On this occasion Kashiwagi had come with the firm intention of

behaving with perfect propriety, for not only did he stand in great

awe of Genji, but also was extremely sensitive to public opinion in

general, and nothing was more painful to him than the idea of his name

figuring in the scurrilous gossip of the Court. If he had designs of

any kind, they were not upon Nyosan but upon her cat. A fancy seized

him that it would make him less miserable if he could get possession

of this creature and have it always about him. But even this, as he

well knew, was a mad idea, and under the circumstances to purloin

the cat was not much easier than to make off with its mistress. The

archery meeting proved uneventful. But a few days afterwards he was

reminded of his project by seeing in the Crown Prince’s rooms a very

handsome kitten which had just arrived as a present from the Emperor’s

Palace. His Majesty’s court-cat had just given birth to a large family

of kittens, which had been distributed among his acquaintances. ‘I

happened the other day,’ said Kashiwagi casually, ‘to catch sight of a

remarkably fine cat belonging to one of the ladies at Genji’s palace.

I never saw so handsome a creature. By the way, I think they said

that it is your sister Nyosan’s....’ This was a very good move,

for the Crown Prince had a passion for cats, and the subject was one

that he was willing to converse upon for any length of time. He began

questioning Kashiwagi about this marvellous cat of Nyosan’s, which

he did not remember to have seen. ‘You have some of the same breed

here,’ said Kashiwagi, ‘but there was something uncommon about that

particular creature. It seemed so much more friendly and intelligent

than any that I have ever known.’ Thus began a long conversation upon

the merits of different cats. The Crown Prince first of all borrowed

those belonging to his wife, the Akashi Princess, and finally sent

a message to his sister Nyosan asking if she would mind lending him

hers. Upon its arrival every one agreed that it was undoubtedly

a very fine cat. Kashiwagi, who knew the Crown Prince would give

his sister a full account of the reception that her favourite had

received, thought it better on this occasion not to display any great

interest in the animal. But some days later he called again, on the

pretext of giving the Prince a long promised lesson upon the zithern.

‘Which is the fellow I saw at Genji’s?’ he asked, in the course of

conversation. ‘Is he still here? You have so many that I find it

hard to keep them apart....’ But as a matter of fact he had already

recognized Nyosan’s cat, and was soon fondling it upon his lap. ‘Isn’t

he behaving beautifully?’ said the Crown Prince. ‘Considering you only

saw him in the distance the other day, it is extraordinary that he

should recognize you. But he certainly does, for they are by nature

very distrustful creatures, and will not let any one touch them unless

they remember having seen him before. However, our cats often remember

some one who has only been here for a moment and took no particular

notice of them.’ ‘They may not have reasoning powers such as we have,’

answered Kashiwagi, ‘but I am convinced that some of them at any

rate have souls like ours.’ Presently he added: ‘Perhaps, as you have

so many delightful cats of your own here, you would lend me this one

of Nyosan’s for a little while?’ It was only after he had made this

request that he realized how eccentric it must appear.

The cat lay close by him all night, and the first thing he did in the

morning was to see to its wants, combing it and feeding it with his own

hand. The most unsociable cat, when it finds itself wrapped up in some

one’s coat and put to sleep upon his bed—stroked, fed and tended with

every imaginable care—soon ceases to stand upon its dignity; and when,

a little later, Kashiwagi posted himself near the window, where he sat

gazing vacantly before him, his new friend soon stole gently to his

side and mewed several times as though in the tenderest sympathy. Such

advances on the part of a cat are rare indeed, and smiling, he recited

to the animal the following verse: ‘I love and am not loved. But you,

who nestle daily in my dear one’s arms—what need have you to moan?’

He gazed into the cat’s eyes as he spoke, and again it began mewing

piteously, till he took it up into his lap, and he was still nursing

it thus when the first visitors of the day began to arrive. ‘This is

very sudden,’ they whispered to one another. ‘He used not to take the

slightest interest in such creatures.’ Presently a messenger arrived

from the Crown Prince, asking that the cat might be sent back at once.

But Kashiwagi refused to part with it.

[82]The Shining One.

[83] See vol. ii, p. 125.

[84] I.e. not a member of the Imperial Family.

[85] One of Genji’s retainers.

[86] Kōkiden.

[87] Since Aoi’s death Genji had no wife, Murasaki being technically

only a chief concubine, her mother’s low rank making it impossible for

her to be a _kita no kata_ or ‘legitimate consort.’

[88] A Chinese custom, imitated by the Japanese Court.

[89] They must have been about four and three years old.

[90] On the third day after the arrival of a bride the husband notified

the bride’s father that the marriage had been consummated and was

likely to prove a success.

[91] ‘Though black this night of spring, what guide need we save the

scent of their blossoms to guide us whither the plum-trees bloom?’

[92] That Murasaki might not see.

[93] Barely fourteen.

[94] _Aki_ means ‘autumn,’ but also ‘to be tired of,’ and there is the

secondary meaning: ‘Is the day when Genji will grow tired of me near at

hand?’

[95] Aoi’s death in childbirth.

[96] The second month.

[97] Not to be born in the City was regarded as a severe social

disqualification, whoever the parents might be. In the narrative she is

called the Princess from Akashi; but it must not be supposed that she

was ever so addressed.

[98] ‘The heart’s darkness,’ _kokoro no yami_, is the love of parent

for child.

[99] By sending this representative the Crown Prince acknowledged

paternity of the child.

[100] The original object of dolls is to divert evil influences from

the child.

[101] Kōbai was now a member of the Grand Council.

[102] The four goal-posts were a pine-tree, a maple, a willow and a

cherry-tree, growing in tubs.

[103] Fujiwara no Yoshikaze, 9th century.

[104] Always served to footballers.

[105] In section 99 of the _Tales of Isé_ the poet ‘sees, yet does not

see,’ a lady in her carriage at the summer race-meeting.

CHAPTER VII

WAKANA

(‘Young Shoots’)

PART II

So time[106] went by, bringing with it remarkably few changes either

at home or in the world at large. Even so important an event as the

abdication of the Emperor Ryōzen seemed to make very little difference,

for though he had no heir of his own, his nephew the Crown Prince had

now reached manhood, and would, it was confidently expected, merely

carry on his predecessor’s policy. The actual resignation came very

suddenly, ill-health being given as a pretext. But during the eighteen

years of his reign Ryōzen had never ceased ardently to long for an

opportunity of escaping from a position that entailed at every turn the

most dangerous concealments and deceptions.[107] He had many friends

with whom it would be possible for him as a private person to associate

in a far freer and more interesting way; moreover his childlessness

(decreed, as he thought, by Heaven as a punishment for his unwilling

impiety), would not weigh upon him so heavily when the future of the

Throne was no longer involved.

As sister to the new Emperor, Nyosan naturally became more prominent

than ever both at Court and in the estimation of the populace. But

she was still very far from occupying a position anything like that

of Murasaki, upon whom, as the years went by, Genji seemed to

become more and more dependent. Yet it was from time to time clear

that, despite his unchanging tenderness and confidence, Murasaki was

not wholly contented with her present position. ‘There are too many

people in this house,’ she would sometimes say; ‘I wish I lived in some

quieter place, where I could pursue my devotions undisturbed. I have

reached an age when one cannot expect much more pleasure in this world,

and had better spend the time in preparing oneself for the next.’ But

Genji always assured her that he too intended quite soon to quit the

Court, and indeed would long ago have done so, had he not feared to

leave her in solitude. ‘Life here would be intolerable without you,’ he

said. ‘Will you not wait till I have arranged to take my vows?’

One night, on going to Murasaki’s apartments, Genji found she was not

there. It was already long past midnight when she returned. There had

been music, it appeared, in Princess Nyosan’s rooms, and afterwards

Murasaki had stayed talking to her. ‘What did you think of Nyosan’s

playing?’ Genji asked. ‘It seems to me that she has really improved

very much lately.’ ‘When she first came to live with us,’ Murasaki

answered, ‘and I used to hear her playing in the distance, I confess

I was rather surprised by her incompetence. But it is quite true that

she now plays very nicely. This no doubt is all due to your frequent

lessons.’ ‘Very likely,’ he replied. ‘The truth of the matter is,

hardly any one gets properly taught nowadays. Giving music lessons, if

one really does it properly, correcting every mistake and continually

guiding the pupil’s hands, is a troublesome, exhausting business.

Moreover it takes up an immense amount of time. But both Suzaku and

her brother the present Emperor evidently counted upon me to take

charge at any rate of her zithern lessons, and I had not the

heart to disappoint them. Well, I am glad you think that, if in other

ways she has got no great advantage through coming to live here, she

has at least made progress in her music. When you were at a learner’s

stage I was unfortunately far busier than at present, and was never

able to give you such long and thorough lessons, and lately one thing

after another seems to have prevented our practising together. I was

delighted, therefore, to hear from Yūgiri, the other day, the most

enthusiastic accounts of your progress.’

It seemed to him strange indeed that Murasaki, whom he was still apt to

regard as his ‘little pupil,’ should now in her turn be giving lessons

to his grandchildren. But such was the case, at any rate as regards

music. Nor for the matter of that was there any side of their education

of which she would not have been well qualified to take charge. For she

had always mastered fresh subjects with astounding ease and quickness,

showing a versatility which often disquieted him, in view of the

common opinion that such brilliance and rapidity of attainment often

presage an early death. His only consolation was that her knowledge,

however quickly garnered, was always solid and complete; whereas in

the cases of precocity that he heard quoted a merely superficial

variety of talents seemed to be the rule. She had recently celebrated

her thirty-seventh birthday, and after talking for a while of their

life together during all those years, Genji said: ‘You must be very

careful this year. You have reached a dangerous age[108] and ought to

have special prayers said on your behalf. I will help you so far as I

can; but probably there are all sorts of contingencies that it

would never occur to me to provide against. Just think things over, and

if there is any particular form of intercession that you would like

to be used, let me know, and I will arrange it for you. What a pity

that your uncle[109] is no longer alive. For the ordinary, every-day

prayers he would have done excellently....’ For a while he was silent;

but presently he said: ‘What a strange life mine has been! I suppose

few careers have ever appeared outwardly more brilliant; but I have

never been happy. Person after person that I cared for has in one way

or another been taken from me. It is long since I lost all zest for

life, and if I have been condemned to continue my existence, it is (I

sometimes think) only as a punishment for certain misdeeds[110] that

at all times still lie heavily on my mind. You alone have always been

here to console me, and I am glad to think that, apart from the time

when I was away at Akashi, I have never behaved in such a way as to

cause you a moment’s real unhappiness. You know quite well that I do

not care for grand society. Women with whom one has to behave according

to set forms and rules are in my opinion simply a nuisance. It is only

with people such as you, whom I have known all their lives, that I am

really happy. But you know all this quite well, and there is no use in

my repeating it. About Princess Nyosan—of course it was tiresome for

you that I was obliged to have her here, but since she came, I have

grown even fonder of you than before; a change you would have noticed

quickly enough, if it had been my affection towards some one else that

was on the increase! However, you are very observant, and I cannot

believe you are not perfectly well aware....’ ‘I cannot explain it,’

she said. ‘I know that to any outside person I must appear the happiest

of women—fortunate indeed far above my deserts. But inwardly I am

wretched.... Every day....’ She felt it would take a long time to

explain, and had not the courage. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said at

last, ‘I do not feel as though I should live much longer. You yourself

have told me that this is a dangerous year. Let me meet the danger by

doing what I have long been wanting to do. Then you will have less need

for anxiety about me.’ As usual, he declared that such a thing was out

of the question; the mere thought of separation was unendurable; their

daily meetings, the only semblance of happiness that remained to him.

‘Surely, you would rather that I did not want you to go?’ he asked,

seeing her disappointment. She was now weeping bitterly, and he knew

that the only way of putting a stop to this was to go on steadily for

some while talking of indifferent topics. He began telling her about

various people whom he had known years ago. It was natural that he

should mention, among other acquaintances of old days, Lady Rokujō,

the Empress Akikonomu’s mother. ‘Despite all that happened,’ he said,

‘I always think of her as the most brilliant creature that was ever at

Court. Never have I encountered a sensibility so vivid and profound,

and this, as you can imagine, made her at first a most fascinating

companion. But there can never have been any one with whom it was more

impossible to have relations of a permanent kind. It is natural that

people should sometimes feel out of temper or aggrieved, and equally

natural that, after a time, the feeling should wear off. But in her

mind the smallest sense of injury grew deeper from day to day, till it

had presently become coloured with emotions, the violence of which I

cannot describe. The circumstances were such that it was, as she well

knew, impossible for me to go to her whenever I wanted to, and equally

impossible for her to receive me. But her pride demanded that every

absence should be treated as a delinquency on my part, requiring

prolonged coldness on her side, and on mine an abject apology. In

the end, all dealings with her became impossible. Unfortunately the

secret of my relations with her was not well kept. Considering her

temperament, nothing could have been more disastrous. The idea that her

name was being bandied about the Court was torture to her, and though

all the difficulties had arisen through her inordinate jealousy, and

not through any fault of mine, I was extremely sorry for her, and in

the end felt quite as wretched as though I had in fact been to blame.

That is why I have taken so much trouble over Akikonomu’s career,

incurring thereby, as I well know, a great deal of unpopularity. But

what does it matter if I am accused of favouritism and I know not what,

so long as I feel that, in the grave, her mother can no longer doubt my

good will? But I own that far too often in my life I have yielded to

the impulse of the moment—have sought pleasures of which I afterwards

bitterly repented.’ He went on to discuss the characters of various

other women whom he had known, and said after a while: ‘I used to think

that the Lady of Akashi, always conscious of her humble origins, was

content with very little; and indeed the difficulty seemed to consist

in persuading her to put herself forward at all. But I found out one

cannot judge her by what appears on the surface. Modest, docile,

self-effacing though she may seem to be, somewhere in the hidden depths

of her nature there is more than a suspicion of self-will and pride.’

‘Most of the people about whom you have talked,’ answered Murasaki,

now calm and composed, ‘I never saw, and therefore do not know whether

you are right about them or no. But with the Lady of Akashi I am now

fairly well acquainted, and I confess that her extreme sensitiveness

and pride, so far from being hidden away in some secret corner of her

being, have always seemed to me extremely conspicuous. Indeed,

when with her I feel myself to be, in comparison, singularly lacking

in reserve and sensibility. But though her shyness has often baffled

me, I have persevered in the knowledge that the child understands me,

and would put things right.’ Here was a wonderful change! Genji could

remember the time when it was impossible for him so much as to mention

the Lady of Akashi’s name; and here was Murasaki singing her praises.

He knew that this had come about through her affection for the little

Princess, and he felt thankful for the existence of the child. ‘I

do not think that you have any reason to feel over-sensitive or too

easygoing in whatever company you may find yourself,’ he replied. ‘My

experience has at least had the effect of teaching me how rare it is

to find any one who so successfully steers the middle course. You are

indeed a prodigy.... But I must go to Nyosan and congratulate her on

the progress she has made with her music.’

To Nyosan it never occurred that any other woman could be

inconvenienced by her presence in the house. She flung herself with

childish absorption into the distractions of the moment. Just now it

was her zithern that occupied her thoughts, and nothing else seemed of

any importance. ‘You have earned a holiday,’ Genji said. ‘I hope your

teacher will always be as pleased with you as he is to-day. We have

had some arduous times together, haven’t we, and it is a comfort that

something has come of it all at last. For the first time I really feel

quite confident about you;’ and so saying he pushed the zithern from

him and fell fast asleep.

On the nights when Genji was away, Murasaki used to make her women

read to her. She thus became acquainted with many of the old-fashioned

romances, and she noticed that the heroes of these stories, however

light-minded, faithless or even vicious they might be, were

invariably represented as in the end settling down to one steady and

undivided attachment. If this were true to life, then Genji was, as he

himself so often said, very differently constituted indeed from the

generality of mankind. Never, she was convinced, never as long as he

lived would his affections cease to wander in whatever direction his

insatiable curiosity dictated. Say what he might, wish what he might,

the future would be just what the past had been. With such thoughts

going round and round in her head she fell asleep very late one night,

only to wake a few hours later, long before it was light, with a

violent pain in her chest. Her people did what they could for her, but

with little effect. They were anxious to summon Genji; but she would

not allow it, saying she did not wish him to be disturbed. She bore her

pain as best she could till daylight came. She was now in a high fever

and very restless. Again her maids begged her to let them summon His

Highness. But Genji was still in the other part of the house, and she

would not let them go to him. Presently, however, there came a note

from the Crown Princess, and in the answer that she dictated Murasaki

mentioned that she was unwell. The Princess felt alarmed, and guessing

that Genji might not have heard, she sent a note to him, repeating the

little that Murasaki had told her. In a moment he was at her bedside in

a state of the utmost concern. ‘Are you better?’ he asked; but laying

his hand upon her burning forehead he knew that she was not. At once

he remembered their conversation of the other day. What if this were

the very danger against which he had warned her? He was terrified.

Presently, seeing that he would not leave her, his people brought him

his breakfast on a tray; but he did not touch it, and all day long

he sat motionless by the bedside, gazing at her as though stupefied

with grief. Thus many days passed. She was evidently in great

pain, not a morsel of food would she eat, nor did she once raise her

head from the pillows. Meanwhile his messengers set out at top speed

in all directions, arranging for prayers on her behalf to be said in

every important temple throughout the land, and priests were sent for

to work their spells at the bedside. She was now in great general

distress and discomfort. The pain in her chest was no longer continual,

but at each fresh attack was so severe that she hardly knew how to

bear it. Every known remedy was tried, but nothing brought her any

relief. It was apparent that she was very ill indeed, but Genji tried

to find encouragement in the fact that there were now considerable

intervals between these severe attacks. This showed, he thought, some

natural resistance to the disease; perhaps in time the intervals would

gradually become long enough for health to reassert itself. But he was

still in the greatest agitation and anxiety. He ought at this very

time to have been supervising the arrangements for the celebration of

Suzaku’s fiftieth birthday. But he was utterly unable to give his mind

to any outside subject, and left the business in other hands. Suzaku in

his monastery heard the news of Murasaki’s illness, and constantly sent

messages of enquiry.

Week after week passed without any improvement. The only expedient

which now remained untried was a change of scene, and, as this was

recommended, Genji, with extreme reluctance, moved her into his old

palace, the Nijō-in.

Often she was hardly conscious of what went on around her; but once

during a moment of comparative calm and lucidity she reproached Genji

for not having allowed her to seek the consolations of religion while

there was still time. But if it was terrible to see her thus carried

from him by a stroke of fate, by this cruel sickness against which

she struggled in vain, how much worse would it have been to see

her deliberately proclaim as worthless the love he bore her, to stand

by while she cast away her beauty, her talents, her charm, and in

preference to living with him chose as a more tolerable lot the gloom

and squalor of a convent? ‘Long, long before you ever thought of it,’

he said, ‘I earnestly desired to take my vows, and if I did not do so,

it was wholly for your sake. Think what I should have felt if, after

all, you had deserted me first....’

She was now so weak that small hope of her recovery could be

entertained. Again and again it seemed as though the end were come,

and Genji lived in so continual an agony of suspense that during this

whole time he never once went near Nyosan’s rooms. There were no more

music lessons, and week after week her lute and zitherns lay packed

away in their wrappers. Many of the servants belonging to the New

Palace had followed Murasaki to the Nijō-in, so that, what with her own

rooms empty and so little stir of any kind going on, the place wore

a strangely crepuscular air, and it seemed as though the whole life

of this once so brilliant and joyous house had depended on Murasaki’s

presence, and on that alone.

One day Genji brought the Akashi Princess[111] to see her. ‘Come

quickly!’ she called to them. ‘Strange visions haunt me, and I am

afraid to be alone.’ The Princess had brought her little boy, Prince

Niou, with her, and seeing him Murasaki burst into tears. ‘I longed

to watch him growing up,’ she sobbed. ‘Now he will not even remember

me.’ ‘No, no,’ Genji interrupted her, ‘we must not let you talk like

that. You are going to get well. Everything depends on what we think.

If our thoughts are large and courageous, all kinds of good things

will come our way; but if they are small and timid, then ill-luck will

always attend us. And it is just so with health. Even people of

the highest birth, surrounded by every comfort, often worry themselves

into the grave by fretting over every trifle, and never learning

to take life as it comes. But you have always been so sensible and

even-tempered. That is sure to stand you in good stead....’ And in his

prayers to Buddha and to the Gods of our land he mentioned her great

beauty of character, begging them to spare one who in her dealings with

others had always shown such gentleness and forbearance. The priests

and miracle-workers, who were on duty night and day, being told that

her condition had reached a very critical phase, now redoubled their

efforts, and for five or six days she seemed to be a little better.

After that she had another bad attack; but things had gone on thus for

so long that it seemed quite probable she would again rally. Of her

final recovery Genji no longer had any expectation. Those in attendance

upon her could discover no sign of any actual possession,[112] nor

was it clear where the principal seat of her malady lay. But she was

growing steadily weaker, and knowing that at any moment the end might

come, Genji watched by her bedside hour after hour in an agony of

continual suspense.

Among those whom recent changes in the government had tended to bring

to the fore was Kashiwagi. He had for long past been one of the new

Emperor’s most intimate friends, and it was evident that, should

he choose to take advantage of his position, a great future was in

store for him. Realizing at last the hopelessness of his designs upon

Nyosan, he had been prevailed upon to take as a concubine her elder

sister, Lady Ochiba, who being the child of a waiting-woman and thus

at a great disadvantage in the world, was glad enough to accept the

position now offered to her by a very half-hearted lover. She was quite

good-looking. Indeed, many would have regarded her as extremely

attractive. But Kashiwagi was under no delusion that this alliance

would in any way console him for his failure with the younger sister.

His own old nurse was a sister of Nyosan’s nurse (the mother of Kojijū,

whose assistance had proved so fruitless before). It was through the

relationship of these two old ladies that Kashiwagi had first heard

of Nyosan. Indeed, while the Princess was still a child, his old

nurse had whenever he visited her regaled him with continual stories

of the little girl’s clever sayings and pretty ways, and of Suzaku’s

extraordinary attachment to her; and it was these tales, repeated from

her nurse to his, that had first aroused his curiosity. It was now long

since Kashiwagi had attempted to hold any communication with her; but

seeing the New Palace almost deserted (for since Murasaki’s illness

Genji was always at the Nijō-in and most of the servants had followed

him), Kashiwagi felt that the time for a further attempt had come, and

sending for Kojijū he begged her to assist him. ‘I feel no compunction

in the matter,’ he said, ‘for Genji is neglecting her scandalously.

Indeed, he ought never to have accepted such a responsibility, for his

affections were already engaged in many other quarters, and it was

clear from the beginning that she would be left entirely to her own

devices. Months pass without his ever going near her, and she leads

(I gather) the dullest life imaginable. Suzaku has heard something

of this, and is now extremely sorry that he did not give her to some

commoner who would have appreciated the honour and devoted himself to

making her happy. I am afraid he thinks that in providing for Ochiba

he has found just such a steady-going, conscientious husband in me!

I wish it were so; but though they are sisters and in some ways very

much alike, Ochiba is Ochiba and Nyosan is Nyosan. That is all there

is to be said about it....’ Kojijū was horrified. ‘Come now!’ she

said. ‘That beats all. You have just promised to devote your life to

one sister, and now you tell me that the only person in the world you

care for is the other.’ ‘I know it seems very odd,’ said Kashiwagi,

smiling. ‘But I believe both Suzaku and his present Majesty would

really have liked to give me Nyosan. And even now, since it is clear

that Genji does not take any interest in her, I gather they are by no

means displeased that I should feel as I do. They have her happiness to

consider, and at present she is leading a miserable existence.... Come!

I think you might oblige me by having one more try.’ ‘You are asking

a great deal more than you suppose,’ said Kojijū heatedly. ‘To begin

with, she knows that you have just married some one else. And then, do

you really think you have reached such a position in the world that

you can afford to make an enemy of Prince Genji? I may be mistaken,

but it does not seem so very long....’ She was beginning to remind him

how recent was his present promotion, but so indignant was she at his

audacity that the words tripped over one another and she suddenly broke

off. ‘That will do,’ he said. ‘Let us stick to the point. All I ask is

that one day when you and she are alone together you should mention me.

This surely cannot be very difficult now that so little is going on at

the New Palace. I only want her to know that I have not forgotten her.

I am not asking you to arrange a meeting, or indeed to say anything

that could possibly bring a blush to the most modest cheek.’ ‘You are

asking me to do precisely what is most likely to lead you both into

trouble. Besides which, how can I suddenly begin talking about you?

And for the matter of that, how am I to get at her when she is alone?

It is hardly ever possible....’ So she fenced, trying her best to put

him off. ‘You are simply inventing difficulties,’ he said impatiently

at last. ‘And why all this fuss? Is it so strange a thing for a

lady to be admired? Queens, I seem to remember, and Empresses too have

sometimes been known to have their lovers. And who is Nyosan that you

should think it sacrilege for any one to dream of her? Certainly the

way she is treated at present does not suggest that Genji considers

her to be of any great importance. You must learn to be less rigid

in your ideas....’ ‘If you think that Nyosan feels herself to be

imperfectly appreciated and is on the look-out for some one to rescue

her from her humiliations, you are very much mistaken. It was clearly

understood from the beginning that this was not to be an ordinary

marriage. She was extremely young, and came to the New Palace that,

after her father’s retirement from the City, she might have a fixed

home and gain a little experience of polite life. All your talk of her

being neglected or maltreated is beside the point.’ She was beginning

to lose her temper; but by adroit flattery he managed to prevent her

flinging out of the room, and at last she said: ‘If I ever do find

myself alone with my Lady, I will speak of this. But even when Genji is

away at the Nijō-in there are always a lot of people gathered round her

curtains-of-state, and even by her chair there is generally some one in

attendance. So don’t ask me to make any promises.’

Day after day he badgered her, and at last, about the middle of the

fourth month, there came from her a hurried note bidding him at

once repair to the New Palace. He set out heavily disguised. His

expectations were of an agreeable but by no means exorbitant kind.

He did not for a moment suppose that she would admit him within her

curtained dais. But she would, he hoped, be willing to converse with

him, and if he were fortunate he might catch a glimpse of her sleeve,

her fan, the train of her dress.

The Purification of the new Kamo Vestal was to take place next

day. Twelve of the ladies who were to attend her were in service at the

New Palace and were now in their own rooms busily engaged in trimming

and sewing. The other gentlewomen of the household were to be present

at to-morrow’s show and were busy with their preparations, so that in

Nyosan’s part of the house there were very few people about; and even

her confidential maid Azechi was absent, for she had received a sudden

summons from a certain young captain (a member of the Minamoto clan,

who had been paying her attentions for some time) and Nyosan had given

her a holiday. Indeed, only Kojijū was in attendance, and she now led

him noiselessly to a seat close by the side of her mistress’s dais.

Well, he thought, even should matters go no further, this was already a

great deal more than he had expected when he set out.

Nyosan was asleep, and presently waking to find a man’s form outlined

against the curtains of her dais she naturally thought that it was

Genji. But it was certainly not at all like Genji to sit nervously

at the end of his chair in an attitude of constrained obeisance. For

a moment she thought herself haunted by a ghost and hid her face in

her hands; but finding courage to look up once more she saw clearly

enough that the visitor, though not Genji, was a person quite as

real. Seeing that she was now awake, Kashiwagi began explaining his

presence. Protestations, entreaties, apologies.... Who was he, and what

did it all mean? More terrified now than when she had thought him a

ghost, Nyosan called for help. But no one came, for there was no one

to hear her call. She was now trembling from head to foot and drops

of perspiration stood out on her brow. In this exhibition of childish

panic there was something that fascinated him; but he was at the same

time ashamed of having terrified her, and again began rather confusedly

apologizing for his intrusion: ‘My rank does not, I know, entitle

me to address you as an equal. But I had hoped all the same you would

not consider me quite outside the pale of possible acquaintance. This

claim at least I have upon your interest: that for years past you have

occupied my thoughts to the exclusion of all else, as your father could

bear witness. For utterly unable to lock up these feelings in my own

breast (where indeed they were already grown rank with keeping) I long

ago made confession of them, and found him by no means discouraging.

But I was soon disillusioned. For weighed in the balance against one

who had never given a moment’s thought to you I, who loved you so

dearly, was found wanting merely for lack of governmental dignities and

royal pedigree. So soon as your lot was cast I determined to banish

all thought of you for ever from my heart. But love had burnt down too

deep into the core. Months, years passed, and still I thought of you,

longed for you, wept for you; until, unable for an instant longer to

support my misery, I rushed thus uncivilly into your presence, showing,

as I fully perceive, a lack of consideration for your feelings that

makes me blush for shame. But now that I am here, let me make amends

by assuring you that you shall at least have no cause to repent of my

having been admitted.’ While he spoke she kept on asking herself who

he was, and it was only gradually that it dawned upon her he could not

very well be any one but Kashiwagi. This realization made her feel more

than ever scared, and she did not manage to bring out a word in reply.

‘You know so little of me,’ he went on, ‘that I am not surprised you

should be somewhat nervous. But after all, such visits as this of mine

to-night are of fairly frequent occurrence! If you persist in treating

it as an affront, my misery will drive me to.... But no! Have pity on

me, say one kind word, and I will leave you.’ Her complete lack of

self-importance had, however, somewhat upset his calculations.

He had expected to find her haughty, stiff, unapproachable—in a word,

all that women of such rank are generally supposed to be. Consequently

it had never occurred to him that on this first visit he would by

any conceivable chance get beyond the stage of a little stiff and

unadventurous conversation. But to his surprise she was not grand,

not proud, not contemptuous. She was only a singularly handsome girl,

looking up at him with a shy, questioning yet almost trustful air.

His good resolutions suddenly broke down. Soon the world and its

inhabitants seemed nothing to him, nor would he have stretched out a

hand to save them from instant destruction.

At last, lying by her side, he did not exactly fall asleep, or

certainly had no mind to do so; but must indeed have dozed a little.

For suddenly there appeared before him the cat which he had once

contrived to steal from her. It advanced towards him purring loudly,

and wondering in his dream how it had got there, he supposed that he

must have brought it with him. What had made him do that?... So he was

asking himself in his dream, when he woke with a start. There was of

course no cat anywhere to be seen, and he wondered why he should have

had so curious a dream.

The Princess felt that something terrible had befallen her; and yet, so

sudden had it all been, she could scarcely believe that anything had

happened at all. ‘This was in our destinies,’ he whispered. ‘Surely

you too will admit that it could not but come,’ and he began to tell

her about the evening of the football match, and how he had seen her

through the gap in her ill-fastened curtains, thanks partly to the

plunging and tugging of the runaway cat.

So he _had_ seen her—everyone had seen her on that unfortunate night!

But what happened then was a small disgrace indeed compared with what

had followed as the direct consequence of that unguarded moment.

How should she ever face Genji again? So she asked herself, and burst

into agonized tears—the tears of a child that is at the same time sorry

and afraid. Tenderly, almost respectfully he helped her to wipe those

tears away. It was growing light, and Kashiwagi, whose one thought

for months past had been how to get into her rooms, was now face to

face with the much more difficult problem of how to escape from them.

However, he was determined not to go till he had obtained from her

some sign that she did not altogether detest him. ‘All this time you

have hardly spoken a word,’ he said. ‘Do say something—no matter how

unkind—that I may not go away from you for ever without even knowing

the sound of your voice. For, having shown so plainly that I am

distasteful to you, you need not fear that I shall ever trouble you

again.’

In vain he entreated her. She was far too scared and penitent to utter

a single syllable. ‘You need not think that by prolonging your silence

you will reduce me to any greater pitch of misery,’ he said at last.

‘More downcast than I am at this minute no human being could ever be.’

Still she remained mute, and maddened by her obstinacy, he burst out:

‘I see it is no use. Well, that decides matters for me. This is my

last night on earth. It was the thought of you that alone gave life

any value in my eyes, and now that I must think of you no more....

But stay, are you so heartless that, knowing I have scarce an hour to

live, you grudge me the gift of one kind word to take with me as my

prize to the grave?’ So saying he picked her up in his arms and carried

her back to the outer room. The door by which he had entered last

night was still open. Why did he not leave her? She watched him with

consternation. Surely he did not intend to wait till some fresh harm

was done? The house was still quite dark. But midnight must by now

be long past; and thinking that out of doors there might already be a

little light, he gently raised the shutter, and turning round caught

(as he had hoped to) a clearer view of her form and face.

‘I cannot think, I cannot move,’ he cried, looking at her desperately.

‘If you wish me to recover my senses, to be calm, to leave you, let

me hear you say one word. Speak, though it be only in pity....’ Never

had she seen any one behave like this; what could it matter to him

whether she spoke or not? At this point, however, she did try to say

something; but so violently was she trembling that the words turned

into meaningless jangle of sound. The room was growing lighter every

moment. ‘Listen!’ he said excitedly, ‘I had a wonderful dream last

night. I know what it means and wanted to tell you, but how could I,

when I found you hated me so? Well, you shall not hear it. But time

will show me whether I read it right or no.’ He stumbled towards the

door.

It was early summer, but never had autumn sky looked to him colder and

sadder than that which now met his eyes. ‘So dim to me the dawning

world, I know not whither I go; nor whence I came, save that the place

was dank with showers of dew.’ Such was his parting poem, and as he

spoke it he held up the sleeve with which he had wiped her tears. Now

that he was really going she plucked up heart a little, and managed in

a faint voice to murmur the reply: ‘Would that with the shadows of this

dawn my grief might vanish, and of last night no token but a dream be

left behind.’ Her soft, half-childish voice was echoing in his ears as

he left the room, and for the first time in his life he knew that it

was no mere phrase when the poet said: ‘Though the body move, the soul

may stay behind.’

Instead of going home he went to his father’s house, slipping in

quietly without being seen. He lay down and tried to sleep, but

did not succeed. That dream.... It was, as a matter of fact, very

unlikely that it could signify what it is generally supposed to,[113]

and looking back in detail upon all that had happened he felt that

there was no need to worry. He even, with a certain pleasure, recalled

the details of his dream. But whether his dreaming of a cat really

signified anything or no, he had committed what the world would

consider a terrible crime. For many days afterwards he was haunted by a

shame and fear that made it impossible for him to set foot outside his

own door. These feelings indeed were gradually assuming an intensity

quite out of proportion (as Kashiwagi kept telling himself) to the

magnitude of his offence. No doubt he had behaved indiscreetly, and

should the meeting have certain consequences the girl might conceivably

find herself in an embarrassing position. But that was only a remote

chance, and in all probability no harm of any kind had been done. Why

was it that such a weight of shame and contrition had settled upon him?

If he had seduced the Empress herself and his crime were already known,

he could not have been in a greater panic—a state of mind all the

more unreasonable since he was convinced that no punishment, not even

death itself, could be more terrible than the torture that he was now

enduring.

Long before Nyosan could possibly have shown any outward sign such as

might betray her, he began to fancy that Genji was looking at him with

a peculiar expression, and those supposedly accusing eyes filled him

with terror and shame.

There is in many high-born women an abundance of natural appetite that

the good manners instilled into them from childhood render invisible

to the common eye. But upon the mildest provocation this tendency will

manifest itself in the most surprising ways. With Nyosan, however,

this was not the case. Her innocence was every bit as great as it

seemed. The experiences of that fatal night had left in her mind no

impression but that of the most abject terror. She could not convince

herself that all was safely over, that no one had betrayed them, and

hardly daring to appear even among her own people she spent week after

week in the darkness of the back room. She felt that something had

gone wrong with her, and at last, unaided by any outside person, she

realized what was amiss.

Genji heard that she was indisposed and hurried round in alarm to the

New Palace. Had a fresh burden now been added to the already unbearable

load of his anxiety? He was glad to find her, to all appearances,

uncommonly well. All he noticed was that she looked very much ashamed

of herself and persistently refused to meet his gaze. No doubt she

was cross with him for having left her so long to her own devices,

and in order that she might better understand how he had come thus to

neglect her, he began describing Murasaki’s illness. ‘I do not think

she can last much longer now,’ he said after a while, ‘and you may be

certain that you will never find yourself neglected like this again.

But Murasaki has been with me since she was a child, she has become

an inseparable part of my life, and you will guess, I am sure, that

during these last weeks I have been in no condition to think or speak

of anything else. I am sure you are not so unreasonable as to be cross

with me....’ He was gone again. Evidently her people had not told him

the nature of her malady. But in the long run he would have to know,

and as soon as she was alone Nyosan burst into a flood of tears.

So seldom did Genji now visit the New Palace that he had much to do

there and did not intend to return immediately. He was wondering

uneasily what condition affairs would be in when he got back to the

Nijō-in. Suddenly a messenger arrived announcing that Murasaki appeared

to be sinking fast. In a moment all else was forgotten, and with

darkness closing about his heart he rushed round to his old palace.

It seemed to take an interminable time to get there. At last, coming

into view of the house, he saw that something terrible must indeed have

happened, for the whole space between the main building and the highway

was filled with a surging throng of people, while from within came a

continual sound of weeping.

Not looking to right or left, he tore towards her apartments, where

he was met by one of her maids. ‘All day she had seemed much better,’

said the lady. ‘This faintness came upon her quite suddenly.’ Within,

all was weeping and confusion. Many of those that had served her

longest, frantic with grief, were calling upon death not to leave

them behind; while such of the priests and miracle-workers whose duty

for the day was over were noisily dismantling their altars and making

ready to depart. There was nothing unusual in this; their places would

soon be taken by new-comers and the long services of intercession

would continue. But to Genji there seemed on this particular day to

be an air of finality in the methodical clatter of their departure.

He rushed towards them, sharply bidding them make their exit more

quietly. Murasaki was now unconscious, but he was convinced that this

was merely a trance, due to ‘possession’ by some evil influence, and

so far from allowing the priests to slacken their efforts, he now sent

for a number of celebrated miracle-workers from all parts of the land,

and bade them preside over a grand service of exorcism. The form of

their prayer was that, even though the sick woman’s days were numbered,

she might in accordance with the Promise of the Immovable One,[114]

be granted a half-year of reprieve. The priests, intent upon their

ritual, bent so close over the burnt offering that it seemed as though

the smoke was rising not from the altar but from their very heads. The

most Genji now hoped for was that she might for a brief spell recover

consciousness before she died. The thought that she would perhaps never

know him again, that he would never be able to ask her forgiveness for

all that he had done amiss, threw him into such a state of agitation

and despair as those about him had seldom witnessed, and they felt it

was impossible he should survive her loss. Perhaps the sight of so

deep a sorrow touched even Buddha’s heart; be that as it may, signs

of a definite ‘possession’—the first that had been visible for many

months—now became manifest in the patient, and the exorcists were soon

able to transfer this possessing spirit to the body of a small boy

whom they had brought with them to act as medium. While, through this

boy’s mouth, the spirit railed against the priests who had forced it

to do their bidding, Murasaki gradually regained consciousness, and it

was with mingled feelings of joy and horror that he watched on the one

hand her slow recovery, and on the other the ravings and contortions

of the boy. At last, subdued to reason by the spells and passes of

the exorcists, the spirit still speaking through the boy’s mouth said

quietly: ‘Let every one save Prince Genji leave the room. What I must

now say, no one else but he must hear. You have plagued me this long

time past with your spells and incantations. I do not love you for it,

of that you may be sure. And I would here and now take my vengeance

on you all; it is not that I lack the power ... rather, I have chosen

of my own free will to postpone the task; for strange though you may

think it, we ghosts love as we loved on earth; and when I saw Prince

Genji frantic with grief, shattered by long days of watching and

apprehension—when I saw that, did I not leave my work a while, he too

would fall beneath my blow—then I was sorry for him; I, that have

become a foul and fiendish thing, pitied him as tenderly as any living

creature can pity. That is why I have shown myself to you. I did not

mean that you should ever know....’

The hair stood upright on the boy-medium’s head, while at the same time

huge tears trickled down his cheeks. Where had he seen before this

strange blending of rage and misery? Yes. Such had been the face of

the apparition that had appeared at Aoi’s bedside. He was dumbfounded.

Nothing then, not death itself, could alter the hideous trend of evil

that the passionate agony of those old days had set upon its course.

All else was fading, slipping away. But this terrible thing had never

changed.

He took the medium by the hand, and leading him to a safe distance from

Murasaki’s bed, he said: ‘Give me some proof.... Speak of something

that I shall remember, but no one else could possibly know about. Then

I shall believe that you are she. But not till then; for fox-spirit

and the like often cause great harm by passing themselves off as the

spirits of our dead friends, and I must be on my guard.’ While Genji

spoke thus, the medium was shaken by violent sobbing. At last a voice

sounded amid the sobs, and though distorted by anguish, it was, past

all denying, the proud passionate voice of Rokujō: ‘You know me well

enough; for changed though I may be, I still remember what it means

when you put on that stupid, innocent air. You at least are what you

always were—heartless, dishonest....’ Again the voice was choked

by sobs. He was filled with pity, but, at the same time, a kind of

repulsion, and made no attempt to reply. Presently the medium spoke

again: ‘Do not think that, even in my most distant wanderings,

banished amid the realms of outer space, I have ever for a moment been

ignorant of what was passing here on earth. All that in penitence you

have done for my daughter, the Empress’s sake, is known to me, and I

thank you for it. And yet—it is strange—nothing now seems the same to

me. She is mine, I have not forgotten her. But do not think that I love

her as a living woman loves her child. Nothing, not one thought nor

feeling, have I brought with me unaltered into the world of death, save

this insensate passion, that even on earth made my own nature loathsome

and despicable to me. Rage, jealousy, hatred—they alone cling to my

soul and drag it back each moment closer to the earth.

‘And do you know what hurt me more than all your cruelty to me when

I was alive? It was to hear you entertaining this friend of yours

with stories of my “bad temper,” my “grievances,” my “inordinate

jealousy.”[115] I should have thought that the dead at least might be

spared such insults and lies! A thousand times I have asked myself how

you of all men, you with your fine breeding, could speak of me thus to

another woman. Bad as I was before, this fresh insult has worked in

me a ghastly change. Never before have I done harm to those on earth,

but now—Listen! If you think I have any desire to prey upon this woman

on the bed, you are wrong. I want to leave her, to leave you all;

but if you wish to be rid of me, put an end to all these spells and

incantations, that can but keep me at a little distance, and use these

mighty miracle-workers and priests, whom you have set like a hedge

about you, to pray for my soul’s release, for the cancelling of all

my sins. Do not think that because for the moment I could stand your

dronings and buzzings no longer—your prayers and scripture-readings

that beset me like tongues of flame—do not think that I am

conquered. Back I shall come and back again, till in your liturgies I

hear some word of comfort for my own soul. Say masses for me, read them

night and day. Tell my daughter the Empress to pray for me with all

her heart; and bid her never for one instant, though she may fall from

favour and another be set in her place, never so much as in a dream to

let one envious or jealous thought creep into her heart. She has guilt

enough on her conscience, having spent many months at Ise,[116] where

the name of the Blessed One may not be spoken.’

The medium continued to rave; but this conversation with a ghost

was too eerie to be prolonged. Already those who had been asked to

retire from the room must be asking themselves what was happening. He

readmitted them, had the boy-medium placed in a sealed room,[117] and

Murasaki carried secretly to a different part of the house.

Somehow or other a rumour got started that Murasaki was dead, and

Genji had the painful experience of receiving innumerable letters

of condolence. It was the day of the Kamo festival, and among the

courtiers returning from the Shrine many jokes were made on the topic

of Murasaki’s sudden fall and eclipse. Some one said that since she had

lost her power to charm the sunlight[118] it was not to be wondered

at that the rain should have washed her away. And another: ‘Prodigies

of that kind never last long, and perhaps it is as well for them that

they do not. Otherwise they might tend to fare like the cherry-blossom

in the proverb.[119] Did they not so quickly retire from the scene

they would end by getting all the fun into their own hands and

spoiling things for every one else. It is nice to think of that poor

little Princess Nyosan coming into her own again. I am sure it was high

time....’

Kashiwagi had stayed at home on the previous day, but had found the

time hang so heavily on his hands that to-day he set out for the

Festival, taking his brothers with him in the back of the carriage. On

the way home they heard the rumour that was being bandied from coach

to coach. The brothers were by no means convinced of its truth, and

to offer premature condolences would be very embarrassing. But they

decided that there could be no harm in paying an ordinary visit, as

though in ignorance of what was being said. Their first impression upon

arriving at the New Palace was that the end had indeed come. On every

side rose the sound of weeping and wailing. No sooner had they entered

than Murasaki’s father Prince Hyōbukyō rushed past them into the house,

obviously in a state of frenzied agitation.

Presently Yūgiri came out, wiping the tears from his eyes, and

Kashiwagi said to him: ‘Tell us quickly what has happened. We heard

very bad news on the road, but were loth to believe it, and have come,

as we intended to do in any case, merely to enquire.... We hoped

for some improvement. This has been going on for so long....’ ‘She

has indeed been in a very serious condition for some weeks past,’

said Yūgiri. ‘Finally, early this morning, she lost consciousness

altogether. However, at this point the presence of a “possession”

became obvious, and when this had been dealt with, she came to, and is

now, I hear, considered not to be in any immediate danger. Of course,

this is a great relief to us all. But I am afraid there is not really

much hope....’ It was obvious that he was deeply moved. He must have

been crying a great deal for his eyes were quite swollen. ‘Why

should he mind so much?’ Kashiwagi asked himself, remembering that

Yūgiri had been brought up by his mother’s family, and had, ostensibly

at any rate, always been kept at a distance from his stepmother. And at

once, suspecting others (as we always do) of harbouring the same guilty

secrets as ourselves, he began imagining that Yūgiri not Genji had been

the partner of Murasaki’s great romance.

A message now came from Genji asking the visitors to excuse him from

appearing in person. ‘You will forgive me, I know,’ he said, ‘when I

tell you that we have all been taking part in what had every appearance

of being an actual death-scene. Our gentlewomen have not yet had time

to recover their composure, and I myself am still, I confess, far too

agitated to receive you properly. I hope you will do me the honour of

repeating your visit at some time when I am better able to appreciate

it.’ The mere mention of Genji’s name filled Kashiwagi with shame and

embarrassment; he for his part was glad it was upon so distracted

an occasion that he had come to the house. As for repeating the

experiment, the others might come if they chose, but he most assuredly

would not be with them.

Meanwhile Murasaki remained conscious; but the services of intercession

were continued, and to them Genji added secret masses for the Release

of Rokujō’s soul. And he had reason enough of every kind to hope

ardently that these would be successful. Even during her lifetime he

had experienced in fashion sinister enough the evil potency of her

rage; and now that she was in another world, changed into a thing

devoid of all human pity or compunction, it was hideous to think that

her malice towards him was still unappeased. Apparently all that he

had done for Akikonomu was useless! But what was the good of trying

to please women? If they were not fundamentally evil, they would

not have been born as women at all.[120] Perhaps he ought not to have

spoken of her to Murasaki. But he remembered the occasion perfectly

well; it was the night before Murasaki’s illness began, and really he

had not said anything very bad.... It was difficult enough to satisfy

the living; but existence was intolerable if even one’s most intimate

conversations might at any moment let loose the vindictive fury of the

dead.

Murasaki still longed to receive the tonsure, and thinking that the

ceremony might help her to rally a little, Genji at last consented. Her

reception into the Order was more a semblance than a reality, for no

attempt was made to do more than cut away a lock or two from the crown

of her head, and only five of the Ten Vows were administered. During

the whole ceremony Genji, regardless of convention, sat by her side,

and with tears in his eyes helped her to repeat her responses.

The fifth month was now closing, and the weather was exceedingly hot.

She began again to have frequent fainting-fits, and grew much weaker.

But though her mind often wandered, she was perfectly well aware of the

tense anxiety with which Genji watched her progress. She had herself

no desire or hope of recovery, and if she now occasionally forced

herself into a sitting posture or managed to swallow a little broth,

it was that Genji might feel her to be still a living creature, rather

than (as she knew herself to be) a strangely lingering ghost. At the

beginning of the sixth month she astonished and delighted him by even

looking about her a little. But he was still in great alarm, and did

not once succeed in getting across to the New Palace.

Nyosan’s condition was now quite definitely established; but she was

not by any means in bad health. Indeed, save for the fact that her

complexion was rather sallow and her appetite not so good as usual, she

had not much to complain of. Kashiwagi had not been able to restrain

himself from several times repeating his visit, but the girl had made

it abundantly plain that she would much rather he left her in peace.

The truth was that Kashiwagi had made no such impression upon her as

could outweigh her fear of getting into trouble with Genji. True, her

lover was one of the handsomest and most talented figures at Court, and

many a girl’s head would have been completely turned by his advances;

but to Nyosan, used as she was to Genji’s far more striking looks and

personality, this young man seemed almost insipid in character, no more

than passable in appearance, and (Palace Counsellor though he was) none

the more impressive on that account to one whose upbringing had been

such as hers.

Her old nurse and gentlewoman had, of course, long ago discovered the

condition she was in. ‘Do you remember exactly when it was that His

Highness was last here?’ one of them said. ‘It seems to me as though it

were a very long time ago.’ They felt rather uneasy about the matter,

but thought it their duty to inform Genji. He at once came round to the

New Palace.

It was as a matter of fact (Genji remembered this quite clearly) more

than a year.... Surely there must be some mistake? He said nothing to

her about the reason of his visit. She did, he thought, perhaps look a

trifle out of sorts, and he treated her with every mark of tenderness

and concern. Really, she was a charming girl. Now that, after being

so many times obliged to postpone his visit, he had at last managed

to get here, he ought to stay for a night or two. And so he did;

but he was all the while in such a state of anxiety about Murasaki

that he could think of nothing else, and spent most of the time in

writing messages to her. ‘That’s good!’ said one of Nyosan’s

ladies indignantly. ‘He saves up all his letter-writing till he comes

here. We appreciate the compliment, I am sure!’ Kojijū for her part

only wished that Kashiwagi took a like view of Genji’s visit. No sooner

did the young man hear of it than he fell into a state of violent

agitation and began pouring in upon Nyosan a stream of letters, couched

in the most hectic terms of jealousy and desperation—all of which it

fell to Kojijū’s lot to deliver.

‘Don’t show me these tiresome things,’ said Nyosan, when Kojijū, seeing

Genji go to fetch something from Murasaki’s old rooms, hastily produced

one of these frenzied epistles. ‘I do wish you would just read what he

says here in the margin,’ Kojijū pleaded. ‘I am sure you would feel

sorry for him....’ So saying, she unfolded the letter and had just

placed it in Nyosan’s hands, when there was a noise of footsteps. A

sudden panic descending upon her, Kojijū glided from the room. There

was no time to destroy the letter or lock it up in a safe place. Her

heart beating wildly, Nyosan stuffed it under the mattress of the couch

upon which she lay.

Next morning he rose early, wanting to go back to the Nijō-in

before the sun became unpleasantly strong. ‘Where is that fan I had

yesterday?’ he asked his servant. ‘This one is no good at all. I think

I must have left it where I was sitting with the Princess yesterday

evening. I had better go and look.’ Having hunted high and low, he went

towards the couch where Nyosan had lain, and suddenly noticed that a

piece of light blue paper was sticking out from under her mattress,

which was pushed slightly out of place. Without paying any particular

attention to what he was doing, he pulled out this piece of paper,

and glancing at it, saw that it was covered with writing in a man’s

hand. He noticed too that it was heavily scented, and in every

way as elegantly devised as a note could possibly be. Moreover, oddly

enough he knew the writing (of which there was plenty, for it covered

both sides of a double sheet). There could be no mistake. This was

Kashiwagi’s hand. His servant, who had brought a mirror into the room

and now began to do his master’s hair, was not in any way surprised

to see him take possession of the note, for he supposed it to be one

that Genji and Nyosan had been reading together on the day before. But

Kojijū, who was also present, was startled to observe that it was of

the same colour as the letter she had herself delivered. While serving

Genji’s breakfast she never for an instant took her eye off this blue

letter, that lay folded beside his bowl. Of course it could not be

the same. Lots of people wrote on paper like that. The mere fact that

it had been left lying about showed that it must be something quite

different. The Princess would never have been so mad....

Meanwhile Nyosan was quietly sleeping. What a feather-hearted little

creature she was! He had always suspected that expressions of feeling

conveyed nothing to her mind whatever; and from the way in which she

left such a letter as this (for he had already cast an eye over it)

lying where any one might find it, he was convinced that its contents

had no meaning for her at all. It was fortunate indeed that it was he

who had found it, and not some outside person, upon whom the fact that

she was receiving such letters would make a wholly erroneous impression.

‘What did you do with that note I brought yesterday?’ Kojijū said,

when Genji left the room. ‘I saw His Highness looking just now at a

letter that looked very much like it.’ Nyosan immediately remembered

only too well what she had done with it. ‘Where did you put it?’ went

on Kojijū, seeing that her eyes had suddenly filled with tears. ‘When

we heard some one coming, I thought it might look as though there

were a secret between us if I were found alone with you, and to be on

the safe side I made off as fast as I could. But as a matter of fact

it was some while before His Highness actually entered the room, and I

supposed that during this time you would have managed to find somewhere

safe to put the letter.’ ‘I had only that very moment begun reading it

when he came in,’ she sobbed. ‘I just stuffed it away anywhere I could;

and then I forgot about it....’ Helplessly she indicated the place

under the mattress. Kojijū went and examined it. ‘There’s nothing there

now,’ she said. ‘This is an awful business. I would give anything that

it should not have happened. It was only the other day that Kashiwagi

begged me to make you be more careful. He is terrified of Prince Genji

getting wind of this. And now, no sooner do I put a letter in your

hands than you leave it just where it was most likely to catch His

Highness’s eye. However, it is all of a piece with the way you have

always carried on. I shouldn’t say it, but you have no more idea how to

behave than a baby. First of all you leave all your screens in disorder

and let him see you. Then you allow him to go on for month after month

writing desperate letters to you, and finally drive him to such a pitch

of madness that he insists upon being allowed to see you. It was I who

arranged it, I own; but I don’t mind telling you I would never have

dreamed of bringing him, if I had supposed that you could look after

yourself no better than you did. Well, I’m sorry for you both!’ So she

scolded the girl, speaking to her as though she were a person of her

own class; for Nyosan was so completely lacking in self-consequence

that it was difficult for those about her to remember she was Genji’s

favourite and the Emperor’s sister.

At Kojijū’s harsh words she only wept the more. During the course

of the day her people noticed that she was in very low spirits

and ate nothing at all. ‘Instead of fussing all the while about Lady

Murasaki, who, if she was ever ill at all, is now perfectly recovered,

His Highness might give a little more attention to our young lady, who

really has got something the matter with her,’ they said.

As soon as he was alone Genji pulled out the letter and studied it more

attentively. He did not now feel so certain that it was written by

Kashiwagi. The writing indeed looked to him much more like an attempt

to imitate Kashiwagi’s hand, and he came to the conclusion that it

must be the work of some waiting-woman, who had concocted the letter

as a practical joke. But the style did not in the least bear out this

supposition. Granted the document was genuine, several facts emerged:

the writer had been in love with Nyosan for several years, he had once

at any rate obtained access to her, but now something had gone wrong,

and the writer of the letter was evidently very ill at ease. All this

could have been deduced without difficulty by any one who saw the

letter. Since when (Genji wondered) had people taken to writing in this

reckless and inconsiderate manner? For letters are ticklish things;

one never knows into whose hands they may fall—as he himself had good

reason to remember.[121] But, after all, there are ways of protecting

oneself. Never had Genji in his life (or so he now felt convinced)

addressed a woman whom he loved in terms so crude, so tactless, so

flatly incriminating; and he was filled not so much with anger at

Kashiwagi’s presumption as contempt for his stupidity.

Genji’s thoughts ran on. What must he do with Nyosan? Of course there

was no longer any doubt how she came to be in her present condition.

The simplest thing would be to go on as if nothing had happened. This,

he felt, would have been impossible if the knowledge of their intrigue

had come to him from outside. But having made the discovery for

himself, he was free to use it as he chose. Yet was he free? He tried

to imagine himself visiting her, joking, pretending to know nothing....

It was easy enough to decide on such a course, but utterly impossible

to carry it out. He knew that when he was merely amusing himself with

some one, without really being in love, the discovery that this person

was receiving attentions from another man at once made it impossible

for him to continue his own mild dalliance. In such cases it galled him

that another should receive what he himself had never even claimed.

And now Nyosan.... No, this was something that he could never forgive.

As for Kashiwagi, his conduct had been of an insolence and treachery

such as Genji would not have imagined any human being to be capable

of. Suddenly it occurred to him that there was a certain resemblance

between this episode and another, in which he himself had figured. But

that was a very different affair. There is something special about an

Emperor’s concubines. To begin with, many of them hold their position

for reasons of State; no personal tie attaches them to their Master,

and it is assumed that they are free to seek distraction elsewhere.

Then again, the ladies and gentlemen of the Emperor’s entourage are

through the very nature of their service thrown together in a way

peculiar to the Court, and intimacies, such as could not without the

gravest scandal be divulged, are constantly springing into existence,

to be suspended at a moment’s notice if they are in any danger of

being observed. Nor in the promiscuous life of the Palace are such

shifts and changes, such sudden alliances and dissolutions, likely

to attract the slightest attention. But this seduction of Nyosan

was an entirely different matter. She, on her side, knew quite well

all the circumstances that had induced him to take charge of her,

knew that he had expended infinite pains in her education and

improvement, had risked on her behalf a breach with the one being to

whom his whole heart was drawn. Such ingratitude was unthinkable! That

any one who belonged to him should turn elsewhere for affection—and

to a person such as Kashiwagi—was more than he could be expected to

endure. And yet, unless he were willing to make himself ridiculous, the

alternatives to enduring it were not very obvious.

Suddenly it occurred to Genji to ask himself whether perhaps his

father, the Old Emperor, had not been in just the same fix. No doubt

he too (though Genji had never before suspected it) knew perfectly

well what was going on, and had merely pretended not to see. There was

no denying it: that was a disgraceful affair, as indeed he had always

known; though all that his father might have suffered through it he had

never till this moment guessed.

Murasaki at once saw, when he arrived, that something was on his mind.

She thought that he had reluctantly left the New Palace merely out of

pity for her, and was worried at being obliged to spend so much time

out of Nyosan’s company. ‘You really need not have come back so soon,’

she said. ‘I am much better now, while Nyosan, they tell me, is very

poorly.’

‘She looks a little bit out of sorts,’ he answered. ‘But there is

nothing serious the matter with her, and I do not feel there is any

need for me to remain there. But her family makes a great fuss. The

Emperor is always sending to enquire after her. A messenger came

while I was there to-day. I do not think he is really worried, but

his father[122] expects it of him, and is always keeping him up to

the mark. They both of them have their eye on me, and so I have to

be extremely careful.’ ‘I don’t mind what the Emperor thinks,’

Murasaki replied. ‘But I should be very sorry indeed if my illness

caused Nyosan to think you were neglecting her. And even if she

understands, I am so afraid that some of her gentlewomen may make

mischief....’ ‘You are evidently far more solicitous concerning Nyosan

than I am myself,’ he said, laughing. ‘And for your sake I must try

to take my responsibilities more seriously. But I fear I shall never

succeed in working out what effect my actions may have on her maids and

dependents. You may think me heartless, but I confess that if I avoid

getting into trouble with the Emperor, I shall be quite satisfied. I

am hoping that next time I go to the New Palace you will be able to

come with me.’ ‘I am afraid that will not be for some while yet,’ she

answered. ‘Do, I beg of you, go and live there again at once. It would

be such a comfort to Nyosan. I will follow when I can.’ But days passed

without his making the move.

Nyosan regarded his absence as a sign that she was in disgrace. True,

he had often before deserted her for weeks on end; but in those days

she had done nothing bad, and it had therefore not occurred to her that

his staying away might be meant as a punishment. She was also terrified

lest her father should hear that Genji never came to see her; for she

had got it into her head that Suzaku too would at once think she had

done something wicked.

The next time Kashiwagi tried to send a letter, Kojijū, rather glad of

an opportunity to bring the business to an end, told him flatly what

had happened to his last note. Kashiwagi was appalled.

If such an affair as this went on for a considerable time it was almost

inevitable (he knew) that some rumour of it should eventually leak out.

But there was no reason why any actual proof should exist; and if the

parties concerned chose to deny it stoutly enough, people often ended

by believing that nothing much had really happened. And here was

Nyosan, after the infinite care that he had taken not to arouse the

faintest suspicion on any side, leaving under the very nose of the

person principally concerned a document of the most incriminating kind.

It was the hottest time in the year; but at the receipt of this news

he turned so icy cold from head to foot that he veritably thought he

would freeze to death. It was not as though Genji had been a stranger

(though even then it would have been bad enough, considering his rank

and influence). Always, for years past, it had been for Kashiwagi

that he had sent whenever either pleasure or business demanded the

presence of some chosen friend whom he liked and could trust. And

this obvious partiality of Genji for his company had been one of the

greatest joys in Kashiwagi’s life. There could now be no question of

their ever being friends again. That was of course the worst; but the

actual and immediate question of how to behave towards Genji for the

moment fretted Kashiwagi till he became positively ill. If he stayed

away altogether every one would want to know the reason, and Genji

himself, if by any chance he had failed to be absolutely convinced of

Kashiwagi’s guilt, would then no longer be in doubt. Beset by continual

panic and forebodings he shut himself up indoors. Constantly he assured

himself that this overwhelming sense of guilt was out of all proportion

to the magnitude of his crime. But he could not get out of his head the

idea that by this one act he had forfeited all right to exist.

He felt now that it was madness on his part not to have foreseen what

would happen. From the moment she exposed herself on that ill-fated

evening of the football match he ought to have known she would prove

utterly undependable. No doubt Yūgiri, to whom he had certainly

betrayed his excitement on the way home that night, had known

quite well what was in store for him, should he attempt to carry on

a secret intrigue with a creature so completely lacking in the most

elementary sense of responsibility or even loyalty (for he could hardly

imagine that anyone could merely _forget_ to put a note of that kind

somewhere out of sight). But though he tried at times to escape from

his own sense of guilt by reflections of this kind, he was all the

while extremely sorry for Nyosan and fully conscious of the terrible

predicament in which he had landed her.

At last Genji visited the New Palace. Of course there could be no

question now of his ever again feeling any affection for her; yet, so

much sympathy did her obvious wretchedness and terror arouse in him,

that he found himself longing to console her, caress her—to pretend,

in fact, that everything was the same as before. But this lasted for

a very short while. Expenditure on her behalf, solicitude for her

comfort—these were easy enough; but when it came to speaking to her in

such a manner that those present would not detect any embarrassment or

frigidity, then he was hard put to it indeed, and by his own unavailing

struggles knew something of what her misery must be. It soon became

clear that he did not intend to refer in any way to what had happened;

but this, so far from giving Nyosan confidence, seemed only to imprint

a more abject look of shame and contrition upon her downcast face. She

could not be certain how much he had discovered or what conclusions he

had drawn; and to look as though she were being scolded, when precisely

the opposite was happening, in itself betrayed her guilt. Such

behaviour was indeed part and parcel of the same utter childishness

that had brought about this whole catastrophe.

Meanwhile the news of Nyosan’s condition reached Suzaku in his mountain

retreat. He was of course delighted. He knew that during the

worst period of Murasaki’s illness Genji had for months on end been

absent from the New Palace; but this, under the circumstances, was

perfectly natural. It appeared that even after her partial recovery

Genji had continued to be perhaps unduly nervous of leaving her; and

this protracted neglect, for which Nyosan would see no adequate cause,

had no doubt tried her patience. Not that in any of her letters she had

ever complained. But it was only too likely that some of her people

had, in their indiscreet zeal, talked against Genji at Court or in

social gatherings elsewhere. Suzaku could only hope that Nyosan had

herself done nothing to countenance such gossip. He had lost interest

in all other worldly matters; but his affection for his daughter

remained as keen as ever. The letter that he now wrote to her happened

to arrive on one of the rare occasions when Genji was at the New

Palace. ‘I am afraid it is a long time since you heard from me,’ he

said; ‘but I always think about you a great deal. As soon as I heard

of your condition I put a special supplication on your behalf into my

prayers. Please be sure to let me know how you get on. I am afraid

that, through no one’s fault, you have been left a great deal alone in

the last few months Remember that, even if this should continue, it is

no fault of Genji’s; and above all things avoid giving him or any one

else the impression that you are in the slightest degree resentful of

these long absences.’

The position was a very difficult one. Genji had not intended ever to

speak to Suzaku of what had happened. But sooner or later the girl’s

father would see that Murasaki’s illness was quite unconnected with

the present estrangement. Unless he were told the truth Suzaku would

think that Genji had broken all his promises in the cruellest and most

treacherous manner. ‘How are you going to reply?’ he said, turning to

Nyosan. ‘I wonder who told him that I was neglecting you? If we

are nowadays on rather distant terms, it is certainly through no fault

of mine.’ Blushing deeply, she turned away her head. ‘I think what

most bothers your father,’ he continued, ‘is the knowledge that you

are so childish and entirely unable to look after yourself. You must

try in future to show him that he need no longer worry about you on

that account. I had not meant to tell him about this business. But it

is clearly impossible that you and I should be on the same terms as

before; and if he is going to interpret this change as a dereliction on

my part, I should be obliged to explain matters to him. I had not meant

to discuss this even with you; but while we are on the subject, I may

as well say that if you have found some one who can make you happier

than I do, by all means go to him.... I think that from your own point

of view you are behaving very imprudently; but whether that is so,

events will prove.

‘It does not in the least surprise me that you should feel as you do.

For one thing, novelties are inevitably more interesting, and you have

known me since you were a child. But the real trouble is that I am too

old for you. It is true. I am hideously old. Indeed, what in the world

could be more natural than that an infant like you should desire to

escape from me? I only make one condition. So long as your father is

alive we must keep up the pretence, tiresome old person though you may

find me, that I am still your husband. Afterwards you may do as you

like. But I cannot bear that Suzaku should know what has in reality

been the end of this wonderful marriage of ours, upon which he built

all his hopes. It is not at all likely that he will live much longer.

If you do not wish to add to his sufferings, please let us for the

present have no more episodes of this kind.’

But as he said the words he caught in his own voice a familiar

intonation. How often, years ago, those responsible for his upbringing

had adopted just this tone, and how dreary, how contemptible he had

thought their self-righteous homilies. ‘Boring old man!’ That was what

she must be thinking, and in sudden shame he relapsed into a complete

silence, during which he drew her writing-case towards him, carefully

mixed the ink and arranged the paper. But Nyosan was by now sobbing

bitterly, and her hand shook so much that at first she was unable to

write. How very differently must her pen have flowed, Genji mused,

when she sat down to answer the letter he had found under her cushion!

But now, even when her hand ceased to tremble, she was quite unable to

frame her sentences, and he was obliged to dictate the whole letter.

The celebration of Suzaku’s fiftieth birthday, again and again

deferred, had now been fixed for the middle of the twelfth month.

Arrangements for the dancing and music were already in active progress

at the New Palace, and Murasaki, who had meant to put off her return

some time longer, suddenly took it into her head that all this bustle

would help to distract her from her sufferings. She was accordingly

moved into her old apartments without further delay. The Akashi

Princess was also in residence at the New Palace, with her little boy,

Niou, and her second child, also a boy. They were both delightful

children, and it was a great pleasure to have them in the house.

Genji, who had not taken at first very kindly to the idea of being a

grandfather, now played with them for hours on end.

Kashiwagi was of course invited to the rehearsal. He knew that if he

stayed at home on such an occasion he would feel extremely bored and

miserable; moreover his absence would be remarked upon by every one and

might arouse unwelcome suspicions. But when the invitation arrived he

wrote that he was too ill to come. Genji was certain that only a

very serious and definite illness would have kept him away upon such

an occasion, and wrote again, begging him to accept. His father Tō no

Chūjō pointed out that Genji would certainly be offended. ‘Every one

knows that there is nothing serious the matter with you,’ he said,

‘and on musical occasions of this kind your help is very much needed.’

Finally Kashiwagi promised to go. He arrived before the other princes

and courtiers who were expected, and was at once admitted behind

Genji’s screens-of-state. He did indeed not look at all well. He was

thin, pale, utterly lacking in the buoyancy and high spirits that were

the common possession of his family. He wore a thoughtful, serious air,

like one who is over-conscious of his responsibilities. Just the kind

of person, thought Genji, whom one would hit upon to put in charge of

a flighty young princess. Probably they were very well suited to one

another, and if only such an arrangement had been thought of before....

Indeed it was not so much what had happened, as the way in which it had

taken place, that he would never be able to forgive. If only either of

them had behaved with the slightest consideration....

But he spoke to Kashiwagi without a trace of coldness or disapproval.

‘What a long time it is since we last met!’ he said. ‘And there has

really been no particular reason. I have, of course, a great deal of

illness in the home. Things are better; but the arrangements connected

with Suzaku’s birthday have kept me very busy, and I have also been

obliged to have services read on behalf of his daughter, who, as you

know, is now living here with me. Suzaku has taken his vows, and it

would be unseemly to celebrate his birthday with the same festivities

that we should use were he a layman. But it so happens that there are

at present in my house a number of young boys, and I know that it would

give Suzaku great pleasure if I trained them to do a few dances

in his honour on the day of the celebration. There is no one who can

be so useful to me in this matter as yourself, and I am very grateful

to you for having forgiven my long neglect and thus hurried to assist

me.’ While these words were being spoken Kashiwagi felt his colour

continually come and go. It was some time before he could master his

feelings sufficiently to reply. At last he said: ‘I was very sorry to

hear of all your troubles. Since the spring I myself have been very

unwell. I think it is really an attack of beri-beri. I have often

been almost unable to walk. It is months since I got even so far as

the Palace, and I feel as though I had been utterly shut off from the

world. No one owes more to Suzaku than I do; but I am afraid that, had

not my father reminded me, I should have entirely forgotten about his

fiftieth birthday. If you will forgive my suggesting it, I do not think

that a very elaborate ceremony would be at all to Suzaku’s taste. When

the deputation visits him, a few unambitious songs and dances, with

plenty of time afterwards for quiet conversation with his guests—that,

I think, is what would give him most pleasure.’ ‘I entirely agree with

you,’ answered Genji. ‘Of course, we must not cut things down so much

as to seem disrespectful; but if you are in charge I shall have no

anxiety on that score. Yūgiri is now thoroughly competent as regards

public ceremonies and the like; but he has never understood much about

art. Suzaku is so good a critic in all such matters, particularly as

regards music and dancing, that what little we do must at all costs be

done properly. That is why I want you to help Yūgiri in arranging the

little boys’ dances. The professional dancing-masters are hopeless.

Each of them has his own set of tricks, and nothing can persuade him to

vary them.’

It would have been impossible for anyone to speak more kindly than

Genji had just spoken; but Kashiwagi, though fully sensible of this

fact, still felt as uncomfortable as when he first entered the room.

Once this business about the rehearsal had been settled, there seemed

nothing else to talk about, and after a few unsuccessful attempts to

begin their usual sort of conversation, Kashiwagi quietly withdrew.

The rehearsal took place in the Music Room that opened out of the

Fishing Pavilion, the dancers appearing at the foot of a high mound.

There was a thin sprinkling of snow upon the ground; but the air had in

it a softness which suggested that Spring was camping somewhere close

at hand, and already the orchards were whitening with the first faint

tinge of bloom.

As the day wore on, the scene grew somewhat riotous. Every one drank

heavily, and the older men, at the sight of their grandchildren’s

performance (which was indeed a very pretty one, the dancers all

being of minute size), tended to become rather maudlin. ‘All right,

Kashiwagi; don’t look so contemptuous!’ Genji shouted across to him.

‘Just wait a few years, and you’ll find a little wine will make your

tears flow quite as fast as ours!’ Kashiwagi made no reply, and Genji,

looking at him more attentively, saw that he was not only (alone among

the whole company) entirely sober, but also extremely depressed.

Surely, thought Kashiwagi, every one can see that I am far too ill to

take part in such a scene as this. How inconsiderate of Genji (who

was certainly not nearly so drunk as he pretended) to call attention

to him by shouting across the room in that way! No doubt it was meant

as a joke; but Kashiwagi found it quite impossible to be amused. He

had a violent headache, and each time the flagon came round he merely

pretended to drink out of it. Genji presently noticed this, and sending

it back, pressed him again and again to take his share.

At last he could endure the banquet no longer, and though the

proceedings showed no signs whatever of coming to a close, he dragged

himself to his feet and left the room. He had such difficulty in

walking that he at first imagined he must have drunk far more than he

intended. But this explanation would not hold, for he could clearly

recollect all that had happened, and was quite certain that he had

not taken enough to cause any such effect as this. He definitely

connected his present sensations with the strain of appearing in

Genji’s presence. But embarrassing though the ordeal had been, it would

scarcely account for the fact that he was in his present state of

complete collapse.

It soon became apparent that his was no mere migraine or surfeit, but

the beginning of a desperate malady. His mother proposed to remove him

to his father’s house, where she thought he could be better looked

after. Kashiwagi knew that such a step would be extremely painful to

his wife Princess Ochiba, who had for months past endured his complete

neglect of her with exemplary patience, always hoping that he would

in the end recover from his present disastrous infatuation. The

assumption that now, at the onset of a serious illness, she was not

the proper person to take charge of him, would seem (as Kashiwagi was

well aware) to mark the end of their brief and unhappy relationship.

Ochiba’s mother was also present. ‘They ought never to have suggested

such a thing,’ she said indignantly. ‘Under no possible circumstances

have the parents any right to separate a man from his wife. Even if

Kashiwagi only stays there till he recovers, the separation will be a

most painful one for my daughter. She is perfectly capable of looking

after him, and I can see no reason why he should not remain here, at

any rate until it is proved that he is not making sufficient progress.’

Kashiwagi heard all this, and he felt that she was right. ‘I knew from

the first,’ he said to Ochiba’s mother, ‘that as regards birth I

was hopelessly inferior to the Princess. But I hoped as time went on to

climb high enough in the Government to compensate for this inequality.

However, since this terrible illness came upon me I have lost all hope

of justifying myself in that way, and all I care about now is that she

should not feel I have been altogether unkind to her. Shall I have

time ever to do so much as that? Who knows? In any case, I have no

desire to move....’ The upshot was that for the present he stayed in

his own house. But his mother could not believe he was being properly

looked after. ‘I am very sad about Kashiwagi,’ she said. ‘He does not

any longer care to have me with him. In old days, if he was the least

bit unwell or out of spirits, I would always leave my other children

and come to look after him. And he liked me to be there; I know he

did....’ She went to her son’s house and made another attempt to bring

him away. This time he relented. It was quite true that his mother had

been fonder of him than of the rest. Perhaps it was only because he

was her first child. But be that as it may, her devotion to him both

in the past and since his marriage had been such that he felt it would

be cruel to the point of wickedness not to let her take him to a place

where she could during those last days be always at his side. He said

to Ochiba: ‘Do not worry about me. As soon as I am any worse I will let

you know, and you can come round quietly to my father’s house. Forgive

me for having treated you as I have done. I cannot understand now how I

came to behave so foolishly. If only I had known that I had so short a

time ahead of me....’ Weeping bitterly, he was carried to his father’s

house; Ochiba remained behind, in a state of unspeakable agitation and

suspense. The arrival of Kashiwagi in this condition was a great shock

to his father Tō no Chūjō. But he reflected that the illness was

not so sudden as people were making out. He had noticed for months that

the boy was hardly eating anything, often taking no more than a paltry

orange, and sometimes refusing even that. Under such circumstances he

could not fail to lose his strength.

The sudden collapse of so well-known and talented a figure provoked

in all quarters the liveliest regret. Every one at Court came to

enquire after his progress; the Emperor and Suzaku both sent frequent

messengers, while the grief of his parents need not be described. Genji

too was very much upset, sent constant messages of enquiry, and wrote

several letters of encouragement and sympathy to Tō no Chūjō. Above

all, Yūgiri, who had been his closest friend, was in great distress,

and now spent most of his time at Kashiwagi’s bedside.

The celebration of Suzaku’s birthday was fixed for the twenty-fifth

of the twelfth month. The serious illness of so prominent a person,

casting a gloom not only over his own family, but also over so great a

part of the higher circles at Court, made the time chosen a singularly

unfortunate one. But the affair had for so long been postponed from

month to month, that to defer it on account of an illness that might

go on indefinitely was out of the question. Moreover, Nyosan, who

had already spent much time in planning the arrangements, would (he

thought) be grievously disappointed. The ceremony accordingly took

place on the appointed day; prayers were said in the usual Fifty

temples, and in Suzaku’s own retreat the Scripture of the Great Sun

Buddha[123] was solemnly recited.

[106] About three and a half years. This jump, which may read as though

it were a ‘cut’ made by the translator, exists in the original.

[107] He was really Genji’s son, not the old Emperor’s. In sacrificing

at the Imperial tomb, etc., he was committing an outrage upon the dead.

[108] The soothsayers taught that there were several ‘dangerous ages’

in the lives both of men and women. A few centuries later thirty-three

was commonly regarded as a woman’s most dangerous age. Nowhere else is

thirty-seven mentioned; but it is to be noted Fujitsubo died at the age

of thirty-seven.

[109] See vol. i, chap. v.

[110] His intrigue with Fujitsubo.

[111] She was now Consort of the Emperor; but had not been proclaimed

Empress.

[112] By spirits, demons or the like.

[113] Dreaming of a cat signifies that a child will be born.

[114] Fudō.

[115] See above, p. 186.

[116] As it was a Shintō shrine, the rival religion (Buddhism) could

not be mentioned there.

[117] Partly with the idea of securing Murasaki’s safety; partly lest

the words spoken by Rokujō through the boy’s mouth should be overheard.

[118] A pun on Genji’s name Hikaru, ‘The Shining One.’

[119] ‘If it were in our power to keep the cherry-blossom on the tree,

we should cease so much to admire it.’

[120] A Buddhist doctrine.

[121] Cf. vol. ii, p. 91.

[122] Suzaku.

[123] In Sanskrit, Mahā-vairocana; in Japanese, Dainichi. The chief

Buddha of the Mystical (Tantric) Sect.

CHAPTER VIII

KASHIWAGI

The New Year brought with it no change in Kashiwagi’s condition. A

fatal issue seemed certain, and on his own account he had not the

slightest wish to avoid it. If indeed from time to time he seemed to

be struggling against his fate, it was because he dared not reveal to

his parents how little he dreaded a separation, the prospect of which

manifestly caused them so bitter an affliction.