, he supposed—kept screeching hoarsely.
Utter desolation on all sides. No human voice; no friendly sound. Why,
why had he chosen this hideous place?

Ukon had fainted and was lying by her mistress’s side. Was she too
going to die of fright? No, no. He must not give way to such thoughts.
He was now the only person left who was capable of action. Was there
nothing he could do? The candle was burning badly. He lit it again.
Over by the screen in the corner of the main room something was
moving. There it was again, but in another corner now. There was a
sound of footsteps treading cautiously. It still went on. Now they
were coming up behind him....

If only Koremitsu would return! But Koremitsu was a rover and a long
time was wasted in looking for him. Would it never be day? It seemed
to him that this night was lasting a thousand years. But now,
somewhere a long way off, a cock crowed.

Why had fate seen fit to treat him thus? He felt that it must be as a
punishment for all the strange and forbidden amours into which in
these last years he had despite himself been drawn, that now this
unheard of horror had befallen him. And such things, though one may
keep them secret for a time, always come out in the end. He minded
most that the Emperor would be certain to discover sooner or later
about this and all his other affairs. Then there was the general
scandal. Everyone would know. The very gutter boys would make merry
over him. Never, never must he do such things again, or his reputation
would utterly collapse....

At last Koremitsu arrived. He prided himself on being always ready to
carry out his master’s wishes immediately at whatever hour of the
night or day, and he thought it very provoking of Genji to have sent
for him just on the one occasion when he was not to hand. And now that
he had come his master did not seem able to give him any orders, but
stood speechless in front of him.

Ukon, hearing Koremitsu’s voice, suddenly came to herself and
remembering what had happened, burst into tears. And now Genji, who
while he alone was there had supported and encouraged the weeping
maid-servant, relieved at last by Koremitsu could contain himself no
longer, and suddenly realizing again the terrible thing that had
befallen him he burst into uncontrollable weeping. ‘Something horrible
has happened here,’ he managed to say at last, ‘too dreadful to
explain. I have heard that when such things as this suddenly befall,
certain scriptures should be read. I would have this done, and prayers
said. That is why I asked you to bring your brother....’

‘He went up to the mountain yesterday’ said Koremitsu. ‘But I see
that there has been terrible work here afoot. Was it in some sudden
fit of madness that you did this thing?’ Genji shook his head. So
moved was Koremitsu at the sight of his master weeping, that he too
began to sob. Had he been an older man, versed in the ways of the
world, he might have been of some use in such a crisis, but both of
them were young and both were equally perplexed. At last Koremitsu
said: ‘One thing at least is clear. The steward’s son must not know.
For though he himself can be depended upon, he is the sort of person
who is sure to tell all his relatives, and they might meddle
disastrously in the affair. We had best get clear of this house as
quietly as we can.’ ‘Perhaps’ said Genji; ‘but it would be hard to
find a less frequented place than this.’ ‘At any rate’ Koremitsu
continued, ‘we cannot take her to her own house; for there her
gentlewomen, who loved her dearly, would raise such a weeping and
wailing as would soon bring a pack of neighbours swarming around, and
all would quickly be known. If only I knew of some mountain-temple—for
there such things are customary[14] and pass almost unnoticed.’ He
paused and reflected. ‘There is a lady I once knew who has become a
nun and now lives on the Higashi Yama. She was my father’s wet-nurse
and is now very old and bent. She does not of course live alone; but
no outside people come there.’ A faint light was already showing in
the sky when Koremitsu brought the carriage in. Thinking that Genji
would not wish to move the body himself, he wrapt it in a rush-mat and
carried it towards the carriage. How small she was to hold! Her face
was calm and beautiful. He felt no repulsion. He could find no way to
secure her hair, and when he began to carry her it overflowed and
hung towards the ground. Genji saw, and his eyes darkened. A hideous
anguish possessed him.

He tried to follow the body, but Koremitsu dissuaded him, saying ‘You
must ride back to your palace as quickly as you can; you have just
time to get there before the stir begins,’ and putting Ukon into the
carriage, he gave Genji his horse. Then pulling up his silk trousers
to the knee, he accompanied the carriage on foot. It was a very
singular procession; but Koremitsu, seeing his master’s terrible
distress, forgot for the moment his own dignity and walked stolidly
on. Genji, hardly conscious of what went on around him arrived at last
in ghostly pallor at his house. ‘Where do you come from, my Lord?’
‘How ill you look.’ ... Questions assailed him, but he hurried to his
room and lay behind his curtain. He tried to calm himself, but hideous
thoughts tormented him. Why had he not insisted upon going with her?
What if after all she were not dead and waking up should find that he
had thus abandoned her? While these wild thoughts chased through his
brain a terrible sensation of choking began to torment him. His head
ached, his body seemed to be on fire. Indeed he felt so strange that
he thought he too was about to die suddenly and inexplicably as she
had done. The sun was now high, but he did not get up. His gentlemen,
with murmurs of astonishment, tried every means to rouse him. He sent
away the dainties they brought, and lay hour after hour plunged in the
darkest thoughts. A messenger arrived from the Emperor: ‘His Majesty
has been uneasy since yesterday when his envoys sought everywhere for
your Highness in vain.’

The young lords too came from the Great Hall. He would see none of
them but Tō no Chūjō, and even him he made stand outside his curtain
while he spoke to him: ‘My foster-mother has been very ill since the
fifth month. She shaved her head and performed other penances, in
consequence of which (or so it seems) she recovered a little and
got up, but is very much enfeebled. She sent word that she desired to
see me once more before she died, and as I was very fond of her when I
was a child, I could not refuse. While I was there a servant in the
house fell ill and died quite suddenly. Out of consideration for me
they removed the body at nightfall. But as soon as I was told of what
had happened I remembered that the Fast of the Ninth Month was at hand
and for this reason I have not thought it right to present myself to
the Emperor my father. Moreover, since early morning I have had a
cough and very bad headache, so you will forgive me for treating you
in this way.’

‘I will give the Emperor your message. But I must tell you that last
night when you were out he sent messengers to look for you and seemed,
if I may venture to say so, to be in a very ill humour.’ Tō no Chūjō
turned to go, but pausing a moment came back to Genji’s couch and said
quietly: ‘What really happened to you last night? What you told me
just now cannot possibly be true.’ ‘You need not go into details,’
answered Genji impatiently. ‘Simply tell him that unintentionally I
became exposed to a pollution, and apologize to him for me as best you
can.’ He spoke sharply, but in his heart there was only an unspeakable
sadness; and he was very tired.

All day he lay hidden from sight. Once he sent for Tō no Chūjō’s
brother Kurōdo no Ben and gave him a formal message for the Emperor.
The same excuse would serve for the Great Hall, and he sent a similar
message there and to other houses where he might be expected.

At dusk Koremitsu came. The story of Genji’s pollution had turned all
visitors from the door, and Koremitsu found his palace utterly
deserted. ‘What happened?’ said Genji, summoning him, ‘you are sure
that she is dead?’ and holding his sleeve before his face he wept.
‘All is over; of that there is no doubt,’ said Koremitsu, also in
tears; ‘and since it is not possible for them to keep the body long, I
have arranged with a very respectable aged priest who is my friend
that the ceremony shall take place to-morrow, since to-morrow chances
to be a good calendar day.’ ‘And what of her gentlewoman?’ asked
Genji. ‘I fear she will not live,’ said Koremitsu. ‘She cries out that
she must follow her mistress and this morning, had I not held her, she
would have cast herself from a high rock. She threatened to tell the
servants at my lady’s house, but I prevailed upon her to think the
matter over quietly before she did this.’ ‘Poor thing,’ said Genji,
‘small wonder that she should be thus distracted. I too am feeling
strangely disordered and do not know what will become of me.’ ‘Torment
yourself no more,’ said Koremitsu. ‘All things happen as they must.
Here is one who will handle this matter very prudently for you, and
none shall be the wiser.’ ‘Happen as they must. You are right’ said
Genji ‘and so I try to persuade myself. But in the pursuit of one’s
own wanton pleasures to have done harm and to have caused someone’s
death—that is a hideous crime; a terrible load of sin to bear with me
through the world. Do not tell even your sister; much less your mother
the nun, for I am ashamed that she should even know I have ever done
that kind of thing.’[15] ‘Do not fear’ answered Koremitsu. ‘Even to
the priests, who must to a certain extent be let into the secret, I
have told a long made-up tale’ and Genji felt a little easier in his
mind.

The waiting-women of his palace were sorely puzzled; ‘First he says he
has been defiled and cannot go to Court, and now he sits whispering
and sighing.’ What could it all mean? ‘Again I beg you’ said Genji at
last ‘to see that everything is done as it should be.’ He was thinking
all the time of the elaborate Court funerals which he had
witnessed (he had, indeed, seen no others) and imagined Koremitsu
directing a complicated succession of rituals. ‘I will do what I can;
it will be no such great matter,’ he answered and turned to go.
Suddenly Genji could bear no longer the thought that he should never
see her again. ‘You will think it very foolish of me,’ he said, ‘but I
am coming with you. I shall ride on horseback.’ ‘If your heart is set
upon it,’ said Koremitsu, ‘it is not for me to reason with you. Let us
start soon, so that we may be back before the night is over.’ So
putting on the hunting-dress and other garments in which he had
disguised himself before, he left his room.

Already the most hideous anguish possessed him, and now, as he set out
upon this strange journey, to the dark thoughts that filled his mind
was added a dread lest his visit might rouse to some fresh fury the
mysterious power which had destroyed her. Should he go? He hesitated;
but though he knew that this way lay no cure for his sadness, yet if
he did not see her now, never again perhaps in any life to come would
he meet the face and form that he had loved so well. So with Koremitsu
and the one same groom to bear him company he set out upon the road.

The way seemed endless. The moon of the seventeenth night had risen
and lit up the whole space of the Kamo plain, and in the light of the
outrunners’ torches the countryside towards Toribeno now came dimly
into sight. But Genji in his sickness and despair saw none of this,
and suddenly waking from the stupor into which he had fallen found
that they had arrived.

The nun’s cell was in a chapel built against the wall of a wooden
house. It was a desolate spot, but the chapel itself was very
beautiful. The light of the visitors’ torches flickered through the
open door. In the inner room there was no sound but that of a
woman weeping by herself; in the outer room were several priests
talking together (or was it praying?) in hushed voices. In the
neighbouring temples vespers were over and there was absolute
stillness; only towards the Kiyomizu were lights visible and many
figures seemed to throng the hill-side.[16]

A senior priest, son of the aged nun, now began to recite the
Scriptures in an impressive voice, and Genji as he listened felt the
tears come into his eyes. He went in. Ukon was lying behind a screen;
when she heard him enter, she turned the lamp to the wall. What
terrible thing was she trying to hide from him? But when he came
nearer he saw to his joy that the dead lady was not changed in any way
whatsoever, but lay there very calm and beautiful; and feeling no
horror or fear at all he took her hand and said, ‘Speak to me once
again; tell me why for so short a while you came to me and filled my
heart with gladness, and then so soon forsook me, who loved you so
well?’ and he wept long and bitterly by her side.

The priests did not know who he was, but they were touched by his
evident misery and themselves shed tears. He asked Ukon to come back
with him, but she answered: ‘I have served this lady since she was a
little child and never once for so much as an hour have I left her.
How can I suddenly part from one who was so dear to me and serve in
another’s house? And I must now go and tell her people what has become
of her; for (such is the manner of her death) if I do not speak soon,
there will be an outcry that it was I who was to blame, and that would
be a terrible thing for me, Sir,’ and she burst into tears, wailing ‘I
will lie with her upon the pyre; my smoke shall mingle with hers!’

‘Poor soul’ said Genji, ‘I do not wonder at your despair. But
this is the way of the world. Late or soon we must all go where she
has gone. Take comfort and trust in me.’ So he sought to console her,
but in a moment he added: ‘Those, I know, are but hollow words. I too
care no longer for life and would gladly follow her.’ So he spoke,
giving her in the end but little comfort.

‘The night is far spent’ said Koremitsu; ‘we must now be on our way.’
And so with many backward looks and a heart full to bursting he left
the house. A heavy dew had fallen and the mist was so thick that it
was hard to see the road. On the way it occurred to him that she was
still wearing his scarlet cloak, which he had lent her when they lay
down together on the last evening. How closely their lives had been
entwined!

Noting that he sat very unsteadily in his saddle, Koremitsu walked
beside him and gave him a hand. But when they came to a dyke, he lost
hold and his master fell to the ground. Here he lay in great pain and
bewilderment. ‘I shall not live to finish the journey’ he said; ‘I
have not strength to go so far.’ Koremitsu too was sorely troubled,
for he felt that despite all Genji’s insistence, he ought never to
have allowed him, fever-stricken as he was, to embark upon this
disastrous journey. In great agitation he plunged his hands in the
river and prayed to Our Lady Kwannon of Kiyomizu. Genji too roused
himself at last and forced himself to pray inwardly to the Buddha. And
so they managed to start upon their journey again and in the end with
Koremitsu’s help he reached his palace.

This sudden journey undertaken so late at night had seemed to all his
household the height of imprudence. They had noted for some while past
his nightly wanderings grow more and more frequent; but though often
agitated and pre-occupied, never had he returned so haggard as that
morning. What could be the object of these continual excursions?
And they shook their heads in great concern. Genji flung himself upon
his bed and lay there in fever and pain for several days. He was
growing very weak. The news was brought to the Emperor who was greatly
distressed and ordered continual prayers to be said for him in all the
great temples; and indeed there were more special services and
purification-ceremonies and incantations than I have room to rehearse.
When it became known that this prince so famous for his great charm
and beauty, was likely soon to die, there was a great stir in all the
kingdom.

Sick though he was he did not forget to send for Ukon and have her
enrolled among his gentlewomen. Koremitsu, who was beside himself with
anxiety concerning his master, yet managed on her arrival to calm
himself and give to Ukon friendly instruction in her new duties; for
he was touched by the helpless plight in which she had been left. And
Genji, whenever he felt a little better, would use her to carry
messages and letters, so that she soon grew used to waiting upon him.
She was dressed in deep black and though not at all handsome was a
pleasant enough looking woman.

‘It seems that the same fate which so early stayed your lady’s course
has willed that I too should be but little longer for this world. I
know in what sore distress you are left by the loss of one who was for
so many years your mistress and friend; and it was my purpose to have
comforted you in your bereavement by every care and kindness I could
devise. For this reason, indeed, it grieves me that I shall survive
her for so short a time.’ So, somewhat stiltedly, he whispered to
Ukon, and being now very weak he could not refrain from tears. Apart
from the fact that his death would leave her utterly without resource,
she had now quite taken to him and would have been very sorry indeed
if he had died.

His gentlemen ran hither and thither, distracted; the Emperor’s envoys
thronged thick as the feet of the raindrops. Hearing of his
father’s distress and anxiety, Genji strove hard to reassure him by
pretending to some slight respite or improvement. His father-in-law
too showed great concern, calling every day for news and ordering the
performance of various rites and potent liturgies; and it was perhaps
as a result of this, that having been dangerously ill for more than
twenty days, he took a turn for the better, and soon all his symptoms
began to disappear. On the night of his recovery the term of his
defilement also ended and hearing that the Emperor was still extremely
uneasy about him, he determined to reassure the Court by returning to
his official residence at the Palace. His father-in-law came to fetch
him in his own carriage and rather irritatingly urged upon him all
sorts of remedies and precautions.

For some while everything in the world to which he had now returned
seemed strange to him and he indeed scarce knew himself; but by the
twentieth day of the ninth month his recovery was complete, nor did
the pallor and thinness of his face become him by any means ill.

At times he would stare vacantly before him and burst into loud
weeping, and seeing this there were not wanting those who said that he
was surely possessed.

Often he would send for Ukon, and once when they had been talking in
the still of the evening he said to her ‘There is one thing which
still puzzles me. Why would she never tell me who she was? For even if
she was indeed, as she once said, “a fisherman’s child,” it was a
strange perversity to use such reticence with one who loved her so
well.’

‘You ask why she hid her name from you?’ said Ukon. ‘Can you wonder at
it? When could she have been expected to tell you her name (not that
it would have meant much to you if you had heard it)? For from the
beginning you treated her with a strange mistrust, coming with such
secrecy and mystery as might well make her doubt whether you were
indeed a creature of the waking world. But though you never told her
she knew well enough who you were, and the thought that you would not
be thus secret had you regarded her as more than a mere plaything or
idle distraction was very painful to her.’

‘What a wretched series of misunderstandings’ said Genji. ‘For my part
I had no mind to put a distance between us. But I had no experience in
such affairs as this. There are many difficulties in the path of such
people as I. First and foremost I feared the anger of my father the
Emperor; and then, the foolish jesting of the world. I felt myself
hedged in by courtly rules and restrictions. But for all the tiresome
concealments that my rank forced upon me, from that first evening I
had so strangely set my heart upon her that though reason counselled
me I could not hold back; and indeed it seems sometimes to me that an
irresistible fate drove me to do the thing of which I now so bitterly
and continually repent. But tell me more about her. For there can now
be no reason for concealment. When on each seventh day I cause the
names of the Buddhas to be written for her comfort and salvation, whom
am I to name in my inward prayer?’

‘There can be no harm in my telling you that’ said Ukon, ‘and I should
have done so before, did I not somehow feel it a shame to be prating
to you now about things she would not have me speak of while she was
alive. Her parents died when she was quite small. Her father, Sammi
Chūjō, loved her very dearly, but felt always that he could not give
her all the advantages to which her great beauty entitled her; and
still perplexed about her future and how best to do his duty by her,
he died. Soon afterwards some accident brought her into the company of
Tō no Chūjō[17] who was at that time still a lieutenant and for three
years he made her very happy. But in the autumn of last year
disquieting letters began to arrive from the Great Hall of the
Right,[18] and being by nature prone to fits of unreasoning fear she
now fell into a wild panic and fled to the western part of the town
where she hid herself in the house of her old wet-nurse. Here she was
very uncomfortable, and had planned to move to a certain village in
the hills, when she discovered that it would be unlucky, owing to the
position of the stars since the beginning of the year, to make a
journey in that direction; and (though she never told me so) I think,
Sir, it troubled her sorely that you should have come upon her when
she was living in so wretched a place. But there was never anyone in
the world like my lady for keeping things to herself; she could never
bear that other people should know what was on her mind. I have no
doubt, Sir, that she sometimes behaved very oddly to you and that you
have seen all this for yourself.’

Yes, this was all just as Tō no Chūjō had described. ‘I think there
was some mention of a child that Chūjō was vexed to have lost sight
of’ said Genji more interested than ever; ‘am I right?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’
she answered ‘it was born in the spring of last year, a girl, and a
fine child it was.’ ‘Where is it now?’ asked Genji. ‘Could you get
hold of it and bring it to me here without letting anyone know where
you were taking it? It would be a great comfort to me in my present
misery to have some remembrance of her near me;’ and he added, ‘I
ought of course to tell Chūjō, but that would lead to useless and
painful discussions about what has happened. Somehow or other I will
manage to bring her up here in my palace. I think there can be no harm
in that. And you will easily enough find some story to tell to
whatever people are now looking after her.’ ‘I am very glad that
this has entered your head,’ said Ukon, ‘it would be a poor look-out
for her to grow up in the quarter where she is now living. With no one
properly belonging to her and in such a part of the town....’

In the stillness of the evening, under a sky of exquisite beauty, here
and there along the borders in front of his palace some insect croaked
its song; the leaves were just beginning to turn. And as he looked
upon this pleasant picture he felt ashamed at the contrast between his
surroundings and the little house where Yūgao had lived. Suddenly
somewhere among the bamboo groves the bird called iyebato uttered its
sharp note. He remembered just how she had looked when in the gardens
of that fatal house the same bird had startled her by its cry, and
turning to Ukon, ‘How old was she?’ he suddenly asked; ‘for though she
seemed childlike in her diffidence and helplessness, that may only
have been a sign that she was not long for this world.’ ‘She must have
been nineteen’ said Ukon. ‘When my mother, who was her first
wet-nurse, died and left me an orphan, my lady’s father was pleased to
notice me and reared me at my lady’s side. Ah Sir, when I think of it,
I do not know how I shall live without her; for kind as people here
may be I do not seem to get used to them. I suppose it is that I knew
her ways, poor lady, she having been my mistress for so many years.’

To Genji even the din of the cloth-beaters’ mallets had become dear
through recollection, and as he lay in bed he repeated those verses of
Po Chü-i.

_In the eighth month and ninth month when the nights are growing long
A thousand times, ten thousand times the fuller’s stick beats._

The young brother still waited upon him, but he no longer brought with
him the letters which he had been used to bring. Utsusemi thought he
had at last decided that her treatment of him was too unfriendly to be
borne, and was vexed that he should feel so. Then suddenly she
heard of his illness, and all her vexation turned to consternation and
anxiety. She was soon to set out upon her long journey, but this did
not much interest her; and to see whether Genji had quite forgotten
her she sent him a message saying that she had been able to find no
words in which to express her grief at hearing the news of his
illness. With it she sent the poem: ‘I did not ask for news and you
did not ask why I was silent; so the days wore on and I remained in
sorrow and dismay.’ He had not forgotten her, no, not in all his
trouble; and his answer came: ‘Of this life, fragile as the
utsusemi’s[19] shell, already I was weary, when your word came, and
gave me strength to live anew.’ The poem was written in a very
tremulous and confused hand; but she thought the writing very
beautiful and it delighted her that he had not forgotten how,
cicada-like, she had shed her scarf. There could be no harm in this
interchange of notes, but she had no intention of arranging a meeting.
She thought that at last even he had seen that there could be no sense
in that.

As for Utsusemi’s companion, she was not yet married, and Genji heard
that she had become the mistress of Tō no Chūjō’s brother Kurōdo no
Shōshō; and though he feared that Shōshō might already have taken very
ill the discovery that he was not first in the field, and did not at
all wish to offend him, yet he had a certain curiosity about the girl
and sent Utsusemi’s little brother with a message asking if she had
heard of his illness and the poem: ‘Had I not once gathered for my
pillow a handful of the sedge that grows upon the eaves,[20] not a
dewdrop of pretext could my present message find.’ It was an acrostic
with many hidden meanings. He tied the letter to a tall reed and
bade him deliver it secretly; but was afterwards very uneasy at the
thought that it might go astray. ‘If it falls into Shōshō’s hands’ he
thought ‘he will at once guess that it was I who was before him.’ But
after all Shōshō would probably not take that so very hard, Genji had
vanity enough to think.

The boy delivered the message when Shōshō was at a safe distance. She
could not help feeling a little hurt; but it was something that he had
remembered her at all, and justifying it to herself with the excuse
that she had had no time to do anything better, she sent the boy
straight back with the verse: ‘The faint wind of your favour, that but
for a moment blew, with grief has part befrosted the small sedge of
the eaves.’ It was very ill-written, with all sorts of ornamental but
misleading strokes and flourishes; indeed with a complete lack of
style. However, it served to remind him of the face he had first seen
that evening by the lamplight. As for the other who on that occasion
had sat so stiffly facing her, what determination there had been in
her face, what a steady resolution to give no quarter!

The affair with the lady of the sedge was so unintentional and so
insignificant that though he regarded it as rather frivolous and
indiscreet, he saw no great harm in it. But if he did not take himself
in hand before it was too late he would soon again be involved in some
entanglement which might finally ruin his reputation.

On the forty-ninth day after Yūgao’s death a service in her memory was
by his orders secretly held in the Hokedō on Mount Hiyei. The ritual
performed was of the most elaborate kind, everything that was required
being supplied from the Prince’s own store; and even the decoration of
the service books and images was carried out with the utmost
attention. Koremitsu’s brother, a man of great piety, was
entrusted with the direction of the ceremony, and all went well. Next
Genji sent for his old writing-master, a doctor of letters for whom he
had a great liking and bade him write the prayer for the dead.[21]
‘Say that I commit to Amida the Buddha one not named whom I loved, but
lost disastrously,’ and he wrote out a rough draft for the learned man
to amend. ‘There is nothing to add or alter,’ said the master, deeply
moved. Who could it be, he wondered, at whose death the prince was so
distressed? (For Genji, try as he might, could not hide his tears.)

When he was secretly looking through his store for largesse to give to
the Hokedō priests, he came upon a certain dress and as he folded it
made the poem: ‘The girdle that to-day with tears I knot, shall we
ever in some new life untie?’

Till now her spirit had wandered in the void.[22]

But already she must be setting out on her new life-path, and in great
solicitude, he prayed continually for her safety.

He met Tō no Chūjō and his heart beat violently, for he had longed to
tell him about Yūgao’s child and how it was to be reared. But he
feared that the rest of the story would needlessly anger and distress
him, and he did not mention the matter. Meanwhile the servants of
Yūgao’s house were surprised that they had had no news from her nor
even from Ukon, and had begun to be seriously disquieted. They had
still no proof that it was Genji who was her lover, but several of
them thought that they had recognized him and his name was whispered
among them. They would have it that Koremitsu knew the secret, but he
pretended to know nothing whatever about Yūgao’s lover and found a
way to put off all their questions; and as he was still frequenting
the house for his own purposes, it was easy for them to believe that
he was not really concerned in their mistress’s affairs. Perhaps after
all it was some blackguard of a Zuryō’s son who, frightened of Tō no
Chūjō’s interference, had carried her off to his province. The real
owner of the house was a daughter of Yūgao’s second wet-nurse, who had
three children of her own. Ukon had been brought up with them, but
they thought that it was perhaps because she was not their own sister
that Ukon sent them no news of their mistress, and they were in great
distress.

Ukon who knew that they would assail her with questions which her
promise to Genji forbade her to answer, dared not go to the house, not
even to get news of her lady’s child. It had been put out somewhere to
nurse, but to her great sorrow she had quite lost sight of it.

Longing all the while to see her face once more though only in a
dream, upon the night after the ceremony on Mount Hiyei, he had a
vision very different from that for which he prayed. There appeared to
him once more, just as on that fatal night, the figure of a woman in
menacing posture, and he was dismayed at the thought that some demon
which haunted the desolate spot might on the occasion when it did that
terrible thing, also have entered into him and possessed him.

Iyo no Suke was to start early in the Godless Month and had announced
that his wife would go with him. Genji sent very handsome parting
presents and among them with special intent he put many very exquisite
combs and fans. With them were silk strips to offer to the God of
Journeys and, above all, the scarf which she had dropped, and, tied to
it, a poem in which he said that he had kept it in remembrance of her
while there was still hope of their meeting, but now returned it wet
with tears shed in vain. There was a long letter with the poem,
but this was of no particular interest and is here omitted. She sent
no answer by the man who had brought the presents, but gave her
brother the poem: ‘That to the changed cicada you should return her
summer dress shows that you too have changed and fills an insect heart
with woe.’

He thought long about her. Though she had with so strange and
inexplicable a resolution steeled her heart against him to the end,
yet each time he remembered that she had gone forever it filled him
with depression.

It was the first day of the tenth month, and as though in sign that
winter had indeed begun heavy rain fell. All day long Genji watched
the stormy sky. Autumn had hideously bereaved him and winter already
was taking from him one whom he dearly loved:

  Now like a traveller who has tried two ways in vain
  I stand perplexed where these sad seasons meet.

Now at least we must suppose he was convinced that such secret
adventures led only to misery.

I should indeed be very loth to recount in all their detail matters
which he took so much trouble to conceal, did I not know that if you
found I had omitted anything you would at once ask why, just because
he was supposed to be an Emperor’s son, I must needs put a favourable
showing on his conduct by leaving out all his indiscretions; and you
would soon be saying that this was no history but a mere made-up tale
designed to influence the judgment of posterity. As it is I shall be
called a scandal-monger; but that I cannot help.

[1] Lady Rokujō. Who she was gradually becomes apparent in the course
of the story.

[2] Lady Rokujō’s house.

[3] Rokujō.

[4] Genji was now seventeen; Rokujō twenty-four.

[5] The god of bridges. He built in a single night the stone causeway
which joins Mount Katsuragi and Mount Kombu.

[6] Genji’s brother-in-law.

[7] His own palace.

[8] Foxes, dressed up as men, were believed to be in the habit of
seducing and bewitching human beings.

[9] We gather later that she was only nineteen.

[10] I.e. covered part of his face with a scarf or the like, a
practice usual with illicit lovers in mediæval Japan.

[11] _Shin Kokinshū_, 1701.

[12] Lady Rokujō.

[13] To summon a servant.

[14] The bringing of a corpse. Temples were used as mortuaries.

[15] I.e. pursued illicit amours.

[16] Pilgrimages to Kiyomizu Temple are made on the seventeenth day.

[17] Chūjō means ‘Captain’; see above, p. 71.

[18] From Tō no Chūjō’s wife, who was the daughter of the Minister of
the Right.

[19] Cicada.

[20] ‘Sedge upon the eaves ‘is _Nokiba no Ogi_, and it is by this name
that the lady is generally known.

[21] _Gwammon_.

[22] For forty-nine days the spirit of the dead leads the intermediate
existence so strangely described in the _Abhidharma Kośa Śāstra_; then
it begins its new incarnation.




                             CHAPTER V

                              MURASAKI


He fell sick of an ague, and when numerous charms and spells had been
tried in vain, the illness many times returning, someone said that in
a certain temple on the Northern Hills there lived a wise and holy man
who in the summer of the year before (the ague was then rife and the
usual spells were giving no relief) was able to work many signal
cures: ‘Lose no time in consulting him, for while you try one useless
means after another the disease gains greater hold upon you.’ At once
he sent a messenger to fetch the holy man, who however replied that
the infirmities of old age no longer permitted him to go abroad. ‘What
is to be done?’ said Genji; ‘I must go secretly to visit him’; and
taking only four or five trusted servants he set out long before dawn.
The place lay somewhat deep into the hills. It was the last day of the
third month and in the Capital the blossoms had all fallen. The
hill-cherry was not yet out; but as he approached the open country,
the mists began to assume strange and lovely forms, which pleased him
the more because, being one whose movements were tethered by many
proprieties, he had seldom seen such sights before. The temples too
delighted him. The holy man lived in a deep cave hollowed out of a
high wall of rock. Genji did not send in his name and was in close
disguise, but his face was well known and the priest at once
recognized him.

‘Forgive me’ he said; ‘it was you, was it not, who sent for me the
other day? Alas, I think no longer of the things of this world and I
am afraid I have forgotten how to work my cures. I am very sorry
indeed that you have come so far,’ and pretending to be very much
upset, he looked at Genji, laughing. But it was soon apparent that he
was a man of very great piety and learning. He wrote out certain
talismans and administered them, and read certain spells. By the time
this was over, the sun had risen, and Genji went a little way outside
the cave and looked around him. From the high ground where he was
standing he looked down on a number of scattered hermitages. A winding
track led down to a hut which, though it was hedged with the same
small brushwood as the rest, was more spaciously planned, having a
pleasant roofed alley running out from it, and there were trim copses
set around. He asked whose house it was and was told by one of his men
that a certain abbot had been living there in retirement for two
years. ‘I know him well’ said Genji on hearing the abbot’s name; ‘I
should not like to meet him dressed and attended as I am. I hope he
will not hear....’ Just then a party of nicely dressed children came
out of the house and began to pluck such flowers as are used for the
decoration of altars and holy images. ‘There are some girls with them’
said one of Genji’s men. ‘We cannot suppose that His Reverence keeps
them. Who then can they be?’ and to satisfy his curiosity he went a
little way down the hill and watched them. ‘Yes, there are some very
pretty girls, some of them grown up and others quite children,’ he
came back and reported.

During a great part of the morning Genji was busy with his cure. When
at last the ceremony was completed his attendants, dreading the hour
at which the fever usually returned, strove to distract his
attention by taking him a little way across the mountain to a point
from which the Capital could be seen. ‘How lovely’ cried Genji ‘are
those distances half lost in haze, and that blur of shimmering woods
that stretches out on every side. How could anyone be unhappy for a
single instant who lived in such a place?’ ‘This is nothing,’ said one
of his men. ‘If I could but show you the lakes and mountains of other
provinces, you would soon see how far they excel all that you here
admire’; and he began to tell him first of Mount Fuji and many another
famous peak, and then of the West Country with all its pleasant bays
and shores, till he quite forgot that it was the hour of his fever.
‘Yonder, nearest to us’ the man continued, pointing to the sea ‘is the
bay of Akashi in Harima. Note it well; for though it is not a very
out-of-the-way place, yet the feeling one has there of being shut off
from everything save one huge waste of sea makes it the strangest and
most desolate spot I know. And there it is that the daughter of a lay
priest who was once governor of the province presides over a mansion
of quite disproportionate and unexpected magnificence. He is the
descendant of a Prime Minister and was expected to cut a great figure
in the world. But he is a man of very singular disposition and is
averse to all society. For a time he was an officer in the Palace
Guard, but he gave this up and accepted the province of Harima.
However he soon quarrelled with the local people and, announcing that
he had been badly treated and was going back to the Capital, he did
nothing of the sort, but shaved his head and became a lay priest. Then
instead of settling, as is usually done, on some secluded hillside, he
built himself a house on the seashore, which may seem to you a very
strange thing to do; but as a matter of fact, whereas in that province
in one place or another a good many recluses have taken up their
abode, the mountain-country is far more dull and lonely and would
sorely have tried the patience of his young wife and child; and so as
a compromise he chose the seashore. Once when I was travelling in the
province of Harima I took occasion to visit his house and noted that,
though at the Capital he had lived in a very modest style, here he had
built on the most magnificent and lavish scale; as though determined
in spite of what had happened (now that he was free from the bother of
governing the province) to spend the rest of his days in the greatest
comfort imaginable. But all the while he was making great preparations
for the life to come and no ordained priest could have led a more
austere and pious life.’

‘But you spoke of his daughter?’ said Genji. ‘She is passably
good-looking,’ he answered, ‘and not by any means stupid. Several
governors and officers of the province have set their hearts upon her
and pressed their suit most urgently; but her father has sent them all
away. It seems that though in his own person so indifferent to worldly
glory, he is determined that this one child, his only object of care,
should make amends for his obscurity, and has sworn that if ever she
chooses against his will, and when he is gone flouts his set purpose
and injunction to satisfy some idle fancy of her own, his ghost will
rise and call upon the sea to cover her.’

Genji listened with great attention. ‘Why, she is like the vestal
virgin who may know no husband but the King-Dragon of the Sea,’ and
they laughed at the old ex-Governor’s absurd ambitions. The teller of
the story was a son of the present Governor of Harima, who from being
a clerk in the Treasury had last year been capped an officer of the
Fifth Rank. He was famous for his love-adventures and the others
whispered to one another that it was with every intention of
persuading the lady to disobey her father’s injunctions that he had
gone out of his way to visit the shore of Akashi.

‘I fear her breeding must be somewhat countrified,’ said one; ‘it
cannot well be otherwise, seeing that she has grown up with no other
company than that of her old-fashioned parents,—though indeed it
appears that her mother was a person of some consequence.’ ‘Why, yes’
said Yoshikiyo, the Governor’s son, ‘and for this reason she was able
to secure little girls and boys from all the best houses in the
Capital, persuading them to pay visits to the sea-side and be
playmates to her own little girl, who thus acquired the most polished
breeding.’ ‘If an unscrupulous person were to find himself in that
quarter,’ said another, ‘I fear that despite the dead father’s curse
he might not find it easy to resist her.’

The story made a deep impression upon Genji’s imagination. As his
gentlemen well knew, whatever was fantastic or grotesque both in
people and situations at once strongly attracted him. They were
therefore not surprised to see him listen with so much attention. ‘It
is now well past noon,’ said one of them, ‘and I think we may reckon
that you will get safely through the day without a return of your
complaint. So let us soon be starting for home.’ But the priest
persuaded him to stay a little longer: ‘The sinister influences are
not yet wholly banished,’ he said; ‘it would be well that a further
ritual should continue quietly during the night. By to-morrow morning,
I think you will be able to proceed.’ His gentlemen all urged him to
stay; nor was he at all unwilling, for the novelty of such a lodging
amused him. ‘Very well then, at dawn’ he said, and having nothing to
do till bed-time which was still a long way off, he went out on to the
hill-side, and under cover of the heavy evening mist loitered near the
brushwood hedge. His attendants had gone back to the hermit’s
cave and only Koremitsu was with him. In the western wing, opposite
which he was standing, was a nun at her devotions. The blind was
partly raised. He thought she seemed to be dedicating flowers to an
image. Sitting near the middle pillar, a sutra-book propped upon a
stool by her side, was another nun. She was reading aloud; there was a
look of great unhappiness in her face. She seemed to be about forty;
not a woman of the common people. Her skin was white and very fine,
and though she was much emaciated, there was a certain roundness and
fulness in her cheeks, and her hair, clipped short on a level with her
eyes, hung in so delicate a fringe across her brow that she looked,
thought Genji, more elegant and even fashionable in this convent
guise, than if her hair had been long. Two very well-conditioned maids
waited upon her. Several little girls came running in and out of the
room at play. Among them was one who seemed to be about ten years old.
She came running into the room dressed in a rather worn white frock
lined with stuff of a deep saffron colour. Never had he seen a child
like this. What an astonishing creature she would grow into! Her hair,
thick and wavy, stood out fan-wise about her head. She was very
flushed and her lips were trembling. ‘What is it? Have you quarrelled
with one of the other little girls?’ The nun raised her head as she
spoke and Genji fancied that there was some resemblance between her
and the child. No doubt she was its mother. ‘Inu has let out my
sparrow—the little one that I kept in the clothes-basket,’ she said,
looking very unhappy. ‘What a tiresome boy that Inu is!’ said one of
the two maids. ‘He deserves a good scolding for playing such a stupid
trick. Where can it have got to? And this after we had taken so much
trouble to tame it nicely! I only hope the crows have not found
it,’ and so saying she left the room. She was a pleasant-looking
woman, with very long, wavy hair. The others called her Nurse
Shōnagon, and she seemed to be in charge of the child. ‘Come,’ said
the nun to the little girl, ‘you must not be such a baby. You are
thinking all the time of things that do not matter at all. Just fancy!
Even now when I am so ill that any day I may be taken from you, you do
not trouble your head about me, but are grieving about a sparrow. It
is very unkind, particularly as I have told you I don’t know how many
times that it is naughty to shut up live things in cages. Come over
here!’ and the child sat down beside her. Her features were very
exquisite; but it was above all the way her hair grew, in cloudy
masses over her temples, but thrust back in childish fashion from her
forehead, that struck him as marvellously beautiful. As he watched her
and wondered what she would be like when she grew up it suddenly
occurred to him that she bore no small resemblance to one whom he had
loved with all his being,[1] and at the resemblance he secretly wept.

The nun, stroking the child’s hair, now said to her: ‘It’s a lovely
mop, though you _are_ so naughty about having it combed. But it
worries me very much that you are still so babyish. Some children of
your age are very different. Your dear mother was only twelve when her
father died; yet she showed herself quite capable of managing her own
affairs. But if I were taken from you now, I do not know what would
become of you, I do not indeed,’ and she began to weep. Even Genji,
peeping at the scene from a distance, found himself becoming quite
distressed. The girl, who had been watching the nun’s face with a
strange unchildish intensity, now dropped her head disconsolately, and
as she did so her hair fell forward across her cheeks in two
great waves of black. Looking at her fondly the nun recited the poem:
‘Not knowing if any will come to nurture the tender leaf whereon it
lies, how loath is the dewdrop to vanish in the sunny air.’ To which
the waiting-woman replied with a sigh: ‘O dewdrop, surely you will
linger till the young budding leaf has shown in what fair form it
means to grow.’

At this moment the priest to whom the house belonged entered the room
from the other side: ‘Pray, ladies,’ he said, ‘are you not unduly
exposing yourselves? You have chosen a bad day to take up your stand
so close to the window. I have just heard that Prince Genji has come
to the hermit yonder to be cured of an ague. But he has disguised
himself in so mean a habit that I did not know him, and have been so
near all day without going to pay my respects to him.’ The nun started
back in horror; ‘How distressing! He may even have passed and seen
us ...’ and she hastened to let down the folding blind. ‘I am really
very glad that I am to have an opportunity of visiting this Prince
Genji of whom one hears so much. He is said to be so handsome that even
austere old priests like myself forget in his presence the sins and
sorrows of the life they have discarded and take heart to live a little
longer in a world where so much beauty dwells. But you shall hear all
about it....’

Before the old priest had time to leave the house Genji was on his way
back to the hermit’s cave. What an enchanting creature he had
discovered! How right too his friends had been on that rainy night
when they told him that on strange excursions such as this beauty
might well be found lurking in unexpected quarters! How delightful to
have strolled out by chance and at once made so astonishing a find!
Whose could this exquisite child be? He would dearly love to have her
always near him, to be able to turn to her at any moment for
comfort and distraction, as once he had turned to the lady in the
Palace.

He was already lying down in the hermit’s cave when (everything being
at very close quarters) he heard the voice of the old priest’s
disciple calling for Koremitsu. ‘My master has just learnt’ said this
disciple, ‘that you were lodged so near at hand; and though it grieves
him that you did not in passing honour him with a visit, he would at
once have paid his respects to the Prince, had he not thought that
Lord Genji could not be unaware of his presence in the neighbourhood
of this hermitage, and might perhaps have refrained from visiting him
only because he did not wish to disclose the motive of his present
pilgrimage. But my master would remind you’ continued the man, ‘that
we too in our poor hut could provide you with straw beds to lie on,
and should be sorry if you left without honouring us....’

‘For ten days,’ answered Genji from within, ‘I have been suffering
from an ague which returned so constantly that I was in despair, when
someone advised me to consult the hermit of this mountain, whom I
accordingly visited. But thinking that it would be very disagreeable
for a sage of his repute if in such a case as mine it became known
that his treatment had been unsuccessful, I was at greater pains to
conceal myself than I should have been if visiting an ordinary
wonder-worker. Pray ask your master to accept this excuse and bid him
enter the cave.’ Thus encouraged, the priest presented himself. Genji
was rather afraid of him, for though an ecclesiastic he was a man of
superior genius, very much respected in the secular world, and Genji
felt that it was not at all proper to receive him in the shabby old
clothes which he had used for his disguise. After giving some details
of his life since he had left the Capital and come to live in
retirement on this mountain, the priest begged Genji to come back
with him and visit the cold spring which flowed in the garden of his
hut. Here was an opportunity to see again the people who had so much
interested him. But the thought of all the stories that the old priest
might have told them about him made him feel rather uncomfortable.
What matter? At all costs he must see that lovely child again and he
followed the old priest back to his hut. In the garden the natural
vegetation of the hill-side had been turned to skilful use. There was
no moon, and torches had been lit along the sides of the moat, while
fairy lanterns hung on the trees. The front parlour was very nicely
arranged. A heavy perfume of costly and exotic scents stole from
hidden incense-burners and filled the room with a delicious fragrance.
These perfumes were quite unfamiliar to Genji and he supposed that
they must have been prepared by the ladies of the inner room, who
would seem to have spent considerable ingenuity in the task.

The priest began to tell stories about the uncertainty of this life
and the retributions of the life to come. Genji was appalled to think
how heavy his own sins had already been. It was bad enough to think
that he would have them on his conscience for the rest of his present
life. But then there was also the life to come. What terrible
punishments he had to look forward to! And all the while the priest
was speaking Genji thought of his own wickedness. What a good idea it
would be to turn hermit and live in some such place.... But
immediately his thoughts strayed to the lovely face which he had seen
that afternoon and longing to know more of her ‘Who lives with you
here?’ he asked. ‘It interests me to know, because I once saw this
place in a dream and was astonished to recognize it when I came here
to-day.’ At this the priest laughed: ‘Your dream seems to have come
rather suddenly into the conversation,’ he said, ‘but I fear that
if you pursue your enquiry, your expectations will be sadly
disappointed. You have probably never heard of Azechi no Dainagon, he
died so long ago. He married my sister, who after his death turned her
back upon the world. Just at that time I myself was in certain
difficulties and was unable to visit the Capital; so for company she
came to join me here in my retreat.’

‘I have heard that Aseji no Dainagon had a daughter. Is that so?’ said
Genji at a venture; ‘I am sure you will not think I ask the question
with any indiscreet intention....’ ‘He had an only daughter who died
about ten years ago. Her father had always wanted to present her at
Court. But she would not listen, and when he was dead and there was
only my sister the nun to look after her, she allowed some wretched
go-between to introduce her to Prince Hyōbukyō whose mistress she
became. His wife, a proud, relentless woman, from the first pursued
her with constant vexations and affronts; day in and day out this
obstinate persecution continued, till at last she died of heartbreak.
They say that unkindness cannot kill; but I shall never say so, for
from this cause alone I saw my kinswoman fall sick and perish.’

‘Then the little girl must be this lady’s child,’ Genji realized at
last. And that accounted for her resemblance to the lady in the
Palace.[2] He felt more drawn towards her than ever. She was of good
lineage, which is never amiss; and her rather rustic simplicity would
be an actual advantage when she became his pupil, as he was now
determined she should; for it would make it the easier for him to
mould her unformed tastes to the pattern of his own. ‘And did the lady
whose sad story you have told me leave no remembrance behind her?’
asked Genji, still hoping to turn the conversation on to the
child herself. ‘She died only a short while after her child was born,
and it too was a girl. The charge of it fell to my sister who is in
failing health and feels herself by no means equal to such a
responsibility.’ All was now clear. ‘You will think it a very strange
proposal,’ said Genji, ‘but I feel that I should like to adopt this
child. Perhaps you would mention this to your sister? Though others
early involved me in marriage, their choice proved distasteful to me
and having, as it seems, very little relish for society, I now live
entirely alone. She is, I quite realize, a mere child, and I am not
proposing....’ Here he paused and the priest answered: ‘I am very much
obliged to you for this offer; but I am afraid it is clear that you do
_not_ at all realize that the child in question is a mere infant. You
would not even find her amusing as a casual distraction. But it is
true that a girl as she grows up needs the backing of powerful friends
if she is to make her way in the world, and though I cannot promise
you that anything will come of it, I ought certainly to mention the
matter to her grandmother.’ His manner had suddenly become somewhat
cool and severe. Genji felt that he had been indiscreet and preserved
an embarrassed silence. ‘There is something which I ought to be doing
in the Hall of Our Lord Amida,’ the priest presently continued, ‘so I
must take leave of you for a while. I must also read my vespers; but I
will rejoin you afterwards,’ and he set out to climb the hill. Genji
felt very disconsolate. It had begun to rain; a cold wind blew across
the hill, carrying with it the sound of a waterfall,—audible till then
as a gentle intermittent plashing, but now a mighty roar; and with it,
somnolently rising and falling, mingled the monotonous chanting of the
scriptures. Even the most unimpressionable nature would have been
plunged into melancholy by such surroundings. How much the more so
Prince Genji, as he lay sleepless on his bed, continually
planning and counter-planning! The priest had spoken of ‘vespers,’ but
the hour was indeed very late. It was clear however that the nun was
still awake, for though she was making as little noise as possible,
every now and then her rosary would knock with a faint click against
the praying-stool. There was something alluring in the sound of this
low, delicate tapping. It seemed to come from quite close. He opened a
small space between the screens which divided the living-room from the
inner chamber and rustled his fan. He had the impression that someone
in the inner room after a little hesitation had come towards the
screen as though saying to herself ‘It cannot be so, yet I could have
sworn I heard ...,’ and then retreated a little, as though thinking
‘Well, it was only my fancy after all!’ Now she seemed to be feeling
her way in the dark, and Genji said aloud ‘Follow the Lord Buddha and
though your way lie in darkness yet shall you not go astray.’ Suddenly
hearing his clear young voice in the darkness, the woman had not at
first the courage to reply. But at last she managed to answer: ‘In
which direction, please, is He leading me? I am afraid I do not quite
understand.’ ‘I am sorry to have startled you,’ said Genji. ‘I have
only this small request to make: that you will carry to your mistress
the following poem: ‘Since first he saw the green leaf of the tender
bush, never for a moment has the dew of longing dried from the
traveller’s sleeve.’ ‘Surely you must know that there is no one here
who understands messages of that kind,’ said the woman; ‘I wonder whom
you mean?’ ‘I have a particular reason for wishing your mistress to
receive the message,’ said Genji, ‘and I should be obliged if you
would contrive to deliver it.’ The nun at once perceived that the poem
referred to her grandchild and supposed that Genji, having been
wrongly informed about her age, was intending to make love to
her. But how had he discovered her grand-daughter’s existence? For
some while she pondered in great annoyance and perplexity, and at last
answered prudently with a poem in which she said that ‘he who was but
spending a night upon a traveller’s dewy bed could know little of
those whose home was forever upon the cold moss of the hill-side.’
Thus she turned his poem to a harmless meaning. ‘Tell her,’ said Genji
when the message was brought back, ‘that I am not accustomed to carry
on conversations in this indirect manner. However shy she may be, I
must ask her on this occasion to dispense with formalities and discuss
this matter with me seriously!’ ‘How can he have been thus
misinformed?’ said the nun, still thinking that Genji imagined her
grand-daughter to be a grown-up woman. She was terrified at being
suddenly commanded to appear before this illustrious personage and was
wondering what excuse she would make. Her maids, however, were
convinced that Genji would be grievously offended if she did not
appear, and at last, coming out from the women’s chamber, she said to
him: ‘Though I am no longer a young woman, I very much doubt whether I
ought to come like this. But since you sent word that you have serious
business to discuss with me, I could not refuse....’ ‘Perhaps’ said
Genji, ‘you will think my proposal both ill-timed and frivolous. I can
only assure you that I mean it very seriously. Let Buddha judge....’
But here he broke off, intimidated by her age and gravity. ‘You have
certainly chosen a very strange manner of communicating this proposal
to me. But though you have not yet said what it is, I am sure you are
quite in earnest about it.’ Thus encouraged, Genji continued: ‘I was
deeply touched by the story of your long widowhood and of your
daughter’s death. I too, like this poor child, was deprived in earliest
infancy of the one being who tenderly loved me, and in my
childhood suffered long years of loneliness and misery. Thus we are
both in like case, and this has given me so deep a sympathy for the
child that I long to make amends for what she has lost. It was, then,
to ask if you would consent to let me play a mother’s part that at
this strange and inconvenient hour I trespassed so inconsiderately
upon your patience.’ ‘I am sure that you are meaning to be very kind,’
said the nun, ‘but—forgive me—you have evidently been misinformed.
There is indeed a girl living here under my charge; but she is a mere
infant and could not be of the slightest interest to you in any way,
so that I cannot consent to your proposal.’ ‘On the contrary,’ said
Genji, ‘I am perfectly conversant with every detail concerning this
child; but if you think my sympathy for her exaggerated or misplaced,
pray pardon me for having mentioned it.’ It was evident that he did
not in the least realize the absurdity of what he had proposed, and
she saw no use in explaining herself any further. The priest was now
returning and Genji, saying that he had not expected she would at once
fall in with his idea and was confident that she would soon see the
matter in a different light, closed the screen behind her.

The night was almost over. In a chapel near by, the Four Meditations
of the Law Flower were being practised. The voices of the ministrants
who were now chanting the Litany of Atonement came floating on the
gusty mountain-wind, and with this solemn sound was mingled the roar
of hurrying waters. ‘Startled from my dream by a wandering gust of
the mountain gale, I heard the waterfall, and at the beauty of its
music wept.’ So Genji greeted the priest; and he in turn replied with
the poem ‘At the noise of a torrent wherein I daily fill my bowl I am
scarce likely to start back in wonder and delight.’ ‘I get so used to
it,’ he added apologetically. A heavy mist covered the morning
sky, and even the chirruping of the mountain-birds sounded muffled and
dim. Such a variety of flowers and blossoming trees (he did not know
their names) grew upon the hill-side, that the rocks seemed to be
spread with a many-coloured embroidery. Above all he marvelled at the
exquisite stepping of the deer who moved across the slope, now
treading daintily, now suddenly pausing; and as he watched them the
last remnants of his sickness were dispelled by sheer delight. Though
the hermit had little use of his limbs, he managed by hook or crook to
perform the mystic motions of the Guardian Spell,[3] and though his
aged voice was husky and faltering, he read the sacred text with great
dignity and fervour. Several of Genji’s friends now arrived to
congratulate him upon his recovery, among them a messenger from the
Palace. The priest from the hut below brought a present of
strange-looking roots for which he had gone deep into the ravine. He
begged to be excused from accompanying Genji on his way. ‘Till the end
of the year,’ he said, ‘I am bound by a vow which must deprive me of
what would have been a great pleasure,’ and he handed Genji the
stirrup-cup. ‘Were I but able to follow my own desires,’ said Genji
taking the cup, ‘I would not leave these hills and streams. But I hear
that my father the Emperor is making anxious enquiry after me. I will
come back before the blossom is over.’ And he recited the verse ‘I
will go back to the men of the City and tell them to come
quickly, lest the wild wind outstripping them should toss these
blossoms from the cherry bough.’ The old priest, flattered by Genji’s
politeness and captivated by the charm of his voice, answered with the
poem: ‘Like one who finds the aloe-tree in bloom, to the flower of the
mountain-cherry I no longer turn my gaze.’ ‘I am not after all quite
so great a rarity as the aloe-flower,’ said Genji smiling.

Next the hermit handed him a parting-cup, with the poem ‘Though seldom
I open the pine-tree door of my mountain-cell, yet have I now seen
face to face the flower few live to see,’ and as he looked up at
Genji, his eyes filled with tears. He gave him, to keep him safe in
future from all harm, a magical wand; and seeing this the nun’s
brother in his turn presented a rosary brought back from Korea by
Prince Shōtoku. It was ornamented with jade and was still in the same
Chinese-looking box in which it had been brought from that country.
The box was in an open-work bag, and a five-leafed pine-branch was
with it. He also gave him some little vases of blue crystal to keep
his medicines in, with sprays of cherry-blossom and wistaria along
with them, and such other presents as the place could supply. Genji
had sent to the Capital for gifts with which to repay his reception in
the mountain. First he gave a reward to the hermit, then distributed
alms to the priests who had chanted liturgies on his behalf, and
finally he gave useful presents to the poor villagers of the
neighbourhood. While he was reading a short passage from the
scriptures in preparation for his departure, the old priest went into
his house and asked his sister the nun whether she had any message for
the Prince. ‘It is very hard to say anything at present,’ she said.
‘Perhaps if he still felt the same inclination four, or five years
hence, we might begin to consider it.’ ‘That is just what I
think,’ said the priest.

Genji saw to his regret that he had made no progress whatever. In
answer to the nun’s message he sent a small boy who belonged to the
priest’s household with the following poem: ‘Last night indeed, though
in the greyness of twilight only, I saw the lovely flower. But to-day
a hateful mist has hidden it utterly from my sight.’ The nun replied:
‘That I may know whether indeed it pains you so deeply to leave this
flower, I shall watch intently the motions of this hazy sky.’ It was
written in a noteworthy and very aristocratic hand, but quite without
the graces of deliberate artistry. While his carriage was being got
ready, a great company of young lords arrived from the Great Hall,
saying that they had been hard put to it to discover what had become
of him and now desired to give him their escort. Among them were Tō no
Chūjō, Sachū Ben, and other lesser lords, who had come out of
affection for the Prince. ‘We like nothing better than waiting upon
you,’ they said, rather aggrieved, ‘it was not kind of you to leave us
behind.’ ‘But having come so far,’ said another, ‘it would be a pity
to go away without resting for a while under the shadow of these
flowering trees’; whereupon they all sat down in a row upon the moss
under a tall rock and passed a rough earthenware wine-jar from hand to
hand. Close by them the stream leaped over the rocks in a magnificent
cascade. Tō no Chūjō pulled out a flute from the folds of his dress
and played a few trills upon it. Sachū Ben, tapping idly with his fan,
began to sing ‘The Temple of Toyora.’ The young lords who had come to
fetch him were all persons of great distinction; but so striking was
Genji’s appearance as he sat leaning disconsolately against the rock
that no eye was likely to be turned in any other direction. One of his
attendants now performed upon the reed-pipe; someone else turned
out to be a skilful _shō_[4] player. Presently the old priest came out
of his house carrying a zithern, and putting it into Genji’s hands
begged him to play something, ‘that the birds of the mountain may
rejoice.’ He protested that he was not feeling at all in the mood to
play; but yielding to the priest’s persuasion, he gave what was really
not at all a contemptible performance. After that, they all got up and
started for home. Everyone on the mountain, down to the humblest
priest and youngest neophyte, was bitterly disappointed at the
shortness of his stay, and there were many tears shed; while the old
nun within doors was sorry to think that she had had but that one
brief glimpse of him and might never see him again. The priest
declared that for his part he thought the Land of the Rising Sun in
her last degenerate days ill-deserved that such a Prince should be
born to her, and he wiped his eyes. The little girl too was very much
pleased with him and said he was a prettier gentleman than her own
father. ‘If you think so, you had better become his little girl
instead,’ said her nurse. At which the child nodded, thinking that it
would be a very good plan indeed; and in future the best-dressed
person in the pictures she painted was called ‘Prince Genji’ and so
was her handsomest doll.

On his return to the Capital he went straight to the Palace and
described to his father the experiences of the last two days. The
Emperor thought him looking very haggard and was much concerned. He
asked many questions about the hermit’s magical powers, to all of
which Genji replied in great detail. ‘He ought certainly to have been
made Master Magician long ago,’ said His Majesty. ‘His ministrations
have repeatedly been attended with great success, but for some reason
his services have escaped public acknowledgment,’ and he issued a
proclamation to this effect. The Minister of the Left came to meet him
on his way from the Presence and apologized for not having come with
his sons to bring him back from the mountain. ‘I thought,’ he said,
‘that as you had gone there secretly, you would dislike being fetched;
but I very much hope that you will now come and spend a few days with
us quietly; after which I shall esteem it a privilege to escort you to
your palace.’ He did not in the least want to go, but there was no
escape. His father-in-law drove him to the Great Hall in his own
carriage, and when the bullocks had been unyoked dragged it in at the
gate with his own hands. Such treatment was certainly meant to be very
friendly; but Genji found the Minister’s attentions merely irritating.

Aoi’s quarters had, in anticipation of Genji’s coming, just been put
thoroughly to rights. In the long interval since he last visited her
many changes had been made; among other improvements, a handsome
terrace had been built. Not a thing was out of its right place in this
supremely well-ordered house. Aoi, as usual, was nowhere to be seen.
It was only after repeated entreaties by her father that she at last
consented to appear in her husband’s presence. Posed like a princess
in a picture she sat almost motionless. Beautiful she certainly was.
‘I should like to tell you about my visit to the mountain, if only I
thought that it would interest you at all or draw an answer from you.
I hate to go on always like this. Why are you so cold and distant and
proud? Year after year we fail to reach an understanding and you cut
yourself off from me more completely than before. Can we not manage
for a little while to be on ordinary terms? It seems rather strange,
considering how ill I have been, that you should not attempt to
enquire after my health. Or rather, it is exactly what I should
expect; but nevertheless I find it extremely painful.’ ‘Yes,’
said Aoi, ‘it is extremely painful when people do not care what
becomes of one.’ She glanced back over her shoulder as she spoke, her
face full of scorn and pride, looking uncommonly handsome as she did
so. ‘You hardly ever speak,’ said Genji, ‘and when you do, it is only
to say unkind things and twist one’s harmless words so that they seem
to be insults. And when I try to find some way of helping you for a
while at least to be a little less disagreeable, you become more
hopelessly unapproachable than ever. Shall I one day succeed in making
you understand...?’ and so saying he went into their bedroom. She did
not follow him. He lay for a while in a state of great annoyance and
distress. But, probably because he did not really care about her very
much one way or the other, he soon became drowsy and all sorts of
quite different matters drifted through his head. He wanted as much as
ever to have the little girl in his keeping and watch her grow to
womanhood. But the grandmother was right; the child was too absurdly
young, and it would be very difficult to broach the matter again.
Would it not however be possible to contrive that she should be
brought to the Capital? It would be easy then to find excuses for
fetching her and she might, even through some such arrangement as
that, become a source of constant delight to him. The father, Prince
Hyōbukyō, was of course a man of very distinguished manners; but he
was not at all handsome. How was it that the child resembled one of
her aunts and was so unlike all the rest? He had an idea that
Fujitsubo and Prince Hyōbukyō were children of the same mother, while
the others were only half-sisters. The fact that the little girl was
closely related to the lady whom he had loved for so long made him all
the more set upon securing her, and he began again to puzzle his head
for some means of bringing this about.

Next day he wrote his letter of thanks to the priest. No doubt it
contained some allusion to his project. To the nun he wrote: ‘Seeing
you so resolutely averse to what I had proposed, I refrained from
justifying my intentions so fully as I could have wished. But should
it prove that, even by the few words I ventured to speak, I was able
to convince you that this is no mere whim or common fancy, how happy
would such news make me.’ On a slip of paper folded small and tucked
into the letter he wrote the poem: ‘Though with all my heart I tried
to leave it behind me, never for a moment has it left me,—the fair
face of that mountain-flower!’ Though she had long passed the zenith
of her years the nun could not but be pleased and flattered by the
elegance of the note; for it was not only written in an exquisite
hand, but was folded with a careless dexterity which she greatly
admired. She felt very sorry for him, and would have been glad, had it
been in her conscience, to have sent him a more favourable reply. ‘We
were delighted,’ she wrote, ‘that being in the neighbourhood you took
occasion to pay us a visit. But I fear that when (as I very much hope
you will) you come here purposely to visit us, I shall not be able to
add anything to what I have said already. As for the poem which you
enclose, do not expect her to answer it, for she cannot yet write her
“Naniwa Zu”[5] properly, even letter by letter. Let me then answer it
for her: “For as long as the cherry-blossoms remain unscattered upon
the shore of Onoe where wild storms blow,—so long have you till now
been constant!” For my part, I am very uneasy about the matter.’

The priest replied to the same effect. Genji was very much
disappointed and after two or three days he sent for Koremitsu and
gave him a letter for the nun, telling him at the same time to
find out whatever he could from Shōnagon, the child’s nurse. ‘What an
impressionable character he is,’ thought Koremitsu. He had only had a
glimpse of the child; but that had sufficed to convince him that she
was a mere baby, though he remembered thinking her quite pretty. What
trick would his master’s heart be playing upon him next?

The old priest was deeply impressed by the arrival of a letter in the
hands of so special and confidential a messenger. After delivering it,
Koremitsu sought out the nurse. He repeated all that Genji had told
him to say and added a great deal of general information about his
master. Being a man of many words he talked on and on, continually
introducing some new topic which had suddenly occurred to him as
relevant. But at the end of it all Shōnagon was just as puzzled as
everyone else had been to account for Genji’s interest in a child so
ridiculously young. His letter was very deferential. In it he said
that he longed to see a specimen of her childish writing done letter
by letter, as the nun had described. As before, he enclosed a poem:
‘Was it the shadows in the mountain well that told you my purpose was
but jest?’[6] To which she answered ‘Some perhaps that have drawn in
that well now bitterly repent. Can the shadows tell me if again it
will be so?’ and Koremitsu brought a spoken message to the same
effect, together with the assurance that so soon as the nun’s health
improved, she intended to visit the Capital and would then communicate
with him again. The prospect of her visit was very exciting.

About this time Lady Fujitsubo fell ill and retired for a while from
the Palace. The sight of the Emperor’s grief and anxiety moved Genji’s
pity. But he could not help thinking that this was an opportunity
which must not be missed. He spent the whole of that day in a
state of great agitation, unable whether in his own house or at the
Palace to think of anything else or call upon anyone. When at last the
day was over, he succeeded in persuading her maid Ōmyōbu to take a
message. The girl, though she regarded any communication between them
as most imprudent, seeing a strange look in his face like that of one
who walks in a dream, took pity on him and went. The Princess looked
back upon their former relationship as something wicked and horrible
and the memory of it was a continual torment to her. She had
determined that such a thing must never happen again.

She met him with a stern and sorrowful countenance, but this did not
disguise her charm, and as though conscious that he was unduly
admiring her she began to treat him with great coldness and disdain.
He longed to find some blemish in her, to think that he had been
mistaken, and be at peace.

I need not tell all that happened. The night passed only too quickly.
He whispered in her ear the poem: ‘Now that at last we have met, would
that we might vanish forever into the dream we dreamed to-night!’ But
she, still conscience-stricken: ‘Though I were to hide in the darkness
of eternal sleep, yet would my shame run through the world from tongue
to tongue.’ And indeed, as Genji knew, it was not without good cause
that she had suddenly fallen into this fit of apprehension and
remorse. As he left, Ōmyōbu came running after him with his cloak and
other belongings which he had left behind. He lay all day upon his bed
in great torment. He sent a letter, but it was returned unopened. This
had happened many times in the past, but now it filled him with such
consternation that for two or three days he was completely prostrate
and kept his room. All this while he was in constant dread lest
his father, full of solicitude, should begin enquiring what new
trouble had overtaken him. Fujitsubo, convinced that her ruin was
accomplished, fell into a profound melancholy and her health grew
daily worse. Messengers arrived constantly from the Court begging her
to return without delay; but she could not bring herself to go. Her
disorder had now taken a turn which filled her with secret foreboding,
and she did nothing all day long but sit distractedly wondering what
would become of her. When the hot weather set in she ceased to leave
her bed at all. Three months had now passed and there was no mistaking
her condition. Soon it would be known and everywhere discussed. She
was appalled at the calamity which had overtaken her. Not knowing that
there was any cause for secrecy, her people were astonished that she
had not long ago informed the Emperor of her condition. Speculations
were rife, but the question was one which only the Princess herself
was in a position definitely to solve. Ōmyōbu and her old nurse’s
daughter who waited upon her at her toilet and in the bath-house had
at once noted the change and were somewhat taken aback. But Ōmyōbu was
unwilling to discuss the matter. She had an uncomfortable suspicion
that it was the meeting which she arranged that had now taken effect
with cruel promptness and precision. It was announced in the Palace
that other disorders had misled those about her and prevented them
from recognizing the true nature of her condition. This explanation
was accepted by everyone.

The Emperor himself was full of tender concern, and though messengers
kept him constantly informed, the gloomiest doubts and fancies passed
continually through his mind. Genji was at this time visited by a most
terrifying and extraordinary dream. He sent for interpreters, but they
could make little of it. There were indeed certain passages to
which they could assign no meaning at all; but this much was clear:
the dreamer had made a false step and must be on his guard. ‘It was
not _my_ dream’ said Genji, feeling somewhat alarmed. ‘I am consulting
you on behalf of someone else,’ and he was wondering what this ‘false
step’ could have been when news reached him of the Princess’s
condition. This then was the disaster which his dream had portended!
At once he wrote her an immense letter full of passionate
self-reproaches and exhortations. But Ōmyōbu, thinking that it would
only increase her agitation, refused to deliver it, and he could trust
no other messenger. Even the few wretched lines which she had been in
the habit of sending to him now and again had for some while utterly
ceased.

In her seventh month she again appeared at Court. Overjoyed at her
return, the Emperor lavished boundless affection upon her. The added
fulness of her figure, the unwonted pallor and thinness of her face
gave her, he thought, a new and incomparable charm. As before, all his
leisure was spent in her company. During this time several Court
festivals took place and Genji’s presence was constantly required;
sometimes he was called upon to play the _koto_ or flute, sometimes to
serve his father in other ways. On such occasions, strive as he might
to show no trace of embarrassment or agitation, he feared more than
once that he had betrayed himself; while to her such confrontations
were one long torment.

The nun had somewhat improved in health and was now living in the
Capital. He had enquired where she was lodging and sent messages from
time to time, receiving (which indeed was all he expected) as little
encouragement as before. In the last months his longing for the child
had increased rather than diminished, but day after day went by
without his finding any means to change the situation. As the
autumn drew to its close, he fell into a state of great despondency.
One fine moonlit night when he had decided, against his own
inclination, to pay a certain secret visit,[7] a shower came on. As he
had started from the Palace and the place to which he was going was in
the suburbs of the Sixth Ward, it occurred to him that it would be
disagreeable to go so far in the rain. He was considering what he
should do when he noticed a tumbled-down house surrounded by very
ancient trees. He asked whose this gloomy and desolate mansion might
be, and Koremitsu, who, as usual, was with him replied: ‘Why that is
the late Azechi no Dainagon’s house. A day or two ago I took occasion
to call there and was told that my Lady the nun has grown very weak
and does not now know what goes on about her.’ ‘Why did you not tell
me this before? ‘said Genji deeply concerned; ‘I should have called at
once to convey my sympathy to her household. Pray go in at once and
ask for news.’ Koremitsu accordingly sent one of the lesser attendants
to the house, instructing him to give the impression that Genji had
come on purpose to enquire. When the man announced that Prince Genji
had sent him for news and was himself waiting outside, great
excitement and consternation prevailed in the house. Their mistress,
the servants said, had for several days been lying in a very parlous
condition and could not possibly receive a visit. But they dared not
simply send so distinguished a visitor away, and hastily tidying the
southern parlour, they bustled him into it, saying, ‘You must forgive
us for showing you into this untidy room. We have done our best to
make it presentable. Perhaps, on a surprise visit, you will forgive us
for conducting you to such an out-of-the-way closet....’ It was indeed
not at all the kind of room that he was used to. ‘I have been
meaning for a long while to visit this house,’ said Genji; ‘but time
after time the proposals which I made in writing concerning a certain
project of mine were summarily rejected and this discouraged me. Had I
but known that your mistress’s health had taken this turn for the
worse....’ ‘Tell him that at this moment my mind is clear, though it
may soon be darkened again. I am deeply sensible of the kindness he
has shown in thus visiting my death-bed, and regret that I cannot
speak with him face to face. Tell him that if by any chance he has not
altered his mind with regard to the matter that he has discussed with
me before, by all means let him, when the time has come, number her
among the ladies of his household. It is with great anxiety that I
leave her behind me and I fear that such a bond with earth may hinder
me from reaching the life for which I have prayed.’

Her room was so near and the partition so thin that as she gave
Shōnagon her message he could hear now and again the sound of her sad,
quavering voice. Presently he heard her saying to someone ‘How kind,
how very kind of him to come. If only the child were old enough to
thank him nicely!’ ‘It is indeed no question of kindness,’ said Genji
to Shōnagon. ‘Surely it is evident that only some very deep feeling
would have driven me to display so zealous a persistency! Since first
I saw this child, a feeling of strange tenderness towards her
possessed me, and it has grown to such a love as cannot be of this
world only.[8] Though it is but an idle fancy, I have a longing to
hear her voice. Could you not send for her before I go?’ ‘Poor little
thing,’ said Shōnagon. ‘She is fast asleep in her room and knows
nothing of all our troubles.’ But as she spoke there was a sound of
someone moving in the women’s quarters and a voice suddenly was heard
saying: ‘Grandmother, Grandmother! Prince Genji who came to see
us in the mountains is here, paying a visit. Why do you not let him
come and talk to you?’ ‘Hush, child, hush!’ cried all the gentlewomen,
scandalized. ‘No, no,’ said the child; ‘Grandmother said that when she
saw this prince it made her feel better at once. I was not being silly
at all.’ This speech delighted Genji; but the gentlewomen of the
household thought the child’s incursion painful and unseemly, and
pretended not to hear her last remark. Genji gave up the idea of
paying a real visit and drove back to his house, thinking as he went
that her behaviour was indeed still that of a mere infant. Yet how
easy and delightful it would be to teach her!

Next day he paid a proper visit. On his arrival he sent in a poem
written on his usual tiny slip of paper: ‘Since first I heard the
voice of the young crane, my boat shows a strange tendency to stick
among the reeds!’ It was meant for the little girl and was written in
a large, childish hand, but very beautifully, so that the ladies of
the house said as soon as they saw it ‘This will have to go into the
child’s copy-book.’

Shōnagon sent him the following note: ‘My mistress, feeling that she
might not live through the day, asked us to have her moved to the
temple in the hills, and she is already on her way. I shall see to it
that she learns of your enquiry, if I can but send word to her before
it is too late.’ The letter touched him deeply.

During these autumn evenings his heart was in a continual ferment. But
though all his thoughts were occupied in a different quarter, yet
owing to the curious relationship in which the child stood to the
being who thus obsessed his mind, the desire to make the girl his own
throughout this stormy time grew daily stronger. He remembered the
evening when he had first seen her and the nun’s poem, ‘Not
knowing if any will come to nurture the tender leaf....’ She would
always be delightful; but in some respects she might not fulfil her
early promise. One must take risks. And he made the poem: ‘When shall
I see it lying in my hand, the young grass of the moor-side that
springs from purple[9] roots?’ In the tenth month the Emperor was to
visit the Suzaku-in for the Festival of Red Leaves. The dancers were
all to be sons of the noblest houses. The most accomplished among the
princes, courtiers and other great gentlemen had been chosen for their
parts by the Emperor himself, and from the Royal Princes and State
Ministers downward everyone was busy with continual practices and
rehearsals. Genji suddenly realized that for a long while he had not
enquired after his friends on the mountain. He at once sent a special
messenger who brought back this letter from the priest: ‘The end came
on the twentieth day of last month. It is the common lot of mankind;
yet her loss is very grievous to me!’ This and more he wrote, and
Genji, reading the letter was filled with a bitter sense of life’s
briefness and futility. And what of the child concerning whose future
the dead woman had shown such anxiety? He could not remember his own
mother’s death at all distinctly; but some dim recollection still
floated in his mind and gave to his letter of condolence an added
warmth of feeling. It was answered, not without a certain
self-importance, by the nurse Shōnagon.

After the funeral and mourning were over, the child was brought back
to the Capital. Hearing of this he allowed a short while to elapse and
then one fine, still night went to the house of his own accord. This
gloomy, decaying, half-deserted mansion must, he thought, have a most
depressing effect upon the child who lived there. He was shown
into the same small room as before. Here Shōnagon told him between her
sobs the whole tale of their bereavement, at which he too found
himself strangely moved. ‘I would send my little mistress to His
Highness her father’s,’ she continued, ‘did I not remember how cruelly
her poor mother was used in that house. And I would do it still if my
little lady were a child in arms who would not know where she had been
taken to nor what the people there were feeling towards her. But she
is now too big a girl to go among a lot of strange children who might
not treat her kindly. So her poor dead grandmother was always saying
down to her last day. You, Sir, have been very good to us, and it
would be a great weight off my mind to know that she was coming to you
even if it were only for a little while; and I would not worry you
with asking what was to become of her afterwards. Only for her sake I
am sorry indeed that she is not some years older, so that you might
make a match of it. But the way she has been brought up has made her
young even for her age.’ ‘You need not so constantly remind me of her
childishness,’ said Genji. ‘Though it is indeed her youth and
helplessness which move my compassion, yet I realize (and why should I
hide it from myself or from you?) that a far closer bond unites our
souls. Let me tell her myself what we have just now decided,’ and he
recited a poem in which he asked if ‘like the waves that lap the shore
where young reeds grow he must advance only to recede again.’ ‘Will
she be too much surprised?’ he added. Shōnagon, saying that the little
girl should by all means be fetched, answered his poem with another in
which she warned him that he must not expect her to ‘drift
seaweed-like with the waves,’ before she understood his intention.
‘Now, what made you think I should send you away without letting her
see you?’ she asked, speaking in an off-hand, familiar tone which he
found it easy to pardon. His appearance, which the gentlewomen of
the house studied with great care while he sat waiting for the child
and singing to himself a verse of the song _Why so hard to cross the
hill?_ made a deep impression upon them, and they did not forget that
moment for a long while after.

The child was lying on her bed weeping for her grandmother. ‘A
gentleman in a big cloak has come to play with you,’ said one of the
women who were waiting upon her; ‘I wonder if it is your father.’ At
this she jumped up and cried out: ‘Nurse, where is the gentleman in a
cloak? Is he my father?’ and she came running into the room. ‘No,’
said Genji, ‘it is not your father; but it is someone else who wants
you to be very fond of him. Come....’ She had learnt from the way
people talked about him that Prince Genji was someone very important,
and feeling that he must really be very angry with her for speaking of
him as the ‘gentleman in a cloak’ she went straight to her nurse and
whispered ‘Please, I am sleepy.’ ‘You must not be shy of me any more,’
said Genji. ‘If you are sleepy, come here and lie on my knee. Will you
not even come and talk to me?’ ‘There,’ said Shōnagon, ‘you see what a
little savage she is,’ and pushed the child towards him. She stood
listlessly by his side, passing her hand under her hair so that it
fell in waves over her soft dress or clasping a great bunch of it
where it stuck out thick around her shoulders. Presently he took her
hand in his; but at once, in terror of this close contact with someone
to whom she was not used, she cried out ‘I said I wanted to go to
bed,’ and snatching her hand away she ran into the women’s quarters.
He followed her crying ‘Dear one, do not run away from me! Now that
your granny is gone, you must love me instead.’ ‘Well!’ gasped
Shōnagon, deeply shocked. ‘No, that is too much! How can you bring
yourself to say such a wicked thing to the poor child? And it is
not much use _telling_ people to be fond of one, is it?’ ‘For the
moment, it may not be,’ said Genji. ‘But you will see that strange
things happen if one’s heart is set upon a thing as mine is now.’

Hail was falling. It was a wild and terrible night. The thought of
leaving her to pass it in this gloomy and half-deserted mansion
immeasurably depressed him and snatching at this excuse for remaining
near her: ‘Shut the partition-door!’ he cried. ‘I will stay for a
while and play the watchman here on this terrible night. Draw near to
me, all of you!’ and so saying, as though it were the most natural
thing in the world, he picked up the child in his arms and carried her
to her bed. The gentlewomen were far too astonished and confounded to
budge from their seats; while Shōnagon, though his high-handed
proceedings greatly agitated and alarmed her, had to confess to
herself that there was no real reason to interfere, and could only sit
moaning in her corner. The little girl was at first terribly
frightened. She did not know what he was going to do with her and
shuddered violently. Even the feel of his delicate, cool skin when he
drew her to him, gave her goose-flesh. He saw this; but none the less
he began gently and carefully to remove her outer garments, and laid
her down. Then, though he knew quite well that she was still
frightened of him, he began talking to her softly and tenderly: ‘How
would you like to come with me one day to a place where there are lots
of lovely pictures and dolls and toys?’ And he went on to speak so
feelingly of all the things she was most interested in that soon she
felt almost at home with him. But for a long while she was restless
and did not go properly to sleep. The storm still raged. ‘Whatever
should we have done if this gentleman had not been here,’ whispered
one of the women; ‘I know that for my part I should have been in
a terrible fright. If only our little lady were nearer to his age!’
Shōnagon, still mistrustful, sat quite close to Genji all the while.

At last the wind began to drop. The night was far spent; but his
return at such an hour would cause no surprise! ‘She has become so
dear to me,’ said Genji, ‘that, above all at this sad time in her
life, I am loath to leave her even for a few short hours. I think I
shall put her somewhere where I can see her whenever I wish. I wonder
that she is not frightened to live in such a place as this.’ ‘I think
her father spoke of coming to fetch her,’ said Shōnagon; ‘but that is
not likely to be till the Forty-nine Days are up.’ ‘It would of course
under ordinary circumstances be natural that her father should look
after her,’ admitted Genji; ‘but as she has been brought up entirely
by someone else she has no more reason to care for him than for me.
And though I have known her so short a time, I am certainly far fonder
of her than her father can possibly be.’ So saying he stroked the
child’s hair and then reluctantly, with many backward glances, left
the room. There was now a heavy white fog, and hoar-frost lay thick on
the grass. Suddenly he found himself wishing that it were a real
love-affair, and he became very depressed. It occurred to him that on
his way home he would pass by a certain house which he had once
familiarly frequented. He knocked at the door, but no one answered. He
then ordered one of his servants who had a strong voice to recite the
following lines: ‘By my Sister’s gate though morning fog makes all the
world still dark as night, I could not fail to pause.’ When this had
been sung twice, the lady sent an impertinent coxcomb of a valet to
the door, who having recited the poem ‘If you disliked the hedge of
fog that lies about this place, a gate of crazy wicker would not keep
you standing in the street,’ at once went back again into the
house. He waited; but no one else came to the door, and though he was
in no mood to go dully home since it was now broad daylight, what else
could be done? At his palace he lay for a long while smiling to
himself with pleasure as he recollected the child’s pretty speeches
and ways. Towards noon he rose and began to write a letter to her; but
he could not find the right words, and after many times laying his
brush aside he determined at last to send her some nice pictures
instead.

That day Prince Hyōbukyō paid his long-promised visit to the late
nun’s house. The place seemed to him even more ruinous, vast and
antiquated than he remembered it years ago. How depressing it must be
for a handful of persons to live in these decaying halls, and looking
about him he said to the nurse: ‘No child ought to live in a place
like this even for a little while. I must take her away at once; there
is plenty of room in my house. You’ (turning to Shōnagon) ‘shall be
found a place as a Lady-in-Waiting there. The child will be very well
off, for there are several other young people for her to play with.’
He called the little girl to him and noticing the rich perfume that
clung to her dress since Genji held her in his arms, the Prince said
‘How nicely your dress is scented. But isn’t it rather drab?’ No
sooner had he said this than he remembered that she was in mourning,
and felt slightly uncomfortable. ‘I used sometimes to tell her
grandmother,’ he continued, ‘that she ought to let her come to see me
and get used to our ways; for indeed it was a strange upbringing for
her to live alone year in year out with one whose health and spirits
steadily declined. But she for some reason was very unfriendly towards
me, and there was in another quarter[10] too a reluctance which I fear
even at such a time as this may not be wholly overcome....’ ‘If that is
so,’ said Shōnagon, ‘dull as it is for her here, I do not think
she should be moved till she is a little better able to shift for
herself.’

For days on end the child had been in a terrible state of grief, and
not having eaten the least bite of anything she was grown very thin,
but was none the less lovely for that. He looked at her tenderly and
said: ‘You must not cry any more now. When people die, there is no
help for it and we must bear it bravely. But now all is well, for I
have come instead....’ But it was getting late and he could not stay
any longer. As he turned to go he saw that the child, by no means
consoled at the prospect of falling under his care, was again crying
bitterly. The Prince, himself shedding a few tears did his best to
comfort her: ‘Do not grieve so,’ he said, ‘to-day or to-morrow I will
send for you to come and live with me,’ and with that he departed.
Still the child wept and no way could be found to distract her
thoughts. It was not of course that she had any anxiety about her own
future, for about such matters she had not yet begun to think at all;
but only that she had lost the companion from whom for years on end
she had never for a moment been separated. Young as she was, she
suffered so cruelly that all her usual games were quite abandoned, and
though sometimes during the day her spirits would a little improve, as
night drew on she became so melancholy that Shōnagon began to wonder
how much longer things would go on like this, and in despair at not
being able to comfort her, would herself burst into tears.

Presently Koremitsu arrived with a message saying that Genji had
intended to visit them, but owing to a sudden command from the Palace
was unable to do so, and being very much perturbed at the little one’s
grievous condition had sent for further news. Having delivered this
message Koremitsu brought in some of Genji’s servants whom he had
sent to mount guard over the house that night. ‘This kindness is
indeed ill-placed,’ said Shōnagon. ‘It may not seem to him of much
consequence that his gentlemen should be installed here; but if the
child’s father hears of it, we servants shall get all the blame for
the little lady’s being given away to a married gentleman. It was you
who let it all begin, we shall be told. Now be careful,’ she said
turning to her fellow-servants, ‘do not let her even mention these
watchmen to her father.’ But alas, the child was quite incapable of
understanding such a prohibition, and Shōnagon, after pouring out many
lamentations to Koremitsu, continued: ‘I do not doubt but that in due
time she will somehow become his wife, for so their fate seems to
decree. But now and for a long while there can be no talk of any such
thing, and this, as he has roundly told me, he knows as well as the
rest of us. So what he is after I cannot for the life of me imagine.
Only to-day when Prince Hyōbukyō was here he bade me keep a sharp eye
upon her and not let her be treated with any indiscretion. I confess
when he said it I remembered with vexation certain liberties which I
have allowed your master to take, thinking little enough of them at
the time.’ No sooner had she said this than she began to fear that
Koremitsu would put a worse construction on her words than she
intended, and shaking her head very dolefully she relapsed into
silence. Nor was she far wrong, for Koremitsu was indeed wondering of
what sort Genji’s misdemeanours could have been.

On hearing Koremitsu’s report Genji’s heart was filled with pity for
the child’s state and he would like to have gone to her at once. But
he feared that ignorant people would misunderstand these frequent
visits and, thinking the girl older than she was, spread foolish
scandals abroad. It would be far simpler to fetch her to his
Palace and keep her there. All through the day he sent numerous
letters, and at dusk Koremitsu again went to the house saying that
urgent business had once more prevented Genji from visiting them, for
which remissness he tendered his apologies. Shōnagon answered curtly
that the girl’s father had suddenly decided to fetch her away next day
and that they were too busy to receive visits: ‘The servants are all
in a fluster at leaving this shabby old house where they have lived so
long and going to a strange, grand place....’ She answered his further
questions so briefly and seemed so intent upon her sewing, that
Koremitsu went away.

Genji was at the Great Hall, but as usual he had been unable to get a
word out of Aoi and in a gloomy mood he was plucking at his zithern
and singing ‘Why sped you across field and hill So fast upon this
rainy night?’[11]

The words of the song were aimed at Aoi and he sang them with much
feeling. He was thus employed when Koremitsu arrived at the Great
Hall. Genji sent for him at once and bade him tell his story.
Koremitsu’s news was very disquieting. Once she was in her father’s
palace it would look very odd that Genji should fetch her away, even
if she came willingly. It would inevitably be rumoured abroad that he
had made off with her like a child-snatcher, a thief. Far better to
anticipate his rival and exacting a promise of silence from the people
about her, carry her off to his own palace immediately. ‘I shall go
there at daybreak,’ he said to Koremitsu; ‘Order the carriage that I
came here in, it can be used just as it is, and see to it that one or
two attendants are ready to go with me.’ Koremitsu bowed and retired.

Genji knew that whichever course he chose, there was bound to be
a scandal so soon as the thing became known. Inevitably gossips would
spread the report that, young though she was, the child by this time
knew well enough why she had been invited to live with Prince Genji in
his palace. Let them draw their own conclusions. That did not matter.
There was a much worse possibility. What if Hyōbukyō found out where
she was? His conduct in abducting another man’s child would appear in
the highest degree outrageous and discreditable. He was sorely
puzzled, but he knew that if he let this opportunity slip he would
afterwards bitterly repent it, and long before daybreak he started on
his way. Aoi was cold and sullen as ever. ‘I have just remembered
something very important which I must see about at home,’ he said; ‘I
shall not be away long,’ and he slipped out so quietly that the
servants of the house did not know that he was gone. His cloak was
brought to him from his own apartments and he drove off attended only
by Koremitsu who followed on horseback. After much knocking they
succeeded in getting the gate opened, but by a servant who was not in
the secret. Koremitsu ordered the man to pull in Genji’s carriage as
quietly as he could and himself went straight to the front door, which
he rattled, coughing as he did so that Shōnagon might know who was
there. ‘My lord is waiting,’ he said when she came to the door. ‘But
the young lady is fast asleep,’ said Shōnagon; ‘his Highness has no
business to be up and about at this time of night.’ She said this
thinking that he was returning from some nocturnal escapade and had
only called there in passing. ‘I hear,’ said Genji now coming forward,
‘that the child is to be moved to her father’s and I have something of
importance which I must say to her before she goes.’ ‘Whatever
business you have to transact with her, I am sure she will give the
matter her closest attention,’ scoffed Shōnagon. Matters of
importance indeed, with a child of ten! Genji entered the women’s
quarters. ‘You cannot go in there,’ cried Shōnagon in horror; ‘several
aged ladies are lying all undressed....’ ‘They are all fast asleep,’
said Genji. ‘See, I am only rousing the child,’ and bending over her:
‘The morning mist is rising,’ he cried, ‘it is time to wake!’ And
before Shōnagon had time to utter a sound, he had taken the child in
his arms and begun gently to rouse her. Still half-dreaming, she
thought it was the prince her father who had come to fetch her. ‘Come,’
said Genji while he put her hair to rights, ‘your father has sent me
to bring you back with me to his palace.’ For a moment she was dazed
to find that it was not her father and shrank from him in fright.
‘Never mind whether it is your father or I,’ he cried; ‘it is all the
same,’ and so saying he picked her up in his arms and carried her out
of the inner room. ‘Well!’ cried out Koremitsu and Shōnagon in
astonishment. What would he do next? ‘It seems,’ said Genji, ‘that you
were disquieted at my telling you I could not visit her here as often
as I wished and would make arrangements for her to go to a more
convenient place. I hear that you are sending her where it will be
even more difficult for me to see her. Therefore ... make ready one or
the other of you to come with me.’

Shōnagon, who now realized that he was going to make off with the
child, fell into a terrible fluster. ‘O Sir,’ she said, ‘you could not
have chosen a worse time. To-day her father is coming to fetch her,
and whatever shall I say to him? If only you would wait, I am sure it
would all come right in the end. But by acting so hastily you will do
yourself no good and leave the poor servants here in a sad pickle.’
‘If that is all,’ cried Genji, ‘let them follow as soon as they
choose,’ and to Shōnagon’s despair he had the carriage brought in. The
child stood by weeping and bewildered. There seemed no way of
preventing him from carrying out his purpose and gathering together
the child’s clothes that she had been sewing the night before, the
nurse put on her own best dress and stepped into the carriage. Genji’s
house was not far off and they arrived before daylight. They drew up
in front of the western wing and Genji alighted. Taking the child
lightly in his arms he set her on the ground. Shōnagon, to whom these
strange events seemed like a dream, hesitated as though still
uncertain whether she should enter the house or no. ‘There is no need
for you to come in if you do not want to,’ said Genji. ‘Now that the
child herself is safely here I am quite content. If you had rather go
back, you have only to say so and I will escort you.’

Reluctantly she left the carriage. The suddenness of the move was in
itself enough to have upset her; but she was also worrying about what
Prince Hyōbukyō would think when he found that his child had vanished.
And indeed what _was_ going to become of her? One way or another all her
mistresses seemed to be taken from her and it was only when she became
frightened of having wept for so long on end that she at last dried
her eyes and began to pray.

The western wing had long been uninhabited and was not completely
furnished; but Koremitsu had soon fitted up screens and curtains where
they were required. For Genji makeshift quarters were soon contrived
by letting down the side-wings of his screen-of-honour. He sent to the
other part of the house for his night things and went to sleep. The
child, who had been put to bed not far off, was still very
apprehensive and ill at ease in these new surroundings. Her lips were
trembling, but she dared not cry out loud. ‘I want to sleep with
Shōnagon,’ she said at last in a tearful, babyish voice. ‘You are
getting too big to sleep with a nurse,’ said Genji, who had heard her.
‘You must try and go to sleep nicely where you are.’ She felt
very lonely and lay weeping for a long while. The nurse was far too
much upset to think of going to bed and sat up for the rest of the
night in the servants’ quarters crying so bitterly that she was
unconscious of all that went on around her.

But when it grew light she began to look about her a little. Not only
this great palace with its marvellous pillars and carvings, but the
sand in the courtyard outside which seemed to her like a carpet of
jewels made so dazzling an impression upon her that at first she felt
somewhat overawed. However, the fact that she was now no longer in a
household of women gave her an agreeable sense of security.

It was the hour at which business brought various strangers to the
house. There were several men walking just outside her window and she
heard one of them whisper to another: ‘They say that someone new has
come to live here. Who can it be, I wonder? A lady of note, I’ll
warrant you.’

Bath water was brought from the other wing, and steamed rice for
breakfast. Genji did not rise till far on into the morning. ‘It is not
good for the child to be alone,’ he said to Shōnagon, ‘so last night
before I came to you I arranged for some little people to come and
stay here,’ and so saying he sent a servant to ‘fetch the little girls
from the eastern wing.’ He had given special orders that they were to
be as small as possible and now four of the tiniest and prettiest
creatures imaginable arrived upon the scene.

Murasaki was still asleep, lying wrapped in Genji’s own coat. It was
with difficulty that he roused her. ‘You must not be sad any more,’ he
said; ‘If I were not very fond of you, should I be looking after you
like this? Little girls ought to be very gentle and obedient in their
ways.’ And thus her education was begun.

She seemed to him, now that he could study her at leisure, even
more lovely than he had realized and they were soon engaged in an
affectionate conversation. He sent for delightful pictures and toys to
show her and set to work to amuse her in every way he could. Gradually
he persuaded her to get up and look about her. In her shabby dress
made of some dark grey material she looked so charming now that she
was laughing and playing, with all her woes forgotten, that Genji too
laughed with pleasure as he watched her. When at last he retired to
the eastern wing, she went out of doors to look at the garden. As she
picked her way among the trees and along the side of the lake, and
gazed with delight upon the frosty flower-beds that glittered gay as a
picture, while a many-coloured throng of unknown people passed
constantly in and out of the house, she began to think that this was a
very nice place indeed. Then she looked at the wonderful pictures that
were painted on all the panels and screens and quite lost her heart to
them.

For two or three days Genji did not go to the Palace, but spent all
his time amusing the little girl. Finally he drew all sorts of
pictures for her to put into her copy-book, showing them to her one by
one as he did so. She thought them the loveliest set of pictures she
had ever seen. Then he wrote part of the _Musashi-no_ poem.[12] She
was delighted by the way it was written in bold ink-strokes on a
background stained with purple. In a smaller hand was the poem:
‘Though the parent-root[13] I cannot see, yet tenderly I love its
off-shoot,[14]—the dewy plant that grows upon Musashi Moor.’ ‘Come’
said Genji while she was admiring it, ‘you must write something too.’
‘I cannot write properly yet’ she answered, looking up at him with a
witchery so wholly unconscious that Genji laughed. ‘Even if you
cannot write properly it will never do for us to let you off
altogether. Let me give you a lesson.’ With many timid glances towards
him she began to write. Even the childish manner in which she grasped
the brush gave him a thrill of delight which he was at a loss to
explain. ‘Oh, I have spoiled it’ she suddenly cried out and blushing
hid from him what she had written. But he forced her to let him see it
and found the poem: ‘I do not know what put Musashi into your head and
am very puzzled. What plant is it that you say is a relative of mine?’
It was written in a large childish hand which was indeed very
undeveloped, but was nevertheless full of promise. It showed a strong
resemblance to the late nun’s writing. He felt certain that if she
were given up-to-date copy-books she would soon write very nicely.

Next they built houses for the dolls and played so long at this game
together that Genji forgot for a while the great anxiety[15] which was
at that time preying upon his mind.

The servants who had been left behind at Murasaki’s house were
extremely embarrassed when Prince Hyōbukyō came to fetch her. Genji
had made them promise for a time at any rate to tell no one of what
had happened and Shōnagon had seemed to agree that this was best.
Accordingly he could get nothing out of them save that Shōnagon had
taken the child away with her without saying anything about where she
was going. The Prince felt completely baffled. Perhaps the grandmother
had instilled into the nurse’s mind the idea that things would not go
smoothly for the child at his palace. In that case the nurse with an
excess of craftiness might, instead of openly saying that she feared
the child would not be well treated under his roof, have thought it
wiser to make off with her when opportunity offered. He went home
very depressed, asking them to let him know instantly if they had any
news, a request which again embarrassed them. He also made enquiries
of the priest at the temple in the hills, but could learn nothing. She
had seemed to him to be a most lovable and delightful child; it was
very disappointing to lose sight of her in this manner. The princess
his wife had long ago got over her dislike of the child’s mother and
was indignant at the idea that she was not to be trusted to do her
duty by the child properly.

Gradually the servants from Murasaki’s house assembled at her new
home. The little girls who had been brought to play with her were
delighted with their new companion and they were soon all playing
together very happily.

When her prince was away or busy, on dreary evenings she would still
sometimes long for her grandmother the nun and cry a little. But she
never thought about her father whom she had never been used to see
except at rare intervals. Now indeed she had ‘a new father’ of whom
she was growing every day more fond. When he came back from anywhere
she was the first to meet him and then wonderful games and
conversations began, she sitting all the while on his lap without the
least shyness or restraint. A more charming companion could not have
been imagined. It might be that when she grew older, she would not
always be so trustful. New aspects of her character might come into
play. If she suspected, for example, that he cared for someone else,
she might resent it, and in such a case all sorts of unexpected things
are apt to happen; but for the present she was a delightful plaything.
Had she really been his daughter, convention would not have allowed
him to go on much longer living with her on terms of such complete
intimacy; but in a case like this he felt that such scruples were not
applicable.

[1] Fujitsubo, who was indeed the child’s aunt.

[2] Fujitsubo, who was Hyōbukyō’s sister.

[3] The Guardian Spell (_goshin_) is practised as follows:

The ministrant holds the palms of his hands together with middle
fingers touching and extended, first fingers separated and bent,
tips of thumbs and little fingers bunched together, and third
fingers in line with middle fingers so as to be invisible from in
front. With hands in this sacred pose (_mudrā_) he touches the
worshipper on forehead, left and right shoulder, heart and throat.
At each contact he utters the spell

    ON · BASARA GONJI HARAJŪBATA · SOHAKA

which is corrupt Sanskrit and means ‘I invoke thee, thou
diamond-fiery very majestic Star.’ The deity here invoked is
Vairocana, favourite Buddha of the Mystic Sect.

[4] A Chinese instrument; often translated ‘mouth-organ.’

[5] A song the words of which were used as a first writing lesson.

[6] There is here a pun, and a reference to poem 3807 in the _Manyōshū_.

[7] To Lady Rokujō.

[8] Arises out of some connection in a previous existence.

[9] Purple is _murasaki_ in Japanese. From this poem the child is
known as Murasaki; and hence the authoress derived the nickname by
which she too is known.

[10] His wife.

[11] The song is addressed by a girl to a suspicious lover; Genji
reverses the sense.

[12] ‘Though I know not the place, yet when they told me this was the
moor of Musashi, the thought flashed through my mind: “What else
indeed could it be, since all its grass is purple-dyed?”’

[13] Fujitsubo. The fuji flower is also purple (_murasaki_) in colour.

[14] The child Murasaki, who was Fujitsubo’s niece. Musashi was famous
for the purple dye extracted from the roots of a grass that grew there.

[15] The pregnancy of Fujitsubo.




                             CHAPTER VI

                         THE SAFFRON-FLOWER


Try as he might he could not dispel the melancholy into which Yūgao’s
sudden death[1] had cast him, and though many months had gone by he
longed for her passionately as ever. In other quarters where he had
looked for affection, coldness vied with coldness and pride with
pride. He longed to escape once more from the claims of these
passionate and exacting natures, and renew the life of tender intimacy
which for a while had given him so great a happiness. But alas, no
second Yūgao would he ever find. Despite his bitter experience he
still fancied that one day he might at least discover some beautiful
girl of humble origin whom he could meet without concealment, and he
listened eagerly to any hint that was likely to put him upon a
promising track. If the prospects seemed favourable he would follow up
his enquiries by writing a discreet letter which, as he knew from
experience, would seldom indeed meet with a wholly discouraging reply.
Even those who seemed bent on showing by the prim stiffness of their
answers that they placed virtue high above sensibility, and who at
first appeared hardly conversant with the usages of polite society,
would suddenly collapse into the wildest intimacy which would continue
until their marriage with some commonplace husband cut short the
correspondence.

There were vacant moments when he thought of Utsusemi with regret. And
there was her companion too; some time or other there would surely be
an opportunity of sending her a surprise message. If only he could see
her again as he had seen her that night sitting by the chess-board in
the dim lamplight. It was not indeed in his nature ever to forget
anyone of whom he had once been fond.

Among his old nurses there was one called Sayemon to whom, next after
Koremitsu’s mother, he was most deeply attached. She had a daughter
called Taifu no Myōbu who was in service at the Palace. This girl was
an illegitimate child of a certain member of the Imperial family who
was then Vice-minister of the Board of War. She was a young person of
very lively disposition and Genji often made use of her services. Her
mother, Genji’s nurse, had afterwards married the governor of Echizen
and had gone with him to his province, so the girl when she was not at
the Palace lived chiefly at her father’s.

She happened one day when she was talking with Genji to mention a
certain princess, daughter of the late Prince Hitachi. This lady, she
said, was born to the Prince when he was quite an old man and every
care had been lavished upon her upbringing. Since his death she had
lived alone and was very unhappy. Genji’s sympathy was aroused and he
began to question Myōbu about this unfortunate lady. ‘I do not really
know much either about her character or her appearance’ said Myōbu;
‘she is extremely seclusive in her habits. Sometimes I have talked to
her a little in the evening, but always with a curtain between us. I
believe her zithern is the only companion in whom she is willing to
confide.’ ‘Of the Three Friends[2] one at least would in her case be
unsuitable’ said Genji. ‘But I should like to hear her play; her
father was a great performer on this instrument and it is
unlikely that she has not inherited some of his skill.’ ‘Oh, I am
afraid she is not worth your coming to hear,’ said Myōbu. ‘You are
very discouraging,’ he answered, ‘but all the same I shall hide there
one of these nights when the full moon is behind the clouds and listen
to her playing; and you shall come with me.’ She was not best pleased;
but just then even upon the busy Palace a springtime quiet seemed to
have settled, and being quite at leisure she consented to accompany
him. Her father’s house was at some distance from the town and for
convenience he sometimes lodged in Prince Hitachi’s palace. Myōbo got
on badly with her step-mother, and taking a fancy to the lonely
princess’s quarters she kept a room there.

It was indeed on the night after the full moon, in just such a veiled
light as Genji had spoken of, that they visited the Hitachi palace. ‘I
am afraid,’ said Myōbu, ‘that it is not a very good night for
listening to music; sounds do not seem to carry very well.’ But he
would not be thus put off. ‘Go to her room’ he said, ‘and persuade her
to play a few notes; it would be a pity if I went away without hearing
her at all.’ Myōbu felt somewhat shy of leaving him like this in her
own little private room. She found the princess sitting by the window,
her shutters not yet closed for the night; she was enjoying the scent
of a blossoming plum-tree which stood in the garden just outside. It
did indeed seem just the right moment. ‘I thought how lovely your
zithern would sound on such a night as this,’ she said, ‘and could not
resist coming to see you. I am always in such a hurry, going to and
from the Palace, that do you know I have never had time to hear you
play. It is such a pity.’ ‘Music of this sort,’ she replied, ‘gives no
pleasure to those who have not studied it. What do they care for such
matters _who all day long run hither and thither in the City of a
Hundred Towers_?’[3] She sent for her zithern; but her heart beat fast.
What impression would her playing make upon this girl? Timidly she
sounded a few notes. The effect was very agreeable. True, she was not
a great performer; but the instrument was a particularly fine one and
Genji found her playing by no means unpleasant to listen to.

Living in this lonely and half-ruined palace after such an upbringing
(full no doubt of antiquated formalities and restrictions) as her
father was likely to have given her it would be strange indeed if her
life did not for the most part consist of memories and regrets. This
was just the sort of place which in an old tale would be chosen as the
scene for the most romantic happenings. His imagination thus stirred,
he thought of sending her a message. But perhaps she would think this
rather sudden. For some reason he felt shy, and hesitated.

‘It seems to be clouding over,’ said the astute Myōbu, who knew that
Genji would carry away a far deeper impression if he heard no more for
the present. ‘Someone was coming to see me’ she continued; ‘I must
not keep him waiting. Perhaps some other time when I am not in such a
hurry.... Let me close your window for you,’ and with that she
rejoined Genji, giving the princess no encouragement to play any more.
‘She stopped so soon,’ he complained, ‘that it was hardly worth
getting her to play at all. One had not time to catch the drift of
what she was playing. Really it was a pity!’ That the princess was
beautiful he made no doubt at all. ‘I should be very much obliged if
you would arrange for me to hear her at closer quarters.’ But Myōbu,
thinking that this would lead to disappointment, told him that the
princess who led so hermit-like an existence and seemed always so
depressed and subdued would hardly welcome the suggestion that
she should perform before a stranger. ‘Of course,’ said Genji, ‘a
thing of that kind could only be suggested between people who were on
familiar terms or to someone of very different rank. This lady’s rank,
as I am perfectly well aware, entitles her to be treated with every
consideration, and I would not ask you to do more than hint at my
desire.’ He had promised to meet someone else that night and carefully
disguising himself he was preparing to depart when Myōbu said laughing
‘It amuses me sometimes to think how the Emperor deplores the too
strict and domesticated life which he suffers you to lead. What would
he think if he could see you disguising yourself like this?’ Genji
laughed. ‘I am afraid,’ he said as he left the room, ‘that you are not
quite the right person to denounce me. Those who think such conduct
reprehensible in a man must find it even less excusable in a girl.’
She remembered that Genji had often been obliged to reproach her for
her reckless flirtations, and blushing made no reply.

Still hoping to catch a glimpse of the zithern-player he crept softly
towards her window. He was about to hide at a point where the
bamboo-fence was somewhat broken down when he perceived that a man was
already ensconced there. Who could it be? No doubt it was one of the
princess’s lovers and he stepped back to conceal himself in the
darkness. The stranger followed him and turned out to be no other than
Tō no Chūjō. That evening they had left the Palace together, but when
they parted Genji (Chūjō had noticed) did not either go in the
direction of the Great Hall nor back to his own palace. This aroused
Chūjō’s curiosity and, despite the fact that he too had a secret
appointment that night, he decided first to follow Genji and discover
what was afoot. So riding upon a strange horse and wearing a
hunting-cloak, he had got himself up altogether so villainously
that he was able to follow Genji without being recognized upon the
road. Seeing him enter so unexpected a place, Chūjō was trying to
imagine what business his friend could possibly have in such a quarter
when the music began and he secreted himself with a vague idea of
waylaying Genji when he came out. But the prince, not knowing who the
stranger was and frightened of being recognized, stole on tip-toe into
the shadow. Chūjō suddenly accosted him: ‘Though you shook me off so
uncivilly, I thought it my duty to keep an eye on you’ he said, and
recited the poem: ‘Though together we left the great Palace hill, your
setting-place you would not show me, Moon of the sixteenth night!’
Thus he remonstrated; and Genji, though at first he had been somewhat
put out by finding that he was not alone, when he recognized Tō no
Chūjō could not help being rather amused. ‘This is indeed an
unexpected attention on your part’ he said, and expressed his slight
annoyance in the answering verse: ‘Though wheresoever it shines men
marvel at its light, who has before thought fit to follow the full
moon to the hill whereon it sets?’

‘It is most unsafe for you to go about like this,’ said Chūjō. ‘I
really mean it. You ought always to have a bodyguard; then you are all
right whatever happens. I wish you would always let me come with you.
I am afraid that these clandestine expeditions may one day get you
into trouble,’ and he solemnly repeated the warning. What chiefly
worried Genji was the thought that this might not be the first
occasion upon which Chūjō had followed him; but if it had been his
habit to do so it was certainly very tactful of him never to have
questioned Genji about Yūgao’s child.[4]

Though each of them had an appointment elsewhere, they agreed not
to part. Both of them got into Genji’s carriage and the moon having
vanished behind a cloud, beguiled the way to the Great Hall by playing
a duet upon their flutes. They did not send for torch-bearers to see
them in at the gates, but creeping in very quietly stole to a portico
where they could not be seen and had their ordinary clothes brought to
them there. Having changed, they entered the house merrily blowing
their flutes as though they had just come back from the Palace.

Chūjō’s father, who usually pretended not to hear them when they
returned late at night, on this occasion brought out his flageolet,
which was his favourite instrument, and began to play very agreeably.
Aoi sent for her zithern and made all her ladies play on the
instruments at which they excelled. Only Nakatsukasa, though she was
known for her lute-playing, having thrown over Tō no Chūjō who had
been her lover because of her infatuation for Genji with whom her sole
intercourse was that she sometimes saw him casually when he visited
the Great Hall,—only Nakatsukasa sat drooping listlessly; for her
passion had become known to Aoi’s mother and the rest, and they were
being very unpleasant about it. She was thinking in her despair that
perhaps it would be better if she went and lived in some place where
she would never see Genji at all; but the step was hard to take and
she was very unhappy.

The young princes were thinking of the music they had heard earlier in
the evening, of those romantic surroundings tinged with a peculiar and
inexplicable beauty. Merely because it pleased him so to imagine her,
Tō no Chūjō had already endowed the occupant of the lonely mansion
with every charm. He had quite decided that Genji had been courting
her for months or even years, and thought impatiently that he for his
part, if like Genji he were violently in love with a lady of this
kind, would have been willing to risk a few reproaches or even
the loss of a little reputation. He could not however believe that his
friend intended to let the matter rest as it was much longer and
determined to amuse himself by a little rivalry. From that time
onwards both of them sent letters to the lady, but neither ever
received any answer. This both vexed and puzzled them. What could be
the reason? Thinking that such images were suitable to a lady brought
up in these rustic surroundings, in most of the poems which they sent
her they alluded to delicate trees and flowers or other aspects of
nature, hoping sooner or later to hit on some topic which would arouse
her interest in their suit. Though she was of good birth and
education, perhaps through being so long buried away in her vast
mansion she had not any longer the wits to write a reply. And what
indeed did it matter whether she answered or not, thought Tō no Chūjō,
who none the less was somewhat piqued. With his usual frankness he
said to Genji: ‘I wonder whether you have had any answer. I must
confess that as an experiment I too sent a mild hint, but without any
success, so I have not repeated it.’ ‘So he too has been trying his
hand,’ thought Genji smiling to himself. ‘No,’ he answered aloud, ‘my
letter did not need an answer, which was perhaps the reason that I did
not receive one.’ From this enigmatic reply Chūjō deduced that Genji
had been in communication of some kind with the lady and he was
slightly piqued by the fact that she had shown a preference between
them. Genji’s deeper feelings were in no way involved, and though his
vanity was a little wounded he would not have pursued the matter
farther had he not known the persuasive power of Chūjō’s style, and
feared that even now she might overcome her scruples and send him a
reply. Chūjō would become insufferably cock-a-hoop if he got into his
head the idea that the princess had transferred her affections from
Genji to himself. He must see what Myōbu could be persuaded to
do. ‘I cannot understand,’ he said to her, ‘why the princess should
refuse to take any notice of my letters. It is really very uncivil of
her. I suppose she thinks I am a frivolous person who intends to amuse
himself a little in her company and then disappear. It is a strangely
false conception of my character. As you know, my affections never
alter, and if I have ever seemed to the world to be unfaithful it has
always been because in reality my suit had met with some unexpected
discouragement. But this lady is so placed that no opposition from
parents or brothers can interrupt our friendship, and if she will but
trust me she will find that her being alone in the world, so far from
exposing her to callous treatment, makes her the more attractive.’
‘Come,’ answered Myōbu, ‘it will never do for you to run away with the
idea that you can treat this great lady as a pleasant wayside
distraction; on the contrary she is extremely difficult of access and
her rank has accustomed her to be treated with deference and
ceremony.’ So spoke Myōbu, in accordance indeed with her own
experience of the princess. ‘She has evidently no desire to be thought
clever or dashing’ said Genji; ‘for some reason I imagine her as very
gentle and forgiving.’ He was thinking of Yūgao when he said this.

Soon after this he fell sick of his fever and after that was occupied
by a matter of great secrecy; so that spring and summer had both
passed away before he could again turn his attention to the lonely
lady. But in the autumn came a time of quiet meditation and reflexion.
Again the sound of the cloth-beaters’ mallets reached his ears,
tormenting him with memories and longings. He wrote many letters to
the zithern-player, but with no more success than before. Her
churlishness exasperated him. More than ever he was determined not to
give in, and sending for Myōbu he scolded her for having been of
so little assistance to him. ‘What can be going on in the princess’s
mind?’ he said; ‘such strange behaviour I have never met with before.’
If he was piqued and surprised, Myōbu for her part was vexed that the
affair had gone so badly. ‘No one can say that you have done anything
so very eccentric or indiscreet, and I do not think she feels so. If
she does not answer your letters it is only part of her general
unwillingness to face the outer world.’ ‘But such a way of behaving is
positively barbarous,’ said Genji; ‘if she were a girl in her ’teens
and under the care of parents or guardians, such timidity might be
pardoned; but in an independent woman it is inconceivable. I would
never have written had I not taken it for granted that she had some
experience of the world. I was merely hoping that I had found someone
who in moments of idleness or depression would respond to me
sympathetically. I did not address her in the language of gallantry,
but only begged for permission sometimes to converse with her in that
strange and lonely dwelling-place. But since she seems unable to
understand what it is I am asking of her, we must see what can be done
without waiting for her permission. If you will help me, you may be
sure I shall not disgrace you in any way.’

Myōbu had once been in the habit of describing to him the appearance
of people whom she had chanced to meet and he always listened to such
accounts with insatiable interest and curiosity; but for a long while
he had paid no attention to her reports. Now for no reason at all the
mere mention of the princess’s existence had aroused in him a fever of
excitement and activity. It was all very unaccountable. Probably he
would find the poor lady extremely unattractive when he saw her and
she would be doing her a very poor service in effecting the
introduction; but to give Genji no help in a matter to which he
evidently attached so much importance, would seem very ill-natured.

Even in Prince Hitachi’s life-time visitors to this stiff,
old-fashioned establishment had been very rare, and now no foot at all
ever made its way through the thickets which were closing in around
the house. It may be imagined then what the visit of so celebrated a
person as Genji would have meant to the ladies-in-waiting and lesser
persons of the household and with what urgency they begged their
mistress to send a favourable reply. But the same desperate shyness
still possessed her and Genji’s letters she would not even read.
Hearing this Myōbu determined to submit Genji’s request to her at some
suitable moment when she and the princess were carrying on one of
their usual uneasy conversations, with the princess’s screen-of-honour
planted between them. ‘If she seems displeased,’ thought Myōbu, ‘I
will positively have nothing more to do with the matter; but if she
receives him and some sort of an affair starts between them, there is
fortunately no one connected with her to scold me or get me into
trouble.’ As the result of these and other reflections, being quite at
home in matters of this kind, she sensibly decided to say nothing
about the business to anybody, not even to her father.

Late one night, soon after the twentieth day of the eighth month, the
princess sat waiting for the moon to rise. Though the star-light shone
clear and lovely the moaning of the wind in the pine-tree branches
oppressed her with its melancholy, and growing weary of waiting she
was with many tears and sighs recounting to Myōbu stories of bygone
men and days.

Now was the time to convey Genji’s message, thought Myōbu. She sent
for him, and secretly as before he crept up to the palace. The moon
was just rising. He stood where the neglected bamboo-hedge grew
somewhat sparsely and watched. Persuaded by Myōbu the princess was
already at her zithern. So far as he could hear it at this
distance, he did not find the music displeasing; but Myōbu in her
anxiety and confusion thought the tune very dull and wished it would
occur to the princess to play something rather more up-to-date. The
place where Genji was waiting was well screened from view and he had
no difficulty in creeping unobserved into the house. Here he called
for Myōbu, who pretending that the visit was a complete surprise to
her said to the princess: ‘I am so sorry, here is Prince Genji come to
see me. I am always getting into trouble with him for failing to
secure him your favour. I have really done my best, but you do not
make it possible for me to give him any encouragement, so now I
imagine he has come to deal with the matter for himself. What am I to
say to him? I can answer for it that he will do nothing violent or
rash. I think that considering all the trouble he has taken you might
at least tell him that you will speak to him through a screen or
curtain.’ The idea filled the princess with consternation. ‘I should
not know what to say to him,’ she wailed and as she said the words
bolted towards the far side of the room with a bashfulness so
infantile that Myōbu could not help laughing. ‘Indeed, Madam,’ she
said, ‘it is childish of you to take the matter to heart in this way.
If you were an ordinary young lady under the eye of stern parents and
brothers, one could understand it; but for a person in your position
to go on for ever being afraid to face the world is fantastic.’ So
Myōbu admonished her and the princess, who could never think of any
argument against doing what she was told to do, said at last: ‘If I
have only to listen and need not say anything he may speak to me from
behind the lattice-door, so long as it is well locked.’ ‘I cannot ask
him to sit on the servant’s bench,’ said Myōbu. ‘You really need not
be afraid that he will do anything violent or sudden.’ Thus persuaded,
the princess went to a hatch which communicated between the
women’s quarters and the strangers’ dais and firmly locking it with
her own hand stuffed a mattress against it to make sure that no chink
was left unstopped. She was in such a terrible state of confusion that
she had not the least idea what she should say to her visitor, if she
had to speak to him, and had agreed to listen to him only because
Myōbu told her that she ought to.

Several elderly serving-women of the wet-nurse type had been lying
half-asleep in the inner room since dusk. There were however one or
two younger maids who had heard a great deal about this Prince Genji
and were ready to fall in love with him at a moment’s notice. They now
brought out their lady’s handsomest dress and persuaded her to let
them put her a little to rights; but she displayed no interest in
these preparations. Myōbu meanwhile was thinking how well Genji looked
in the picturesque disguise which he had elaborated for use on these
night excursions and wished it were being employed in some quarter
where it was more likely to be appreciated. Her only consolation was
that so mild a lady was not likely to make inordinate demands upon him
or pester him with jealousies and exactions. On the other hand, she
was rather worried about the princess. ‘What’ thought Myōbu, ‘if she
should fall in love with him and her heart be broken merely because I
was frightened of getting scolded?’

Remembering her rank and upbringing, he was far from expecting her to
behave with the lively pertness of an up-to-date miss. She would be
langorous; yes, langorous and passionate. When, half-pushed by Myōbu,
the princess at last took her stand near the partition where she was
to converse with her visitor, a delicious scent of sandal-wood[5]
invaded his nostrils, and this piece of coquetry at once raised
his hopes. He began to tell her with great earnestness and eloquence
how for almost a year she had continually occupied his thoughts. But
not a word did she answer; talking to her was no better than writing!
Irritated beyond measure he recited the verse: ‘If with a Vow of
Silence thus ten times and again my combat I renew, ’tis that against
me at least no sentence of muteness has been passed.’ ‘Speak at least
one word of dismissal,’ he continued; ‘do not leave me in this
bewilderment.’ There was among her ladies one called Jijū, the
daughter of her old nurse. Being a girl of great liveliness and
intelligence she could not bear to see her mistress cutting such a
figure as this and stepping to her side she answered with the poem:
‘The bell[6] had sounded and for a moment silence was imposed upon my
lips. To have kept you waiting grieves me, and there let the matter
rest.’ She said the words in such a way that Genji was completely
taken in and thought it was the princess who had thus readily answered
his poem. He had not expected such smartness from an aristocratic lady
of the old school; but the surprise was agreeable and he answered:
‘Madam, you have won the day,’ adding the verse: ‘Though well I know
that thoughts unspoken count more than thoughts expressed, yet
dumb-crambo is not a cheering game to play.’

He went on to speak of one trifle or another as it occurred to him,
doing his very best to entertain her; but it was no use. Thinking at
last that silence might after all in this strange creature be merely a
sign of deep emotion he could no longer restrain his curiosity and,
easily pushing back the bolted door, entered the room. Myōbu, seeing
with consternation that he had falsified all her assurances, thought
it better to know nothing of what followed and without turning her
head rushed away to her own apartments. Jijū and the other
ladies-in-waiting had heard so much about Genji and were so anxious to
catch sight of him that they were more than ready to forgive his
uncivil intrusion. Their only fear was that their mistress would be at
a loss how to deal with so unexpected a situation. He did indeed find
her in the last extremity of bashfulness and embarrassment, but under
the circumstances that, thought Genji, was natural. Much was to be
explained by the strict seclusion in which she had been brought up. He
must be patient with her....

As his eyes grew used to the dim light he began to see that she was
not at all beautiful. Had she then not one quality at all to justify
all these hopes and schemes? Apparently not one. It was late. What was
the use of staying? Bitterly disappointed he left the house. Myōbu,
intensely curious to know what would happen, had lain awake listening.
She wanted however to keep up the pretence that she had not witnessed
Genji’s intrusion and though she plainly heard him leaving the house
she did not go to see him off or utter a sound of any kind. Stealing
away as quietly as possible he returned to the Nijō-in and lay down
upon his bed. This time at least he thought he was on the right path.
What a disillusionment! And the worst of it was that she was a
princess, a great lady. What a mess he was in! So he lay thinking,
when Tō no Chūjō entered the room. ‘How late you are!’ he cried; ‘I
can easily guess the reason.’ Genji rose: ‘I was so comfortable
sleeping here all alone that I overslept myself,’ he said. ‘Have you
come here from the Palace?’ ‘Yes,’ said Chūjō, ‘I was on my way home.
I heard yesterday that to-day they are choosing the dancers and
musicians for the celebrations of the Emperor’s visit to the Suzaku-in
and I am going home to tell my father of this. I will look in here on
my way back.’ Seeing that Chūjō was in a hurry Genji said that he
would go with him to the Great Hall. He sent at once for his
breakfast, bidding them also serve the guest. Two carriages were drawn
up waiting for them, but they both got into the same one. ‘You still
seem very sleepy,’ said Chūjō in an aggrieved tone; ‘I am sure you
have been doing something interesting that you do not want to tell me
about.’

That day he had a number of important duties to perform and was hard
at work in the Palace till nightfall. It did not occur to him till a
very late hour that he ought at least to send the customary letter. It
was raining. Myōbu had only the day before reproached him for using
the princess’s palace as a ‘wayside refuge.’ To-day however he had no
inclination whatever to halt there.

When hour after hour went by and still no letter came Myōbu began to
feel very sorry for the princess whom she imagined to be suffering
acutely from Genji’s incivility. But in reality the poor lady was
still far too occupied with shame and horror at what had happened the
night before to think of anything else, and when late in the evening
Genji’s note at last arrived she could not understand in the least
what it meant. It began with the poem: ‘Scarce had the evening mist
lifted and revealed the prospect to my sight when the night rain
closed gloomily about me.’ ‘I shall watch with impatience for a sign
that the clouds are breaking,’ the letter continued. The ladies of the
household at once saw with consternation the meaning of this note:
Genji did not intend ever to come again. But they were all agreed that
an answer must be sent, and their mistress was for the time being in
far too overwrought a condition to put brush to paper; so Jijū
(pointing out that it was late and there was no time to be lost) again
came to the rescue: ‘Give a thought to the country folk who wait for
moonlight on this cloudy night, though, while they gaze, so different
their thoughts from yours!’ This she dictated to her mistress
who, under the joint direction of all her ladies, wrote it upon a
piece of paper which had once been purple but was now faded and
shabby. Her writing was coarse and stiff, very mediocre in style, the
upward and downward strokes being of the same thickness. Genji laid it
aside scarcely glancing at it; but he was very much worried by the
situation. How should he avoid hurting her feelings? Such an affair
was certain to get him into trouble of some kind. What was he to do?
He made up his mind that at all costs he must go on seeing her.
Meanwhile, knowing nothing of this decision, the poor lady was very
unhappy.

That night his father-in-law called for him on the way back from the
Palace and carried him off to the Great Hall.

Here in preparation for the coming festival all the young princes were
gathered together, and during the days which followed everyone was
busy practising the songs or dances which had been assigned to him.
Never had the Great Hall resounded with such a continual flow of
music. The recorder and the big flute were all the while in full
blast; and even the big drum was rolled out on to the verandah, the
younger princes amusing themselves by experimenting upon it. Genji was
so busy that he had barely time to pay an occasional surreptitious
visit even to his dearest friends, and the autumn passed without his
returning to the Hitachi Palace. The princess could not make it out.

Just at the time when the music-practices were at their height Myōbu
came to see him. Her account of the princess’s condition was very
distressing. ‘It is sad to witness day by day as I do how the poor
lady suffers from your unkind treatment,’ she said and almost wept as
she told him about it. He was doubly embarrassed. What must Myōbu be
thinking of him since she found out that he had so recklessly
falsified all the assurances of good behaviour that she had made
on his account? And then the princess herself.... He could imagine
what a pathetic figure she must be, dumbly buried in her own
despondent thoughts and questionings. ‘Please make it clear to her’ he
said, ‘that I have been extremely busy; that is really the sole reason
that I have not visited her.’ But he added with a sigh ‘I hope soon to
have a chance of teaching her not to be quite so stiff and shy.’ He
smiled as he said it, and because he was so young and charming Myōbu
somehow felt that despite her indignation she must smile too. At his
age it was inevitable that he should cause a certain amount of
suffering. Suddenly it seemed to her perfectly right that he should do
as he felt inclined without thinking much about the consequences. When
the busy festival time was over he did indeed pay several visits to
the Hitachi Palace, but then followed his adoption of little Murasaki
whose ways so entranced him that he became very irregular even in his
visits to the Sixth Ward;[7] still less had he any inclination, though
he felt as sorry for the princess as ever, to visit that desolate
palace. For a long while he had no desire to probe the secret of her
bashfulness, to drive her into the light of day. But at last the idea
occurred to him that he had perhaps all the while been mistaken. It
was only a vague impression gathered in a room so dark that one could
hardly see one’s hand in front of one’s face. If only he could
persuade her to let him see her properly? But she seemed frightened to
submit herself to the ordeal of daylight. Accordingly one night when
he knew that he should catch her household quite at its ease he crept
in unobserved and peeped through a gap in the door of the women’s
apartments. The princess herself was not visible. There was a very
dilapidated screen-of-honour at the end of the room, but it looked as
if it had not been moved from where it stood for years and years.
Four or five elderly gentlewomen were in the room. They were preparing
their mistress’s supper in Chinese vessels which looked like the
famous ‘royal blue’ ware,[8] but they were much damaged and the food
which had been provided seemed quite unworthy of these precious
dishes. The old ladies soon retired, presumably to have their own
supper. In a closet opening out of the main road he could see a very
chilly-looking lady in an incredibly smoke-stained white dress and
dirty apron tied at the waist. Despite this shabbiness, her hair was
done over a comb in the manner of Court servants in ancient days when
they waited at their master’s table, though it hung down untidily. He
had sometimes seen figures such as this haunting the housekeeper’s
rooms in the Palace, but he had no idea that they could still actually
be seen waiting upon a living person! ‘O dear, O dear,’ cried the lady
in the apron, ‘what a cold winter we are having! It was not worth
living so long only to meet times like these,’ and she shed a tear.
‘If only things had but gone on as they were in the old Prince’s
time!’ she moaned. ‘What a change! No discipline, no authority. To
think that I should have lived to see such days!’ and she quivered
with horror like one who ‘were he a bird would take wing and fly
away.’[9] She went on to pour out such a pitiful tale of things gone
awry that Genji could bear it no longer, and pretending that he had
just arrived tapped at the partition-door. With many exclamations of
surprise the old lady brought a candle and let him in. Unfortunately
Jijū had been chosen with other young persons to wait upon the Vestal
Virgin and was not at home. Her absence made the house seem more
rustic and old-fashioned than ever, and its oddity struck him even
more forcibly than before.

The melancholy snow was now falling faster and faster. Dark
clouds hung in the sky, the wind blew fierce and wild. The big lamp
had burnt out and it seemed to be no one’s business to light it. He
remembered the terrible night upon which Yūgao had been bewitched. The
house indeed was almost as dilapidated. But it was not quite so large
and was (to Genji’s comfort) at least to some small degree inhabited.
Nevertheless it was a depressing place to spend the night at in such
weather as this. Yet the snow-storm had a beauty and fascination of
its own and it was tiresome that the lady whom he had come to visit
was far too stiff and awkward to join him in appreciating its
wildness. The dawn was just breaking and lifting one of the shutters
with his own hand, he looked out at the snow-covered flower-beds.
Beyond them stretched great fields of snow untrodden by any foot. The
sight was very strange and lovely, and moved by the thought that he
must soon leave it: ‘Come and look how beautiful it is out of doors,’
he cried to the princess who was in an inner room. ‘It is unkind of
you always to treat me as though I were a stranger.’ Although it was
still dark the light of the snow enabled the ancient gentlewomen who
had now returned to the room to see the freshness and beauty of
Genji’s face. Gazing at him with undisguised wonder and delight, they
cried out to their mistress: ‘Yes, madam, indeed you must come. You
are not behaving as you should. A young lady should be all kindness
and pretty ways.’ Thus admonished, the princess who when told what to
do could never think of any reasons for not doing it, giving her
costume a touch here and there reluctantly crept into the front room.
Genji pretended to be still looking out of the window, but presently
he managed to glance back into the room. His first impression was that
her manner, had it been a little less diffident, would have been
extremely pleasing. What an absurd mistake he had made. She was
certainly very tall as was shown by the length of her back when
she took her seat; he could hardly believe that such a back could
belong to a woman. A moment afterwards he suddenly became aware of her
main defect. It was her nose. He could not help looking at it. It
reminded him of the trunk of Samantabhadra’s[10] steed! Not only was
it amazingly prominent, but (strangest of all) the tip which drooped
downwards a little was tinged with pink, contrasting in the oddest
manner with the rest of her complexion which was of a whiteness that
would have put snow to shame. Her forehead was unusually high, so that
altogether (though this was partly concealed by the forward tilt of
her head) her face must be hugely long. She was very thin, her bones
showing in the most painful manner, particularly her shoulder-bones
which jutted out pitiably above her dress. He was sorry now that he
had exacted from her this distressing exhibition, but so extraordinary
a spectacle did she provide that he could not help continuing to gaze
upon her. In one point at least she yielded nothing to the greatest
beauties of the Capital. Her hair was magnificent; she was wearing it
loose and it hung a foot or more below the skirt of her gown. A
complete description of people’s costumes is apt to be tedious, but as
in stories the first thing that is said about the characters is
invariably _what they wore_, I shall once in a way attempt such a
description. Over a terribly faded bodice of imperial purple she wore
a gown of which the purple had turned definitely black with age. Her
mantle was of sable-skins heavily perfumed with scent. Such a garment
as this mantle was considered very smart several generations ago, but
it struck him as the most extraordinary costume for a comparatively
young girl. However as a matter of fact she looked as though without
this monstrous wrapping she would perish with cold and he could
not help feeling sorry for her. As usual she seemed quite devoid of
conversation and her silence ended by depriving Genji also of the
power of speech. He felt however that he must try again to conquer her
religious muteness and began making a string of casual remarks.
Overcome with embarrassment she hid her face with her sleeve. This
attitude, together with her costume, reminded him so forcibly of queer
pompous old officials whom he had sometimes seen walking at funeral
pace in state processions, hugging their emblems of office to their
breasts, that he could not help laughing. This he felt to be very
rude. Really he was very sorry for her and longing to put a quick end
to her embarrassment he rose to go. ‘Till I began to look after you
there was no one in whom you could possibly have confided. But
henceforward I think you must make up your mind to be frank with me
and tell me all your secrets. Your stern aloofness is very painful to
me,’ and he recited the verse: ‘Already the icicle that hangs from the
eaves is melting in the rays of the morning sun. How comes it that
these drippings to new ice should turn?’ At this she tittered
slightly. Finding her inability to express herself quite unendurable
he left the house. Even in the dim light of early morning he noticed
that the courtyard gate at which his carriage awaited him was shaky on
its posts and much askew; daylight, he was sure, would have revealed
many other signs of dilapidation and neglect. In all the desolate
landscape which stretched monotonously before him under the bleak
light of dawn only the thick mantle of snow which covered the
pine-trees gave a note of comfort and almost of warmth.

Surely it was such a place as this, sombre as a little village in the
hills, that his friends had thought of on that rainy night when they
had spoken of the gate ‘deep buried in green thickets.’ If only there
were really hidden behind _these_ walls some such exquisite
creature as they had imagined. How patiently, how tenderly he would
court her! He longed for some experience which would bring him respite
from the anguish with which a certain hopeless and illicit passion was
at that time tormenting him. Alas, no one could have been less likely
to bring him the longed-for distraction than the owner of this
romantic mansion. Yet the very fact that she had nothing to recommend
her made it impossible for him to give her up, for it was certain that
no one else would ever take the trouble to visit her. But why, why had
it fallen to him of all people to become her intimate? Had the spirit
of the departed Prince Hitachi, unhappy at the girl’s friendless
plight, chosen him out and led him to her?

At the side of the road he noticed a little orange-tree almost buried
in snow. He ordered one of his attendants to uncover it. As though
jealous of the attention that the man was paying to its neighbour a
pine-tree near by shook its heavily laden branches, pouring great
billows of snow over his sleeve. Delighted with the scene Genji
suddenly longed for some companion with whom he might share this
pleasure; not necessarily someone who loved such things as he did, but
one who at least responded to them in an ordinary way.

The gate through which his carriage had to pass in order to leave
the grounds was still locked. When at last the man who kept the key
had been discovered he turned out to be immensely old and feeble.
With him was a big, awkward girl who seemed to be his daughter or
grand-daughter. Her dress looked very grimy in contrast with the new
snow amid which she was standing. She seemed to be suffering very much
from the cold, for she was hugging a little brazier of some kind with
a stick or two of charcoal burning none too brightly in it. The old
man had not the strength to push back the door, and the girl was
dragging at it as well. Taking pity on them one of Genji’s
servants went to their assistance and quickly opened it. Genji
remembered the poem in which Po Chü-i describes the sufferings of
villagers in wintry weather and he murmured the lines ‘The little
children run naked in the cold; the aged shiver for lack of winter
clothes.’ All at once he remembered the chilly appearance which that
unhappy bloom had given to the princess’s face and he could not help
smiling. If ever he were able to show her to Tō no Chūjō, what strange
comparison, he wondered, would Chūjō use concerning it? He remembered
how Chūjō had followed him on the first occasion. Had he continued to
do so? Perhaps even at this minute he was under observation. The
thought irritated him.

Had her defects been less striking he could not possibly have
continued these distressing visits. But since he had actually seen her
in all her tragic uncouthness pity gained the upper hand, and
henceforward he kept in constant touch with her and showed her every
kindness. In the hope that she would abandon her sables he sent her
presents of silk, satin and quilted stuffs. He also sent thick cloth
such as old people wear, that the old man at the gate might be more
comfortably dressed. Indeed he sent presents to everyone on the estate
from the highest to the lowest. She did not seem to have any objection
to receiving these donations, which under the circumstances was very
convenient as it enabled him for the most part to limit their very
singular friendship to good offices of this kind.

Utsusemi too, he remembered, had seemed to him far from handsome when
he had peeped at her on the evening of her sudden flight. But she at
least knew how to behave and that saved her plainness from being
obtrusive. It was hard to believe that the princess belonged to a
class so far above that of Utsusemi. It only showed how little these
things have to do with birth or station. For in idle moments he
still regretted the loss of Utsusemi and it rankled in him yet that he
had in the end allowed her unyielding persistency to win the day.

And so the year drew to its close. One day when he was at his
apartments in the Emperor’s Palace, Myōbu came to see him. He liked to
have her to do his hair and do small commissions for him. He was not
in the least in love with her; but they got on very well together and
he found her conversation so amusing that even when she had no duty to
perform at the Palace he encouraged her to come and see him whenever
she had any news. ‘Something so absurd has happened’ she said, ‘that I
can hardly bring myself to tell you about it ...,’ and she paused
smiling. ‘I can hardly think,’ answered Genji, ‘that there can be
anything which you are frightened of telling to me.’ ‘If it were
connected with my own affairs,’ she said, ‘you know quite well that I
should tell you at once. But this is something quite different. I
really find it very hard to talk about.’ For a long while he could get
nothing out of her, and only after he had scolded her for making so
unnecessary a fuss she at last handed him a letter. It was from the
princess. ‘But this,’ said Genji taking it, ‘is the last thing in the
world that you could have any reason to hide from me.’ She watched
with interest while he read it. It was written on thick paper drenched
with a strong perfume; the characters were bold and firm. With it was
a poem: ‘Because of your hard heart, your hard heart only, the sleeves
of this my Chinese dress are drenched with tears.’ The poem must, he
thought, refer to something not contained in the letter.

He was considering what this could be, when his eye fell on a clumsy,
old-fashioned clothes-box wrapped in a painted canvas cover. ‘Now’
said Myōbu, ‘perhaps you understand why I was feeling rather
uncomfortable. You may not believe it, but the princess means you to
wear this jacket on New Year’s Day. I am afraid I cannot take it back
to her; that would be too unkind. But if you like I will keep it for
you and no one else shall see it. Only please, since it was to you
that she sent, just have one look at it before it goes away.’ ‘But I
should hate it to go away,’ said Genji; ‘I think it was so kind of her
to send it.’ It was difficult to know what to say. Her poem was indeed
the most unpleasant jangle of syllables that he had ever encountered.
He now realized that the other poems must have been dictated to her,
perhaps by Jijū or one of the other ladies. And Jijū too it must
surely be who held the princess’s brush and acted as writing-master.
When he considered what her utmost poetic endeavour would be likely to
produce he realized that these absurd verses were probably her
masterpiece and should be prized accordingly. He began to examine the
parcel; Myōbu blushed while she watched him. It was a plain,
old-fashioned, buff-coloured jacket of finely woven material, but
apparently not particularly well cut or stitched. It was indeed a
strange present, and spreading out her letter he wrote something
carelessly in the margin. When Myōbu looked over his shoulder she saw
that he had written the verse: ‘How comes it that with my sleeve I
brushed this saffron-flower[11] that has no loveliness either of shape
or hue?’

What, wondered Myōbu, could be the meaning of this outburst against a
flower? At last turning over in her mind the various occasions when
Genji had visited the princess she remembered something[12] which she
had herself noticed one moonlit night, and though she felt the joke
was rather unkind, she could not help being amused. With practised
ease she threw out a verse in which she warned him that in the
eyes of a censorious world even this half-whimsical courtship might
fatally damage his good name. Her impromptu poem was certainly faulty;
but Genji reflected that if the poor princess had even Myōbu’s very
ordinary degree of alertness it would make things much easier; and it
was quite true that to tamper with a lady of such high rank was not
very safe.

At this point visitors began to arrive. ‘Please put this somewhere out
of sight,’ said Genji pointing to the jacket; ‘could one have believed
that it was possible to be presented with such an object?’ and he
groaned. ‘Oh why ever did I show it to him?’ thought Myōbu. ‘The only
result is that now he will be angry with me as well as with the
princess,’ and in very low spirits she slipped out of his apartments.

Next day she was in attendance upon the Emperor and while she was
waiting with other gentlewomen in the ladies’ common-room Genji came
up saying: ‘Here you are. The answer to yesterday’s letter. I am
afraid it is rather far-fetched,’ and he flung a note to her. The
curiosity of the other gentlewomen was violently aroused. Genji left
the room humming ‘The Lady of Mikasa Hill,’[13] which naturally amused
Myōbu very much. The other ladies wanted to know why the prince was
laughing to himself. Was there some joke...? ‘Oh, no,’ said Myōbu; ‘I
think it was only that he had noticed someone whose nose was a little
red with the morning cold. The song he hummed was surely very
appropriate.’ ‘I think it was very silly,’ said one of the ladies.
‘There is no one here to-day with a red nose. He must be thinking of
Lady Sakon or Higo no Uneme.’ They were completely mystified. When
Myōbu presented Genji’s reply, the ladies of the Hitachi Palace
gathered round her to admire it. It was written negligently on plain
white paper but was none the less very elegant. ‘Does your gift of a
garment mean that you wish a greater distance than ever to be kept
between us?’[14]

On the evening of the last day of the year he sent back the box which
had contained his jacket, putting into it a court dress which had
formerly been presented to him, a dress of woven stuff dyed
grape-colour and various stuffs of yellow-rose colour and the like.
The box was brought by Myōbu. The princess’s ancient gentlewomen
realized that Genji did not approve of their mistress’s taste in
colours and wished to give her a lesson. ‘Yes,’ they said grudgingly,
‘that’s a fine deep red while its new, but just think how it will
fade. And in Madam’s poem too, I am sure, there was much more good
sense. In his answer he only tries to be smart.’ The princess shared
their good opinion of her poem. It had cost her a great deal of effort
and before she sent it she had been careful to copy it into her
note-book.

Then came the New Year’s Day celebrations; and this year there was
also to be the New Year’s mumming, a band of young noblemen going
round dancing and singing in various parts of the Palace. After the
festival of the White Horse on the seventh day Genji left the
Emperor’s presence at nightfall and went to his own apartments in the
Palace as though intending to stay the night there. But later he
adjourned to the Hitachi Palace which had on this occasion a less
forbidding appearance than usual. Even the princess was rather more
ordinary and amenable. He was hoping that like the season she too had
begun anew, when he saw that sunlight was coming into the room. After
hesitating for a while, he got up and went out into the front room. The
double doors at the end of the eastern wing were wide open, and
the roof of the verandah having fallen in, the sunshine poured
straight into the house. A little snow was still falling and its
brightness made the morning light yet more exquisitely brilliant and
sparkling. She watched a servant helping him into his cloak. She was
lying half out of the bed, her head hanging a little downwards and her
hair falling in great waves to the floor. Pleased with the sight he
began to wonder whether she would not one day outgrow her plainness.
He began to close the door of the women’s apartments, but suddenly
feeling that he owed her amends for the harsh opinion of her
appearance which he had formed before, he did not quite shut the door,
but bringing a low stool towards it sat there putting his disordered
head-dress to rights. One of the maids brought him an incredibly
battered mirror-stand, Chinese combs, a box of toilet articles and
other things. It amused him to discover that in this household of
women a little male gear still survived, even in so decrepit a state.

He noticed that the princess, who was now up and dressed, was looking
quite fashionable. She was in fact wearing the clothes which he had
sent her before the New Year, but he did not at first recognize them.
He began however to have a vague idea that her mantle, with its rather
conspicuous pattern, was very like one of the things he had given her.
‘I do hope,’ he said presently, ‘that this year you will be a little
more conversational. I await the day when you will unbend a little
towards me more eagerly than the poet longs for the first nightingale.
If only like the year that has changed you too would begin anew!’ Her
face brightened. She had thought of a remark and trembling from head
to foot with a tremendous effort she brought out the quotation ‘When
plovers chirp and all things grow anew.’ ‘Splendid,’ said Genji, ‘This
is a sign that the new year has indeed begun’ and smiling
encouragingly at her he left the house, she following him with her
eyes from the couch on which she lay. Her face as usual was half
covered by her arm; but the unfortunate flower still bloomed
conspicuously. ‘Poor thing, she really _is_ very ugly,’ thought Genji
in despair.

When he returned to the Nijō-in he found Murasaki waiting for him. She
was growing up as handsome a girl as one could wish, and promised well
for the future. She was wearing a plain close-fitting dress of cherry
colour; above all, the unstudied grace and ease of her movements
charmed and delighted him as he watched her come to meet him. In
accordance with the wishes of her old-fashioned grandmother her teeth
were not blackened, but her eyebrows were delicately touched with
stain. ‘Why, when I might be playing with a beautiful child, do I
spend my time with an ugly woman? ‘Genji kept on asking himself in
bewilderment while they sat together playing with her dolls. Next she
began to draw pictures and colour them. After she had painted all
sorts of queer and amusing things, ‘Now I am going to do a picture for
you,’ said Genji and drawing a lady with very long hair he put a dab
of red on her nose. Even in a picture, he thought pausing to look at
the effect, it gave one a most uncomfortable feeling. He went and
looked at himself in the mirror and as though dissatisfied with his
own fresh complexion he suddenly put on his own nose a dab of red such
as he had given to the lady in the picture. He looked at himself in
the mirror. His handsome face had in an instant become ridiculous and
repulsive. At first the child laughed. ‘Should you go on liking me if
I were always as ugly as this?’ he asked. Suddenly she began to be
afraid that the paint would not come off. ‘Oh why did you do it?’ she
cried. ‘How horrible!’ He pretended to rub it without effect. ‘No,’ he
said ruefully, ‘it will not come off. What a sad end to our game! I
wonder what the Emperor will say when I go back to the Palace?’
He said it so seriously that she became very unhappy, and longing to
cure him dipped a piece of thick soft paper in the water-jug which
stood by his writing-things, and began scrubbing at his nose. ‘Take
care,’ he cried laughing, ‘that you do not serve me as Heichū[15] was
treated by his lady. I would rather have a red nose than a black one.’
So they passed their time, making the prettiest couple.

In the gentle spring sunshine the trees were already shimmering with a
haze of new-grown buds. Among them it was the plum-trees that gave the
surest promise, for already their blossoms were uncurling, like lips
parted in a faint smile. Earliest of them all was a red plum that grew
beside the covered steps. It was in full colour. ‘Though fair the tree
on which it blooms, this red flower fills me with a strange
misgiving,’[16] sang Genji with a deep sigh.

We shall see in the next chapter what happened in the end to all these
people.

[1] The events of this chapter are synchronous with those of the last.

[2] Wine, zithern and song—in allusion to a poem by Po Chü-i.

[3] Evidently a quotation.

[4] Chūjō’s child by Yūgao.

[5] Used to scent clothes with.

[6] The bell which the Zen-master strikes when it is time for his pupils
to fall into silent meditation.

[7] To Lady Rokujō.

[8] _Pi-sē_. See Hetherington, _Early Ceramic Wares of China_,
pp. 71–73.

[9] _Manyōshū_, 893.

[10]The Bodhisattva Samantabhadra rides on a white elephant with a red
trunk.

[11] _Suyetsumuhana_, by which name, the princess is subsequently
alluded to in the story.

[12] I.e. the redness of the princess’s nose.

[13] A popular song about a lady who suffered from the same defect as
the princess.

[14] Genji’s poem is an allusion to a well-known _uta_ which runs:
‘Must we who once would not allow even the thickness of a garment to
part us be now far from each other for whole nights on end?’

[15] He used to splash his cheeks with water from a little bottle in
order that she might think he was weeping at her unkindness. She
exposed this device by mixing ink with the water.

[16] The reference of course is to the princess. ‘Though fair the
tree’ refers to her high birth.




                            CHAPTER VII

                     THE FESTIVAL OF RED LEAVES


The imperial visit to the Red Sparrow Court was to take place on the
tenth day of the Godless Month. It was to be a more magnificent sight
this year than it had ever been before and the ladies of the Palace
were very disappointed that they could not be present.[1] The Emperor
too could not bear that Fujitsubo should miss the spectacle, and he
decided to hold a grand rehearsal in the Palace. Prince Genji danced
the ‘Waves of the Blue Sea.’ Tō no Chūjō was his partner; but though
both in skill and beauty he far surpassed the common run of
performers, yet beside Genji he seemed like a mountain fir growing
beside a cherry-tree in bloom. There was a wonderful moment when the
rays of the setting sun fell upon him and the music grew suddenly
louder. Never had the onlookers seen feet tread so delicately nor head
so exquisitely poised; and in the song which follows the first
movement of the dance his voice was sweet as that of Kalavinka[2]
whose music is Buddha’s Law. So moving and beautiful was this dance
that at the end of it the Emperor’s eyes were wet, and all the princes
and great gentlemen wept aloud. When the song was over and,
straightening his long dancer’s sleeves, he stood waiting for the
music to begin again and at last the more lively tune of the second
movement struck up,—then indeed, with his flushed and eager face,
he merited more than ever his name of Genji the Shining One. The
Princess Kōkiden[3] did not at all like to see her step-son’s beauty
arousing so much enthusiasm and she said sarcastically ‘He is
altogether too beautiful. Presently we shall have a god coming down
from the sky to fetch him away.’[4] Her young waiting-ladies noticed
the spiteful tone in which the remark was made and felt somewhat
embarrassed. As for Fujitsubo, she kept on telling herself that were
it not for the guilty secret which was shared between them the dance
she was now witnessing would be filling her with wonder and delight.
As it was, she sat as though in a dream, hardly knowing what went on
around her.

Now she was back in her own room. The Emperor was with her. ‘At
to-day’s rehearsal’ he said, ‘The “Waves of the Blue Sea” went
perfectly.’ Then, noticing that she made no response, ‘What did you
think of it?’ ‘Yes, it was very good,’ she managed to say at last.
‘The partner did not seem to me bad either,’ he went on; ‘there is
always something about the way a gentleman moves and uses his hands
which distinguishes his dancing from that of professionals. Some of
our crack dancing-masters have certainly made very clever performers
of their own children; but they never have the same freshness, the
same charm as the young people of our class. They expended so much
effort on the rehearsal that I am afraid the festival itself may seem
a very poor affair. No doubt they took all this trouble because they
knew that you were here at the rehearsal and would not see the real
performance.’

Next morning she received a letter from Genji: ‘What of the rehearsal?
How little the people who watched me knew of the turmoil that all
the while was seething in my brain!’ And to this he added the
poem: ‘When sick with love I yet sprang to my feet and capered
with the rest, knew you what meant the fevered waving of my long
dancing-sleeve?’ Next he enjoined secrecy and prudence upon her, and
so his letter ended. Her answer showed that despite her agitation she
had not been wholly insensible to what had fascinated all other eyes:
‘Though from far off a man of China waved his long dancing-sleeves,
yet did his every motion fill my heart with wonder and delight.’

To receive such a letter from her was indeed a surprise. It charmed
him that her knowledge should extend even to the Court customs of a
land beyond the sea. Already there was a regal note in her words. Yes,
that was the end to which she was destined. Smiling to himself with
pleasure he spread the letter out before him, grasping it tightly in
both hands as a priest holds the holy book, and gazed at it for a long
while.

On the day of the festival the royal princes and all the great
gentlemen of the Court were in attendance. Even the Heir Apparent went
with the procession. After the music-boats had rowed round the lake
dance upon dance was performed, both Korean and of the land beyond the
sea. The whole valley resounded with the noise of music and drums. The
Emperor insisted upon treating Genji’s performance at the rehearsal as
a kind of miracle or religious portent, and ordered special services
to be read in every temple. Most people thought this step quite
reasonable; but Princess Kōkiden said crossly that she saw no
necessity for it. The Ring[5] was by the Emperor’s order composed
indifferently of commoners and noblemen chosen out of the whole realm
for their skill and grace. The two Masters of Ceremony, Sayemon no
Kami and Uyemon no Kami, were in charge of the left and right
wings of the orchestra. Dancing-masters and others were entrusted with
the task of seeking out performers of unusual merit and training them
for the festival in their own houses. When at last under the red
leafage of tall autumn trees forty men stood circle-wise with their
flutes and to the music that they made a strong wind from the hills
sweeping the pine-woods added its fierce harmonies, while from amid a
wreckage of whirling and scattered leaves the Dance of the Blue Waves
suddenly broke out in all its glittering splendour,—a rapture seized
the onlookers that was akin to fear.

The maple-wreath that Genji wore had suffered in the wind and thinking
that the few red leaves which clung to it had a desolate air the
Minister of the Left[6] plucked a bunch of chrysanthemums from among
those that grew before the Emperor’s seat and twined them in the
dancer’s wreath.

At sunset the sky clouded over and it looked like rain. But even the
weather seemed conscious that such sights as this would not for a long
while be seen again, and till all was over not a drop fell. His Exit
Dance, crowned as he was with this unspeakably beautiful wreath of
many coloured flowers, was even more astonishing than that wonderful
moment on the day of the rehearsal and seemed to the thrilled
onlookers like the vision of another world. Humble and ignorant folk
sitting afar on tree-roots or beneath some rock, or half-buried in
deep banks of fallen leaves—few were so hardened that they did not
shed a tear. Next came the ‘Autumn Wind’ danced by Lady Jōkyōden’s
son[7] who was still a mere child. The remaining performances
attracted little attention, for the audience had had its fill of
wonders and felt that whatever followed could but spoil the
recollection of what had gone before.

That night Genji was promoted to the First Class of the Third Rank and
Tō no Chūjō was promoted to intermediate standing between the First
and Second Classes of the Fourth Rank. The gentlemen of the court were
all promoted one rank. But though they celebrated their good fortune
with the usual rejoicings they were well aware that they had only been
dragged in Genji’s wake and wondered how it was that their destinies
had come to be linked in this curious way with those of the prince who
had brought them this unexpected piece of good fortune.

Fujitsubo now retired to her own house and Genji, waiting about for a
chance of visiting her, was seldom at the Great Hall and was
consequently in very ill odour there. It was soon after this that he
brought the child Murasaki to live with him. Aoi heard a rumour of
this, but it reached her merely in the form that someone was living
with him at his palace and she did not know that it was a child. Under
these circumstances it was quite natural that she should feel much
aggrieved. But if only she had flown into an honest passion and abused
him for it as most people would have done, he would have told her
everything and put matters right. As it was, she only redoubled her
icy aloofness and thus led him to seek those very distractions of
which it was intended as a rebuke. Not only was her beauty so flawless
that it could not fail to win his admiration, but also the mere fact
that he had known her since so long ago, before all the rest, made him
feel towards her a tenderness of which she seemed quite unaware. He
was convinced however that her nature was not at bottom narrow and
vindictive, and this gave him some hope that she would one day relent.

Meanwhile as he got to know little Murasaki better he became the more
content both with her appearance and her character. She at least gave
him her whole heart. For the present he did not intend to reveal her
identity even to the servants in his own palace. She continued to
use the somewhat outlying western wing which had now been put into
excellent order, and here Genji constantly came to see her. He gave
her all kinds of lessons, writing exercises for her to copy and
treating her in every way as though she were a little daughter who had
been brought up by foster-parents, but had now come to live with him.
He chose her servants with great care and gave orders that they should
do everything in their power to make her comfortable; but no one
except Koremitsu knew who the child was or how she came to be living
there. Nor had her father discovered what had become of her.

The little girl still sometimes thought of the past and then she would
feel for a while very lonely without her grandmother. When Genji was
there she forgot her sorrow; but in the evening he was very seldom at
home. She was sorry that he was so busy and when he hurried every
evening to some strange place or other she missed him terribly; but
she was never angry with him. Sometimes for two or three days on end
he would be at the Palace or the Great Hall and when he returned he
would find her very tearful and depressed. Then he felt just as though
he were neglecting some child of his own, whose mother had died and
left it in his keeping, and for a while he grew uneasy about his night
excursions.

The priest was puzzled when he heard that Genji had taken Murasaki to
live with him, but saw no harm in it and was delighted that she should
be so well cared for. He was gratified too when Genji begged that the
services in the dead nun’s memory should be celebrated with special
pomp and magnificence.

When he went to Fujitsubo’s palace, anxious to see for himself whether
she was keeping her health, he was met by a posse of waiting-women
(Myōbus, Chūnagons, Nakatsukasas and the like) and Fujitsubo
herself showed, to his great disappointment, no sign of appearing.
They gave a good account of her, which somewhat allayed his anxiety,
and had passed on to general gossip when it was announced that Prince
Hyōbukyō[8] had arrived. Genji at once went out to speak to him. This
time Genji thought him extremely handsome and there was a softness, a
caressing quality in his manner (Genji was watching him more closely
than he knew) which was feminine enough to make his connection with
Fujitsubo and Murasaki at once uppermost in the mind of his observer.
It was, then, as the brother of the one and the father of the other
that the new-comer at once created a feeling of intimacy, and they had
a long conversation. Hyōbukyō could not fail to notice that Genji was
suddenly treating him with an affection which he had never displayed
before. He was naturally very much gratified, not realizing that Genji
had now, in a sense, become his son-in-law. It was getting late and
Hyōbukyō was about to join his sister in another room. It was with
bitterness that Genji remembered how long ago the Emperor had brought
her to play with him. In those days he ran in and out of her room just
as he chose; now he could not address her save in precarious messages.
She was as inaccessible, as remote as one person conceivably could be
from another, and finding the situation intolerable, he said politely
to Prince Hyōbukyō: ‘I wish I saw you more often; unless there is some
special reason for seeing people, I am lazy about it. But if you ever
felt inclined to send for me, I should be delighted ...’ and he
hurried away.

Ōmyōbu, the gentlewoman who had contrived Genji’s meeting with
Fujitsubo, seeing her mistress relapse into a steady gloom and vexed
at her belated caution was all the time doing her best to bring the
lovers together again; but days and months went by and still all
her efforts were in vain; while they, poor souls, strove desperately
to put away from them this love that was a perpetual disaster.

At Genji’s palace Shōnagon, the little girl’s nurse, finding herself
in a world of unimagined luxuries and amenities, could only attribute
this good fortune to the success of the late nun’s prayers. The Lord
Buddha to whose protection the dying lady had so fervently recommended
her grand-daughter had indeed made handsome provision for her. There
were of course certain disadvantages. The haughtiness of Aoi was not
only in itself to be feared, but it seemed to have the consequence of
driving Prince Genji to seek distractions right and left, which would
be very unpleasant for the little princess so soon as she was old
enough to realize it. Yet so strong a preference did he show for the
child’s company that Shōnagon did not altogether lose heart.

It being then three months since her grandmother died Murasaki came
out of mourning at the end of the Godless Month. But it was thought
proper since she was to be brought up as an orphan that she should
still avoid patterned stuffs, and she wore a little tunic of plain
red, brown or yellow, in which she nevertheless looked very smart and
gay.

He came to have a look at her before going off to the New Year’s Day
reception at Court. ‘From to-day onwards you are a grown-up lady,’ he
said, and as he stood smiling at her he looked so charming and
friendly that she could not bear him to go, and hoping that he would
stay and play with her a little while longer she got out her toys.
There was a doll’s kitchen only three feet high but fitted out with
all the proper utensils, and a whole collection of little houses which
Genji had made for her. Now she had got them all spread out over the
floor so that it was difficult to move without treading on them.
‘Little Inu broke them yesterday,’ she explained ‘when he was
pretending to drive out the Old Year’s demons, and I am mending them.’
She was evidently in great trouble. ‘What a tiresome child he is,’
said Genji. ‘I will get them mended for you. Come, you must not cry on
New Year’s Day,’ and he went out. Many of the servants had collected
at the end of the corridor to see him starting out for the Court in
all his splendour. Murasaki too went out and watched him. When she
came back she put a grand dress on one of her dolls and did a
performance with it which she called ‘Prince Genji visiting the
Emperor.’ ‘This year,’ said Shōnagon, looking on with disapproval,
‘you must really try not to be such a baby. It is time little girls
stopped playing with dolls when they are ten years old, and now that
you have got a kind gentleman wanting to be your husband you ought to
try and show him that you can behave like a nice little grown-up lady
or he will get tired of waiting.’ She said this because she thought
that it must be painful for Genji to see the child still so intent
upon her games and be thus reminded that she was a mere baby. Her
admonishment had the effect of making Murasaki for the first time
aware that Genji was to be her husband. She knew all about husbands.
Many of the maid-servants had them, but such ugly ones! She was very
glad that hers was so much younger and handsomer. Nevertheless the
mere fact that she thought about the matter at all showed that she was
beginning to grow up a little. Her childish ways and appearance were
by no means so great a misfortune as Shōnagon supposed, for they went
a long way towards allaying the suspicions which the child’s presence
might otherwise have aroused in Genji’s somewhat puzzled household.

When he returned from Court he went straight to the Great Hall. Aoi
was as perfect as ever, and just as unfriendly. This never failed to
wound Genji. ‘If only you had changed with the New Year, had
become a little less cold and forbidding, how happy I should be!’ he
exclaimed. But she had heard that someone was living with him and had
at once made up her mind that she herself had been utterly supplanted
and put aside. Hence she was more sullen than ever; but he pretended
not to notice it and by his gaiety and gentleness at last induced
her to answer when he spoke. Was it her being four years older
than him that made her seem so unapproachable, so exasperatingly
well-regulated? But that was not fair. What fault could he possibly
find in her? She was perfect in every respect and he realized that if
she was sometimes out of humour this was solely the result of his own
irregularities. She was after all the daughter of a Minister, and of
the Minister who above all others enjoyed the greatest influence and
esteem. She was the only child of the Emperor’s sister and had been
brought up with a full sense of her own dignity and importance. The
least slight, the merest hint of disrespect came to her as a complete
surprise. To Genji all these pretensions naturally seemed somewhat
exaggerated and his failure to make allowances for them increased her
hostility.

Aoi’s father was vexed by Genji’s seeming fickleness, but so soon as
he was with him he forgot all his grievances and was always extremely
nice to him. When Genji was leaving next day his father-in-law came to
his room and helped him to dress, bringing in his own hands a belt
which was an heirloom famous far and wide. He pulled straight the back
of Genji’s robe which had become a little crumpled, and indeed short
of bringing him his shoes performed in the friendliest way every
possible small service. ‘This,’ said Genji handing back the belt, ‘is
for Imperial banquets or other great occasions of that kind.’ ‘I have
others much more valuable,’ said the Minister, ‘which I will give you
for the Imperial banquets. This one is not of much account save
that the workmanship of it is rather unusual,’ and despite Genji’s
protests he insisted upon buckling it round him. The performance of
such services was his principal interest in life. What did it matter
if Genji was rather irregular in his visits? To have so agreeable a
young man going in and out of one’s house at all was the greatest
pleasure he could imagine.

Genji did not pay many New Year’s visits. First he went to the
Emperor, then the Heir Apparent and the Ex-Emperor, and after that to
Princess Fujitsubo’s house in the Third Ward. As they saw him enter
the servants of the house noticed how much he had grown and altered in
the last year. ‘Look how he has filled out,’ they said, ‘even since
his last visit!’ Of the Princess herself he was only allowed a distant
glimpse. It gave him many forebodings. Her child had been expected in
the twelfth month and her condition was now causing some anxiety. That
it would at any rate be born some time during the first weeks of the
New Year was confidently assumed by her own people and had been stated
at Court. But the first month went by and still nothing happened. It
began to be rumoured that she was suffering from some kind of
possession or delusion. She herself grew very depressed; she felt
certain that when the event at last happened she would not survive it
and she worried so much about herself that she became seriously ill.
The delay made Genji more certain than ever of his own responsibility
and he arranged secretly for prayers on her behalf to be said in all
the great temples. He had already become firmly convinced that
whatever might happen concerning the child Fujitsubo was herself
utterly doomed when he heard that about the tenth day of the second
month she had successfully given birth to a boy. The news brought
great satisfaction both to the Emperor and the whole court.

The Emperor’s fervent prayers for her life and for that of a child
which she knew was not his, distressed and embarrassed her; whereas,
when the maliciously gloomy prognostications of Kōkiden and the rest
were brought to her notice, she was at once filled with a perverse
desire to disappoint their hopes and make them look ridiculous in the
eyes of those to whom they had confided their forebodings. By a great
effort of will she threw off the despair which had been weighing down
upon her and began little by little to recover her usual vigour.

The Emperor was impatient to see Fujitsubo’s child and so too (though
he was forced to conceal his interest in the matter) was Genji
himself. Accordingly he went to her palace when there were not many
people about and sent in a note offering as the Emperor was in such a
state of impatience to see the child and etiquette forbade him to do
so for several weeks, to look at the child himself and report upon its
appearance to the Emperor. She replied that she would rather he saw it
on a day when it was less peevish; but in reality her refusal had
nothing to do with the state of the child’s temper; she could not bear
the idea of his seeing it at all. Already it bore an astonishing
resemblance to him; of that she was convinced. Always there lurked in
her heart the torturing demon of fear. Soon others would see the child
and instantly know with absolute certainty the secret of her swift
transgression. What charity towards such a crime as this would a world
have that gossips if a single hair is awry? Such thoughts continually
tormented her and she again became weary of her life.

From time to time he saw Ōmyōbu, but though he still implored her to
arrange a meeting none of his many arguments availed him. He also
pestered her with so many questions about the child that she exclaimed
at last: ‘Why do you go on plaguing me like this? You will be
seeing him for yourself soon, when he is shown at Court.’ But though
she spoke impatiently she knew quite well what he was suffering and
felt for him deeply. The matter was not one which he could discuss
except with Fujitsubo herself, and it was impossible to see her. Would
he indeed ever again see her alone or communicate with her save
through notes and messengers? And half-weeping with despair he recited
the verse: ‘What guilty intercourse must ours have been in some life
long ago, that now so cruel a barrier should be set between us?’
Ōmyōbu seeing that it cost her mistress a great struggle to do without
him was at pains not to dismiss him too unkindly and answered with the
verse: ‘Should you see the child my lady would be in torment; and
because you have not seen it you are full of lamentations. Truly have
children been called a black darkness that leads the parents’ heart
astray!’ And coming closer she whispered to him ‘Poor souls, it is a
hard fate that has overtaken you both.’ Thus many times and again he
returned to his house desperate. Fujitsubo meanwhile, fearing lest
Genji’s continual visits should attract notice, began to suspect that
Ōmyōbu was secretly encouraging him and no longer felt the same
affection for her. She did not want this to be noticed and tried to
treat her just as usual; but her irritation was bound sometimes to
betray itself and Ōmyōbu, feeling that her mistress was estranged from
her and at a loss to find any reason for it, was very miserable.

It was not till its fourth month that the child was brought to the
Palace. It was large for its age and had already begun to take a great
interest in what went on around it. Its extraordinary resemblance to
Genji was not remarked upon by the Emperor who had an idea that
handsome children were all very much alike at that age. He became
intensely devoted to the child and lavished every kind of care and
attention upon it. For Genji himself he had always had so great a
partiality that, had it not been for popular opposition, he would
certainly have installed him as Heir Apparent. That he had not been
able to do so constantly distressed him. To have produced so
magnificent a son and be obliged to watch him growing up a mere
nobleman had always been galling to him. Now in his old age a son had
been born to him who promised to be equally handsome and had not the
tiresome disadvantage of a plebeian mother, and upon this flawless
pearl he expended his whole affection. The mother saw little chance of
this rapture continuing and was all this while in a state of agonized
apprehension.

One day, when as he had been wont to do before, Genji was making music
for her at the Emperor’s command, His Majesty took the child in his
arms saying to Genji: ‘I have had many children, but you were the only
other one that I ever behaved about in this fashion. It may be my
fancy, but it seems to me this child is exactly like what you were at
the same age. However, I suppose all babies are very much alike while
they are as small as this,’ and he looked at the fine child with
admiration. A succession of violent emotions—terror, shame, pride and
love—passed through Genji’s breast while these words were being
spoken, and were reflected in his rapidly changing colour. He was
almost in tears. The child looked so exquisitely beautiful as it lay
crowing to itself and smiling that, hideous as the situation was,
Genji could not help feeling glad it was thought to be like him.
Fujitsubo meanwhile was in a state of embarrassment and agitation so
painful that a cold sweat broke out upon her while she sat by. For
Genji this jarring of opposite emotions was too much to be borne and
he went home. Here he lay tossing on his bed and, unable to
distract himself, he determined after a while to go to the Great Hall.
As he passed by the flower-beds in front of his house he noticed that
a faint tinge of green was already filming the bushes and under them
the _tokonatsu_[9] were already in bloom. He plucked one and sent it
to Ōmyōbu with a long letter and an acrostic poem in which he said
that he was touched by the likeness of this flower to the child, but
also hinted that he was perturbed by the child’s likeness to himself.
‘In this flower,’ he continued despondently, ‘I had hoped to see your
beauty enshrined. But now I know that being mine yet not mine it can
bring me no comfort to look upon it.’ After waiting a little while
till a favourable moment should arise Ōmyōbu showed her mistress the
letter, saying with a sigh ‘I fear that your answer will be but dust
to the petals of this thirsting flower.’ But Fujitsubo, in whose heart
also the new spring was awakening a host of tender thoughts, wrote in
answer the poem: ‘Though it alone be the cause that these poor sleeves
are wet with dew, yet goes my heart still with it, this child-flower
of Yamato Land.’ This was all and it was roughly scribbled in a faint
hand, but it was a comfort to Ōmyōbu to have even such a message as
this to bring back. Genji knew quite well that it could lead to
nothing. How many times had she sent him such messages before! Yet as
he lay dejectedly gazing at the note, the mere sight of her
handwriting soon stirred in him a frenzy of unreasoning excitement and
delight. For a while he lay restlessly tossing on his bed. At last
unable to remain any longer inactive he sprang up and went, as he had
so often done before, to the western wing to seek distraction from the
agitated thoughts which pursued him. He came towards the women’s
apartments with his hair loose upon his shoulders, wearing a queer
dressing-gown and, in order to amuse Murasaki, playing a tune on
his flute as he walked. He peeped in at the door. She looked as she
lay there for all the world like the fresh dewy flower that he had so
recently plucked. She was growing a little bit spoilt and having heard
some while ago that he had returned from Court she was rather cross
with him for not coming to see her at once. She did not run to meet
him as she usually did, but lay with her head turned away. He called
to her from the far side of the room to get up and come to him, but
she did not stir. Suddenly he heard that she was murmuring to herself
the lines ‘Like a sea-flower that the waters have covered when a great
tide mounts the shore.’ They were from an old poem[10] that he had
taught her, in which a lady complains that she is neglected by her
lover. She looked bewitching as she lay with her face half-sullenly,
half-coquettishly buried in her sleeve. ‘How naughty,’ he cried.
‘Really you are becoming too witty. But if you saw me more often
perhaps you would grow tired of me.’ Then he sent for his zithern and
asked her to play to him. But it was a big Chinese instrument[11] with
thirteen strings; the five slender strings in the middle embarrassed
her and she could not get the full sound out of them. Taking it from
her he shifted the bridge, and tuning it to a lower pitch played a few
chords upon it and bade her try again. Her sullen mood was over. She
began to play very prettily; sometimes, when there was a gap too long
for one small hand to stretch, helping herself out so adroitly with
the other hand that Genji was completely captivated and taking up his
flute taught her a number of new tunes. She was very quick and grasped
the most complicated rhythms at a single hearing. She had indeed in
music as in all else just those talents with which it most delighted
him that she should be endowed. When he played the Hosoroguseri (which
in spite of its absurd name is an excellent tune) she accompanied
him though with a childish touch, yet in perfect time.

The great lamp was brought in and they began looking at pictures
together. But Genji was going out that night. Already his attendants
were assembled in the courtyard outside. One of them was saying that a
storm was coming on. He ought not to wait any longer. Again Murasaki
was unhappy. She was not looking at the pictures, but sat with her
head on her hands staring despondently at the floor. Stroking the
lovely hair that had fallen forward across her lap Genji asked her if
she missed him when he was away. She nodded. ‘I am just the same,’ he
said. ‘If I miss seeing you for a single day I am terribly unhappy.
But you are only a little girl and I know that whatever I do you will
not think harsh thoughts about me; while the lady that I go to see is
very jealous and angry so that it would break her heart if I were to
stay with you too long. But I do not at all like being there and that
is why I just go for a little while like this. When you are grown up
of course I shall never go away at all. I only go now because if I did
not she would be so terribly angry with me that I might very likely
die[12] and then there would be no one to love you and take care of
you at all.’ He had told her all he could, but still she was offended
and would not answer a word. At last he took her on his knee and here
to his great embarrassment she fell asleep. ‘It is too late to go out
now,’ he said after a while, turning to the gentlewomen who were in
attendance. They rose and went to fetch his supper. He roused the
child. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I did not go out after all.’ She was happy
once more and they went to supper together. She liked the queer,
irregular meal, but when it was over she began again to watch him
uneasily. ‘If you are really not going out,’ she said, ‘why do
you not go to sleep at once?’ Leaving her at such a moment to go back
to his room he felt all the reluctance of one who is setting out upon
a long and perilous journey.

It constantly happened that at the last minute he thus decided to stay
with her. It was natural that some report of his new pre-occupation
should leak out into the world and be passed on to the Great Hall.
‘Who can it be?’ said one of Aoi’s ladies. ‘It is really the most
inexplicable business. How can he have suddenly become entirely
wrapped up in someone whom we had never heard the existence of before?
It cannot in any case be a person of much breeding or self-respect. It
is probably some girl employed at the Palace whom he has taken to live
with him in order that the affair may be hushed up. No doubt he is
circulating the story that she is a child merely in order to put us
off the scent.’ And this opinion was shared by the rest.

The Emperor too had heard that there was someone living with Genji and
thought it a great pity. ‘You are treating the Minister very badly,’
he said. ‘He has shown the greatest possible devotion to you ever
since you were a mere baby and now that you are old enough to know
better you behave like this towards him and his family! It is really
most ungrateful.’

Genji listened respectfully, but made no reply. The Emperor began to
fear that his marriage with Aoi had proved a very unhappy one and was
sorry that he had arranged it. ‘I do not understand you,’ he said.
‘You seem to have no taste for gallantry and do not, so far as I can
see, take the slightest interest in any of the ladies-in-waiting whom
one might expect you to find attractive, nor do you bother yourself
about the various beauties who in one part of the town or another are
now in request; but instead you must needs pick up some creature from
no one knows where and wound the feelings of others by keeping
her as your mistress!’

Though he was now getting on in years the Emperor had himself by no
means ceased to be interested in such matters. He had always seen to
it that his ladies-in-waiting and palace-servants should be remarkable
both for their looks and their intelligence, and it was a time when
the Court was full of interesting women. There were few among them
whom Genji could not by the slightest word or gesture have made his
own. But, perhaps because he saw too much of them, he did not find
them in the least attractive. Suspecting this, they would occasionally
experiment upon him with some frivolous remark. He answered so staidly
that they saw a flirtation would be impossible and some of them came
to the conclusion that he was rather a dull, prudish young man.

There was an elderly lady-of-the-bedchamber who, though she was an
excellent creature in every other way and was very much liked and
respected, was an outrageous flirt. It astonished Genji that despite
her advancing years she showed no sign of reforming her reckless and
fantastic behaviour. Curious to see how she would take it he one day
came up and began joking with her. She appeared to be quite
unconscious of the disparity between their ages and at once counted
him as an admirer. Slightly alarmed, he nevertheless found her company
rather agreeable and often talked with her. But, chiefly because he
was frightened of being laughed at if anyone found out, he refused to
become her lover, and this she very much resented. One day she was
dressing the Emperor’s hair. When this was over his Majesty sent for
his valets and went with them into another room. Genji and the elderly
lady were left alone together. She was fuller than ever of languishing
airs and poses, and her costume was to the last degree stylish and
elaborate. ‘Poor creature,’ he thought, ‘How little difference it
all makes!’ and he was passing her on his way out of the room when
suddenly the temptation to give a tug at her dress became
irresistible. She glanced swiftly round, eyeing him above the rim of a
marvellously painted summer-fan. The eyelids beneath which she ogled
at him were blackened and sunken; wisps of hair projected untidily
around her forehead. There was something singularly inappropriate
about this gawdy, coquettish fan. Handing her his own instead, he took
it from her and examined it. On paper coated with a red so thick and
lustrous that you could see yourself reflected in it a forest of tall
trees was painted in gold. At the side of this design, in a hand which
though out-of-date was not lacking in distinction was written the poem
about the Forest of Oaraki.[13] He made no doubt that the owner of the
fan had written it in allusion to her own advancing years and was
expecting him to make a gallant reply. Turning over in his mind how
best to divert the extravagant ardour of this strange creature he
could, to his own amusement, think only of another poem[14] about the
same forest; but to this it would have been ill-bred to allude. He was
feeling very uncomfortable lest someone should come in and see them
together. She however was quite at her ease and seeing that he
remained silent she recited with many arch looks the poem: ‘Come to me
in the forest and I will cut pasture for your horse, though it be but
of the under leaf whose season is past.’ ‘Should I seek your
woodland,’ he answered, ‘my fair name would be gone, for down its
glades at all times the pattering of hoofs is heard,’ and he tried to
get away; but she held him back saying: ‘How odious you are! That is
not what I mean at all. No one has ever insulted me like this
before,’ and she burst into tears. ‘Let us talk about it some other
time,’ said Genji; ‘I did not mean ...’ and freeing himself from her
grasp he rushed out of the room, leaving her in great dudgeon. She
felt indeed after his repulse prodigiously old and tottering. All this
was seen by His Majesty who, his toilet long ago completed, had
watched the ill-assorted pair with great amusement from behind his
Imperial screen. ‘I am always being told,’ he said, ‘that the boy
takes no interest in the members of my household. But I cannot say
that he seems to me unduly shy,’ and he laughed. For a moment she was
slightly embarrassed; but she felt that any relationship with Genji,
even if it consisted of being rebuffed by him in public, was
distinctly a feather in her cap, and she made no attempt to defend
herself against the Emperor’s raillery. The story soon went the round
of the Court. It astonished no one more than Tō no Chūjō who, though
he knew that Genji was given to odd experiments, could not believe
that his friend was really launched upon the fantastic courtship which
rumour was attributing to him. There seemed no better way of
discovering whether it was conceivably possible to regard the lady in
such a light than to make love to her himself.

The attentions of so distinguished a suitor went a long way towards
consoling her for her late discomfiture. Her new intrigue was of
course carried on with absolute secrecy and Genji knew nothing about
it. When he next met her she seemed to be very cross with him, and
feeling sorry for her because she was so old he made up his mind that
he must try to console her. But for a long while he was completely
occupied by tiresome business of one kind and another. At last one
very dismal rainy evening when he was strolling in the neighbourhood
of the Ummeiden[15] he heard this lady playing most agreeably on
her lute. She was so good a performer that she was often called upon
to play with the professional male musicians in the Imperial
orchestra. It happened that at this moment she was somewhat downcast
and discontented, and in such a mood she played with even greater
feeling and verve. She was singing the ‘Melon-grower’s Song’[16];
admirably, he thought, despite its inappropriateness to her age. So
must the voice of the mysterious lady at O-chou have sounded in Po
Chü-i’s ears when he heard her singing on her boat at night[17]; and
he stood listening. At the end of the song the player sighed heavily
as though quite worn out by the passionate vehemence of her serenade.
Genji approached softly humming the ‘Azumaya’: ‘Here in the portico of
the eastern house rain splashes on me while I wait. Come, my beloved,
open the door and let me in.’ Immediately, indeed with an unseemly
haste, she answered as does the lady in the song ‘Open the door and
come in,’[18] adding the verse: ‘In the wide shelter of that portico
no man yet was ever splashed with rain,’ and again she sighed so
portentously that although he did not at all suppose that he alone was
the cause of this demonstration he felt it in any case to be somewhat
exaggerated and answered with the poem: ‘Your sighs show clearly that,
despite the song, you are another’s bride, and I for my part have no
mind to haunt the loggias of your eastern house.’ He would gladly have
passed on, but he felt that this would be too unkind, and seeing that
someone else was coming towards her room he stepped inside and
began talking lightly of indifferent subjects, in a style which though
it was in reality somewhat forced she found very entertaining.

It was intolerable, thought Tō no Chūjō, that Genji should be praised
as a quiet and serious young man and should constantly rebuke him for
his frivolity, while all the time he was carrying on a multiplicity of
interesting intrigues which out of mere churlishness he kept entirely
hidden from all his friends. For a long while Chūjō had been waiting
for an opportunity to expose this sanctimonious imposture, and when he
saw Genji enter the gentlewoman’s apartment you may be sure he was
delighted. To scare him a little at such a moment would be an
excellent way to punish him for his unfriendliness. He slackened his
pace and watched. The wind sighed in the trees. It was getting very
late. Surely Genji would soon begin to doze? And indeed he did now
look as though he had fallen asleep. Chūjō stole on tip-toe into the
room; but Genji who was only half dreaming instantly heard him, and
not knowing that Chūjō had followed him got it into his head that it
was a certain Commissioner of Works who years ago had been supposed to
be an admirer of the lady. The idea of being discovered in such a
situation by this important old gentleman filled him with horror.
Furious with his companion for having exposed him to the chance of
such a predicament: ‘This is too bad,’ he whispered ‘I am going home.
What possessed you to let me in on a night when you knew that someone
else was coming?’ He had only time to snatch up his cloak and hide
behind a long folding screen before Chūjō entered the room and going
straight up to the screen began in a business-like manner to fold it
up. Though she was no longer young the lady did not lose her head in
this alarming crisis. Being a woman of fashion she had on more than
one occasion found herself in an equally agitating position, and
now despite her astonishment, after considering for a moment what had
best be done with the intruder, she seized him by the back of his coat
and with a practised though trembling hand pulled him away from the
screen. Genji had still no idea that it was Chūjō. He had half a mind
to show himself, but quickly remembered that he was oddly and
inadequately clad, with his head-dress all awry. He felt that if he
ran for it he would cut much too strange a figure as he left the room,
and for a moment he hesitated. Wondering how much longer Genji would
take to recognize him Chūjō did not say a word but putting on the most
ferocious air imaginable drew his sword from the scabbard. Whereupon
the lady crying ‘Gentlemen! Gentlemen!’ flung herself between them in
an attitude of romantic supplication. They could hardly refrain from
bursting into laughter. It was only by day when very carefully painted
and bedizened that she still retained a certain superficial air of
youth and charm. But now this woman of fifty-seven or eight, disturbed
by a sudden brawl in the midst of her amours, created the most
astonishing spectacle as she knelt at the feet of two young men in
their ’teens beseeching them not to die for her. Chūjō however
refrained from showing the slightest sign of amusement and continued
to look as alarming and ferocious as he could. But he was now in full
view and Genji realized in a moment that Chūjō had all the while known
who he was and had been amusing himself at his expense. Much relieved
at this discovery he grabbed at the scabbard from which Chūjō had
drawn the sword and held it fast lest his friend should attempt to
escape and then, despite his annoyance at having been followed, burst
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. ‘Are you in your right mind?’
said Genji at last. ‘This is really a very poor sort of joke. Do you
mind letting me get into my cloak?’ Whereupon Chūjō snatched the
cloak from him and would not give it back. ‘Very well then,’ said
Genji; ‘if you are to have my cloak I must have yours,’ and so saying
he pulled open the clasp of Chūjō’s belt and began tugging his cloak
from his shoulders. Chūjō resisted and a long tussle followed in which
the cloak was torn to shreds. ‘Should you now get it in exchange for
yours, this tattered cloak will but reveal the secrets it is meant to
hide,’ recited Tō no Chūjō; to which Genji replied with an acrostic
poem in which he complained that Chūjō with whom he shared so many
secrets should have thought it necessary to spy upon him in this
fashion. But neither was really angry with the other and setting their
disordered costumes to rights they both took their departure. Genji
discovered when he was alone that it had indeed upset him very much to
find his movements had been watched, and he could not sleep. The lady
felt utterly bewildered. On the floor she found a belt and a buckle
which she sent to Genji next day with a complicated acrostic poem in
which she compared these stranded properties to the weeds which after
their straining and tugging the waves leave upon the shore. She added
an allusion to the crystal river of her tears. He was irritated by her
persistency but distressed at the shock to which she had been
subjected by Chūjō’s foolish joke, and he answered with the poem: ‘At
the antics of the prancing wave you have good cause to be angry; but
blameless indeed is the shore on whose sands it lashed.’ The belt was
Chūjō’s; that was plain for it was darker in colour than his own
cloak. And as he examined his cloak he noticed that the lower half of
one sleeve was torn away. What a mess everything was in! He told
himself with disgust that he was becoming a rowdy, a vulgar
night-brawler. Such people, he knew, were always tearing their clothes
and making themselves ridiculous. It was time to reform.

The missing sleeve soon arrived from Chūjō’s apartments with the
message: ‘Had you not better have this sewn on before you wear your
cloak?’ How had he managed to get hold of it? Such tricks were very
tiresome and silly. But he supposed he must now give back the belt,
and wrapping it in paper of the same colour he sent it with a riddling
poem in which he said that he would not keep it lest he should make
trouble between Chūjō and the lady. ‘You have dragged her away from me
as in the scuffle you snatched from me this belt,’ said Chūjō in his
answering poem, and added ‘Have I not good reason to be angry with you?’

Later in the morning they met in the Presence Room. Genji wore a
solemn and abstracted air. Chūjō could not help recollecting the
absurd scene of their last meeting, but it was a day upon which there
was a great deal of public business to dispatch and he was soon
absorbed in his duties. But from time to time each would catch sight
of the other’s serious face and heavy official bearing, and then they
could not help smiling. In an interval Chūjō came up to Genji and
asked him in a low voice whether he had decided in future to be a
little more communicative about his affairs. ‘No, indeed,’ said Genji;
‘but I feel I owe you an apology for preventing you from spending a
happy hour with the lady whom you had come to visit. Everything in
life seems to go wrong.’ So they whispered and at the end each
solemnly promised the other not to speak of the matter to anybody. But
to the two of them it furnished a constant supply of jokes for a long
while to come, though Genji took the matter to heart more than he
showed and was determined never to get mixed up with such a tiresome
creature again. He heard however that the lady was still much ruffled,
and fearing that there might be no one at hand to comfort her he had
not the heart quite to discontinue his visits.

Chūjō, faithful to his promise, did not mention the affair to
anyone, not even to his sister, but kept it as a weapon of
self-defence should Genji ever preach high morality to him again.

Such marked preference did the Emperor show in his treatment of Genji
that even the other princes of the Blood Royal stood somewhat in awe
of him. But Tō no Chūjō was ready to dispute with him on any subject,
and was by no means inclined always to let him have his own way. He
and Aoi were the only children of the Emperor’s sister. Genji, it is
true, was the Emperor’s son; but though Chūjō’s father was only a
Minister his influence was far greater than that of his colleagues,
and as the son of such a man by his marriage with a royal princess he
was used to being treated with the greatest deference. It had never so
much as occurred to him that he was in any way Genji’s inferior; for
he knew that as regards his person at least he had no reason to be
dissatisfied; and with most other qualities, whether of character or
intelligence, he believed himself to be very adequately endowed. Thus
a friendly rivalry grew up between the two of them and led to many
diverting incidents which it would take too long to describe.

In the seventh month two events of importance took place. An empress
was appointed[18] and Genji was raised to the rank of Counsellor. The
Emperor was intending very soon to resign the Throne. He would have
liked to proclaim his new-born child as Heir Apparent in place of
Kōkiden’s son. This was difficult, for there was no political function
which would have supported such a choice. Fujitsubo’s relations were
all members of the Imperial family[19] and Genji, to whom he might
have looked for help owing to his affiliation with the Minamoto clan,
unfortunately showed no aptitude for political intrigue. The best
he could do was at any rate to strengthen Fujitsubo’s position and
hope that later on she would be able to exert her influence. Kōkiden
heard of his intentions, and small wonder if she was distressed and
astounded. The Emperor tried to quiet her by pointing out that in a
short time her son would succeed to the Throne and that she would then
hold the equally important rank of Empress Mother. But it was indeed
hard that the mother of the Heir Apparent should be passed over in
favour of a concubine aged little more than twenty. The public tended
to take Kōkiden’s side and there was a good deal of discontent. On the
night when the new Empress was installed Genji, as a Counsellor, was
among those who accompanied her to the Middle Palace. As daughter of a
previous Empress and mother of an exquisite prince she enjoyed a
consideration at Court beyond that which her new rank would have alone
procured for her. But if it was with admiring devotion that the other
great lords of her train attended her that day, it may be imagined
with what fond yet agonized thoughts Prince Genji followed the litter
in which she rode. She seemed at last to have been raised so far
beyond his reach that scarce knowing what he did he murmured to
himself the lines: ‘Now upon love’s dark path has the last shadow
closed; for I have seen you carried to a cloud-land whither none may
climb.’

As the days and months went by the child grew more and more like
Genji. The new Empress was greatly distressed, but no one else seemed
to notice the resemblance. He was not of course so handsome; how
indeed should he have been? But both were beautiful, and the world was
content to accept their beauty without troubling to compare them, just
as it accepts both moon and sun as lovely occupants of the sky.

[1] They were not allowed to leave the palace.

[2] The bird that sings in Paradise.

[3] See above p. 19.

[4] In allusion to a boy-prince of seven years old whom the jealous
gods carried off to the sky. See the _Ōkagami_.

[5] Those who stand in a circle round the dancers while the latter
change their clothes.

[6] Reading ‘Sadaijin,’ not ‘Sadaishō.’

[7] Another illegitimate son of the Emperor; Genji’s step-brother.

[8] Fujitsubo’s brother; Murasaki’s father.

[9] Another name for the _nadeshiko_, ‘Child-of-my-heart,’ see p. 58.

[10] _Shū-i Shū_ 967.

[11] A sō no koto.

[12] That hate kills is a fundamental thesis of the book.

[13] ‘So withered is the grass beneath its trees that the young colt
will not graze there and the reapers do not come.’

[14] ‘So sweet is its shade that all the summer through its leafy
avenues are thronged,’ alluding to the lady’s many lovers.

[15] The headquarters of the Ladies of the Bedchamber.

[16] An old folk-song the refrain of which is ‘At the melon-hoeing he
said he loved me and what am I to do, what am I to do?’

[17] The poem referred to is not the famous _Lute Girl’s Song_, but a
much shorter one (_Works_ x. 8) on a similar theme. O-chou is the
modern Wu-ch‘ang in Hupeh.

[18] In the song the lady says: ‘The door is not bolted or barred.
Come quickly and talk to me. Am I another’s bride, that you should be
so careful and shy?’

[18] The rank of Empress was often not conferred till quite late in a
reign. It was of course Fujitsubo whom the Emperor chose in this case.

[19] And therefore debarred from taking part in political life.




                            CHAPTER VIII

                          THE FLOWER FEAST


About the twentieth day of the second month the Emperor gave a Chinese
banquet under the great cherry-tree of the Southern Court. Both
Fujitsubo and the Heir Apparent were to be there. Kōkiden, although
she knew that the mere presence of the Empress was sufficient to spoil
her pleasure, could not bring herself to forego so delightful an
entertainment. After some promise of rain the day turned out
magnificent; and in full sunshine, with the birds singing in every
tree, the guests (royal princes, noblemen and professional poets
alike) were handed the rhyme words which the Emperor had drawn by lot,
and set to work to compose their poems. It was with a clear and
ringing voice that Genji read out the word ‘Spring’ which he had
received as the rhyme-sound of his poem. Next came Tō no Chūjō who,
feeling that all eyes were upon him and determined to impress himself
favourably on his audience, moved with the greatest possible elegance
and grace; and when on receiving his rhyme he announced his name,
rank, and titles, he took great pains to speak pleasantly as well as
audibly. Many of the other gentlemen were rather nervous and looked
quite pale as they came forward, yet they acquitted themselves well
enough. But the professional poets, particularly owing to the high
standard of accomplishment which the Emperor’s and Heir Apparent’s
lively interest in Chinese poetry had at that time diffused
through the Court, were very ill at ease; as they crossed the long
space of the garden on their way to receive their rhymes they felt
utterly helpless. A simple Chinese verse is surely not much to ask of
a professional poet; but they all wore an expression of the deepest
gloom. One expects elderly scholars to be somewhat odd in their
movements and behaviour, and it was amusing to see the lively concern
with which the Emperor watched their various but always uncouth and
erratic methods of approaching the Throne. Needless to say a great
deal of music had been arranged for. Towards dusk the delightful dance
known as the Warbling of Spring Nightingales was performed, and when
it was over the Heir Apparent, remembering the Festival of Red Leaves,
placed a wreath on Genji’s head and pressed him so urgently that it
was impossible for him to refuse. Rising to his feet he danced very
quietly a fragment of the sleeve-turning passage in the Wave Dance. In
a few moments he was seated again, but even into this brief extract
from a long dance he managed to import an unrivalled charm and grace.
Even his father-in-law who was not in the best of humour with him was
deeply moved and found himself wiping away a tear.

‘And why have we not seen Tō no Chūjō?’ said the Heir Apparent.
Whereupon Chūjō danced the Park of Willow Flowers, giving a far more
complete performance than Genji, for no doubt he knew that he would be
called upon and had taken trouble to prepare his dance. It was a great
success and the Emperor presented him with a cloak, which everyone
said was a most unusual honour. After this the other young noblemen
who were present danced in no particular order, but it was now so dark
that it was impossible to discriminate between their performances.

Then the poems were opened and read aloud. The reading of Genji’s
verses was continually interrupted by loud murmurs of applause.
Even the professional poets were deeply impressed, and it may well be
imagined what pride the Emperor, to whom at times Genji was a source
of consolation and delight, watched him upon such an occasion as this.
Fujitsubo, when she allowed herself to glance in his direction,
marvelled that even Kōkiden could find it in her heart to hate him.
‘It is because he is fond of me; there can be no other reason,’ she
decided at last and the verse ‘Were I but a common mortal who now am
gazing at the beauty of this flower, from its sweet petals not long
should I withhold the dew of love,’ framed itself on her lips, though
she dared not utter it aloud.

It was now very late and the banquet was over. The guests had
scattered. The Empress and the Heir Apparent had both returned to the
Palace—all was still. The moon had risen very bright and clear, and
Genji, heated with wine, could not bear to quit so lovely a scene. The
people at the Palace were probably all plunged in a heavy sleep. On
such a night it was not impossible that some careless person might
have left some door unfastened, some shutter unbarred. Cautiously and
stealthily he crept towards Fujitsubo’s apartments and inspected them.
Every bolt was fast. He sighed; here there was evidently nothing to be
done. He was passing the loggia of Kōkiden’s palace when he noticed
that the shutters of the third arch were not drawn. After the banquet
Kōkiden herself had gone straight to the Emperor’s rooms. There did
not seem to be anyone about. A door leading from the loggia into the
house was standing open, but he could hear no sound within. ‘It is
under just such circumstances as this that one is apt to drift into
compromising situations,’ thought Genji. Nevertheless he climbed
quietly on to the balustrade and peeped. Every one must be asleep. But
no; a very agreeable young voice with an intonation which was
certainly not that of any waiting-woman or common person was softly
humming the last two lines of the _Oborozuki-yo_.[1] Was not the voice
coming towards him? It seemed so, and stretching out his hand he
suddenly found that he was grasping a lady’s sleeve. ‘Oh, how you
frightened me,’ she cried. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Do not be alarmed,’ he
whispered. ‘That both of us were not content to miss the beauty of
this departing night is proof more clear than the half-clouded moon
that we were meant to meet,’ and as he recited the words he took her
gently by the hand and led her into the house, closing the door behind
them. Her surprised and puzzled air fascinated him. ‘There is someone
there,’ she whispered tremulously, pointing to the inner room. ‘Child’
he answered, ‘I am allowed to go wherever I please and if you send for
your friends they will only tell you that I have every right to be
here. But if you will stay quietly here....’ It was Genji. She knew
his voice and the discovery somewhat reassured her. She thought his
conduct rather strange, but she was determined that he should not
think her prudish or stiff. And so because he on his side was still
somewhat excited after the doings of the evening, while she was far
too young and pliant to offer any serious resistance, he soon got his
own way with her.


Suddenly they saw to their discomfiture that dawn was creeping into
the sky. She looked, thought Genji, as though many disquieting
reflections were crowding into her mind. ‘Tell me your name’ he said.
‘How can I write to you unless you do? Surely this is not going to be
our only meeting?’ She answered with a poem in which she said that
names are of this world only and he would not care to know hers if he
were resolved that their love should last till worlds to come. It
was a mere quip and Genji, amused at her quickness, answered ‘You are
quite right. It was a mistake on my part to ask.’ And he recited the
poem ‘While still I seek to find on which blade dwells the dew, a
great wind shakes the grasses of the level land.’ ‘If you did not
repent of this meeting,’ he continued, ‘you would surely tell me who
you are. I do not believe that you want....’ But here he was
interrupted by the noise of people stirring in the next room. There
was a great bustle and it was clear that they would soon be starting
out to fetch Princess Kōkiden back from the Palace. There was just
time to exchange fans in token of their new friendship before Genji
was forced to fly precipitately from the room. In his own apartments
he found many of his gentlemen waiting for him. Some were awake, and
these nudged one another when he entered the room as though to say
‘Will he never cease these disreputable excursions?’ But discretion
forbade them to show that they had seen him and they all pretended to
be fast asleep. Genji too lay down, but he could not rest. He tried to
recall the features of the lady with whom he had just spent so
agreeable a time. Certainly she must be one of Kōkiden’s sisters.
Perhaps the fifth or sixth daughter, both of whom were still
unmarried. The handsomest of them (or so he had always heard) were
Prince Sochi’s wife and the fourth daughter, the one with whom Tō no
Chūjō got on so badly. It would really be rather amusing if it did
turn out to be Chūjō’s wife. The sixth was shortly to be married to
the Heir Apparent. How tiresome if it were she! But at present he
could think of no way to make sure. She had not behaved at all as
though she did not want to see him again. Why then had she refused to
give him any chance of communicating with her? In fact he worried
about the matter so much and turned it over in his mind with such
endless persistency that it soon became evident he had fallen deeply
in love with her. Nevertheless no sooner did the recollection of
Fujitsubo’s serious and reticent demeanour come back to his mind than
he realized how incomparably more she meant to him than this
light-hearted lady.

That day the after-banquet kept him occupied till late at night. At
the Emperor’s command he performed on the thirteen-stringed zithern
and had an even greater success than with his dancing on the day
before. At dawn Fujitsubo retired to the Emperor’s rooms. Disappointed
in his hope that the lady of last night would somewhere or somehow
make her appearance on the scene, he sent for Yoshikiyo and Koremitsu
with whom all his secrets were shared and bade them keep watch upon
the lady’s family. When he returned next day from duty at the Palace
they reported that they had just witnessed the departure of several
coaches which had been drawn up under shelter in the Courtyard of the
Watch. ‘Among a group of persons who seemed to be the domestic
attendants of those for whom the coaches were waiting two gentlemen
came threading their way in a great hurry. These we recognized as Shii
no Shōshō and Uchūben,[2] so there is little doubt that the carriages
belonged to Princess Kōkiden. For the rest we noted that the ladies
were by no means ill looking and that the whole party drove away in
three carriages.’ Genji’s heart beat fast. But he was no nearer than
before to finding out which of the sisters it had been. Supposing her
father, the Minister of the Right, should hear anything of this, what
a to-do there would be! It would indeed mean his absolute ruin. It was
a pity that while he was about it he did not stay with her till it was
a little lighter. But there it was! He did not know her face, but yet
he was determined to recognize her. How? He lay on his bed
devising and rejecting endless schemes. Murasaki too must be growing
impatient. Days had passed since he had visited her and he remembered
with tenderness how low-spirited she became when he was not able to be
with her. But in a moment his thoughts had returned to the unknown
lady. He still had her fan. It was a folding fan with ribs of
hinoki-wood and tassels tied in a splice-knot. One side was covered
with silverleaf on which was painted a dim moon, giving the impression
of a moon reflected in water. It was a device which he had seen many
times before, but it had agreeable associations for him, and
continuing the metaphor of the ‘grass on the moor’ which she had used
in her poem he wrote on the fan—‘Has mortal man ever puzzled his head
with such a question before as to ask where the moon goes to when she
leaves the sky at dawn?’ And he put the fan safely away. It was on his
conscience that he had not for a long while been to the Great Hall;
but fearing that Murasaki too might be feeling very unhappy he first
went home to give her her lessons. Every day she was improving not
only in looks, but also in amiability of character. The beauty of her
disposition was indeed quite out of the common. The idea that so
perfect a nature was in his hands, to train and cultivate as he
thought best, was very attractive to Genji. It might however have been
objected that to receive all her education from a young man is likely
to make a girl somewhat forward in her manner.

First there was a great deal to tell her about what had happened at
the Court entertainments of the last few days. Then followed her music
lesson, and already it was time to go. ‘Oh why must he always go away
so soon?’ she wondered sadly, but by now she was so used to it that
she no longer fretted as she had done a little while ago.

At the Great Hall he could, as usual, scarcely get a word out of
Aoi. The moment that he sat idle a thousand doubts and puzzles began
to revolve in his mind. He took up his zithern and began to sing:

  Not softlier pillowed is my head
    That rests by thine, unloving bride,
  Than were those jagged stones my bed
    Through which the falls of Nuki stride.

At this moment Aoi’s father came by and began to discuss the unusual
success of the recent festivities. ‘Old as I am,’ he said—‘and I may
say that I have lived to see four illustrious sovereigns occupy the
Throne, I have never taken part in a banquet which produced verses so
spirited or dancing and music so admirably performed. Talent of every
description seems at present to exist in abundance; but it is
creditable to those in authority that they knew how to make good use
of it. For my part I enjoyed myself so much that had I but been a few
years younger I would positively have joined in the dancing!’ ‘No
special steps were taken to discover the musicians,’ answered Genji.
‘We merely used those who were known to the government in one part of
the country and another as capable performers. If I may say so, it was
Chūjō’s Willow Dance that made the deepest impression and is likely
always to be remembered as a remarkable performance. But if you, Sir,
had indeed honoured us a new lustre would have been added to my
Father’s reign.’ Aoi’s brothers now arrived and leaning against the
balustrade gave a little concert, their various instruments blending
delightfully.

Fugitive as their meeting had been it had sufficed to plunge the lady
whose identity Prince Genji was now seeking to establish into the
depths of despair; for in the fourth month she was to become the Heir
Apparent’s wife. Turmoil filled her brain. Why had not Genji visited
her again? He must surely know whose daughter she was. But how
should he know which daughter? Besides, her sister Kōkiden’s house was
not a place where, save under very strange circumstances, he was
likely to feel at all at his ease. And so she waited in great
impatience and distress; but of Genji there was no news.

About the twentieth day of the third month her father, the Minister of
the Right, held an archery meeting at which most of the young noblemen
and princes were present. It was followed by a wistaria feast. The
cherry blossom was for the most part over, but two trees, which the
Minister seemed somehow to have persuaded to flower later than all the
rest, were still an enchanting sight. He had had his house rebuilt
only a short time ago when celebrating the initiation of his
grand-daughters, the children of Kōkiden. It was now a magnificent
building and not a thing in it but was of the very latest fashion. He
had invited Genji when he had met him at the Palace only a few days
before and was extremely annoyed when he did not appear. Feeling that
the party would be a failure if Genji did not come, he sent his son
Shii no Shōshō to fetch him, with the poem: ‘Were my flowers as those
of other gardens never should I have ventured to summon you.’ Genji
was in attendance upon the Emperor and at once showed him the message.
‘He seems very pleased with himself and his flowers,’ said his Majesty
with a smile; adding ‘as he has sent for you like this, I think you
had better go. After all your half-sisters are being brought up at his
house, and you ought not to treat him quite as a stranger.’ He went to
his apartments and dressed. It was very late indeed when at last he
made his appearance at the party. He was dressed in a cloak of thin
Chinese fabric, white outside but lined with yellow. His robe was of a
deep wine-red colour with a very long train. The dignity and grace
with which he carried this fancifully regal[3] attire in a
company where all were dressed in plain official robes were indeed
remarkable, and in the end his presence perhaps contributed more to
the success of the party than did the fragrance of the Minister’s
boasted flowers. His entry was followed by some very agreeable music.
It was already fairly late when Genji, on the plea that the wine had
given him a head-ache, left his seat and went for a walk. He knew that
his two step-sisters, the daughters of Kōkiden, were in the inner
apartments of the palace. He went to the eastern portico and rested
there. It was on this side of the house that the wistaria grew. The
wooden blinds were raised and a number of ladies were leaning out of
the window to enjoy the blossoms. They had hung bright-coloured robes
and shawls over the window-sill just as is done at the time of the New
Year dancing and other gala days and were behaving with a freedom of
allure which contrasted very oddly with the sober decorum of
Fujitsubo’s household. ‘I am feeling rather overpowered by all the
noise and bustle of the flower-party’ Genji explained. ‘I am very
sorry to disturb my sisters, but I can think of nowhere else to seek
refuge ...’ and advancing towards the main door of the women’s
apartments he pushed back the curtain with his shoulder. ‘Refuge
indeed!’ cried one of the ladies laughing at him. ‘You ought to know
by now that it is only poor relations who come to seek refuge with the
more successful members of their family. What pray have you come to
bother us for?’ ‘Impertinent creatures!’ he thought but nevertheless
there was something in their manner which convinced him they were
persons of some consequence in the house and not, as he at first
supposed, mere waiting-women. A scent of costly perfumes pervaded
the room; silken skirts rustled in the darkness. There could be little
doubt that these were Kōkiden’s sisters and their friends. Deeply
absorbed, as indeed was the whole of this family, in the fashionable
gaieties of the moment, they had flouted decorum and posted themselves
at the window that they might see what little they could of the
banquet which was proceeding outside. Little thinking that his plan
could succeed, yet led on by delightful recollections of his previous
encounter he advanced towards them chanting in a careless undertone
the song:

  At Ishikawa, Ishikawa
  A man from Koma[4] took my belt away....

But for ‘belt’ he substituted ‘fan’ and by this means he sought to
discover which of the ladies was his friend. ‘Why, you have got it
wrong! I never heard of _that_ Korean’ one of them cried. Certainly it
was not she. But there was another who though she remained silent
seemed to him to be sighing softly to herself. He stole towards the
curtain-of-state behind which she was sitting and taking her hand in
his at a venture he whispered the poem: ‘If on this day of shooting my
arrow went astray, ’twas that in dim morning twilight only the mark
had glimmered in my view.’ And she, unable any longer to hide that she
knew him, answered with the verse: ‘Had it been with the arrows of the
heart that you had shot, though from the moon’s slim bow no brightness
came would you have missed your mark?’ Yes, it was her voice. He was
delighted, and yet....

[1] A famous poem by Ōye no Chisato (ninth century): ‘What so lovely
as a night when the moon though dimly clouded is never wholly lost to
sight.’

[2] Kōkiden’s brothers.

[3] He had no right to such a costume; for though a son of the
Emperor, he had been affiliated to the Minamoto clan and no longer
counted as a member of the Imperial family.

[4] Korea.




                             CHAPTER IX

                                AOI


The accession of the new Emperor was in many ways unfavourable to
Genji’s position. His recent promotion[1] too brought with it heavy
responsibilities which sadly interrupted the course of his hidden
friendships, so that complaints of desertion or neglect were soon
heaped upon him from more than one quarter; while, as though Fate
wished to turn the tables upon him, the one being on earth for whose
love he longed in vain had now utterly abandoned him. Now that the
Emperor was free to live as he chose she was more constantly than ever
at his side, nor was her peace any longer disturbed by the presence of
a rival, for Kōkiden resenting the old Emperor’s neglect now seldom
left her son’s Palace. A constant succession of banquets and
entertainments, the magnificence of which became the talk of the whole
country, helped to enliven the ex-Emperor’s retirement and he was on
the whole very well content with his new condition. His only regret
concerned the Heir Apparent[2] whose position, unsupported by any
powerful influence outside the Palace, he regarded as extremely
insecure. He constantly discussed the matter with Genji, begging him
to enlist the support of the Minamoto clan. Such conversations tended
to be somewhat embarrassing, but they gave Genji pleasure in so
far as they enabled him to take measures for the boy’s welfare.

An unexpected event now occurred. Lady Rokujō’s daughter by her late
husband Prince Zembō was chosen to be the new Vestal Virgin at Ise.[3]
Her mother, who at the time when the appointment was first announced
happened to be particularly aggrieved at Genji’s treatment of her, at
once determined to make her daughter’s extreme youth a pretext for
leaving the Capital and settling permanently at Ise. Being at the
moment, as I have said, very much out of humour, she discussed the
matter openly, making no secret of her real reasons for wishing to
leave the City. The story soon reached the ex-Emperor’s ears, and
sending for Genji he said to him ‘The late Prince my brother was, as
you probably know, regarded with the utmost affection and esteem and I
am profoundly grieved to hear that your reckless and inconsiderate
conduct has cast a slur upon his family. For his daughter indeed I
feel as much responsible as if she were of my own children. I must
trouble you in future to safeguard to the utmost of your power the
reputation of these unfortunate ladies. If you do not learn to keep
better control over your frivolous inclinations you will soon find
yourself becoming extremely unpopular.’ Why should his father be so
much upset over the matter? And Genji, smarting under the rebuke, was
about to defend himself when it occurred to him that the warning was
not at all ill-merited and he maintained a respectful silence.

‘Affairs of this kind,’ the ex-Emperor continued, ‘must be managed so
that the woman, no matter who she is, need not feel that she has been
brought into a humiliating position or treated in a cynical and
off-hand way. Forget this rule, and she will soon make you feel the
unpleasant consequences of her resentment.’ ‘Wicked as he thinks
me already,’ said Genji to himself while this lecture was going on,
‘there is a much worse enormity of which he as yet knows nothing.’ And
stupefied with horror at the thought of what would ensue should his
father ever discover this hideous secret, he bowed and left the room.

What the ex-Emperor had said about ruining other people’s reputations
cut him to the quick. He realized that Rokujō’s rank and widowed
position entitled her to the utmost consideration. But after all it
was not he who had made public property of the affair; on the contrary
he had done everything in his power to prevent its becoming known.
There had always been a certain condescension in her treatment of him,
arising perhaps from the inequality of their ages,[4] and his
estrangement from her was solely due to the coldness with which she
had for a long time received him. That their private affairs were now
known not only to the ex-Emperor but also presumably to the whole
Court showed a lack of reticence which seemed to him deplorable.

Among others who heard of the business was Princess Asagao.[5]
Determined that she at least would not submit herself to such
treatment she ceased to answer his letters even with the short and
guarded replies that she had been in the habit of sending to him.
Nevertheless he found it hard to believe that so gentle-mannered a
creature was thinking unkindly of him and continued to regard her with
devoted admiration.

Princess Aoi when the story reached her ears was of course distressed
by this new instance of his fickleness; but she felt that it was
useless, now that his infidelity was open and unabashed, to protest
against one particular injury, and to his surprise she seemed to
take the matter rather lightly. She was suffering much inconvenience
from her condition and her spirits were very low. Her parents were
delighted and at the same time surprised to hear of what was to come.
But their pleasure and that of all her friends was marred by grave
forebodings, and it was arranged that prayers for her health and
special services of intercession should be recited in all the temples.
At such a time it was impossible for Genji to leave her and there were
many who though his feelings had not in reality cooled towards them
felt that they were being neglected.

The Vestal Virgin of Kamo still remained to be selected. The choice
fell upon Kōkiden’s daughter, San no Miya. She was a great favourite
both with her brother the new Emperor and with the Empress Mother. Her
retirement from the world was a bitter blow to them; but there was no
help for it since she alone of all the royal princesses fulfilled the
prescribed conditions.

The actual ritual of investiture could not be altered, but the Emperor
saw to it that the proceedings should be attended with the utmost Pomp
and splendour; while to the customary ritual of the Kamo Festival he
added so many touches that it became a spectacle of unparalleled
magnificence. All this was due to his partiality for the Virgin Elect.

On the day of her purification the Virgin is attended by a fixed
number of noblemen and princes. For this retinue the Emperor was at
pains to choose the best built and handsomest of the young men at
Court; he settled what coloured gowns they were to wear, what pattern
was to be on their breeches, and even on what saddles they should
ride. By a special decree he ordered that Prince Genji should join
this retinue, and so great was everyone’s desire to get a good view of
the procession that long beforehand people were getting ready
special carriages with which to line the route. The scene along the
highroad of the First Ward was one of indescribable excitement. Dense
crowds surged along the narrow space allotted to them, while the
stands which with a wealth of ingenious fancy had been constructed all
along the route of the procession, with gay cloaks and shawls hung
over the balustrades, were in themselves a spectacle of astonishing
beauty.

It had never been Aoi’s practice to be present at such occasions as
this and in her present state of health she would not have dreamt of
doing so had not her gentlewomen pressed round her saying ‘Come Madam!
It will be no fun for us to go by ourselves and be hidden away in some
corner. It is to see Prince Genji that all these people have come
to-day. Why, all sorts of queer wild men from the mountains are here,
and people have brought their wives and children from provinces ever
so far away. If all these people who are nothing to do with him have
taken the trouble to come so far, it will be too bad if you, his own
lady, are not there!’ Overhearing this Aoi’s mother joined in. ‘You
are feeling much better just now,’ she said; ‘I think you ought to
make the effort. It will be so disappointing for your gentlewomen....’
At the last minute Aoi changed her mind and announced that she was
going. It was now so late that there was no time to put on gala
clothes. The whole of the enclosure allotted for this purpose was
already lined with coaches which were packed so close that it was
quite impossible to find space for the large and numerous carriages of
Aoi and her train. A number of grand ladies began to make room for
her, backing their coaches away from a suitable space in the reserved
enclosure. Conspicuous among the rest were two basket-work carriages
of a rather old-fashioned pattern but with curtains such as are used
by persons of quality, very discreetly decked with draperies that
barely showed beneath the curtains, yet these draperies (whether
sleeve-favour, skirt or scarf) all of the handsomest colours. They
seemed to belong to some exalted personage who did not wish to be
recognized. When it was their turn to move, the coachmen in charge of
them would not lift a finger. ‘It is not for such as we to make way’
they said stiffly and did not stir. Among the attendants on both sides
there was a number of young grooms who were already the worse for
liquor. They were longing for a scuffle and it was impossible to keep
them in hand. The staid and elderly outriders tried to call them back,
but they took no notice.

The two carriages belonged to Princess Rokujō who had come secretly to
the festival hoping for a while to find distraction from her troubles.
Despite the steps which she had taken to conceal her identity, it was
at once suspected by some of Aoi’s gentlemen and they cried to the
grooms that this was not an equipage which could be dealt with so
high-handedly or it would be said that their lady was abusing her
position as wife of the Lord Commander. But at this moment a number of
Genji’s servants mingled in the fray. They knew Rokujō’s men by sight,
but after a moment’s embarrassment they decided not to give assistance
to the enemy by betraying his identity.

Thus reinforced Aoi’s side won the day and at length her coach and
those of all her ladies were drawn up along the front row, while
Rokujō’s was pushed back among a miscellaneous collection of carts and
gigs where she could see nothing at all. She was vexed beyond measure
not only at missing what she had come to see but also that despite all
her precautions she had been recognized and (as she was convinced)
deliberately insulted. Her shaft-rest and other parts of her coach as
well were damaged and she was obliged to prop it up against some
common person’s carriage wheels. Why, she vainly asked herself, had
she come among these hateful crowds? She would go home at once. What
sense was there in waiting for the procession to come? But when she
tried to go, she found that it was impossible to force a way through
the dense crowds. She was still struggling to escape when the cry went
up that the procession was in sight. Her resolution weakened. She
would wait till Genji had passed by. He did not see her. How should
he, for the crowds flashed by him like the hurrying images that a
stream catches and breaks. She realized this, yet her disappointment
was none the less.

The carriages that lined the route, decked and garlanded for this
great day, were crammed to overflowing with excited ladies who though
there was no room for them would not consent to be left behind.
Peeping out under the blinds of their coaches they smiled at the great
personages who were passing quite regardless of whether their
greetings were acknowledged. But every now and then a smile would be
rewarded by a quick glance or the backward turn of a head. Aoi’s party
was large and conspicuous. He wheeled round as he passed and saluted
its members attentively. Rider after rider again as the procession
went by would pause in front of Aoi’s coach and salute her with the
deepest respect. The humiliation of witnessing all this from an
obscure corner was more than Rokujō could bear, and murmuring the
lines ‘Though I saw him but as a shadow that falls on hurrying waters
yet knew I that at last my hour of utmost misery was come’ she burst
into tears. It was hideous that her servants should see her in this
state. Yet even while she struggled with her tears she could not find
it in her heart to regret that she had seen him in all his glory.

The riders in the procession were indeed all magnificently
apparelled, each according to his own rank; in particular the young
noblemen chosen by the Emperor cut so brilliant a figure that only the
lustre of Genji’s beauty could have eclipsed their splendour. The
Commander of this Bodyguard is not generally allotted a Palace-Officer
as his special attendant, but as the occasion was of such importance
the Imperial Treasurer[6] rode at Genji’s side. It seemed to those who
saw so many public honours showered upon him that no flower of fortune
could resist the favouring gale which blew towards his side. There
were among the crowd women of quite good birth who had dressed in
walking-skirts and come a long way on foot. There were nuns and other
female recluses who, though in order to see anything of the procession
they were obliged to endure being constantly pushed off their feet,
and though they commonly regarded all such spectacles with contempt
and aversion, were to-day declaring that they would not have missed it
for anything. There were old men grinning through toothless gums,
strange-looking girls with their hair poked away under ragged hoods
and stolid peasant boys standing with hands raised as though in
prayer, whose uncouth faces were suddenly transfigured with wonder and
joy as the procession burst into sight. Even the daughters of remote
provincial magistrates and governors who had no acquaintances whatever
in the City had expended as much coquetry upon the decoration of their
persons and coaches as if they were about to submit themselves to a
lover’s inspection, and their equipages made a bright and varied show.
If even these strangers were in such a taking, it may be imagined with
what excitement, scattered here and there among the crowd, those with
whom Genji was in secret communication watched the procession go by
and with how many hidden sighs their bosoms heaved.

Prince Momozono[7] had a seat in one of the stands. He was amazed to
see his nephew grown up into such a prodigiously handsome young man
and was alarmed lest soon the gods should cast an envious eye upon
him. Princess Asagao could not but be touched by the rare persistency
with which year after year Genji had pressed his suit. Even had he
been positively ugly she would have found it hard to resist such
importunity; so small wonder if seeing him ride by in all his
splendour she marvelled that she had held out so long. But she was
determined to know him much better before she committed herself. The
young waiting-women who were with her were careful to belaud him in
extravagant terms. To the festival itself[8] Aoi did not go. The
affray between her servants and those of Rokujō was soon reported to
Genji. It vexed him beyond measure that such a thing should have
occurred. That the exquisitely well-bred Aoi should have been in any
way responsible for this outburst of insolent ruffianism he did not
for a moment believe; it must be the work of rough under-servants who,
though they had no actual instructions, had imbibed the notion that
all was not well between the two houses and imagined that they would
get credit for espousing their mistress’s cause. He knew well enough
the unusual vanity and susceptibility of the affronted lady.
Distressed to think of the pain which this incident must have caused
her he hastened to her house. But her daughter, the Virgin Elect of
Ise, was still in the house, and she made this a plea for turning him
away after the exchange of a few formal words. He had the greatest
possible sympathy for her; but he was feeling rather tired of coping
with injured susceptibilities.

He could not face the idea of going straight back to the Great Hall.
It was the day of the Kamo festival and going to his own palace he
ordered Koremitsu to get his coach ready. ‘Look at her!’ he cried
smiling fondly at Murasaki when she appeared in all her finery
surrounded by the little children whom he had given her for playmates,
‘She must needs bring her dames to wait upon her!’ and stroking her
lovely hair which to-day Shōnagon had dressed with more than usual
care. ‘It is getting rather long’ he said; ‘to-day would not be a
bad[9] time to have it cut’ and sending for his astrologer he bade him
consult his books. ‘The maids-of-honour first!’ he cried, nodding at
the pretty troupe of babes, and their dainty tresses were trimmed so
as to hang neatly over their diapered holiday gowns. ‘I am going to
cut yours myself’ he said to Murasaki. ‘What a lot of it there is! I
wonder how much longer it would have grown.’ Really it was quite hard
work. ‘People with very long hair ought to wear it cut rather short
over the temples’ he said at last; ‘but I have not the heart to crop
you any closer’ and he laid the knife down. Shōnagon’s gratification
knew no bounds when she heard him reciting the prayer with which the
ceremony of hair-cutting should conclude. There is a sea-weed called
_miru_ which is used in the dressing of ladies’ hair and playing upon
this word (which also means ‘to see’) he recited a poem in which he
said that the miru-weed which had been used in the washing of her hair
was a token that he would forever fondly watch it grow. She answered
that like the sea-tides which visit the _miru_ in its cleft he came
but went away, and often her tresses unwatched by him would like the
hidden sea-weed grow. This she wrote very prettily on a slip of paper
and though the verse had no merit in it but the charm of a childish
mind it gave him great delight. To-day the crowds were as thick
as ever. With great difficulty he managed to wedge in his carriage
close to the Royal Stables. But here they were surrounded by somewhat
turbulent young noblemen and he was looking for a quieter place when a
smart carriage crammed full of ladies drew up near by and some one in
it beckoned with a fan to Genji’s servants. ‘Will you not come over
where we are?’ said one of the ladies. ‘We will gladly make room for
you.’ Such an offer was perhaps somewhat forward, but the place she
had indicated was such a good one that Genji at once accepted the
invitation. ‘I am afraid it is very unfair that we should take your
place like this ...’ Genji was beginning to say politely, when one of
the ladies handed him a fan with the corner bent down. Here he found
the poem: ‘This flower-decked day of meeting when the great god
unfolds his portents in vain have I waited, for alas another is at thy
side.’ Surely the handwriting was familiar. Yes, it was that of the
ancient lady-of-the-bedchamber. He felt that it was time she should
give up such pranks as this and answered discouragingly: ‘Not ours
this day of tryst when garlanded and passionate the Eighty Tribes
converge.’ This put the lady out of countenance and she replied: ‘Now
bitterly do I repent that for this cheating day my head is decked with
flowers; for in name only is it a day of meeting.’

Their carriages remained side by side, but Genji did not even draw up
the side-curtains, which was a disappointment to more persons than
one. The magnificence of his public appearance a few days ago was
contrasted by everyone with the unobtrusive manner in which he now
mingled with the crowd. It was agreed that his companion, whoever she
might be, must certainly be some very great lady. Genji was afraid
that his neighbour was going to prove troublesome. But fortunately
some of her companions had more discretion than their mistress,
and out of consideration for the unknown sharer of Genji’s coach
persuaded the voluble lady to restrain herself.

Lady Rokujō’s sufferings were now far worse than in previous years.
Though she could no longer endure to be treated as Genji was treating
her, yet the thought of separating from him altogether and going so
far away agitated her so much that she constantly deferred her
journey. She felt too that she would become a laughingstock if it was
thought that she had been spurred to flight by Genji’s scorn; yet if
at the last moment she changed her plans and stayed behind everyone
would think her conduct extremely ill-balanced and unaccountable. Thus
her days and nights were spent in an agony of indecision and often she
repeated to herself the lines ‘My heart like the fishers’ float on Ise
shore is danced from wave to wave.’[10] She felt herself indeed
swirled this way and that by paroxysms that sickened her but were
utterly beyond her control.

Genji, though it pained him that she should feel it necessary to go so
far away did not attempt to dissuade her from the journey. ‘It is
quite natural’ he wrote, ‘that tiresome creature as I am you should
want to put me altogether out of your head. I only beg that even
though you see no use in it, you will let me see you once more before
you go. Were we to meet, you would soon realize that I care for your
happiness far more than you suppose.’ But she could not forget how
when at the River of cleansing she sought a respite from the torture
of her own doubt and indecision, rough waves had dashed her against
the rocks,[11] and she brooded more and more upon this wrong till
there was room for no other thought in all her heart.

Meanwhile Princess Aoi became strangely distraught, and it seemed at
times as though some hostile spirit had entered into her. The whole
household was plunged into such a state of anxiety and gloom that
Genji had not the heart to absent himself for more than a few hours.
It was only very occasionally that he got even as far as his own
palace. After all, she was his wife; moreover, despite all the
difficulties that had risen between them he cared for her very much
indeed. He could no longer disguise from himself that there was
something wrong with her in addition to the discomfort which naturally
accompanied her condition, and he was in a state of great distress.
Constant rituals of exorcism and divination were performed under his
direction, and it was generally agreed that all the signs indicated
possession by the spirit of some living person. Many names were tried
but to none of them did the spirit respond, and it seemed as though it
would be impossible to shift it. Aoi herself felt that some alien
thing had entered into her, and though she was not conscious of any
one definite pain or dread the sense that the thing was there never
for a moment left her. The greatest healers of the day were powerless
to eject it and it became apparent that this was no ordinary case of
‘possession’: some tremendous accumulation of malice was discharging
itself upon her. It was natural that her friends should turn over in
their minds the names of those whom Genji had most favoured. It was
whispered that only with Lady Rokujō and the girl at the Nijō-in was
he on terms of such intimacy that their jealousy would be at all
likely to produce a fatal effect. But when the doctors attempted to
conjure the spirit by the use of these names, there was no visible
response. She had not in all the world any enemy who might be
practising conscious[12] witchcraft against her. Such indispositions
were sometimes attributed to possession by the spirit of some
dead retainer or old family-nurse; or again the malice of someone whom
the Minister, Aoi’s father, had offended might, owing to her delicate
condition, have fastened upon her instead of him. Conjecture after
conjecture was accepted and then falsified. Meanwhile she lay
perpetually weeping. Constantly, indeed, she would break out into fits
of sobbing so violent that her breath was stopped, while those about
her, in great alarm for her safety, stood by in misery not knowing
what to do.

The ex-Emperor enquired after her continually. He even ordered special
services to be said on her behalf, and these attentions served to
remind her parents in what high estimation she was held at the Court.
Not among her friends only but throughout the whole country the news
of her illness caused great distress. Rokujō heard of her sufferings
with deep concern. For years they had been in open rivalry for Genji’s
favours, but even after that wretched affair of the coaches (though it
must be admitted that this had greatly incensed her) she had never
gone so far as to wish evil against the Princess. She herself was very
unwell. She began to feel that the violent and distracting emotions
which continually assailed her had in some subtle way unhinged her
mind and she determined to seek spiritual assistance at a place some
miles distant from her home. Genji heard of this and in great anxiety
concerning her at once set out for the house where she was reported to
be staying. It lay beyond the City precincts and he was obliged to go
with the greatest secrecy.[13] He begged her to forgive him for not
having come to see her for so long. ‘I have not been having a very
cheerful time’ he said and gave her some account of Aoi’s condition.
He wanted to make her feel that if he had stayed away it had been
from a melancholy necessity and not because he had found more amusing
company elsewhere. ‘It is not so much my own anxiety that unnerves me
as the spectacle of the appalling helplessness and misery into which
her illness has plunged her wretched parents, and it was in the hope
of forgetting for a little while all these sickroom horrors that I
came to see you here to-day. If only just for this once you could
overlook all my offences and be kind to me....’

His pleading had no effect. Her attitude was more hostile than before.
He was not angry with her, nor indeed was he surprised. Day was
already breaking when, unsolaced, he set out for home. But as she
watched him go his beauty suddenly made havoc of all her resolutions
and again she felt that it was madness to leave him. Yet what had she
to stay for? Aoi was with child and this could only be a sign that he
had made his peace with her. Henceforward he could lead a life of
irreproachable rectitude and if once in a way he came to make his
excuse as he had come to-day, what purpose would that serve, save to
keep ever fresh the torment of her desires? Thus when his letter came
next day it found her more distraught than before: ‘The sick woman who
for a few days past had shown some improvement is again suffering
acutely and it is at present impossible for me to leave her.’ Certain
that this was a mere excuse she sent in reply the poem ‘The fault is
mine and the regret, if careless as the peasant girl who stoops too
low amid the sprouting rice I soiled my sleeve in love’s dark road.’
At the end of her letter she reminded him of the old song: ‘Now
bitterly do I repent that ever I brought my pitcher to the mountain
well where waters were but deep enough to soil my sleeve.’ He looked
at the delicate handwriting. Who was there, even among women of her
high lineage and breeding, that could rival the ineffable grace
and elegance with which this small note was penned? That one whose
mind and person alike so strongly attracted him must now by his own
act be lost to him forever, was a bitter thought. Though it was almost
dark, he sat down and wrote to her: ‘Do not say that the waters have
but wetted your sleeve. For the shallowness is in your comparison
only; not in my affections!’ And to this he added the poem: ‘’Tis you,
you only who have loitered among the shallow pools: while I till all
my limbs were drenched have battled through the thickets of love’s
dark track.’ And he ended with the words: ‘Had but a ray of comfort
lighted the troubles of this house, I should myself have been the
bearer of this note.’

Meanwhile Aoi’s possession had returned in full force; she was in a
state of pitiable torment. It reached Lady Rokujō’s ears that the
illness had been attributed by some to the operation of her ‘living
spirit.’ Others, she was told, believed that her father’s ghost was
avenging the betrayal of his daughter. She brooded constantly upon the
nature of her own feelings towards Aoi, but could discover in herself
nothing but intense unhappiness. Of hostility towards Aoi she could
find no trace at all. Yet she could not be sure whether somewhere in
the depths of a soul consumed by anguish some spark of malice had not
lurked. Through all the long years during which she had loved and
suffered, though it had often seemed to her that greater torment could
not anywhere in the world exist, her whole being had never once been
so utterly bruised and shattered as in these last days. It had begun
with that hateful episode of the coaches. She had been scorned,
treated as though she had no right to exist. Yes, it was true that
since the Festival of Purification her mind had been buffeted by such
a tempest of conflicting resolutions that sometimes it seemed as
though she had lost all control over her own thoughts. She
remembered how one night she had suddenly, in the midst of agonizing
doubts and indecisions, found that she had been dreaming. It seemed to
her that she had been in a large magnificent room, where lay a girl
whom she knew to be the Princess Aoi. Snatching her by the arm she had
dragged and mauled the prostrate figure, with an outburst of brutal
fury such as in her waking life would have been utterly foreign to
her. Since then she had had the same dream several times. How
terrible! It seemed then that it was really possible for one’s spirit
to leave the body and break out into emotions which the waking mind
would not countenance. Even where someone’s actions are all but
irreproachable (she reflected) people take a malicious delight in
saying nothing about the good he has done and everything about the
evil. With what joy would they seize upon such a story as this! That
after his death a man’s ghost should pursue his enemies is a thing
which seems to be of constant occurrence, yet even this is taken as a
sign that the dead man was of a fiendishly venomous and malignant
character and his reputation is utterly destroyed. ‘What then will
become of me if it is thought that while still alive I have been
guilty of so hideous a crime?’ She must face her fate. She had lost
Genji for ever. If she were to keep any control at all over her own
thoughts she must first of all find some way of putting him wholly out
of mind. She kept on reminding herself not to think of him, so that
this very resolve led her in the end to think of him but the more.

The Virgin of Ise should by rights have entered upon her duties before
the end of the year, but difficulties of various kinds arose and it
was not till the autumn of the next year that she could at last be
received. She was to enter the Palace in-the-Fields[14] in the ninth
month, but this was decided so late that the arrangements for
her second Purification had to be made in great haste. It was
very inconvenient that at this crisis her mother, so far from
superintending the preparations, spent hour after hour lying dazed and
helpless upon her bed. At last the priests arrived to fetch the girl
away. They took a grave view of the mother’s condition and gave her
the benefit of their presence by offering up many prayers and
incantations. But week after week she remained in the same condition,
showing no symptom which seemed actually dangerous, yet all the time
(in some vague and indefinite way) obviously very ill. Genji sent
constantly to enquire after her, but she saw clearly that his
attention was occupied by quite other matters. Aoi’s delivery was not
yet due and no preparations for it had been made, when suddenly there
were signs that it was close at hand. She was in great distress, but
though the healers recited prayer upon prayer their utmost efforts
could not shift by one jot the spiteful power which possessed her. All
the greatest miracle-workers of the land were there; the utter failure
of their ministrations irritated and perplexed them. At last, daunted
by the potency of their incantations, the spirit that possessed her
found voice and, weeping bitterly, she was heard to say: ‘Give me a
little respite; there is a matter of which Prince Genji and I must
speak.’ The healers nodded at one another as though to say ‘Now we
shall learn something worth knowing,’ for they were convinced that the
‘possession’ was speaking through the mouth of the possessed, and they
hurried Genji to her bedside. Her parents thinking that, her end being
near, she desired to give some last secret injunction to Genji,
retired to the back of the room. The priests too ceased their
incantations and began to recite the _Hokkekyo_[15] in low impressive
tones. He raised the bed-curtain. She looked lovely as ever as
she lay there, very big with child, and any man who saw her even
now would have found himself strangely troubled by her beauty. How
much the more then Prince Genji, whose heart was already overflowing
with tenderness and remorse! The plaited tresses of her long hair
stood out in sharp contrast to her white jacket.[16] Even to this
loose, sick-room garb her natural grace imparted the air of a
fashionable gown! He took her hand. ‘It is terrible’ he began, ‘to see
you looking so unhappy ...’ he could say no more. Still she gazed at
him, but through his tears he saw that there was no longer in her eyes
the wounded scorn that he had come to know so well, but a look of
forbearance and tender concern; and while she watched him weep her own
eyes brimmed with tears. It would not do for him to go on crying like
this. Her father and mother would be alarmed; besides, it was
upsetting Aoi herself, and meaning to cheer her he said: ‘Come, things
are not so bad as that! You will soon be much better. But even if
anything should happen, it is certain that we shall meet again in
worlds to come. Your father and mother too, and many others, love you
so dearly that between your fate and theirs must be some sure bond
that will bring you back to them in many, many lives that are to be.’
Suddenly she interrupted him: ‘No, no. That is not it. But stop these
prayers awhile. They do me great harm,’ and drawing him nearer to her
she went on ‘I did not think that you would come. I have waited for
you till all my soul is burnt with longing.’ She spoke wistfully,
tenderly; and still in the same tone recited the verse ‘Bind thou, as
the seam of a skirt is braided, this shred, that from my soul despair
and loneliness have sundered.’ The voice in which these words were
said was not Aoi’s; nor was the manner hers. He knew someone
whose voice was very like that. Who was it? Why, yes; surely only
she,—the Lady Rokujō. Once or twice he had heard people suggest that
something of this kind might be happening; but he had always rejected
the idea as hideous and unthinkable, believing it to be the malicious
invention of some unprincipled scandalmonger, and had even denied that
such ‘possession’ ever took place. Now he had seen one with his own
eyes. Ghastly, unbelievable as they were, such things did happen in
real life. Controlling himself at last he said in a low voice: ‘I am
not sure who is speaking to me. Do not leave me in doubt....’ Her
answer proved only too conclusively that he had guessed aright. To his
horror her parents now came back to the bed, but she had ceased to
speak, and seeing her now lying quietly her mother thought the attack
was over, and was coming towards the bed carrying a basin of hot water
when Aoi suddenly started up and bore a child. For the moment all was
gladness and rejoicing; but it seemed only too likely that the spirit
which possessed her had but been temporarily dislodged; for a fierce
fit of terror was soon upon her, as though the thing (whatever it was)
were angry at having been put to the trouble of shifting, so that
there was still grave anxiety about the future. The Abbot of Tendai
and the other great ecclesiastics who were gathered together in the
room attributed her easy delivery to the persistency of their own
incantations and prayers, and as they hastily withdrew to seek
refreshment and repose they wiped the sweat from their brows with an
expression of considerable self-satisfaction. Her friends who had for
days been plunged in the deepest gloom now began to take heart a
little, believing that although there was no apparent improvement yet
now that the child was safely born she could not fail to mend. The
prayers and incantations began once more, but throughout the
house there was a new feeling of confidence; for the amusement of
looking after the baby at least gave them some relief from the strain
under which they had been living for so many days. Handsome presents
were sent by the ex-Emperor, the Royal Princes and all the Court,
forming an array which grew more dazzling each night.[17] The fact
that the child was a boy made the celebrations connected with his
birth all the more sumptuous and elaborate.

The news of this event took Lady Rokujō somewhat aback. The last
report she had heard from the Great Hall was that the confinement was
bound to be very dangerous. And now they said that there had not been
the slightest difficulty. She thought this very peculiar. She had
herself for a long while been suffering from the most disconcerting
sensations. Often she felt as though her whole personality had in some
way suddenly altered. It was as though she were a stranger to herself.
Recently she had noticed that a smell of mustard-seed incense for
which she was at a loss to account was pervading her clothes and hair.
She took a hot bath and put on other clothes; but still the same odour
of incense pursued her. It was bad enough even in private to have this
sensation of being as it were estranged from oneself. But now her body
was playing tricks upon her which her attendants must have noticed and
were no doubt discussing behind her back. Yet there was not one person
among those about her with whom she could bring herself to discuss
such things and all this pent-up misery seemed only to increase the
strange process of dissolution which had begun to attack her mind.

Now that Genji was somewhat less anxious about Aoi’s condition the
recollection of his extraordinary conversation with her at the
crisis of her attack kept on recurring in his mind, and it made so
painful an impression upon him that though it was now a long time
since he had communicated with Rokujō and he knew that she must be
deeply offended, he felt that no kind of intimacy with her would ever
again be possible. Yet in the end pity prevailed and he sent her a
letter. It seemed indeed that it would at present be heartless to
absent himself at all from one who had just passed through days of
such terrible suffering and from her friends who were still in a state
of the gravest anxiety, and all his secret excursions were abandoned.
Aoi still remained in a condition so serious that he was not allowed
to see her. The child was as handsome an infant as you could wish to
see. The great interest which Genji took in it and the zest with which
he entered into all the arrangements which were made for its welfare
delighted Aoi’s father, inasmuch as they seemed signs of a better
understanding between his daughter and Genji; and though her slow
recovery caused him great anxiety, he realized that an illness such as
that through which she had just passed must inevitably leave
considerable traces behind it and he persuaded himself that her
condition was less dangerous than one might have supposed. The child
reminded Genji of the Heir Apparent and made him long to see
Fujitsubo’s little son again. The desire took such strong hold upon
him that at last he sent Aoi a message in which he said: ‘It is a very
long time since I have been to the Palace or indeed have paid any
visits at all. I am beginning to feel the need of a little
distraction, so to-day I am going out for a short while and should
like to see you before I go. I do not want to feel that we are
completely cut off from one another.’ So he pleaded, and he was
supported by her ladies who told her that Prince Genji was her own
dear Lord and that she ought not to be so proud and stiff with him.
She feared that her illness had told upon her looks and was for
speaking to him with a curtain between, but this too her gentlewomen
would not allow. He brought a stool close to where she was lying and
began speaking to her of one thing or another. Occasionally she put in
a word or two, but it was evident that she was still very weak.
Nevertheless it was difficult to believe that she had so recently
seemed almost at the point of death. They were talking quietly
together about those worst days of her illness and how they now seemed
like an evil dream when suddenly he recollected the extraordinary
conversation he had had with her when she was lying apparently at her
last gasp and filled with a sudden bitterness, he said to her: ‘There
are many other things that I must one day talk to you about. But you
seem very tired and perhaps I had better leave you.’ So saying he
arranged her pillows, brought her warm water to wash in and in fact
played the sick-nurse so well that those about her wondered where he
had acquired the art. Still peerlessly beautiful but weak and listless
she seemed as she lay motionless on the bed at times almost to fade
out of existence. He gazed at her with fond concern. Her hair, every
ringlet still in its right place, was spread out over the pillow.
Never before had her marvellous beauty so strangely impressed him. Was
it conceivable that year after year he should have allowed such a
woman to continue in estrangement from him? Still he stood gazing at
her. ‘I must start for the Palace,’ he said at last; ‘but I shall not
be away long. Now that you are better you must try to make your mother
feel less anxious about you when she comes presently; for though she
tries hard not to show it, she is still terribly distressed about you.
You must begin now to make an effort and sit up for a little while
each day. I think it is partly because she spoils you so much that you
are taking so long to get well.’ As he left the room, robed in
all the magnificence of his court attire she followed him with her
eyes more fixedly than ever in her life before. The attendance of the
officers who took part in the autumn session was required, and Aoi’s
father accompanied Genji to the Palace, as did also her brother who
needed the Minister’s assistance in making their arrangements for the
coming political year. Many of their servants went too and the Great
Hall wore a deserted and melancholy aspect. Suddenly Aoi was seized
with the same choking-fit as before and was soon in a desperate
condition. This news was brought to Genji in the Palace and breaking
off his Audience he at once made for home. The rest followed in hot
haste and though it was Appointment Evening[18] they gave up all
thought of attending the proceedings, knowing that the tragic turn of
affairs at the Great Hall would be considered a sufficient excuse. It
was too late to get hold of the abbot from Mount Tendai or any of the
dignitaries who had given their assistance before. It was appalling
that just when she seemed to have taken a turn for the better she
should so suddenly again be at the point of death, and the people at
the Great Hall felt utterly helpless and bewildered. Soon the house
was full of lackeys who were arriving from every side with messages of
sympathy and enquiry; but from the inhabitants of that stricken house
they could obtain no information, for they seemed to do nothing but
rush about from one room to another in a state of frenzy which it was
terrifying to behold.

Remembering that several times already her ‘possession’ had reduced
her to a trance-like state, they did not for some time attempt to lay
out the body or even touch her pillows, but left her lying just as she
was. After two or three days however it became clear that life was
extinct.

Amid the general lamentations which ensued Genji’s spirit sank
with the apathy of utter despair. Sorrow had followed too fast upon
sorrow; life as he saw it now was but a succession of futile miseries.
The messages of condolence which poured in from all the most exalted
quarters in the Court and City merely fatigued and exasperated him.

The warmth of the old ex-Emperor’s messages and his evident personal
distress at Aoi’s death were indeed very flattering and mingled a
certain feeling of gratification with her father’s perpetual weeping.
At the suggestion of a friend various drastic means were resorted to
in the hope that it might yet be possible to kindle some spark of life
in the body. But it soon became evident, even to their reluctant eyes,
that all this was too late, and heavy at heart they took the body to
Toribeno. Here, in the great flat cremation-ground beyond the town,
the horrors that they had dreaded were only too swiftly begun. Even in
this huge open space there was scarcely room for the crowds of
mourners who had come from all the great palaces of the City to follow
behind the bier and for the concourses of priests who, chanting their
liturgies, flocked from the neighbouring temples. The ex-Emperor was
of course represented; so were the Princess Kōkiden and the Heir
Apparent; while many other important people came in person and mingled
with the crowd. Never had any funeral aroused so universal a
demonstration of interest and sympathy. Her father was not present:
‘Now in my declining years to have lost one who was so young and
strong is a blow too staggering ...’ he said and he could no longer
check the tears which he was striving to conceal. His grief was
heart-rending. All night long the mournful ceremonies proceeded, but
at last only a few pitiful ashes remained upon the pyre and in the
morning the mourners returned to their homes. It was in fact, save for
its grandeurs, much like any other funeral; but it so happened that
save in one case only death had not yet come Genji’s way and the
scenes of that day haunted him long afterwards with hideous persistency.

The ceremony took place in the last week of the eighth month. Seeing
that from Aoi’s father all the soft brightness of this autumn morning
was hid in the twilight of despair and well knowing what thoughts must
be passing through his mind, Genji came to him and pointing to the sky
whispered the following verse: ‘Because of all the mists that wreathe
the autumn sky I know not which ascended from my lady’s bier,
henceforth upon the country of the clouds from pole to pole I gaze
with love.’

At last he was back in his room. He lay down, but could not sleep. His
thoughts went back over the years that he had known her. Why had he
been content lazily to assume that in the end all would go right and
meanwhile amused himself regardless of her resentment? Why had he let
year after year go by without managing even at the very end to
establish any real intimacy, any sympathy between them? The bitterest
remorse now filled his heart; but what use was it? His servants
brought him his light grey mourner’s dress and the strange thought
floated into his mind ‘What if I had died instead and not she? She
would be getting into the woman-mourner’s deep-dyed robe,’ and he
recited the poem: ‘Though light in hue the dress which in bereavement
custom bids me wear, yet black my sorrow as the gown thou wouldst have
worn;’ and as thus clad he told his rosary those about him noted that
even the dull hues of mourning could not make him look peaked or drab.
He read many sūtras in a low voice, among them the liturgy to
Samantabhadra as Dispenser of the Dharmadhātu Samādhi, which he
recited with an earnestness more impressive in its way than the
dexterous intonation of the professional cleric. Next he visited the
new-born child and took some comfort in the reflection that she
had at least left behind her this memorial of their love. Genji did
not attempt to go even for the day to the Nijō-in, but remained buried
in recollections and regrets with no other occupation save the
ordering of masses for her soul. He did however bring himself to write
a few letters, among them one to Rokujō. The Virgin Elect was already
in charge of the Guardsmen of the Gate and would soon be passed on by
them to the Palace-in-the-Fields. Rokujō accordingly made her
daughter’s situation an excuse for sending no reply.[19] He was now so
weary of life and its miseries that he seriously contemplated the
taking of priestly vows, and might perhaps have done so, had there not
been a new bond which seemed to tie him irrevocably to the world. But
stay, there was the girl Murasaki too, waiting for him in the wing of
his palace. How unhappy she must have been during all this long time!
That night lying all alone within his royal curtains, though watchmen
were going their rounds not far away, he felt very lonely and
remembering that ‘autumn is no time to lie alone,’ he sent for the
sweetest voiced among the chaplains of the palace. His chanting
mingled with the sounds of early dawn was indeed of almost unendurable
beauty. But soon the melancholy of late autumn, the murmur of the
rising wind took possession of him, and little used to lonely nights
he found it hard to keep his bed till morning. Looking out he saw that
a heavy mist lay over the garden beds; yet despite the mist it was
clear that something was tied to the stem of a fine chrysanthemum not
far away. It was a letter written on dark blue paper.[20] The
messenger had left it there and gone away. ‘What a charming idea!’ he
was thinking when he suddenly recognized the hand. It was from
Rokujō. She began by saying she did not think, having regard to her
daughter’s situation, that he would be surprised at her long delay in
answering his previous note. She added an acrostic poem in which,
playing upon the word chrysanthemum (_kiku_) she told him of her
distress at hearing (_kiku_) of his bereavement. ‘The beauty of the
morning’ she ended, ‘turned my thoughts more than ever towards you and
your sorrow; that is why I could not choose but answer you.’ It was
written even more elegantly than usual; but he tossed it aside. Her
condolences wounded him, for after what he had seen he knew that they
could not be sincere. Nevertheless he felt that it would be too harsh
to break off all communication with her; that he should do so would in
fact tend to incriminate her, and this was the last thing he desired.
After all, it was probably not _that_ at all which had brought about
the disaster; maybe Aoi’s fate was sealed in any case. If only he had
chanced never to see or hear the fatal operation of her spirit! As it
was, argue with himself as he might, he doubted whether he would ever
be able to efface the impression of what had been revealed to him at
that hideous scene.

He had the excuse that he was still in deep mourning and that to
receive a letter from him would inconvenience her at this stage of her
daughter’s Purification. But after turning the matter over in his mind
for a long while, he decided that it would be unfeeling not to answer
a letter which had evidently been written with the sole object of
giving him pleasure and on a paper lightly tinted with brown he wrote:
‘Though I have let so many days slip by, believe me that you have not
been absent from my thoughts. If I was reluctant to answer your
letter, it was because, as a mourner, I was loath to trespass upon the
sanctity which now surrounds your home, and this I trusted that
you would understand. Do not brood overmuch upon what has happened;
for “go we late or soon, more frail our lives than dew-drops hanging
in the morning light.” For the present, think of it no more. I say
this now, because it is not possible for us to meet.’

She received the letter at her daughter’s place of preparation, but
did not read it till she was back in her own house. At a glance she
knew at what he was hinting. So he too accused her! And at last the
hideous conviction of her own guilt forced itself upon her acceptance.
Her misery increased tenfold.

If even Genji had reason to believe in her guilt, her brother-in-law,
the ex-Emperor, must already have been informed. What was he thinking
of her? Her dead husband, Prince Zembō, had been the brother whom he
had loved best. He had accepted the guardianship of the little girl
who was now about to be consecrated and at his brother’s earnest
entreaty had promised to undertake her education and indeed treat her
as though she were his own child. The old Emperor had constantly
invited the widowed lady and her daughter to live with him in the
Palace, but she was reluctant to accept this offer, which indeed was
somewhat impracticable. Meanwhile she allowed herself to listen to
Genji’s youthful addresses and was soon living in constant torment and
agitation lest her indiscretion should be discovered. During the whole
period of this escapade she was in such a state of mingled excitement
and apprehension that she scarcely knew what she was doing. In the
world at large she had the reputation of being a great beauty
and this, combined with her exalted lineage, brought to the
Palace-in-the-Fields, so soon as it was known that she had repaired
thither with her daughter, a host of frivolous dandies from the Court,
who made it their business to force upon her their fashionable
attentions morning, noon and night. Genji heard of this and did
not blame them. He could only think it was a thousand pities that a
woman endowed with every talent and charm, should take it into her
head that she had done with the world and prepare to remove herself to
so remote a place. He could not help thinking that she would find Ise
extremely dull when she got there.

Though the masses for Aoi’s soul were now over, he remained in
retirement till the end of the seven weeks. He was not used to doing
nothing and the time hung heavy on his hands. Often he sent for Tō no
Chūjō to tell him all that was going on in the world, and among much
serious information Chūjō would often seek to distract him by
discussing the strange escapades in which they had sometimes shared.

On one of these occasions he indulged in some jokes at the expense of
the ancient lady-of-the-bedchamber with whom Genji had so indiscreetly
become involved. ‘Poor old lady!’ Genji protested; ‘it is too bad to
make fun of her in this way. Please do not do it.’ But all the same he
had to admit to himself that he could never think of her without
smiling. Then Chūjō told him the whole story of how he had followed
and watched him on that autumn night, the first after the full
moon,[21] and many other stories besides of his own adventures and
other people’s. But in the end they fell to talking of their common
loss, and agreeing that taken all in all life was but a sad business
they parted in tears.

Some weeks afterwards on a gloomy wet evening Chūjō strode into the
room looking somewhat self-conscious in the light grey winter cloak
and breeches which he was to-day wearing for the first time.[22] Genji
was leaning against the balustrade of the balcony above the main
western door. For a long while he had been gazing at the frost-clad
gardens which surrounded the house. A high wind was blowing and
swift showers dashed against the trees. Near to tears he murmured
to himself the line ‘Tell me whether her soul be in the rain or
whether in the clouds above!’[23] And as Chūjō watched him sitting
there, his chin resting upon his hand, he thought the soul of one who
had been wedded to so lovely a youth would not indeed have borne quite
to renounce the scene of her earthly life and must surely be hovering
very near him. Still gazing with eager admiration Chūjō came to
Genji’s side. He noticed now that though his friend had not in any
other way abated the plainness of his dress, he had to-day put on a
coloured sash. This streak of deep red showed up against his grey
cloak (which though still a summer one[24] was of darker colour than
that which he had lately been wearing) in so attractive a way that
though the effect was very different from that of the magnificent
attires which Genji had affected in happier days, yet Chūjō could not
for a long while take his eyes off him. At last he too gazed up at the
stormy sky, and remembering the Chinese verse which he had heard Genji
repeat he recited the poem: ‘Though to rain her soul be turned, yet
where in the clouded vault of heaven is that one mist-wreath which is
she?’ And Genji answered: ‘Since she whom once we knew beyond the
country of the clouds is fled, two months of storm and darkness now
have seared the wintry earth below.’

The depth of Genji’s feeling was evident. Sometimes Chūjō had
thought it was merely dread of the old Emperor’s rebukes—coupled with
a sense of obligation towards Aoi’s father whose kindness had always
been so marked and also towards the Princess her mother, who had
cherished him with an unfailing patience and fondness—that had made it
difficult for him to break off a relationship which was in fact
becoming very irksome. Often indeed Genji’s apparent indifference to
Aoi had been very painful to him. Now it was evident to him that she
had never ceased to hold an important place in his affections, and
this made him deplore more bitterly than ever the tragedy of her early
death. Whatever he did and wherever he went he felt that a light was
gone out of his life and he was very despondent.

Among the withered undergrowth in the garden Genji found to his
delight a few gentians still blossoming and after Chūjō was gone he
plucked some and bade the wet-nurse Saisō give them to the child’s
grandmother, together with the verse: ‘This gentian flower that
lingered amid the withered grasses of the hedge I send you in
remembrance of the autumn that is passed.’ ‘To you’ he added ‘it will
seem a poor thing in contrast to the flowers that are gone.’ The
Princess looked at her grandson’s innocent smiling face and thought
that in beauty he was not far behind the child she had lost. Already
her tears were pouring faster than a stormy wind shakes down the dry
leaves from a tree, and when she read Genji’s message they flowed
faster still. This was her answer: ‘New tears, but tears of joy it
brings,—this blossom from a meadow that is now laid waste.’

Still in need of some small employment to distract his thoughts,
though it was already getting dark he began a letter to Princess
Asagao who, he felt sure, must long ago have been told of his
bereavement. Although it was a long time since he had heard from her
he made no reference to their former friendship; his letter was indeed
so formal that he allowed the messenger to read it before he
started. It was written on Chinese paper tinted sky-blue. With it was
the poem ‘When I look back upon an autumn fraught with diverse sorrows
I find no dusk dimmed with such tears as I to-night have shed.’ He
took great pains with his handwriting and her ladies thought it a
shame that so elegant a note should remain unanswered. In the end she
reached the same conclusion. ‘Though my heart goes out towards you in
your affliction,’ she answered, ‘I see no cause to abandon my
distrust.’ And to this she added the poem ‘Since I heard that the
mists of autumn had vanished and left desolate winter in your house, I
have thought often of you as I watched the streaming sky.’ This was
all, and it was written hastily, but to Genji, who for so long had
received no news from her, it gave as much pleasure as the longest and
most ingenious epistle.

It is in general the unexplored that attracts us, and Genji tended to
fall most deeply in love with those who gave him least encouragement.
The ideal condition for the continuance of his affection was that the
beloved, much occupied elsewhere, should grant him no more than an
occasional favour. There was one[25] who admirably fulfilled these
conditions, but unfortunately her high rank and conspicuous position
in society brought with them too many material difficulties. But
little Murasaki was different. There was no need to bring her up on
this principle. He had not during the long days of his mourning ever
forgotten her and he knew that she must be feeling very dull without
him. But he regarded her merely as an orphan child whose care he had
undertaken and it was a comfort to him to think that here at least was
someone he could leave for a little while without anxiously wondering
all the time whether he would get into trouble.

It was now quite dark, and gathering the people of the house round the
great lamp he got them to tell him stories. There was among them a
gentlewoman named Chūnagon with whom he had for years been secretly in
love. He still felt drawn towards her, but at such a time there could
of course be no thought of any closer tie. Seeing now that he was
looking despondent she came over to him and when they had talked for a
while of various matters at large, Genji said to her: ‘During these
last weeks, when all has been quiet in the house, I have grown so used
to the company of you gentlewomen that if a time comes when we can no
longer meet so frequently, I shall miss you very much. That was why I
was feeling particularly depressed; though indeed whichever way I turn
my thoughts I find small matter for consolation!’ Here he paused and
some of the ladies shed a few tears. At last one of them said: ‘I
know, my Lord, how dark a cloud has fallen upon your life and would
not venture to compare our sorrow with yours. But I would have you
remember what it must mean to us that henceforward you will never....’
‘Do not say never’ answered Genji kindly. ‘I do not forget my friends
so easily as that. If there are any among you who, mindful of the
past, wish still to serve in this house, they may count upon it that
so long as I live I shall never desert them.’ And as he sat gazing
into the lamplight, with tears a-glitter in his eyes, they felt they
were fortunate indeed in having such a protector.

There was among these gentlewomen a little orphan girl who had been
Aoi’s favourite among all her maids. Well knowing how desolate the
child must now be feeling he said to her kindly: ‘Whose business is it
now but mine to look after little Miss Até?’ The girl burst into
tears. In her short tunic, darker than the dresses the others were
wearing, with black neckerchief and dark blue breeches she was a
charming figure. ‘I hope’ continued Genji ‘that there are some who
despite the dull times they are likely to have in this house will
choose, in memory of the past, to devote themselves to the care of the
little prince whom I am leaving behind. If all who knew his mother are
now to be dispersed his plight will be more wretched than before.’
Again he promised never to forget them, but they knew well enough that
his visits would be few and far between, and felt very despondent.

That night he distributed among these waiting-ladies and among all the
servants at the Great Hall according to their rank and condition
various keepsakes and trifles that had belonged to their young
mistress, giving to each whatever he thought most likely to keep her
memory alive, without regard to his own preferences and dislikes in
the household.

He had determined that he could not much longer continue this mode of
life and must soon return to his own palace. While his servants were
dragging out his coach and his gentlemen assembling in front of his
rooms, as though on purpose to delay him a violent rainstorm began,
with a wind that tore the last leaves from the trees and swept them
over the earth with wild rapidity. The gentlemen who had assembled in
front of the house were soon drenched to the skin. He had meant to go
to the Palace, then to the Nijō-in and return to sleep at the Great
Hall. But on such a night this was impossible, and he ordered his
gentlemen to proceed straight to the Nijō-in where he would join them
subsequently. As they trooped off each of them felt (though none of
them was likely to be seeing the Great Hall for by any means the last
time) that to-day a chapter in his life was closed. Both the Minister
and his wife, when they heard that Genji was not returning that night,
also felt that they had reached a new and bitter stage in the progress
of their affliction. To Aoi’s mother he sent this letter: ‘The
ex-Emperor has expressed a strong desire to see me and I feel bound to
go to the Palace. Though I shall not be absent for many days, yet it
is now so long a time since I left this house that I feel dazed at the
prospect of facing the great world once more. I could not go without
informing you of my departure, but am in no condition to pay you a
visit.’ The Princess was still lying with closed eyes, her thoughts
buried in the profoundest gloom. She did not send a reply. Presently
Aoi’s father came to Genji’s apartments. He found it very hard to bear
up, and during the interview clung fast to his son-in-law’s sleeve
with an air of dependence which was pathetic to witness. After much
hesitation he began at last to say: ‘We old men are prone to tears
even when small matters are amiss; you must not wonder then that under
the weight of so terrible a sorrow I sometimes find myself breaking
into fits of weeping which I am at a loss to control. At such moments
of weakness and disarray I had rather be where none can see me, and
that is why I have not as yet ventured even to pay my respects to his
Majesty your good father. If opportunity offers, I beg you to explain
this to him. To be left thus desolate in the last years of life is a
sore trial, a very sore trial indeed....’ The effort which it cost him
to say these words was distressing for Genji to watch and he hastened
to assure the old Minister that he would make matters right at the
Court. ‘Though I do not doubt,’ he added, ‘that my father has already
guessed the reason of your absence.’ As it was still raining heavily
the Minister urged him to start before it grew quite dark. But Genji
would not leave the house till he had taken a last look at the inner
rooms. His father-in-law followed him. In the space beyond Aoi’s
curtained seat, packed away behind a screen, some thirty gentlewomen
all clad in dark grey weeds were huddled together, forlorn and tearful.
‘These hapless ladies,’ said the Minister, turning to Genji,
‘though they take some comfort in the thought that you are leaving
behind you one whose presence will sometimes draw you to this house,
well know that it will never again be your rightful home, and this
distresses them no less than the loss of their dear mistress. For
years they had hoped against hope that you and she would at last be
reconciled. Consider then how bitter for them must be the day of this,
your final departure.’ ‘Let them take heart’ said Genji; ‘for whereas
while my lady was alive I would often of set purpose absent myself
from her in the vain hope that upon my return I should find her less
harshly disposed towards me, now that she is dead I have no longer any
cause to shun this house, as soon you shall discover.’

When he had watched Genji drive away, Aoi’s father went to her
bedroom. All her things were just as she had left them. On a stand in
front of the bed writing materials lay scattered about. There were
some papers covered with Genji’s handwriting, and these the old man
clasped with an eagerness that made some of the gentlewomen who had
followed him smile even in the midst of their grief. The works that
Genji had written out were all masterpieces of the past, some Chinese,
some Japanese; some written in cursive, some in full script; they
constituted indeed an astonishing display of versatile penmanship. The
Minister gazed with an almost religious awe at these specimens of
Genji’s skill, and the thought that he must henceforth regard the
young man whom he adored as no longer a member of his household and
family must at that moment have been very painful to him.

Among these manuscripts was a copy of Po Chü-i’s “Everlasting
Wrong”[26] and beside the words ‘The old pillow, the old coverlet
with whom shall he now share?’ Genji had written the poem: ‘Mournful
her ghost that journeying now to unfamiliar realms must flee the couch
where we were wont to rest.’ While beside the words ‘The white petals
of the frost’ he had written: ‘The dust shall cover this bed; for no
longer can I bear to brush from it the nightly dew of my tears.’

Aoi’s ladies were gathered together in groups of two or three in each
of which some gentlewoman was pouring out her private griefs and
vexations. ‘No doubt, as his Excellency the Minister told us, Prince
Genji will come to us sometimes, if only to see the child. But for my
part I doubt whether he will find much comfort in such visits....’ So
one of them was saying to her friends. And soon there were many
affecting scenes of farewell between them, for it had been decided
that for the present they were all of them to go back to their homes.

Meanwhile Genji was with his father in the Palace. ‘You are very thin
in the face,’ said the ex-Emperor as soon as he saw him. ‘I am afraid
you have overtaxed your strength by too much prayer and fasting,’ and
in a state of the deepest concern he at once began pressing all kinds
of viands and cordials upon him, showing with regard to his health and
indeed his affairs in general a solicitude by which Genji could not
help feeling touched.

Late that night he at last arrived at the Nijō-in. Here he found
everything garnished and swept; his men-servants and maids were
waiting for him at the door. All the gentlewomen of the household at
once presented themselves in his apartments. They seemed to have vied
with one another which should look the gayest and smartest, and their
finery contrasted pleasantly with the sombre and dispiriting attire of
the unfortunate ladies whom he had left behind him at the Great Hall.

Having changed out of his court dress, he went at once to the western
wing. Not only was Murasaki’s winter costume most daintily designed,
but her pretty waiting-maids and little companions were so handsomely
equipped as to reflect the greatest credit on Shōnagon’s management;
and he saw with satisfaction that such matters might with perfect
safety be left in her hands. Murasaki herself was indeed exquisitely
dressed. ‘How tall you have grown since last I saw you!’ he said and
pulled up her little curtain-of-honour. He had been away so long that
she felt shy with him and turned her head aside. But he would not for
the world have had her look otherwise than she looked at that moment,
for as she sat in profile with the lamplight falling upon her face he
realized with delight that she was becoming the very image of her whom
from the beginning he had loved best. Coming closer to her side he
whispered to her: ‘Some time or other I want to tell you about all
that has been happening to me since I went away. But it has all been
very terrible and I am too tired to speak of it now, so I am going
away to rest for a little while in my own room. From to-morrow onwards
you will have me to yourself all day long; in fact, I expect you will
soon grow quite tired of me.’

‘So far, so good’ thought Shōnagon when she heard this speech. But she
was still very far from easy in her mind. She knew that there were
several ladies of very great influence with whom Genji was on terms of
friendship and she feared that when it came to choosing a second wife,
he would be far more likely to take one of these than to remember her
own little mistress; and she was not at all satisfied.

When Genji had retired to the eastern wing, he sent for a certain Lady
Chūjō to rub his limbs and then went to bed. Next morning he wrote to
the nurses of Aoi’s child and received from them in reply a touching
account of its beauty and progress; but the letter served only to
awaken in him useless memories and regrets. Towards the end of the day
he felt very restless and the time hung heavily on his hands, but he
was in no mood to resume his secret rovings and such an idea did not
even occur to him. In Murasaki none of his hopes had been
disappointed; she had indeed grown up into as handsome a girl as you
could wish to see, nor was she any longer at an age when it was
impossible for him to become her lover. He constantly hinted at this,
but she did not seem to understand what he meant.

He still had plenty of time on his hands, and the whole of it was now
spent in her society. All day long they played together at draughts or
word-picking, and even in the course of these trivial pursuits she
showed a quickness of mind and beauty of disposition which continually
delighted him; but she had been brought up in such rigid seclusion
from the world that it never once occurred to her to exploit her
charms in any more adult way.

Soon the situation became unendurable, and though he knew that she
would be very much upset he determined somehow or another to get his
own way.

There came a morning when the gentleman was already up and about, but
the young lady was still lying a-bed. Her attendants had no means of
knowing that anything out of the ordinary had happened, for it had
always been Genji’s habit to go in and out of her room just as he
chose. They naturally assumed that she was not feeling well and were
glancing at her with sympathy when Genji arrived carrying a
writing-box which he slipped behind the bed curtains. He at once
retired, and the ladies also left the room. Seeing that she was alone
Murasaki slowly raised her head. There by her pillow was the
writing-box and tied to it with ribbon, a slender note. Listlessly she
detached the note and unfolding it read the hastily scribbled poem:
‘Too long have we deferred this new emprise, who night by night
till now have lain but with a shift between.’

That _this_ was what Genji had so long been wanting came to her as a
complete surprise and she could not think why he should regard the
unpleasant thing that had happened last night as in some way the
beginning of a new and more intimate friendship between them. Later in
the morning he came again. ‘Is something the matter with you?’ he
asked. ‘I shall be very dull to-day if you cannot play draughts with
me.’ But when he came close to her she only buried herself more deeply
than ever under the bedclothes. He waited till the room was empty and
then bending over her he said ‘Why are you treating me in this surly
way? I little expected to find you in so bad a humour this morning.
The others will think it very strange if you lie here all day,’ and he
pulled aside the scarlet coverlet beneath which she had dived. To his
astonishment he found that she was bathed in sweat; even the hair that
hung across her cheeks was dripping wet. ‘No! This is too much,’ he
said; ‘what a state you have worked yourself up into!’ But try as he
would to coax her back to reason he could not get a word out of her,
for she was really feeling very vexed with him indeed. ‘Very well
then,’ he said at last, ‘if that is how you feel I will never come to
see you again,’ and he pretended to be very much mortified and
humiliated. Turning away, he opened the writing-box to see whether she
had written any answer to his poem, but of course found none. He
understood perfectly that her distress was due merely to extreme youth
and inexperience, and was not at all put out. All day long he sat near
her trying to win back her confidence, and though he had small success
he found even her rebuffs in a curious way very endearing.

At nightfall, it being the Day of the Wild Boar, the festival
cakes[27] were served. Owing to Genji’s bereavement no great display
was made, but a few were brought round to Murasaki’s quarters in an
elegant picnic-basket. Seeing that the different kinds were all mixed
up together Genji came out into the front part of the house and
calling for Koremitsu said to him: ‘I want you to take these cakes
away and bring me some more to-morrow evening; only not nearly so many
as this, and all of one kind.[28] This is not the right evening for
them.’ He smiled as he said these words and Koremitsu was quick-witted
enough at once to guess what had happened. He did not however think
that it would be discreet to congratulate his master in so many words,
and merely said: ‘It is true enough that if you want to make a good
beginning you must eat your cakes on the proper day. The day of the
Rat is certainly very much to the purpose.[29] Pray how many am I to
bring?’ When Genji answered ‘Divide by three[30] and you will get the
answer,’ Koremitsu was no longer in any doubt, and hastily retired,
leaving Genji amused at the practised air with which he invariably
handled matters of this kind. He said nothing to anyone, but returning
to his private house made the cakes there with his own hands.

Genji was beginning to despair of ever restoring her confidence and
good humour. But even now, when she seemed as shy of him as on
the night when he first stole her from her home, her beauty fascinated
him and he knew that his love for her in past days had been but a
particle compared with what he had felt since yesterday.

How strange a thing is the heart of man! For now it would have seemed
to him a calamity if even for a single night he had been taken from
Murasaki’s side; and only a little while ago....

Koremitsu brought the cakes which Genji had ordered very late on the
following night. He was careful not to entrust them to Shōnagon, for
he thought that such a commission might embarrass a grown woman.
Instead, he sent for her daughter Miss Ben and putting all the cakes
into one large perfume-box he bade her take them secretly to her
mistress. ‘Be sure to put them close by her pillow, for they are lucky
cakes and must not be left about the house. Promise me not to do
anything silly with them.’ Miss Ben thought all this very odd, but
tossing her head she answered ‘When, pray, did you ever know me to be
silly,’ and she walked off with the box. Being quite a young girl and
completely innocent as regards matters of this kind she marched
straight up to her mistress’s bed and, remembering Koremitsu’s
instructions, pushed the box through the curtains and lodged it safely
by the pillow. It seemed to her that there was someone else there as
well as Murasaki. ‘No doubt,’ thought she ‘Prince Genji has come as
usual to hear her repeat her lessons.’

As yet no one in the household save Koremitsu had any knowledge of the
betrothal. But when next day the box was found by the bed and brought
into the servant’s quarters some of those who were in closest touch
with their master’s affairs at once guessed the secret. Where did
these little dishes come from, each set on its own little carved
stand? and who had been at such pains to make these dainty and
ingenious cakes? Shōnagon, though she was shocked at this casual way
of slipping into matrimony, was overjoyed to learn that Genji’s
strange patronage of her young mistress had at last culminated in a
definite act of betrothal, and her eyes brimmed with tears of
thankfulness and delight. All the same, she thought he might at least
have taken the trouble to inform her old nurse, and there was a good
deal of grumbling in the household generally at an outside retainer
such as Koremitsu having got wind of the matter first.

During the days that followed he grudged even the short hours of
attendance which he was obliged to put in at the Palace and in his
father’s rooms, discovering (much to his own surprise) that save in
her presence he could no longer enjoy a moment’s peace. The friends
whom he had been wont to visit showed themselves both surprised and
offended by this unexplained neglect, but though he had no wish to
stand ill with them he now found that even a remote prospect of having
to absent himself from his palace for a single night was enough to
throw him quite out of gear; and all the time he was away his spirits
were at the very lowest ebb and he looked for all the world as though
he were sickening from some strange illness. To all invitations or
greetings he invariably replied that he was at present in no fit mood
for company (which was naturally taken as an allusion to his recent
loss) or that he must now be gone, for someone with whom he had
business was already awaiting him.

The Minister of the Right was aware that his youngest daughter[31] was
still pining for Prince Genji and he said one day to Princess Kōkiden:
‘While his wife was alive we were bound of course to discourage her
friendship with him in every way we could. But the position is now
quite changed and I feel that as things are there would be much
to be said for such a match.’ But Kōkiden had always hated Genji and
having herself arranged that her sister should enter the Palace,[32]
she saw no reason why this plan should suddenly be abandoned. Indeed
from this moment onwards she became obstinately determined that the
girl should be given to the Emperor and to no one else. Genji indeed
still retained a certain partiality towards her; but though it grieved
him to hear that he had made her unhappy he had not at present any
spare affection to offer her. Life, he had come to the conclusion, was
not long enough for diversions and experiments; henceforward he would
concentrate. He had moreover received a terrible warning of the
dangers which might accrue from such jealousies and resentments as his
former way of life had involved. He thought with great tenderness and
concern of Lady Rokujō’s distress; but it was clear to him that he
must beware of ever again allowing her to regard him as her true haven
of refuge. If however she would renew their friendship in quite new
terms, permitting him to enjoy her company and conversation at such
times as he could conveniently arrange to do so, he saw no reason why
they should not sometimes meet.

Society at large knew that someone was living with him, but her
identity was quite unknown. This was of no consequence; but Genji felt
that sooner or later he ought to let her father Prince Hyōbukyō know
what had become of her and decided that before he did so it would be
best to celebrate her Initiation. This was done privately, but he was
at pains that every detail of the ceremony should be performed with
due splendour and solemnity, and though the outside world was not
invited it was as magnificent an affair as it well could be. But ever
since their betrothal Murasaki had shown a certain shyness and
diffidence in his presence. She could not help feeling sorry that
after all the years during which they had got on so well together and
been such close friends he should suddenly take this strange idea into
his head, and whenever her eyes met his she hastily averted them. He
tried to make a joke of the matter, but to her it was very serious
indeed and weighed heavily upon her mind. Her changed attitude towards
him was indeed somewhat comic; but it was also very distressing, and
one day he said: ‘Sometimes it seems as though you had forgotten all
the long years of our friendship and I had suddenly become as new to
you as at the start’; and while thus he scolded her the year drew to a
close. On New Year’s Day he paid the usual visits of ceremony to his
father, to the Emperor and to the Heir Apparent. Next he visited the
Great Hall. The old Minister made no reference to the new year, but at
once began to speak of the past. In the midst of his loneliness and
sorrow he was so deeply moved even by this hasty and long deferred
visit that though he strove hard to keep his composure it was more
than he could compass to do. Looking fondly at his son-in-law he
thought that the passage of each fresh year did but add new beauty to
this fair face. They went together into the inner rooms, where his
entry surprised and delighted beyond measure the disconsolate ladies
who had remained behind. Next they visited the little prince who was
growing into a fine child; his merry face was indeed a pleasure to
see. His resemblance to the Heir Apparent was certainly very striking
and Genji wondered whether it had been noticed.

Aoi’s things were still as she had left them. His New Year clothes had
as in former years been hung out for him on the clothes-frame. Aoi’s
clothes-frame which stood empty beside it wore a strangely desolate
air. A letter from the Princess her mother was now brought to him:
‘To-day,’ she said, ‘our bereavement was more than ever present
to my mind, and though touched at the news of your visit, I fear that
to see you would but awaken unhappy recollections.’ ‘You will
remember,’ she continued, ‘that it was my custom to present you with a
suit of clothes on each New Year’s Day. But in these last months my
sight has been so dimmed with tears that I fear you will think I have
matched the colours very ill. Nevertheless I beg that though it be for
to-day only you will suffer yourself to be disfigured by this
unfashionable garb ...’ and a servant held out before him a second[33]
suit, which was evidently the one he was expected to wear to-day. The
under-stuff was of a most unusual pattern and mixture of colours and
did not at all please him; but he could not allow her to feel that she
had laboured in vain, and at once put the suit on. It was indeed
fortunate that he had come to the Great Hall that day, for he could
see that she had counted on it. In his reply he said: ‘Though I came
with the hope that you would be the first friend I should greet at
this new springtide, yet now that I am here too many bitter memories
assail me and I think it wiser that we should not meet.’ To this he
added an acrostic poem in which he said that with the mourning dress
which he had just discarded so many years of friendship were cast
aside that were he to come to her[34] he could but weep. To this she
sent in answer an acrostic poem in which she said that in this new
season when all things else on earth put on altered hue, one thing
alone remained as in the months gone by—her longing for the child who
like the passing year had vanished from their sight.

But though hers may have been the greater grief we must not think that
there was not at that moment very deep emotion on both sides.

[1] We learn in Chapter XXXIV that he was made Commander of the
Bodyguard at the age of twenty-one. He is now twenty-two.

[2] Genji’s son by Fujitsubo (supposed by the world to be the
Emperor’s child) had been made Heir Apparent.

[3] An Emperor upon his succession was obliged to send one unmarried
daughter or grand-daughter to the Shintō Temple at Ise, another to the
Shintō Temple at Kamo. See Appendix II.

[4] She was seven years older than Genji.

[5] a Daughter of Prince Momozono. See above, p. 68.

[6] We learn later that he was a son of Iyo no Kami.

[7] Father of Princess Asagao; brother of the ex-Emperor and therefore
Genji’s paternal uncle.

[8] The clash of coaches took place at the Purification. The actual
_matsuri_ (Festival) takes place some days later.

[9] I.e. astrologically.

[10] _Kokinshū_ 509.

[11] The clash of the chariots at the Festival of Purification.
Probably a quotation.

[12] The jealous person is unconscious of the fatal effects which his
jealousy is producing.

[13] Members of the Imperial family were not allowed to leave the
Capital without the consent of the Emperor.

[14] A temporary building erected afresh for each new Virgin a few
miles outside Kyoto. She spent several years there before proceeding
to Ise.

[15] The Chinese version of the Sanskrit _Saddharma Pundarika Sutra_;
see _Sacred Books of the East_, Vol. 21.

[16] The lying-in jacket.

[17] These presents (_ubuyashinai_) were given on the third, fifth and
ninth nights.

[18] The ceremony of investing the newly elected officials.

[19] Had she corresponded with someone who was in mourning, she would
herself have become unclean and been disqualified from attending upon
her daughter the Vestal Virgin.

[20] Used in writing to people who were in mourning.

[21] See p. 182.

[22] Winter clothes are begun on the first day of the tenth month.

[23] From a poem to a dead lady, by Liu Yü-hsi (A.D. 772–842).

     _I saw you first standing at the window of Yü Liang’s tower;_
     _Your waist was slender as the willow-trees that grow at
       Wu-ch‘ang._
     _My finding you and losing you were both like a dream;_
     _Oh tell me if your soul dwells in the rain, or whether in the
       clouds above!_

[24] A husband in mourning may not wear winter clothes. The mourning
lasts for three months.

[25] Fujitsubo.

[26] Murasaki quotes the line in the form in which it occurs in
Japanese MSS. of Po Chü-i’s poem. The Chinese editions have a slightly
different text. Cf. Giles’s translation, _History of Chinese
Literature_, p. 172.

[27] On the Day of the Boar in the tenth month it was the custom to
serve little cakes of seven different kinds, to wit: Large bean,
mungo, dolicho, sesamun, chestnut, persimmon, sugar-starch.

[28] On the third night after the first cohabitation it was the custom
to offer up small cakes (all of one kind and colour) to the god
Izanagi and his sister Izanami.

[29] First, because the Rat comes at the beginning of the series of
twelve animal signs; secondly, because ‘Rat’ is written with a
character that also means ‘baby.’

[30]The phrase which I have translated ‘Divide by three’ also means
‘One of three’ i.e. of the Three Mysteries (Birth, _Marriage_, Death).
That is why Koremitsu was ‘no longer in any doubt.’ But many other
explanations of the passage have been given. It is indeed one of the
three major difficulties enumerated by the old-fashioned Genji teachers.

[31] Oborozukiyo. See above, p. 242.

[32] I.e. become a concubine of the Emperor.

[33] In addition to the one hanging on the frame.

[34] _Kiteba_, ‘were he to come,’ also means ‘should he wear it.’




                             APPENDIX I


  A.D. 978 (?)   Murasaki born.

  A.D. 994 (?)   Marries Fujiwara no Nobutaka.

  A.D. 1001      Nobutaka dies.

  A.D. 1005 (?)  She becomes lady-in-waiting to the Empress Akiko,
                 then a girl of sixteen.

  A.D. 1007–1010 Keeps a diary, which survives.

  A.D. 1008      Book I of the _Tale of Genji_ read to the Emperor.

  A.D. 1025      Murasaki still at Court.

  A.D. 1031      Murasaki no longer at Court and perhaps dead.




                            APPENDIX II

                The Vestal Virgins of Ise and Kamo.


So important a part do these ladies play in the Tale of Genji that the
reader may perhaps wish to know exactly what they were. I may say at
the outset that I have used the term ‘vestal’ merely for convenience.
These Virgins were not guardians of a sacred fire.

_Ise_.—Upon the accession of a new Emperor, a princess of the Imperial
House (preferably a daughter of the Emperor) was sent to be priestess
of the great Shintō shrines at Ise. According to the _Nihongi_ (Bk. V;
Emperor Sūjin 6th year[1]) ‘The gods Amaterasu and Ōkunidama were
formerly both worshipped in the Emperor’s Palace Hall. But the Emperor
Sūjin was frightened of having so much divine power concentrated in
one place. Accordingly he entrusted the worship of Amaterasu to the
Princess Toyosuku-iri, bidding her carry it out in the village of
Kasanui in Yamato.’ Subsequently Amaterasu expressed a desire to be
moved to Ise.

The Virgin was usually about twelve years old at the time of her
appointment. Cases however are recorded in which she was an infant of
one year old; or again, a woman of twenty-eight. Her office lasted till

  (1) The Emperor died or resigned
  (2) She herself died or became disabled
  (3) Either of her parents died
  (4) She misconducted herself.

Thus in A.D. 541 the Vestal, a certain Princess Iwane, misconducted
herself with Prince Mubaragi and was replaced. The process of
preparing the Virgin for her office lasted three years. She was first
of all, after a preliminary purification in running water handed
over to the City guards. Meanwhile, just outside the Capital,
a special place of purification was built for her, called the
Palace-in-the-Fields. After a second River Purification she took up
her residence in this temporary Palace and stayed there till the time
came for her to settle at Ise. Before the journey to Ise she was again
purified in the River, and she appeared at the Imperial Palace to
receive at the Emperor’s hands the ‘Comb of Parting.’ No Virgin of Ise
was appointed after 1342.

_Kamo_.—The Virgin of Kamo, first instituted in A.D. 818 was a replica
of the Ise Virgin. She too had her Palace-in-the-Fields, three years
of purification, etc. The practice of sending a Virgin to Kamo was
discontinued in 1204.

Upon both Virgins curious speech-taboos were imposed. Thus they called

  death, ‘recovery’
  illness, ‘taking a rest’
  weeping, ‘dropping salt water’
  blood, ‘sweat’
  to strike, ‘to fondle’
  a tomb, ‘an earth heap’
  meat, ‘vegetables’

All words connected with Buddhism were taboo. Thus Buddha himself was
called ‘The Centre’; Buddhist scriptures were called ‘stained paper’;
a pagoda, ‘araragi’ (meaning unknown); a temple, ‘a tile-covered
place’; a priest (ironically), ‘hair-long’; a nun, ‘female hair-long’;
fasting, ‘partial victuals.’

To both Virgins was attached an important retinue of male
officials. These were appointed by the Emperor and no doubt acted as
his agents and informers in the districts of Ise and Kamo.

Probably the Ise Virgin was a very ancient institution which later
proved useful for political ends. The Virgin of Kamo, who does not
appear on the scene till the ninth century, was presumably instituted
simply as a means of spreading Court influence.

[1] 92 B.C. according to the usual chronology, which is however purely
fictitious.




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 TALE OF GENJI”.

  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. 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 7
    of ‘governess changed to
    of ‘governess’

    Page 9
    PREFACE 9 changed to
    PREFACE 7

    Page 69
    lack of influence... changed to
    lack of influence....’

    Page 95
    reason’ said Gengi. changed to
    reason’ said Genji.

    Page 102
    joins Mount Katsuragi and Mount Kombu changed to
    joins Mount Katsuragi and Mount Kombu.

    Page 114
    steward’s son, and tell changed to
    steward’s son, ‘and tell

    Page 130
    There could be on harm in this interchange changed to
    There could be no harm in this interchange

    Page 137
    and that blurr of shimmering changed to
    and that blur of shimmering

    Page 179
    it was very diasppointing to lose changed to
    it was very disappointing to lose

    Page 228
    off the scent. And this opinion changed to
    off the scent.’ And this opinion

    Page 232
    modern Wu-ch’ang in Hupeh. changed to
    modern Wu-ch‘ang in Hupeh.

    Page 242
    ‘Oh, how you frightened me? she cried. changed to
    ‘Oh, how you frightened me,’ she cried.

    Page 263
    consent of the Emperor changed to
    consent of the Emperor.

    Page 275
    deep-dyed robe, and he recited the poem: changed to
    deep-dyed robe,’ and he recited the poem:

    Page 293
    sickening for some strange illness. changed to
    sickening from some strange illness.

    Page 294
    her father Prince Hyōbukyo changed to
    her father Prince Hyōbukyō