Meanwhile things at Ono were not going well. Rather recklessly, as

she felt, Ochiba’s mother had taken matters into her own hands and

protested against Yūgiri’s light-minded and casual escapade. And now it

was clear that she had offended him. Hour after hour went by; it grew

quite dark and still no answer came. This so much upset her that her

apparent convalescence was soon a thing of the past, and before the end

of the day her condition was as serious as ever. Ochiba, on the other

hand, so far from being perturbed by his failure to reappear, regretted

nothing save that she had not been a little curter with him on that one

occasion. Seeing her mother’s distress, she attributed it to horror at

the things which were supposed to have taken place on that unfortunate

night; and she began trying to explain how little had really happened.

But the subject was not easy to talk about. Confusion overcame her, and

she left off in the middle. Seeing the girl’s embarrassment, her mother

was doubly distressed: ‘Poor creature!’ she thought. ‘Has any one of

similar talents and position ever been so consistently unfortunate?’ At

last she said rather bitterly: ‘I am going to be disagreeable—a thing

which I thought I had long ago done for the last time. It may not have

been your fault.... But really, from what I hear, it seems as though

your behaviour had been incredibly childish. This particular matter

is at an end; for it is clear that he does not mean to come near us

again. But do, I beg you, be on your guard about this sort of thing in

future. I am sure I have taken immense pains with your upbringing. And

after all, with regard to affairs of that kind, you are not without

experience.... Perhaps it was foolish of me, but I assure you this,

of all ways, is not the one in which I thought you would get into

trouble. A little firmness, good sense, decision—nothing more was

required. I see that you are far indeed from being capable of looking

after yourself, and it perturbs me beyond measure to think that I must

leave you so soon. Even among commoners there is a feeling—at any rate

among the better sort of people—that flippancy does not become a widow;

still less should any one of your rank dream of allowing admirers

to go in and out in that fashion. I am very sorry your married life

brought you so little happiness. You know that the choice always seemed

to me singularly inappropriate; but your father, the ex-Emperor, and

Kashiwagi’s father pressed me so hard that in the end I came over to

their side, convinced for the moment that this quite unnecessary match

was pre-ordained by Fate. It turned out to be a terrible misfortune,

the results of which you will feel all your life. But you had at any

rate the satisfaction of knowing that you yourself were in no way to

blame, and could reproach Heaven without fear of retort. Such feelings

you can no longer entertain; but if you could manage to take no notice

of all the unpleasant things that were being said around you, I suppose

you might find considerable solace in relations with this young man—if

he made a practice of coming here, which I am certain he has not the

least intention of doing!’

To this cruelly faithful picture of her predicament she could find no

reply. She now sat gently sobbing. Her mother, watching her intently,

was moved this time by a sudden outburst of affectionate admiration.

‘How handsome you are!’ she said. ‘There is no one like you. What kink

is it in your Fate that made such beauty the rallying point of every

imaginable check and disappointment?’ Her agitation soon reduced her

to a state in which she fell an easy prey to the next onslaught of the

‘possession’ that had for long past been assailing her. In a moment she

had lost consciousness, and an icy coldness had settled upon her

limbs. The chaplains hastily assembled and with frantic supplications

sought to revive her. They were all holy men, drawn from inaccessible

mountain temples, which they had vowed never to leave till death. The

entreaties of Ochiba and her friends had induced them to break their

vows; and if they should now pull down their altars and return to their

cells defeated, surely (they protested to Buddha) the Faith would

suffer a grave discredit.

It was at this moment that Yūgiri’s letter arrived. The sick woman

was able, in a fleeting interval of consciousness, to comprehend that

Yūgiri made no suggestion of repeating his visit. All, then, was as

bad as she had feared. He had on this occasion merely been heartlessly

amusing himself. ‘And,’ remembered Ochiba’s mother—it was her last

conscious thought—‘whatever scandal is talked about this at Court will

as likely as not be founded on my own letter.’[148]

Her people were slow to realize that the end had come. She had often

before suffered from seizures during which life appeared to be extinct.

But now the usual spells had no effect, and at last it was apparent

that all was over.

The ninth month had come. Storms were raging in the hills. Not a leaf

on any tree; the whole country wore its most desolate air; and Ochiba,

sensitive to the changing aspects of nature, was in a more wretched

state than ever before. So gloomy indeed were her thoughts that she

longed continually for death to terminate the terrible monotony of her

lonely existence. True, Yūgiri wrote almost every day. His enquiries

and the presents he sent gave great satisfaction to the resident

priests, whose long seclusion made such distractions exceedingly

welcome. But Ochiba, though he sent the most solicitous messages, and

sometimes long notes in which he enquired after every item of her

health with the utmost concern, gave no sign of gratification. This was

the man, she reasoned, whose heartlessness had preyed upon her mother’s

mind so that she had died unquietly and carried with her to the grave

a burden that would endanger her salvation.[149] It nowadays sufficed

merely for his name to be mentioned, and Ochiba’s tears would break out

afresh. Her people did their best to assist Yūgiri’s cause, and when

he failed even to obtain a single line in reply he at first attributed

this to the mental confusion caused by her mother’s death. But as time

went by it was apparent that there must be some other cause for what

he regarded as her crudely insulting conduct. Had he written letters

in which her loss was ignored, letters devoted to the pageants and

frivolities of the day, he could have understood her irritation. But he

was conscious of having shown the tenderest sympathy, the most delicate

appreciation of all she must be feeling. He remembered how when his

grandmother had died he had been for a time very much dispirited; more

so, he thought, than his uncle Tō no Chūjō, who had taken the death

of his mother very much as a matter of course, and while anxious to

do everything that the public would think proper, obviously regarded

the whole business as a tiresome waste of time. Even Genji, who was

only a son-in-law, had shown much more concern. Among Yūgiri’s own

contemporaries, the one, strangely enough, who most entered into his

feelings was the quiet, almost stolid Kashiwagi. How glad he had been

to see him during those days, and how precious his sympathy had been!

And it seemed to Yūgiri exceedingly odd that Ochiba showed no desire

for similar consolation.

Kumoi still remained in the same uncertainty as to what was going

on. The frequent letters to Ono were all supposed to be connected

with Ochiba’s recent loss. But the death of this excellent lady

was not in itself sufficient to account for Yūgiri’s listlessness

and preoccupation. One evening when he lay on his couch, gazing at

the evening sky, she sent one of the children to him with a scrap of

paper on which was written: ‘Gladly would I console you did I but know

whether for the dead you mourn, or for the living thus consume your

heart.’ He smiled. Why (he asked himself) did it please her to give him

this loophole? She knew well enough that, greatly though he had liked

the old princess, her death could not conceivably weigh much in his

mind after all these months. Swiftly and negligently he dashed off the

reply: ‘Nor this, nor that. Who grieves that one particular dewdrop

vanishes into the morning air?’ This was all very well; but putting

aside general considerations as to the fate of dewdrops, it was evident

that he had no intention of taking her into his confidence; and Kumoi

was very unhappy.

Yūgiri had thought of waiting till the period of mourning was over

before he attempted another visit to Ono. But he found himself unable

to hold out so long, and reasoning that, so far as her reputation was

concerned, no more harm could happen than had been done already, he was

determined not to abandon the quest till his full purpose was achieved.

Kumoi might think what she pleased. And however little encouragement

he received from Ochiba herself, that phrase about ‘one night only’ in

her mother’s letter gave his renewed attentions a sort of sanction,

and would in the last resort make it difficult for her to dismiss him

altogether.

It was about the middle of the ninth month. The grandeur of the scenes

through which Yūgiri passed was such as could not have failed to awe

the dullest, the most unimpressionable visitor. His way lay through

forests in which not merely every leaf, but every bough had been caught

by the tempest and hurried earthwards, to toss amid the whirling

wreckage from the heights above. As he approached the house, the noise

of distant chanting mingled with the clamour of the storm. Close under

the fence a group of deer was sheltering from the blasts of the storm,

their hoofs pressing upon the brown rice-stalks; nor did even the harsh

tones of the bird-clapper[150] drive them from their refuge. They stood

together, crying with a pitiful air. The noise of the torrent startled

Yūgiri from his thoughts, bursting upon his ear with its thunderous

clang. Only the crickets, their arbours laid low by the storm, were

strangely quiet. But one flower, the blue Dragon’s Gall, was now

rewarded for its long patience, and shining out all dewy amid the dead

grass, triumphed at last in its desolate supremacy.

In all this there was nothing out of the ordinary; but given the nature

and circumstances of his visit, these commonplaces of the autumn

landscape moved him to an almost unendurable sadness.

Remembering Shōshō no Kimi’s gay laugh and handsome face, he felt that

to be with her for a little might help to drive away this intolerable

depression, and it was for her that he sent when he arrived at the

usual western door.

‘Closer,’ he said. ‘If I am obliged to raise my voice we may be

overheard, and I want to talk with you seriously. Surely you count

it to my credit that I have made my way through the hills at such a

season.’ He glanced towards the mountain. ‘And now the mist is rising,’

he said. ‘Look how thick....’ ‘Closer, closer,’ he whispered. She

pressed forward the curtain behind which she sat, till it obtruded a

little way beyond the edge of the reed-blind. She kept pulling her

skirts to one side. This Shōshō no Kimi was a sister of the Governor

of Yamato, and consequently a cousin of Ochiba, with whom she had

been brought up on terms of complete equality. She was therefore

wearing the deepest mourning.

‘I am sure it is natural enough that Lady Ochiba should be very much

upset,’ said Yūgiri at last, ‘but I still do not understand why this

should involve such persistent rudeness to _me_. I am exasperated

to the verge of madness by her refusal to grant me a single word of

reply. My mind is going to pieces altogether; every one notices it.’

So he went on, and presently mentioned the old princess’s last letter,

breaking into tears as he did so. ‘Your slowness in replying,’ said

Shōshō no Kimi, weeping even more bitterly than he, ‘seemed to have

a disastrous effect upon her. She had been much stronger lately; but

that one day’s suspense undid all the good work. The evil influences

that had before possessed her saw their opportunity and were quick to

use it. She was in a bad way on one or two occasions at the time of

her son-in-law’s death, and we sometimes thought it was all over with

her. But she had only to remember Lady Ochiba’s need, and she would

at once make an effort to recover herself. I wish indeed we had some

one like her to comfort my cousin Ochiba. She’s in such a state she

hardly seems to know her own name, and so it goes on from one day’s

end to another.’ So, amid her sobs, she somewhat inconsequently sought

to explain Ochiba’s silence. ‘That’s all very well,’ he said, ‘but it

leaves me as puzzled as ever by her mystifications. I am, I hope I

may say without rudeness, the one person who can be of use to her at

present. Her father[151] is buried away in the clouds on some distant

mountain peak, and if he ever gives a thought to family affairs, he is

too far off to be of any practical assistance. There is no reason why

you yourself should not remonstrate with her when you get the chance.

It is really turning into a kind of obstinacy. However, it will

all come right in the end. She feels at present that she will never

want to return into society; but people do not remain in that state of

mind indefinitely. Nor do things happen as one plans....’ But Shōshō no

Kimi gave him no help, and to his repeated messages Ochiba sent only

the reply that upon some future occasion, when feeling less dazed by

her loss, she would attempt to thank him for his repeated visits.

Back in his palace, he mooned about in so vague and distracted a

manner, that the ladies of the household said to one another in shocked

tones: ‘What a wretched sight the man is! And the last person too

whom one would have expected to see in this state.’ As for Kumoi,

he remembered how often he had praised in her hearing the pleasant

relations that prevailed between the members of Genji’s household. If

she showed any signs of resentment at his interest in Ochiba, he would

at once think her a most disagreeable, ungenerous creature. She too,

Kumoi felt, could have endured rivals well enough if she had been used

to them and if those around her had learned to take them as a matter of

course. But from the very beginning her father, her brothers—every one

had quoted Yūgiri as an unparalleled example of single-minded devotion;

and that even this prodigy of steadfastness should grow tired of her

was a humiliation indeed.

So they lay till it was almost dawn, neither heeding the other or

showing the least disposition to make friends; and long before the

mists had cleared he irritated Kumoi by getting up and writing his

usual letter to Ono. This time, however, she played no trick upon him.

He wrote at considerable length, and then pushing the letter away

from him, began humming a poem to himself. He did this very softly;

but Kumoi heard the words: ‘No message will you send me save that no

message you will send till an unending night its dreams shall

end?’ “The Silent Waterfall[152] that from Mount Ono drops ...” she

thought she heard him quote.

The answer came later in the morning. It was a solid-looking epistle,

written on stout, brownish paper; and as usual the writer was Shōshō

no Kimi. Kumoi watched his face while he read it. Had Princess Ochiba

at last broken her silence? As a matter of fact the letter contained

nothing but remonstrations from Shōshō upon the uselessness of his

continuing to write. ‘To prove my point,’ she said, ‘I enclose your

last letter to her, just as it was when I rescued it.’ And here was

his letter indeed, torn in pieces and covered all over with random

scribblings. His first feeling, however, was not so much of pique at

the use to which it had been put, as of delight that she had seen and

handled it. Piecing together the fragments, he thought he could make

out a poem somewhat in this style: ‘Ceaseless as the waters of Mount

Ono, day and night my silent tears flow.’ It was only the old Ono poem

twisted a little to suit her own plight; but there were points of

interest in the penmanship.

How often had Yūgiri watched other men falling into the helpless state

in which he now found himself! There had always seemed to him something

unreal in their languishings; and he had spoken of such people with

considerable severity, feeling that with a little effort they might at

any moment have escaped from their difficulties. But no, there was no

escape; nothing to do but to endure.

It was not long before Genji heard what was going on. It had always

been a comfort to him that Yūgiri possessed so much good sense and

moderation. It was pleasant, for instance, to feel that whatever

scandals had to be investigated, Yūgiri’s name would never be involved;

and the more so because Genji himself had suffered from the

effects of a quite opposite reputation. This attachment with Ochiba in

any case could bring little happiness to either of them. But it would

not have been quite so bad if she had been some one quite outside their

circle. As it was, what must Tō no Chūjō and the rest be feeling about

it? However, Yūgiri was quite capable of seeing all this for himself.

There was nothing that Genji could usefully say. He did not indeed

think so much about Yūgiri as about the two ladies. For them he could

not help being extremely sorry. He mentioned the affair to Murasaki,

one day when he was talking things over with her, and spoke of his

own anxiety as to what would become of her when he, like Kashiwagi,

should have passed away. She blushed and a look of pain crossed her

face; for she knew well enough how unlikely it was that she would

survive him. She pitied all women. How impossibly difficult was their

position! If they shut themselves away, ignored the existence of

beauty, tenderness—of all emotion—what was left, save to sit thinking

of darkness and the grave? Nor was it, in the end, of the slightest

satisfaction to the parents who bore one, that one should grow up

into an inexperienced nonentity; on the contrary, they were extremely

disappointed. Was there not a story about the Silent Prince?[153]

That was the kind of life women were expected to lead. They must lock

everything up in their hearts. But even the clergy regarded silence

as one of the hardest penances; and it was only by consenting to

speak at last that the Silent Prince, despite all his ‘knowledge of

good and evil,’ managed to avoid being buried alive. And even if one

could settle, to one’s own satisfaction, on a correct middle course,

the difficulties of pursuing it were immense.... It was not of herself,

of course, that she was thinking, but of her adopted child, the Akashi

Princess.

Curious to see how he would take it, Genji began speaking of their

friends at Ono next time Yūgiri came to his palace. ‘So the mourning

for Ochiba’s mother will soon be over,’ he said. ‘It must be just

thirty years since Suzaku first took her under his protection.... A

lifetime, yes, that is what a whole lifetime looks like when one sees

it stretched out! The night is soon over, the dewdrops vanish in the

sun, and “what worth gaining, to hold so short a while?” But after

she had taken her vows and turned her back on the world, I fancy she

settled down into a not too uncomfortable existence. I am sorry she is

gone. A great misfortune, a very great misfortune.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ said

Yūgiri, ‘when one sees what useless and unimportant people are spoken

of at their decease as “losses to the country.”’ ‘The ceremonies on the

forty-ninth day,’ he continued, ‘are left entirely in the hands of her

nephew, the Governor of Yamato. It is a wretched business; and somehow

her evident loss of all influence and proper support makes a more

painful impression now that she is gone than ever during her lifetime.’

‘It has no doubt been a great shock to Suzaku,’ said Genji. ‘But I am

chiefly sorry for the daughter. I hear, by the way, that she is pretty;

after Nyosan, she was certainly her father’s favourite.’ ‘About the

daughter,’ said Yūgiri, ‘I know very little. But I believe the mother

was a very agreeable woman. I did not know her well; but on one or

two occasions I was able to be of some slight service to her.’ If his

son had lied less flatly, Genji would have felt it possible to

continue the conversation. But such an attitude betokened a state of

mind that was far removed from either inviting or accepting advice. He

felt in any case the absurdity of such a person as himself taking a

high line about these questions, and changed the subject.

In point of fact the arrangements for the service of the Forty-ninth

Day were made almost entirely by Yūgiri, who took the utmost pains in

planning every detail. The reason for all this zest on his part was

naturally the subject of much speculation. Tō no Chūjō, when the matter

was mentioned to him, was disinclined, from what he knew of Yūgiri’s

character, to credit the existence of any scandal, and chiefly blamed

Ochiba for allowing an outside person to play so prominent a part in

the proceedings.

It reached Suzaku’s ears that she intended to stay at Ono and become

a nun. ‘I hope you will do nothing of the kind,’ he wrote. ‘It is,

I know, generally considered creditable for a widow to remain in

retirement. But there are circumstances under which, for a girl like

you, with no one to take her side, such a course might have an opposite

effect, both in this life and the next, to that which you imagine.

At this moment I do not think you can either withdraw from the Court

without giving countenance to undesirable rumours, or embrace the

religious life in a suitable state of mind. If you are really bent

upon religion, pray do nothing irretrievable till you have given your

feelings time to subside....’ He wrote several times to this effect. It

was evident that he had heard her name coupled with Yūgiri’s, and was

afraid it would be thought that she was leaving the world in a fit of

pique at the affair not having gone as she wished.

The news that Ochiba was soon returning to Court put Yūgiri in a

difficult position. If he acted as one already having claims upon

her, it would give the impression that the late princess had not

exercised her functions with proper strictness—an aspersion which, even

though it were not taken very seriously, he did not care to inflict

upon the dead woman’s reputation. But to convince the world that the

attachment had just commenced, to re-enact all the familiar stages of

incipient attraction, courtship and melancholy was more than could be

expected of him.

As soon as the day of her arrival had been fixed, he sent for the

Governor of Yamato and consulted with him as to what could be done to

make the palace in the First Ward less uncomfortable. Even before the

removal to Ono the place had for so long been inhabited by women only

that everything had run very much to seed. He now gave orders for a

general cleaning up of the rooms and a complete new set of hangings,

screens, curtains-of-state and the like, seeing to every detail

himself. It was arranged that these fittings should be made as quickly

as possible in the Governor’s own house.

When the day came Yūgiri sent his carriage and outriders to fetch her,

but did not go himself. To her protestations that she had no intention

of leaving Ono, her cousin, the Governor of Yamato, replied: ‘Madam,

in this matter you must bow to my judgment. I feel for you deeply, and

have for some time past done everything in my power to assist you. But

I have my province to think of; urgent affairs await me, and I must

return at once. Fortunately things are not so bad as they might be.

I am handing on the direction of your household to a most loyal and

painstaking successor. I am not suggesting that you should accept him

in any capacity other than mine has lately been. But should you choose

to do so, you would have many precedents in your favour; nor would

any one have a right to blame you, even though it were known that the

attachment were solely on his side. For a lady’s intentions, however

determined she may be, cannot be put into practice without the

aid of some admirer who is ready to place his influence and resources

at her disposal. Do not think that I mistrust your intelligence. Your

decisions, I am sure, will always be excellent; I merely question

your ability to carry them out.’ And then turning to Ochiba’s ladies:

‘I regard you all as very much to blame in this matter. You set the

whole thing going, and now, I have reason to believe, you are refusing

to carry messages or give the unfortunate gentleman any reasonable

assistance.’ Thus reproached, her waiting-women gathered round her and

began to attire her in the new clothes into which she was to change

for the journey. She was prevailed upon at last to let them dress the

hair—full six feet of it—that she longed so ardently to sacrifice.[154]

It grew a little thinner than formerly, though not to an extent that

any one else would have noticed. But Ochiba now surveyed it with

dismay. How altered she was, in this and every way! Never again would

she dare to show herself.... ‘Come now,’ her ladies cried, ‘we should

have been on the road hours ago. It will soon be getting dark.’ One had

slipped out with a toilet-case, another with a clothes-box. Hampers,

sacks one by one had been laid upon the wagons. There was no one left

in the house, and at last, since she could not stay there all alone,

weeping bitterly she climbed into the carriage that Yūgiri had sent.

At last they arrived. What had happened to her mother’s house? Who were

all these people that crowded the passages? Whence this strange air

of festivity? And hardly able to believe that this was indeed her old

home, Ochiba sat motionless in the carriage long after it had halted.

Yūgiri was waiting in the eastern wing of the palace. He had brought

so many possessions with him that Kumoi’s people concluded he was

about to make a long stay. ‘He might have given us a little warning,’

they said. ‘When, pray, did the ceremony[155] take place?’ It was

assumed that a relationship had been going on in secret for years past.

To no one did it occur that the attachment was not mutual; a state of

affairs very unfortunate for Ochiba.

When supper was over and everything had quieted down, Yūgiri went to

Shōshō no Kimi and commenced his usual appeal. ‘Surely you can make

up your mind to let her alone for a day or two,’ the girl said. ‘We

can all trust you to remain faithful for as long as that. Madam, so

far from being any more cheerful to-day, has felt this homecoming very

bitterly, and it is no use trying to approach her. I must ask you, on

my own behalf, to show a little consideration; for if anything puts

her out, all the burden falls on me. It really is not possible to do

anything with her when she is in this state.’ ‘That is very odd,’ said

Yūgiri. ‘I should never have supposed, from what I know of her, that

she was so churlish and unmanageable ...’ and he began to advance

every reason why it must inevitably be not only to his advantage but

also to hers—why no one could possibly blame them, till Shōshō no Kimi

interrupted impatiently: ‘You might as well ask me to bring messages to

a corpse. I tell you she is half out of her wits, and were I to talk to

her all night, she would not at the end of it have understood a word

I said. I am sure, Sir, you would not wish to take advantage of her

while she is in such a condition.’ And she wrung her hands. ‘This is

unheard-of,’ he cried. ‘No one can ever have been insulted in so brutal

a manner before. It would surprise her to learn how any outside person

would be struck by such conduct.’ ‘You have very little experience of

the world,’ she laughed, ‘if this is what you call “unheard-of.” And

as for appealing to outsiders, I think the less said about that

the better. I am not at all sure that they would be on your side.’ But

though she stood up to him so well, she could not, as he was now in

charge of the household, close doors against him, and presently the two

of them together entered the princess’s room. How could one combat such

impertinence, such callous lack of consideration? Ochiba did something

which she knew would be thought childish and undignified. Picking up

a mattress, she rushed into the store-room and locked the door from

within. How long would she have to stay here? There was no knowing. All

her people seemed now to be on Yūgiri’s side; and in utter wretchedness

she settled down there for the night. He for his part, when he had

got over his first indignation and surprise, felt calmer. This was

decisive; there could be no question of any completer rebuff. Here they

were for the night, for all the world like those unfortunate birds the

_yamadori_,[156] one on each side of the door. At last the dawn broke,

and as he was not anxious to publish too widely the fact that this was

the way in which they had spent the night, he now left the house, after

once more attempting in vain to induce her to open the door even so

much as a crack.

He went to his father’s palace to rest, and there got into conversation

with the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. ‘What does Kumoi

think of Ochiba’s return to the First Ward?’ she asked in her mild,

tranquil voice. ‘So people are making a story out of that, are they?’

he said. ‘The truth is quite simple. At first Ochiba’s mother was

adverse to my taking charge of her daughter. But in her last hours she

felt very anxious as to what would become of Ochiba, were she left

with no one to manage her affairs, and as I had been a great friend

of Kashiwagi, she withdrew her objection and begged me to help

Ochiba in every way. There was nothing scandalous or surprising in my

having brought her back to the First Ward; all such ideas are the mere

invention of gossips and busybodies. As for Ochiba’—and here he laughed

slightly—‘she talks of nothing but becoming a nun, which shows that

my devotion is not of much interest to her. Perhaps it would be the

best thing, after all, if she did go into a nunnery; for at present my

position both with her and with Kumoi is an impossible one. But till

she does so, I must continue to help her as best I can—to do what her

mother would have wished.

‘Next time my father comes to see you, please explain all this to him,

if you get the chance. I have been frightened to mention it, lest

he should think that, after all this time, I have suddenly become

frivolous in my behaviour.... Though as a matter of fact in things

of that kind there is no reason for me to fear reproach, either from

others or from my own conscience.’ ‘I always thought,’ she answered,

‘that a quite wrong account had been given of the matter; and now I

see that I was right. And really, there is no reason why you should

not have two wives if you want to. I am only sorry for the poor little

princess. She has had things all her own way for so long.’ ‘“Poor

little princess,” indeed!’ exclaimed Yūgiri indignantly. ‘It is hard

to recognize her in such a description. She is very well able to look

after herself, I assure you. “Little demon” would describe her better,

when she fancies her rights are being infringed. And why should you

suppose I am going to ill-treat her? If you will forgive my saying so,

I should have thought your own case showed how much was to be gained

in the end by a little patience and self-restraint. A man may for the

moment be hustled by tears and demonstrations; but promises exacted

in that way are broken immediately, and at the same time leave

behind them a disagreeable feeling on both sides. As you know, I have

always admired my stepmother in many ways; but nothing about her has

ever struck me as more admirable than her forbearance with regard to

you.’ She was not deceived by this flattery. ‘That is only your way of

making clear how little so insignificant a person as myself can know

of such a situation,’ she said, smiling. ‘But I cannot believe that

Genji, of all people, would dare to make any fuss about a matter of

this kind, even to me in private. That would really be more than one

could tolerate....’ ‘You are quite wrong,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘He has

often held forth to me about such matters; and naturally, however bad

his advice may be, I am bound to appear impressed. I know the situation

is rather absurd.’

But to return to the palace in the First Ward. ‘Madam,’ said Ochiba’s

maids, ‘you cannot continue to shut yourself up every time he calls.

Would it not be better to receive him once in the usual way, and if

you wish to break with him, tell him so properly, and have done with

the business for good and all?’ But she did not feel that she owed

any consideration to one who had shown none to her and had already

inflicted upon her reputation injuries which it would take years to

efface.

‘Our mistress says that if later on, when she is feeling more inclined

for conversation, you are still kind enough to remember her, she will

see whether she cannot arrange to talk with you. But at present, while

the memory of her mother’s death is still so recent, she begs to be

excused.’ So reported one of the maids. ‘But the fact of the matter

is,’ she went on, ‘that every one already regards you as a married

pair, and this naturally annoys her extremely.’ ‘But it is not as

though on any previous occasion I had taken advantage of her, as many

men would have done.... Tell her that if she will come out into

her room, I will make no objection to there being a screen between us,

so long as I am allowed to tell her of what I am suffering—which will

certainly not break her heart to hear! Let her grant me this, and she

shall hear no more from me for many a long month.’ So Yūgiri pleaded;

and when all other arguments proved vain, he put it at last to Shōshō

no Kimi that if he were now to absent himself altogether, it would be

thought that he had tired of Ochiba—an assumption more wounding to her

pride than any of the rumours that were already afoot.

This was undeniable, and Yūgiri (it was evident) would be so abjectly

grateful for a mere glimpse of the princess, that Shōshō no Kimi

weakened, and finally showed him how to enter the store-room by a

secret door that led into the maids’ rooms on the north side. That one

of the ordinary servants should be talked round into betraying her was

natural enough, the world being as it is. But here was Shōshō no Kimi,

her kinswoman, the one person whom she believed to be really on her

side, handing her over to the enemy without a moment’s compunction.

Yūgiri was now addressing to her every conceivable form of specious

argument and entreaty. But though he spoke with what she recognized to

be great eloquence and spirit, she remained entirely unmoved, sitting

before him with her robe (for she was wearing no mantle) clutched

tightly to her. Her determination to thwart him was evidently so

intense, and her whole attitude expressed such profound horror at his

proximity, that for the first time he began to think this was no mere

shyness or widowly discretion. Almost any woman, he felt, would have

shown some response to such a courtship as his had been. But she,

through it all, had been unbending as an oak. He had heard of intense,

unreasoning dislikes, for which no cause, save an adverse experience

in some previous life, could be assigned. But so clear a case as

this he never thought to have discovered. Was this all that he had got

in return for so much that he had thrown away? And he remembered the

time before any difficulties grew up between him and Kumoi—all the

small secrets and confidences that had made those years so delightful.

Suddenly he lapsed into silence; his pleading was at an end. They both

sat waiting for the dawn.

Though called a store-room, the place where they sat was not much

encumbered. There were a few chests, full of perfumes, and some

tray-stands, all pushed well out of the way, so that the effect was

that of a small and rather cosy room. It had hitherto been quite dark;

but now a ray of daylight suddenly darted in at the open door. She had

buried her head in the folds of her robe. He leant forward and pulled

the dress. Her hair fell in a tangle about her face, and it was only

when he had pushed it back that he could at last make out her features

in the growing light. It was an interesting, lively face that met his

gaze; aristocratic, yet soft and womanly. And what did she think of

him? In truth, she liked him as she saw him now far better than when

he was dressed up for company. But it was impossible that he should

see anything in her. Had not Kashiwagi (who had far less right to be

particular) found her utterly unattractive? And that was years ago,

when she was very different indeed from what she was now.... Thus she

reasoned with herself. And what would her father and Tō no Chūjō think?

Then there was her mother’s death.... If only the period of mourning

were over.... It took Yūgiri a long time to contend with all these

arguments.

When breakfast was served (not in the store-room, I need hardly say!)

it was thought that the dark furniture used during her mourning would

strike a jarring note, and a space was divided off at one end of

the room, her screen-of-state being of clove-grey, and the furniture

in general of not too sumptuous a nature. The meal was served on a

two-shelved sideboard of plain sandal-wood, all these things having

been provided beforehand by the Governor of Yamato.

The attendants were dressed in inconspicuous shades of yellow,

plum-colour, grey and brown, with a few in lighter and gayer

colour mixed among them. As the union had taken place in a woman’s

establishment, there were many details in the traditional rite which

could not be observed; nor had there been any one except the Governor

to arrange matters and instruct the under-servants in their duties.

On hearing that so distinguished a guest was settled in the house,

many family retainers who were not for the moment on duty hastened to

the palace, and were received by Yūgiri in what I think is called the

estate-office.

When Kumoi found that he showed no signs of returning from the palace

in the First Ward, she felt that she had gone on long enough defending

him. People were right. He was no longer the same steady, unchanging

Yūgiri of former days. Of that Yūgiri not a scrap was left; and seeing

no reason why she should put up with further humiliation at his hands,

she called at Tō no Chūjō’s house, and alleging an unfavourable

conjunction of the stars, established herself there apparently for the

night. It so happened that Lady Chūjō was home on a visit. Kumoi found

considerable comfort in her sister’s company, and prolonged her stay.

Tō no Chūjō had heard rumours of Yūgiri’s new attachment, and was

not surprised that the affair should have come to a head. He thought

Kumoi’s flight an unnecessarily violent form of protest; but then she

had always been quick-tempered and headstrong.

However, if Kumoi was difficult to deal with, her father was ten times

more so. No one had ever insisted so punctiliously upon his

rights as head of the family. He seemed almost to take pleasure in

parading his intractability. Yūgiri was convinced that if he presented

himself at the Great Hall, his father-in-law would behave in the most

unreasonable way. ‘Disgraceful. Not a word. Out of my sight!’ That was

his style, and Yūgiri felt he could not face such a scene.

Kumoi had left some of the children behind; but the little girls, who

were mere babies, she had taken with her to Tō no Chūjō’s palace.

Upon Yūgiri’s first return to his home the little boys were wild with

delight and clustered round him. One of them, however, began to cry,

saying he was unhappy without his mother, which Yūgiri found very

harassing. He wrote letter after letter begging Kumoi to return, and

even sent a carriage to fetch her; but all to no effect. Her obstinacy

was beginning to irritate him, and he felt very much inclined to leave

things as they were. But this, he feared, might make a bad impression

upon her father, and towards evening he called in person at the house.

He went at once to the quarters she usually occupied when on a visit

here. Kumoi was nowhere to be seen; but he eventually found some of her

ladies, and the little girls with their nurse. From them he learned

that Kumoi was living in the central building with her sister. ‘You

establish yourself in your sister’s apartments, as though you were

not yet of age, leaving some of your children at home and the rest in

a distant wing of this palace. Pray tell me what all this means. I

have realized for a long time past that your head was full of the most

ridiculous notions; but I did not think that, after all the devotion I

have shown you in past times, you would fly both from me and our large

family of children upon what is after all so flimsy a pretext.’ This

was the rather testy note he sent in to her. She replied: ‘What good

can come of my returning to you? At present you are tired of me,

and I see no reason to suppose that this feeling is not permanent. As

for the children, I am delighted to find that you take such an interest

in them.’

He made no further effort to bring her back with him, and spent the

night alone. What kind of man can he have been (Yūgiri asked himself)

who started the notion that love was an agreeable business? To distract

himself he had the little boys put to sleep where he could see them.

But he got little rest; for no sooner had he stopped thinking about the

disastrous flight of Kumoi than he began worrying about Ochiba. How

much would she be upset by his absence to-night? Would all his work in

that quarter have to be begun over again?

Next morning he wrote to Kumoi: ‘I think your decision will be regarded

by every one as very unreasonable; but such as it is I am willing to

accept it. The children you have left behind with me are naturally much

distressed at your absence. But I presume you had reasons of your own

for deserting them as you did, and you must leave it to me to make such

provision for them as I think best.’ There seemed in this to be hidden

some form of threat. Did he mean to hand them over to a stepmother?

Monstrous as such a demand would be, she thought him quite capable of

it. Later on he even asked that the girls might be sent back to him.

‘It will henceforward be very difficult for me to have any dealings

with your father,’ he wrote, ‘and I shall probably never see the little

girls at all, unless they come here. Surely it would be better to bring

up all the children together?’ The boys were pretty creatures, still

quite small. ‘Do not listen to your mother,’ he said to them. ‘There

are many things which she does not properly understand, and this has

given her some harsh ideas, that are doing us all great harm.’

So far from being indignant with Yūgiri, Tō no Chūjō thought

that his daughter was merely making herself ridiculous by this sudden

decampment. ‘You might have waited a little,’ he said to Kumoi, ‘to see

how things would go. Yūgiri is after all a man of considerable good

sense. Such headstrong and precipitate behaviour does not sit at all

well upon a woman. However, since you have adopted this line, you must

stick to it for the present. We shall see later on what steps he will

take to get you back.’

To Ochiba Tō no Chūjō sent the poem: ‘Because of the bond that was

between us I will keep you a place in my heart. But for sympathy you

must ask me no longer—you who now have more than your share!’ As

messenger he chose his son Ben no Shōshō, who had known the house very

well in Kashiwagi’s time, and walked straight in. He was given a seat

on the verandah outside the women’s quarters; but none of the ladies

seemed much inclined for conversation. In Ochiba his visit naturally

awakened painful memories. He was the best-looking and most promising

of Tō no Chūjō’s sons, and as she watched him from within, Ochiba was

astonished by his resemblance to Kashiwagi. ‘Can it be,’ he wrote,

‘that you intend to treat me, who came so often to this house, as an

utter stranger?’

She found Tō no Chūjō’s poem very hard to answer. Her maids insisted

that it could not be dealt with by proxy If only her mother were there

to help her with it. She perhaps would be vexed at the circumstances

that had called forth Tō no Chūjō’s protest. But her mother had

always been ready to help her out of a difficulty, even to screen her

misdoings.

‘How can I, that am but one person, at the same time merit both

sympathy and reproach?’ Such was the tenor of her reply, and merely

folding it up she sent it out to Ben no Shōshō unsealed. ‘For a person

who used to know the house,’ he was saying to her ladies, ‘it

is rather dispiriting to be left on the verandah in this way. I see

that if I am to be regarded as a privileged person I must come here

often. Full admittance is no doubt only granted as the reward of long

assiduity. So expect to see me here frequently,’ and with this attempt

at levity he withdrew.

At the time when Ochiba was giving him no encouragement and Yūgiri’s

distraction was most trying to those who lived with him, Kumoi suddenly

received a letter from Koremitsu’s[157] daughter. Kumoi, this lady

supposed, had always regarded her with complete indifference. Yet

somehow the news of what was going on at Ono moved her to write a

letter of sympathy, and it was followed by others. In her poem she

said: ‘I that am nothing, not for my own sake but for yours with

tear-wet sleeve lament that love grows cold.’ Kumoi thought this

perhaps a trifle impertinent; but receiving it as she did at a time of

profound discouragement, she was by no means displeased to discover

sympathy even in so humble a quarter. ‘How often have I grieved for

others in this same plight, and little dreamed how soon it would be

mine.’ This was all that she sent in reply; but simple though the words

were, Koremitsu’s daughter did not doubt their sincerity.

It should be explained that during the period when Tō no Chūjō kept

Yūgiri away from Kumoi, he had carried on a secret affair with this

daughter of Koremitsu. After his marriage he saw her only on very rare

occasions. By Kumoi he had four boys and four girls; by Koremitsu’s

daughter two boys and two girls. All twelve were handsome and

well-grown children, particularly the four born to him in this secret

union, who were also very intelligent. The younger girl and younger boy

were left with Koremitsu’s daughter. But the older boy and girl

were educated by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, who made

a great fuss of them. Here they were often seen by Genji and became

great favourites with him.

And so for the present we may leave Yūgiri and his affairs.

[141] See above, p. 229.

[142] The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.

[143] With his father, Genji.

[144] ‘If ever before I had received unkindness at your hands, this

sudden dereliction would be less hard to bear.’

[145] The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. Yūgiri is

pretending that it was from her the letter came.

[146] Ochiba’s house in the mountains.

[147] According to the astrologers.

[148] See above, p. 281.

[149] Those who die with anything on their minds cannot enter Paradise.

[150] A rattle used by peasants to scare away birds from the crops.

[151] Suzaku.

[152] Otonashi no Taki.

[153] A Buddhist story. The prince, being endowed with knowledge of

good and evil, and memory of his past existences, remembered that in

the last but one he had spoken an angry word, and consequently spent

his next existence in Hell. Having now been born as a prince, he

determined to be on the safe side, and did not speak at all. When he

was thirteen, the King lost patience with him and gave orders that he

was to be buried alive. Upon which the Silent Prince at last spoke. For

a version of the story see Chavannes, _Cinq Cent Contes et Apologues_,

i, 126.

[154] I.e. to become a nun.

[155] The formal betrothal.

[156] The copper pheasant; the male and female are supposed to sleep

one on each side of the valley.

[157] Genji’s retainer. See vol. i, _passim_. Yūgiri had fallen in love

with her when she was at the Palace as a Gosechi dancer. See vol. iii,

p. 130.

CHAPTER XI

THE LAW

Though Murasaki was apparently no longer in immediate danger, her

illness had now lasted so many months that there appeared to be

little hope of recovery. To Genji it seemed that her strength was

gradually ebbing away. The thought of surviving her appalled him; and

she herself, without anxiety for the future[158] (she was indeed to

a singular extent devoid of such fetters as commonly bind us to the

world), had no misgiving, save the thought of what her death would mean

to one who had been her companion so long.

Her thoughts, as was natural, turned much upon the life to come, and

her time was spent in numerous charities and consecrations. Best of

all, she would still have liked to spend the remaining moments of her

life in some place where they could be wholly devoted to religion; but

Genji would not give her leave. However, he had himself often expressed

an intention of pursuing the same course. Why should they not then do

so together? But certain though their faith might be that in Amida’s

Paradise the same lotus would be their throne, in the meanwhile, he in

his convent and she in her nunnery, however near they might be, would

not be able to meet. His anxiety, if she should grow suddenly worse,

the mere thought that she was in pain, would (Genji well knew) make

havoc of his meditations. Yes, he must content himself to lag behind,

where so many frail creatures[159] had gone forward unafraid.

She might indeed have acted without his permission; but to

have obtained her end by such a course would, she knew, give her no

satisfaction, and she felt aggrieved that her wish was still denied.

Perhaps however (she reflected) it was not his fault. No doubt some sin

of her own was weighing upon her and holding her back from spiritual

progress.

Some while ago she had caused a thousand copies of the Lotus Scripture

to be made, and she now hastened to give them as an offering. The

ceremony was to take place in the Nijō-in, which she had come to regard

as her home. The robes for the seven ministrants were also her gift,

and every detail, down to the stitching of the seams, was designed

according to her directions. She had not told Genji what was afoot,

but he naturally saw something of the preparations, and admired the

taste and knowledge that marked her handling of religious as well as

of all other activities; and he managed, while not knowing exactly

what was needed, to make a few such general contributions as could not

come amiss. Yūgiri was in charge of the dancers and music. Presents

and contributions poured in from the Emperor, the Crown Prince, the

Empress, and all the great ladies at Court, in such numbers that the

messengers would at any time have packed the corridors almost to

overflowing. It may be imagined then what was the scene when they were

added to the throngs that were already assembled for the Service.[160]

It was the tenth day of the third month. The trees were all in

blossom, the weather mild and calm; indeed it seemed as though Paradise

itself were not far away, and even an unbeliever could not but have

regained his innocence. The Woodman’s Song, resounding from so many

lips, moved Murasaki intensely, as indeed it would have done at any

time in her life. But to-day the words had a new significance. ‘Though

in life no prize awaits me, yet am I sad to know the firewood is burnt

out and soon the flame will sink.’ So she wrote, and sent the poem to

the Lady of Akashi, by the hand of little Prince Niou. To answer in the

same strain would be thought unfeeling, should any one chance to hear

of it, and though the reply seemed to her somewhat forced, the Lady of

Akashi wrote: ‘For a thousand years did the Blessed One that hermit

serve; and shall your flame so soon amid the faggots of his Law expire?’

All night long the chanting continued, to the perpetual beatings of

gongs and drums. As dawn began to break and the colours of the flowers

showed forth again where the morning air had rent the mist, Murasaki

felt that Spring, the season she had loved, still had the power to

call her back. And while from every branch came a twittering of

birds, that made even the shrill music of the flutes seem dumb, the

dancer stepped the dance of Prince Ling.[161] The effect of the final

movement, especially of the gay, rapid passage at the end (given the

place and hour), was tremendous. Gifts poured in upon the performers,

those present in their excitement stripping the cloaks off their own

backs and heaping them before the dancers and musicians. Then followed

a concert in which all the notable players at Court took their part.

Every one seemed happy and excited.

‘A little longer,’ thought Murasaki; and she felt there were after

all many things that it was sad to lose.

But she had on the day before exerted herself far more than usual, and

was now very fatigued. When she thought that all these people, whom

she had for so many years past seen at similar gatherings, such a one

always with his flute, another with his zithern, were before her for

the last time, she raised herself with an effort and looked fixedly at

each one. And then there were the ladies with whom, at the summer and

winter festivals, she had carried on a kind of rivalry. Sometimes, over

these concerts and sports, there had even been, underneath the outward

show of good manners, a certain element of jealousy and bitterness. Yet

she loved them all; and now they, for a time at any rate, would stay

behind, while she, all alone, set out she knew not whither.

So grave was her condition during the summer heats, that the Akashi

Princess obtained leave of absence from the Palace, and settled in

the Nijō-in. She was to occupy the eastern wing, but ceremonies of

reception took place in the Main Hall. The procedure was the same as

that which Murasaki had witnessed many times before. But to-day it

moved her strangely, for she felt it to be her last glimpse of the

outside world; and as the names of the attendant officers were called,

her ear strained eagerly for the response of this or that long-familiar

voice. It was some while since she had seen the Princess and there was

much to say. ‘I am so glad you have come here first,’ Murasaki greeted

her. ‘I hear you are to be quartered far off in the eastern wing. Once

you are settled there, it will be tiresome for you to come over here;

and I am afraid I shall scarcely be able to visit you....’

The Princess remained with her a long while, and they were presently

joined by the Lady of Akashi. During the conversation that

followed, Murasaki made no allusion to her own approaching death.

But she let fall now and then a few words, spoken very seriously and

quietly, which showed that the transience of all human things ran

constantly through her thoughts. Seeing the Akashi Princess’s children

she shed a few tears. How dearly she would have loved to see what

became of them! Her tear-stained face was so lovely, and she looked in

every way so far the reverse of haggard or ailing, that the Princess

could hardly believe the truth of the dismal reports she had heard.

This mysterious and ever-growing weakness—whence came it and how had

it begun? Murasaki did at last refer to her death, but in a quite

matter-of-fact way, saying in the course of conversation: ‘There are

one or two servants who have been here for years past. I do not like to

think of their being left without support. Perhaps, when I am no longer

here, you would not mind keeping an eye upon them,’ and she named

several of such officers and retainers to the Akashi Princess.

Presently, when the others had retired, to prayers or what not,

Murasaki, during a respite of her malady, sent for little Niou, who was

her favourite among all the royal children, and said to him: ‘If I were

not here, would you sometimes think about me?’ ‘Yes, indeed I would,’

he said. ‘I love my father, the Emperor, and Madam my mother too;

but not half as much as I love my dear granny. Without you I should

be very sad,’ and trying to hide his tears, he hastily brushed his

sleeve across his face with so pretty a gesture that she could not help

smiling. ‘When you are grown up,’ she said, ‘you shall have this house

for your own, and in the flower-season you will have the red plum and

cherry tree in front of your window. Enjoy them, and sometimes, should

you think of it, offer a spray or two of blossom to the Lord Buddha.’

He watched her face earnestly while she spoke, and nodded at the

end. Then, feeling that he could no longer check his tears, he left the

room.

The cool of autumn brought her a certain measure of relief; but the

slightest exertion was sufficient to cause a relapse. The weather

was at no time very severe; but as the season wore on she suffered

from a continual sense of damp and chill. The time for the Princess’s

return to Court had come. Murasaki longed to beg for an extension of

her visit; but the Emperor was already chafing at her long absence.

Messengers were continually arriving from Court, and it would have been

impertinent to detain her for more than a few hours longer. Since it

was utterly out of the question that Murasaki should pay the customary

visit to the Princess’s quarters, the Princess, contrary to all

precedent, condescended to visit her. The sick woman felt embarrassed

at causing this difficulty; but she longed passionately to see the girl

once more, and finally all the royal gear was carried to the Main Hall.

A cold wind had sprung up towards evening; but Murasaki, wanting to

get a better view of the garden, had been helped on to a couch by the

window. Genji was delighted to see her capable of so much exertion.

‘You seemed to get on much better to-day,’ he said. ‘I believe it has

given you new strength to have the Princess so near you.’ His delight

at her supposed improvement only brought home to her all the more

poignantly how terrible was the blow that awaited him. ‘Hopes then

the dewdrop upon the wind-swept grasses of the heath to build a safe

abode?’ Such was the acrostic[162] poem she recited; and he: ‘Where all

things race so madly to their doom, why think one fragile dewdrop will

be first to reach the destined goal?’

‘Now,’ she said presently, ‘you had better go back to your rooms.

I am feeling very giddy; and though I know you would forgive me if I

did not entertain you properly, I do not like to feel that I have been

behaving badly.’ Her screens-of-state were drawn in close about the

couch. The Princess stood holding Murasaki’s hand in hers. She seemed

indeed to be fading like a dewdrop from the grass. So certain seemed

the approach of death that messengers were sent in every direction to

bid the priests read scriptures for her salvation. But she had more

than once recovered from such attacks as these, and it was hoped that

this was merely another onslaught of the ‘possession’ that had attacked

her years before. All night long various prayers and incantations were

kept going, but in vain; for she died next morning soon after sunrise.

The Akashi Princess was profoundly thankful that she had stayed

to witness the end. The event, though so long expected, left all

her people in a state of dazed bewilderment. Genji himself broke

down completely, and when Yūgiri arrived, felt disposed to put all

arrangements into his son’s hands. Summoning him to where she lay,

Genji said: ‘You know that it was always her desire to take Orders

before she died; but not realizing how swiftly the end would come, I

would not give her leave—which I now deeply regret. The chaplains who

were on duty during the night have apparently all left the house, or at

least I hear no sound of them. But there is probably still some priest

or other to be found. It is not too late to do what may, with Buddha’s

help, aid her on the dark road she must tread.’[163]

‘I have known many cases,’ said Yūgiri, ‘in which a possessing spirit

was thwarted by such a course, and it might well have been so in her

case. They say that to have joined a holy Order for a single day

or night brings great benefit in the life hereafter. But now that she

is dead, what sense can there be in administering the tonsure? You

will only be making the scenes which must ensue more depressing for

yourself, without affording any assistance to her in the journey beyond

the grave.’ Certain priests had, it was found, stayed behind to watch

the body, and sending for them Yūgiri now instructed them in their

duties. It was many years since his thoughts about Murasaki had been

other than he could publish to all the world. But since he caught sight

of her on the morning of the typhoon, he had often wondered whether

they would ever again be brought together. Her voice he now knew he

would never hear; but there was still a chance to see her once again,

and while scolding one of the maids for the loudness of her sobbing,

as though absent-mindedly, he pulled up a corner of the curtains. The

daylight was still feeble, and he could see very little. But at that

moment Genji[164] himself held up the great lamp, bringing it so close

to the couch that Yūgiri suddenly saw her in all her loveliness. ‘And

why should he not see her?’ thought Genji, who knew that Yūgiri was

peeping. But in a moment he covered his eyes with his sleeve. ‘It

is almost worse to see her now, while she is still unchanged,’ he

said. ‘One thinks that she will speak, move....’ Yūgiri brushed away

the tears that kept on dimming his eyes. Her hair lay spread across

the pillows, loose, but not tangled or disorderly, in a great mass,

against which in the strong lamplight her face shone with a dazzling

whiteness. Never, thought Genji, had her beauty seemed so flawless as

now, when the eye could rest upon it undistracted by any ripple of

sound or motion. Yūgiri gazed astounded. His spirit seemed to leave

him, to float through space and hover near her, as though it were

he that was the ghost, and this the lovely body he had chosen for his

habitation.

As neither Genji nor any of the ladies who had been long in Murasaki’s

service were in a condition to make the final arrangements, all this,

as well as the duty of encouraging and consoling the bereaved, fell

upon Yūgiri. His life had brought him occasion to witness many scenes

of sorrow, but none so pitiful as those that now ensued; nor did he

imagine that it could ever fall to his lot again.

For many days afterwards he remained in close attendance upon his

father, trying by every means he could think of to distract and console

him. The equinoctial gales had begun to blow, and to-night it came

back vividly to Yūgiri’s mind how he had caught sight of her on the

morning of the great typhoon. And then again on the day she died. That

Genji should mourn was well enough; but what right had Yūgiri to this

grievous pain? And to hide his sorrow he drew a rosary towards him, and

clicking the beads loudly he muttered, ‘Amida, Amida, Amida Buddha,’ so

swiftly that the falling of his tears could not be heard.

Day and night Genji wept, till it seemed that a veil of tears hung

between him and the world. A thousand times he asked himself what use

they had ever been to him—this beauty, of which so much had been said,

these talents that were supposed to raise him above all his peers? No

sooner did he come into the world than loneliness and sorrow fell to

his share. And then as though Buddha feared that even now he might

harbour some remnant of trust in life and its joys, loss upon loss was

visited upon him, from all of which he had in the end recovered. But

now at last this greatest of imaginable sorrows had indeed effected

what all previous afflictions had failed to achieve. No longer did

he ask for a day more in the world, save that he might devote it to

penances and fasting. And yet, if anything stood between him

and the demands of religion, it was this very sorrow, which by its

insensate violence had so unarmed him that he knew himself to be in no

fit state to take his vows. Often he prayed earnestly that a moment of

oblivion might come in which he could embrace the life he craved for.

There were times too when another consideration weighed with him. If he

were at once to enter an Order, it would be thought that he had done so

yielding weakly to an impulse of the moment—had been unhinged by the

shock of a sudden bereavement; and this was an impression that he by no

means wished to create.

Thus the struggle between his desire to embrace a different life, and

his distaste for the impression he would create by doing so, further

increased his agitation.

Even in the matter of condolences Tō no Chūjō made a point of never

going beyond what, in his view, the occasion strictly demanded. And

it indicated on his part a very high view of Murasaki’s worth that he

now not merely paid the formal visit of sympathy, but followed it by

numerous letters. He remembered that it had been just this time of

year, the middle of the eighth month, when his sister Aoi died; and

of those who had then mourned her, how many had since followed in her

tracks! So he was reflecting one cheerless evening, when autumn had

more than ever set its mark upon the sky. Sending for his son Ben no

Shōshō, he wrote a long letter to Genji, and in the margin: ‘An autumn

of the past seems like to-day, and adds fresh dewdrops to a sleeve

already drenched with tears.’ Memories of the past, not only of the

time when Aoi died, but of a thousand episodes in which he and Tō no

Chūjō had been linked together, now crowded to his mind, and it was

through a stream of tears that he wrote the reply: ‘This grief and

that are mingled in my thoughts, and only this I know: that hateful is

this season and all its ways.’ In the letter that he wrote with

this poem there might have been, had he expressed the half of what he

felt, a passionate outpouring of misery and despair. But he knew that

Tō no Chūjō was apt to regard the expression of such feelings as a sign

of reprehensible weakness, and promising to write again later, he now

merely said: ‘I cannot thank you enough for the sympathy that your many

enquiries have shown.’ ‘Though light in hue the dress....’ So had Genji

once[165] written. But custom could no longer restrain him, and he now

wore what was not far removed from full mourning.

Nor indeed was grief confined to the immediate circles of the Court.

It frequently happens that those who by favour have risen to such an

eminence as that which Murasaki enjoyed are subjected to a good deal

of general spite. Often they are felt, even when showing themselves

most affable, to be so conscious of their superiority, that what they

mean as kindness has merely the effect of making ordinary people

additionally timid and uncomfortable. In Murasaki there was no

suspicion of this. The rare loveableness of her nature had in one way

or another made its impression even in the most unlikely quarters, and

her partisans were as warm as they were ubiquitous. There were many

who, though they belonged to a class of society very different from

hers, could not during these autumn days hear with dry eyes either the

rush of the wind or the cry of insects.

The Empress Akikonomu wrote constantly to Genji at this time. In one of

her poems she said: ‘Rightly she judged (no more will I gainsay it) who

to dead leaves and weary autumn fields gave but a grudging praise.’

This letter, listless though he was, he read many times, and

felt that if any one’s company could serve at this moment to distract

him a little from his misery, it would be hers. ‘You that in far-off

countries of the sky can dwell secure, look back upon me here; for I am

weary of this frail world’s decay.’ So he answered, and having folded

the paper, sat for a long while gazing abstractedly before he sent it

on its way.

So little could he trust himself to behave with proper dignity and

restraint, that he altogether avoided the more public parts of the

palace, spending most of his time in a room near the women’s apartments

at the back. Here he was able to pursue his devotions undisturbed.

One thing only mattered to him now: to attain the certainty that,

parted though they were upon earth, in Paradise they would for ever be

refreshed by the dew of the same lotus.

The ceremonies of the Forty-ninth Day, for which (in his distraction)

Genji had omitted to give any instructions, were arranged by Yūgiri.

And so time passed, Genji constantly thinking that he would to-morrow

take the step for which he longed.... But somehow he did not do so. For

one thing, he longed first to see the Akashi Princess and her children.

[158] She had married off her adopted child, the Akashi Princess, to

the Emperor.

[159] Utsusemi, Fujitsubo, Nyosan, etc.

[160] The service consisted of the reading of the Lotus Scripture; this

required eight sittings. There was also the drama of the Woodman, one

priest playing the part of Shākyamuni when he was a woodman, and the

rest walking round him in circle and chanting the _Woodman’s Song_:

‘Had I not cut firewood and drawn water for the rishi, would you now

possess the Scripture of the Lotus Flower?’

This refers to a legend that in a previous incarnation Buddha obtained

the doctrine of the Lotus Scripture from a rishi whom he served as

henchman.

[161] _The Ranryō-o_. Prince Ling had a face of womanish beauty and

found that in battle his enemies were not afraid of him. He therefore

took to wearing a ferocious mask. But some say he wore it to protect

his complexion.

[162] Play on _oku_, ‘to settle’ (of dew) and _oku_, ‘to rise from bed.’

[163] Administer the tonsure; this was often done to the dying, and

occasionally to the dead.

[164] From inside the curtains.

[165] At the time of Aoi’s death. See vol. i, p. 275. Full mourning was

worn for a parent, but not for a wife.

CHAPTER XII

MIRAGE

Spring shone once more upon the world; and as in other years his doors

were thronged by visitors. But he pleaded illness, and remained behind

the screens-of-state. It was only when his half-brother, Prince Sochi,

came that he felt inclined for a less formal salutation, and calling

him into the screened recess, Genji recited the verse: ‘Seek not in

this domain the gladness of the year; for gone is she with whom ’twas

joy to praise the shining boughs of Spring.’ Prince Sochi answered:

‘Think not that I have come in quest of common flowers; but rather to

bemoan the loss of one whose scent has vanished from the air.’ And

when later on Genji watched his brother walking away beneath boughs of

red plum-blossom, he felt that if any one could this year incite him

to take pleasure in the beauty of the garden, it would be this Prince

Sochi, to whom his heart always warmed. The flowers were not yet fully

open; but that is just the time when their scent is sweetest. But this

year there were no concerts or picnics; indeed, all was changed.

Those of Murasaki’s ladies who had been long in her service were still

dressed in deep mourning and were inconsolable as ever for her loss.

Their only comfort was that Genji had quite ceased to pay any visits,

and they were thus able to distract themselves by continually waiting

upon him. It was long since he had had any serious dealings with people

such as this. But there were some of them to whom he had at one time

or another taken a fancy. If any of these now hoped to profit by the

situation, they were sadly mistaken. He slept alone; and those

ladies who were retained for night service went on duty several at a

time and were posted at a considerable distance from where he lay.

Sometimes he would talk to them about old days. It seemed that, despite

the increasing earnestness of her convictions, small matters (likely

to have no lasting effect upon their relations) had at the time very

much disturbed her; and it was intolerable to him that, trivial or

ridiculous though the occasion might have been, he should ever have

caused her to suffer. And much more when he came to think of the few

more serious occasions.... How often, while perfectly understanding

all that was going on in his mind, had she refrained from any reproach

or complaint! But there must all the same have been times when, at

any rate for the moment, it was quite impossible for her to foresee

how this affair or that would turn out in the end; and he bitterly

regretted that he should ever have caused her to watch him with anxiety

and misgiving. He sometimes talked this over with those who had known

her best in those days. There was the time when Nyosan first came to

live with them. Murasaki had never been openly hostile; but she had

certainly suffered very much. He remembered that snowy morning, when

coming back to their room at dawn he found that she had been weeping.

How gentle, how forbearing she had been, how she struggled to hide

from him what she was enduring! And now he lay all night long, hoping

against hope that he might so much as see her for an instant in his

dreams. ‘There’s been quite a heavy fall of snow.’ He woke up to hear

some one saying this—no doubt one of the ladies, going back to her own

quarters. More vividly than ever did he remember that other snowbound

morning, and his loneliness became unendurable. To distract himself he

dressed hastily and was soon absorbed in his devotions. Presently

the dead ashes were swept from his fire-stand, the buried flame shot

up again and burned brightly in his room. Chūnagon and Chūjō, two of

Murasaki’s ladies, were with him. ‘You may well imagine,’ he said,

‘that last night was no very good one for sleeping all alone. Why, when

every circumstance seems aimed to wean me from the world, I should

still cling to this sort of life, is more than I can explain.’ But he

was really thinking that to these ladies of hers the task of waiting

upon him did afford some small comfort, and he wondered what would

become of them when he was gone.

He had known Chūjō since she was a child, and there had at one time

been an intimacy between them. This, while Murasaki was alive, made

Chūjō very shy in Genji’s presence. But since her death, they had (on

quite different terms) again become friends. For the girl had been a

great favourite of Murasaki’s, and this reason alone sufficed to make

her dear to him; he grafted her on to his life, like the pine-tree that

grows on the green barrow of a tomb.

The princes with whom he had been most intimate, his brothers and

cousins, called constantly; but he would see none of them. For despite

all the efforts he made to get himself into a fit state for company,

months of despondency had, he felt, worked such havoc with him, that

if he were again to receive his friends, they would remember him

as he now was, and not as they had once known him. But merely to

hide would defeat his end; for if it got about that he was ashamed

to be seen, or was so broken by sorrow that he could not maintain

a rational conversation, an even worse impression might get abroad

than was warranted by the truth. And lest it should be said that he

had ended his days in decrepitude and imbecility, he began again to

admit Yūgiri and a few others to his presence. But he spoke to them

always from behind his curtains-of-state. About one thing he was

determined: he must recover himself sufficiently to meet people and

show a good face to the world before he took the final step that he was

contemplating. He attempted several times to visit the various ladies

of his household; but he found himself unable to control his grief, and

hastening home determined in future not to make any further effort to

keep in touch with the world.

The Akashi Princess was now back at the Imperial Palace; but Genji

persuaded her to let Prince Niou stay with him for a while. The child

showed a great interest in the red plum-tree in front of his room,

constantly trotting out to see that no harm came to it. His granny, he

said, had told him to. It was only the second month, and though the

flowering trees were all in bloom, they were not fully out, so that the

shimmer of the blossoms hung like a delicate mist along the boughs; and

when a nightingale began to sing in full voice upon a branch of Niou’s

tree, Genji could not refrain from coming out to listen. ‘Knows he that

she who built his shining bower hears him no more—the nightingale upon

the red plum-tree?’ So he murmured as he walked.

Spring advanced, and Murasaki’s gardens took on their wonted splendour;

but the sight of them gave him no pleasure, and indeed he longed to be

in some place far off among the mountains, so bare and desolate that

neither sight of flower nor song of bird would sharpen his sorrow.

First the globe-flower reached its glory in a tangle of dewy blossom.

Then when the single cherry had fallen and the eight-fold giant cherry

was almost over, the birch-cherry began to open, while the wistaria

was still but faintly colouring, and held all its treats in store. How

skilfully she had contrived her planting, so that wherever one turned

there were later flowers to follow those that were early over, and

others and ever more to take their place.

Little Niou, who had not yet discovered that the Nijō-in and the

New Palace[166] were separate places, cried out in delight: ‘Look, my

cherry-tree is in bloom. I know what we’ll do to prevent its losing the

flowers. We’ll put screens-of-state all round it, and then if no one

opens the flaps, the wind cannot possibly get in.’ This was certainly

a good idea, and Genji smiling asked him if he knew the poem: ‘Would

that my sleeve were wide enough to cover....’[167] ‘But yours is a much

more sensible plan,’ he added. This little prince was the only person

in whose company he now took pleasure. ‘I am afraid we shall not be

able to play together much longer,’ he now said to the child. ‘I do not

mean that I am going to die; but I shall be living at a place where we

cannot meet.’ ‘At a place where we cannot meet? That is what my granny

said too ...’ and Niou lowered his eyes.

One evening when a faint haze mingled with the fading light, Genji at

last set out to visit the Lady of Akashi. His visit took her completely

by surprise; for it was a very long while since he had been near her.

But she managed all the same to receive him in good style, and to make

so agreeable an impression that he found himself wondering whether she

were not after all the most charming person in the world. But then

there came into his face an expression, the meaning of which she was

perfectly well able to decipher: he was thinking how little she had

ever interested him compared with Murasaki, and how useless it was to

seek consolation in this or any other quarter.

‘Even during my exile at Suma,’ he said, when they had talked quietly

for a while, ‘I was already thinking of entering some monastic

retreat far away from all human habitation, and there ending my days.

And at the time there was not much reason why I should not do so.

But in my latter years a thousand ties and duties have made such a

prisoner of me that I could no longer dream of escape. But I feel

ashamed that, while it was still possible, I had not firmness enough to

take this step.’ ‘I do not think any one is likely to reproach you,’

she answered. ‘Even those whom no one would miss are often prevented

from leaving the world by ties and affections that exist only on

their side. And how much the less can you, upon whom so many persons

depend, be expected to take such a step without misgiving? I think

you are much more likely to be blamed for taking Orders in a rash and

inconsiderate manner than for continuing your present life too long.

I remember many cases of people leaving the world because they were

upset about something; but I have always considered that a very foolish

course. I feel sure you had better wait until the little princes are

older and things have been settled in a manner that will rid you of

all agitation and anxiety.’ How wise such advice sounded! ‘I fear,’ he

said, ‘that such extreme circumspection as you recommend seems to me

more culpable than any rashness.’ He talked for a while about their

own long friendship, and then said: ‘Do you remember the Spring when

Lady Fujitsubo died? Then I did indeed feel that “if the cherry-tree

had any heart, it would flower with black blossom.” I admired her for

her taste and elegance; besides, we had been brought up together as

children, so that it was natural I should feel her loss. But this is

a very different business. It is not only as a wife that I miss her.

She came to me so young, and it seemed as though we had so many years

before us.... When I consider her charm, her talents, her wit, I am

overwhelmed at the thought of what has befallen me....’

They sat talking of old times till late that night. He would

indeed have, in a way, been happy to stay there till morning. But none

the less, he went home, though he knew that this would disappoint her.

‘What a change from the Genji of old days!’ he thought, as he left her

rooms. Going straight to his day quarters he resumed his devotions,

taking no more repose than a few minutes’ rest upon his couch.

The time of the Festival[168] came round, and Genji, thinking of the

lively throngs that would soon be gathering at the Shrine, sent all

Murasaki’s people back to their families. ‘They will be disappointed

if they miss the sights,’ he said. ‘Let them go quietly home and

attend the Festival from there.’ It so happened that as Genji came

along towards the Eastern Wing he found Chūjō no Kimi taking a hurried

sleep. She rose quickly when she heard his step, and in the moment

that elapsed before she hid her face in the wide sleeve of her gown

he had time to note the liveliness of her features, the fine poise

of her head. Her hair, ruffled during her nap, spread down in a wide

tangle, as she now stood with bent head. Her trousers were red, with

faint markings in yellow. Her robe, of sombre purple, with patterns

in very dark colours, was folded all awry, and her Chinese cloak had

slipped from her shoulders. While setting herself to rights she laid

down the hollyhock[169] she had been carrying in her hand, and picking

it up Genji said: ‘What is this thing? I have positively forgotten what

they are called.’ ‘On this day of all days, when the water-plant is

set in the pot to which the God descends, can you forget the garland’s

name?’ Such was the acrostic poem with which she answered him, and he:

‘Nothing, I thought, in the wide world could tempt me. But lo, the

hollyhock has shown that in my fancy lurk treacheries unsubdued.’

During the heavy rains of the fifth month he grew weary of sitting day

after day with nothing to distract him, and towards the middle of the

month, one night when the rain had stopped and the moon appeared in

marvellous splendour between the clouds, he called Yūgiri to him. The

orange-blossom glowed in the moonlight, and an exquisite fragrance was

wafted towards them where they sat. They were hoping every moment to

hear ‘the voice that eternally revisits those changeless haunts,’[170]

when huge clouds came rolling up, rain began to pelt, and a sudden gust

of wind almost blew out the lamp. ‘I am getting used to solitude,’

he said to Yūgiri; ‘but to-night for some reason I was feeling very

lonely. My life here is certainly such that I shall be in very good

practice when I arrive at my mountain temple!’ He remembered that

Yūgiri had not been offered anything. ‘One of the ladies can bring the

fruit,’ he said. ‘We shall not require any gentlemen in attendance

to-night. They would only be a worry to us.’ Yūgiri meanwhile, watching

his father’s face, wondered whether he were really so well prepared for

the cloister as he imagined. It was clear that his thoughts were still

at every moment centred on the one subject of his loss, and this was

hardly a state of mind that promised him much success in his devotions.

But Yūgiri, who was still haunted by the glimpse of her he had caught

on that unforgettable morning, felt that he could understand his

father’s condition. ‘The anniversary will soon be here,’ he reminded

Genji. ‘Have you any instructions to give?’ ‘I do not know,’ replied

Genji, ‘that there is much point in doing anything out of the ordinary.

But I think this would be the right time to dedicate that picture of

Amitabha’s Paradise which she ordered before she died. I know that

she gave one of her chaplains full instructions about the dedication,

and if there is anything else that requires doing, you had better go to

him for advice.’ ‘I am sure we shall have no difficulty about anything

of that kind,’ answered Yūgiri, ‘for she went into all these matters

with the minutest care; indeed, if any soul ever deserved salvation,

I am sure it is hers. But what a pity it is that, dying so young, she

left behind her no real heir to her beauty and talents! It is a thing

I have always regretted....’ ‘The fault,’ said Genji, ‘lay perhaps not

so much in her destiny as in mine. Look how few children I have had

altogether! You are the one whom Fate has endowed with a fine brood

of heirs! There is no fear of your house shrinking into oblivion.’ He

knew that if the conversation turned upon the past, he might at any

moment display his weakness in a manner that he wished above all things

to avoid. Suddenly the long expected voice of the Cuckoo came to his

rescue, and with singular appropriateness he quoted the poem, ‘How can

the Cuckoo have known?’

Come you in quest of her that is no more, O Cuckoo,

Who through the drenching rain did hurry from your hill?

So Genji now sang, and Yūgiri answered him: ‘Search rather in your

Dark Land,[171] O Cuckoo, and tell her that the tree she planted is in

bloom.’

Yūgiri remained at his father’s disposition all night; and it gave him

a strange sensation to move without restraint in these quarters which,

during Murasaki’s lifetime, had been surrounded by so much mystery.

During the Gosechi dancing[172] that year Yūgiri’s two older boys acted

as pages at the Court. They were about the same height, and looked

very pretty together. Kurōdo and his brothers,[173] who had been chosen

to act as heralds at the Tasting of the New Rice and were wearing the

magnificent blue-printed robes of their office, took charge of the boys

and introduced them into the Presence. What, Genji asked himself as he

watched the boys, lay behind that wondering and innocent expression?

And once more he vividly recalled the little Gosechi dancer who had

caught his own fancy years ago.

As the day drew near when his present life of seclusion in the midst of

the Court was to reach its close, he spent his time chiefly in going

through his possessions and deciding what was to become of them after

his departure. Much of his property he now dispersed in a succession

of small gifts, avoiding any such considerable transference as would

excite attention; for up till now his retainers knew nothing of the

disaster that awaited them. But it was known that his heart was set

upon retirement, and they awaited the turn of the year with great

apprehension.

One task that now devolved upon him was the destruction of letters such

as it would be embarrassing to leave behind. Many he had torn up long

ago; but often he had put a letter aside meaning to destroy it, and

then had never brought himself to do so. Now, as opportunity offered,

he took them out a few at a time, and went through them carefully.

Among those that he had received at Suma, most of which he now tore up

or threw away, there were a lot of Murasaki’s letters carefully tied

up in a bundle. It must indeed have been he himself who did up the

packet, though so long a time had passed that he had no recollection of

doing so. The ink was as fresh as on the day when they were written,

and looked as if it would remain so for hundreds of years. But what

was the use of such a keepsake? He could not take it with him....

He sent for two or three of the ladies with whom she had been most

intimate and began handing them the letters, one after another, to

tear up. But soon, while he held the letters, his tears flowed so fast

upon each page that fresh tracks were added to those the pen had made,

and at last, unwilling to display his weakness, he pushed the bundle

of letters away from him, reciting as he did so the verse: ‘So longs

my heart for her that past the Hill of Death is gone, not even upon

the tracks she left can I endure to gaze.’[174] The ladies did not,

of course, unfold the pages that were handed to them; but they caught

sight of a phrase here and there—sufficient to tell them what the

letters were; and it was with a pang that they now destroyed them. They

remembered several of those letters being written. And if then, when

she and Genji were separated only by a few miles and there was every

prospect of their soon meeting again, Murasaki’s misery had been such

as they well remembered, could they wonder that now the sight of them

was more than he could bear?

He took one from the bundle, and without stopping to read it, he wrote

in the margin: ‘Go, useless leaves, well steeped in brine, to join the

smoke that through the pathways of the sky trailed from her smouldering

pyre’; and forthwith he had the whole lot burnt.

He celebrated the Festival of Buddha’s Names[175] with unusual

solemnity, for he knew that it was the last he would see in his palace.

Never had been heard such jangling of shakujō[176] as on those nights.

It was strange to hear the priests repeating the usual prayer that

he ‘might long enjoy his present high estate,’ and he hoped that the

Lord Buddha would know how far this prayer was removed from his

real desires. Snow lay deep on the ground and was still falling. When

the services were over, he sent for the leader of the procession, and

having gone through the usual forms of handing him the wine-cup and so

on, made handsome presents to all who had taken part in the ceremony.

The leader had for years past been employed at the Imperial Palace;

he had been well known to the Old Emperor,[177] and Genji noted with

emotion how grey the old man’s head had grown in the service of his

family.

There was the usual levée of princes and courtiers. On a few plum-trees

there was already a faint hint of blossom, all the lovelier for the

snow that lay heaped upon their boughs. There should have been feasting

and music in the palace; but even this year his grief still stifled

in him all desire for song, and he arranged that only a few Chinese

verses, appropriate to the season, should be recited at his levée.

But I had forgotten to mention the poem he made when he handed the

wine-cup to the head priest. It was as follows: ‘Who knows in winter

if the spring time he shall see? Wait not for blossom, but take the

budding spray and wear it at your brow.’ ‘For nought else have I

prayed, save that a thousand spring-tides you might see; till silver

snow has blossomed on my brow.’ So the priest replied, and many other

poems were made, which need not be here recorded.

This was the first occasion since Murasaki’s death upon which Genji had

mingled with his guests. They thought him more beautiful than ever, and

the aged priest could not refrain from tears of joy.

Remembering that this was the end of the year, little Niou went

scampering about saying every one must do something to scare away

the demons, and asking what noise he might make. In a few days Genji

would see the child no more; and sadly he recited the verse: ‘Whilst I

in heedless grief have let the days go by, together now the year and my

own life are ebbing to their close.’ He gave orders that the New Year

ceremonies should be performed with more than usual splendour, and saw

to it that the princes and Court officers who came to the palace should

receive such presents and bounties as never before.[178]

[166] Genji’s old palace (where Murasaki died) and the New Palace in

the Sixth Ward, where the child now was.

[167] ‘Would that my sleeve were wide enough to cover the spaces of the

sky; then should the wind no longer at his pleasure scatter the flowers

in Spring.’—Anon.

[168] The Kamo Festival in the fourth month.

[169] Worn by worshippers at the Kamo Festival. Its name also means

‘day of meeting,’ and there is a play on this in both poems.

[170] The cuckoo.

[171] The cuckoo is called Headman of the Hill of Death.

[172] In the eleventh month.

[173] Younger sons of Tō no Chūjō.

[174] _Ato_ means ‘tracks’ and also ‘handwriting.’

[175] On the 21st, 22nd and 23rd of the twelfth month.

[176] The long, priest’s begging-staff, with metal rings attached to

the top.

[177] Genji’s father.

[178] The next chapter begins with the words: ‘After Prince Genji’s

death....’

Transcriber’s Notes

1. Italicised words are indicated by _underscores_.

2. Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end of each

chapter.

3. Misspelled and missing words have been corrected (see below).

Archaic, inconsistent and alternative spellings have been left

unchanged. Hyphenation has not been standardised.

4. Punctuation has been silently corrected.

5. Ellipsis placement has been modified in order to facilitate text

reflow. In most cases ellipses between sentences have been merged

with the closing punctuation of the preceding sentence. Ellipses

between words within a sentence have had spaces added before

and after.

6. “Edit Distance” in Corrections table below refers to the

Levenshtein Distance.

Corrections:

Page Source Correction Edit distance

122 twelth month twelfth month 1

321 XII CHAPTER XII 8