CHAPTER I

Transcriber’s Notes

Misspelled words have been corrected. These are identified by

♦ symbols in the text and are shown immediately below the

paragraph in which they appear.

Details and other notes may be found at the end of this text.

A WREATH OF CLOUD

A WREATH OF CLOUD

BEING THE THIRD PART OF

‘THE TALE OF GENJI’

By

LADY MURASAKI

TRANSLATED FROM THE JAPANESE BY

ARTHUR WALEY

BOSTON AND NEW YORK

HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY

The Riverside Press Cambridge

1927

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

TO

RAYMOND MORTIMER

PREFACE

This is the last volume but one of _The Tale of Genji_ proper. Between

volumes IV and V there is a gap of eight years, during which Genji has

died. Volumes V and VI contain the sequel, ‘the ten Uji chapters,’

as they are called in Japan, which deal with the fortunes of Genji’s

supposed son Kaoru, and his grandson (the Akashi Princess’s child)

Niou. The name ‘Genji’ (member of the Minamoto clan) applies equally

to his descendants, so that in Japanese the sequel too can be called

_The Tale of Genji_. But in English it needs a new name, and I have

called it _The Tale of Kaoru_. Thus _The Tale of Genji_ itself will

be complete in four volumes, and will be followed by a sequel in two

volumes.

I wish here to thank Mr. R. C. Trevelyan and Miss Sybil Pye for the

care with which they have read the proofs of the present volume. The

fact that the heroine of the story and the writer of it are both

called Murasaki is somewhat confusing. I will therefore here point out

that the name ‘Murasaki’ was given to the authoress as a nickname, in

allusion to the heroine of her book. Her real name is unknown to us.

For the origin of the nickname, see below, p. 23.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE 7

LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS 11

SUMMARY OF VOLUMES I AND II 13

INTRODUCTION 15

CHAPTER

I. A WREATH OF CLOUD 35

II. ASAGAO 68

III. THE MAIDEN 91

IV. TAMAKATSURA 147

V. THE FIRST SONG OF THE YEAR 200

VI. THE BUTTERFLIES 218

VII. THE GLOW-WORM 240

VIII. A BED OF CARNATIONS 264

IX. THE FLARES 291

X. THE TYPHOON 296

LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS

(alphabetical)

Akashi, Lady of Whom Genji courted during his exile.

Akashi, Princess from Daughter of the above by Genji.

Akikonomu, Empress Daughter of Rokujō.

Aoi Genji’s first wife.

Asagao, Princess Daughter of Prince Momozono Shikibukyō,

courted by Genji since his boyhood,

without success.

Ateki Daughter of Tamakatsura’s old nurse.

Bugo no Suke Brother of the above.

Chūjō, Lady Tō no Chūjō’s eldest daughter (called

Kōkiden in the original, but this renders

her liable to confusion with Genji’s

step-mother).

Emperor, The Old Genji’s father.

Falling Flowers, Lady Sister of one of the Old Emperor's Sister

from the Village of of one of the Old Emperor's Court-ladies

under Genji’s protection.

Fujitsubo Consort of the Old Emperor; loved by

Genji.

Genji Son of the Old Emperor by a

lady-in-waiting.

Higekuro Brother of Suzaku’s consort Lady Jōkyōden.

Hyōbukyō, Prince Murasaki’s father.

Kashiwagi Eldest son of Tō no Chūjō.

Kōbai Brother of the above.

Kōkiden Consort of the Old Emperor; Genji’s wicked

‘step-mother.’

Koremitsu Genji’s retainer.

Koremitsu’s Daughter Gosechi dancer, admired by Yūgiri.

Kumoi Younger daughter of Tō no Chūjō.

Momozono, Prince. Brother of the Old Emperor. Father of

Asagao.

Murasaki Second ‘wife’ of Genji (never, technically

speaking, his _kita no kata_ or formal

wife).

Nyogo, Princess Younger sister of the Old Emperor.

Oborozuki Consort of the ex-Emperor Suzaku. Loved by

Genji.

Ōmi, Lady of Bastard of Tō no Chūjō, reclaimed by him

in error while searching for Tamakatsura.

Ōmiya, Princess Mother of Aoi and Tō no Chūjō. Sister of

the Old Emperor.

Rokujō Widow of a brother of the Old Emperor.

Ryōzen, The Emperor Reputed son of the Old Emperor, but really

son of Genji and Fujitsubo.

Sanjō Yūgao’s maid.

Shōni Husband of Tamakatsura’s nurse. Father of

Ateki and Bugo no Suke.

Sochi, Prince Genji’s step-brother.

Suyetsumu Fantastic lady with red nose, daughter of

Prince Hitachi.

Suzaku, The Ex-Emperor Genji’s step-brother; son of Kōkiden.

Tamakatsura Child of Tō no Chūjō by Yūgao.

Tayū Swashbuckler in Tsukushi.

Utsusemi Wife of a provincial governor; loved by

Genji.

Yoshikiyo Faithful retainer of Genji; followed him

into exile.

Yūgao Loved first by Tō no Chūjō, then by Genji.

Dies in a deserted mansion.

Yūgiri Genji’s son by Aoi.

SUMMARY OF VOLUMES I AND II

Genji is an illegitimate son of the Emperor. At the age of twelve he

is affianced to Lady Aoi, daughter of the Minister of the Left; but

she is older than he is, and looks down upon him as a mere schoolboy.

Genji falls in love with Rokujō, a widow eight years older than

himself. She is passionately jealous of his wife, and relations with

her become very difficult. Genji turns for consolation to Utsusemi,

wife of a provincial governor: to Yūgao, a discarded mistress of his

friend Tō no Chūjō: to the fantastic Suyetsumu, the ‘lady with the

red nose.’ Utsusemi is carried off to the provinces by her husband;

Yūgao dies, withered by the virulence of Rokujō’s jealousy. Meanwhile

Genji succeeds in establishing better relations with his wife, Aoi,

only to lose her through the operation of the same baleful force that

had destroyed Yūgao. Since his childhood he has passionately admired

Fujitsubo, his father’s second wife. He has a son by her, who is

believed by the public to be the Emperor’s child.

Genji’s enemies, in particular Kōkiden, who had been his mother’s

rival, are striving to get rid of him. He simplifies matters for them

by starting an intrigue with Oborozuki, a much younger sister of

Kōkiden.

At the end of Vol. I Genji marries Lady Murasaki, a niece of Fujitsubo;

some years before he had taken her into his house and adopted her.

In Vol. II, Rokujō leaves the capital and goes to live at Ise,

where her daughter is Vestal Virgin. Genji is caught making love to

Oborozuki, and knowing that his enemies now have him in their grasp he

retires as a voluntary exile to Suma. Here a storm destroys his house,

and the Old Recluse of Akashi (a neighbouring bay) persuades him

to move thither. Here he falls in love with the Recluse’s daughter

(the Lady of Akaski), by whom he has a child (called the Princess from

Akashi). Genji, after three years of exile, is recalled, and wants

to send for the Lady of Akashi to live with him in his palace. But

she fears that her position there will be humiliating, and will not

consent. Finally he instals her in a country house at Ōi, several miles

from the capital. In this volume both Utsusemi (the governor’s wife)

and Rokujō re-appear at the capital. There is also a further encounter,

of a diverting kind, between Genji and the lady with the red nose.

INTRODUCTION

Murasaki

Murasaki Shikibu was born about 978 A.D. Her father, Tametoki, belonged

to a minor branch of the powerful Fujiwara clan. After holding various

appointments in the Capital he became governor first of Echizen

(probably in 1004); then of a more northerly province, Echigo. In 1016

he retired and took his vows as a Buddhist priest.

Of her childhood Murasaki tells us the following anecdote[1]: ‘When my

brother Nobunori[2] (the one who is now in the Board of Rites) was a

boy my father was very anxious to make a good Chinese scholar of him,

and often came himself to hear Nobunori read his lessons. On these

occasions I was always present, and so quick was I at picking up the

language that I was soon able to prompt my brother whenever he got

stuck. At this my father used to sigh and say to me: “If only you were

a boy how proud and happy I should be.” But it was not long before I

repented of having thus distinguished myself; for person after person

assured me that even boys generally become very unpopular if it is

discovered that they are fond of their books. For a girl, of course, it

would be even worse; and after this I was careful to conceal the fact

that I could write a single Chinese character. This meant that I got

very little practice; with the result that to this day I am shockingly

clumsy with my brush.’

Between 994 and 998 Murasaki married her kinsman Fujiwara no

Nobutaka, a lieutenant in the Imperial Guard. By him she had two

daughters, one of whom married the Lord Lieutenant of Tsukushi and

is reputed (very doubtfully) to be the authoress of an uninteresting

novel, the _Tale of Sagoromo_. Nobutaka died in 1001, and it was

probably three years later that Murasaki’s father was promised the

governorship of Echizen. Owing to the machinations of an enemy the

appointment was, at the last minute, almost given to some one else.

Tametoki appealed to his kinsman the Prime Minister Fujiwara no

Michinaga, and was eventually nominated for the post.

Murasaki was now about 26. To have taken her to Echizen would have

ended all hope of a respectable second marriage. Instead Tametoki

arranged that she should enter the service of Michinaga’s daughter,

the very serious minded Empress Akiko, then a girl of about sixteen.

Part of Murasaki’s time was henceforth spent at the Emperor’s Palace.

But, as was customary, Akiko frequently returned for considerable

periods to her father’s house. Of her young mistress Murasaki writes

as follows[3]: ‘The Empress, as is well known to those about her, is

strongly opposed to anything savouring of flirtation; indeed, when

there are men about, it is as well for any one who wants to keep on

good terms with her not to show herself outside her own room....

I can well imagine that some of our senior ladies, with their air

of almost ecclesiastical severity, must make a rather forbidding

impression upon the world at large. In dress and matters of that kind

we certainly cut a wretched figure, for it is well known that to show

the slightest sign of caring for such things ranks with our Mistress as

an unpardonable fault. But I can see no reason why, even in a society

where young girls are expected to keep their heads and behave

sensibly, appearances should be neglected to the point of comicality;

and I cannot help thinking that her Majesty’s outlook is far too

narrow and uncompromising. But it is easy enough to see how this state

of affairs arose. Her Majesty’s mind was, at the time when she first

came to Court, so entirely innocent and her own conduct so completely

impeccable that, quite apart from the extreme reserve which is natural

to her, she could never herself conceivably have occasion to make even

the most trifling confession. Consequently, whenever she heard one of

us admit to some slight shortcoming, whether of conduct or character,

she henceforward regarded this person as a monster of iniquity.

‘True, at that period certain incidents occurred which proved that

some of her attendants were, to say the least of it, not very well

suited to occupy so responsible a position. But she would never have

discovered this had not the offenders been incautious enough actually

to boast in her hearing about their trivial irregularities. Being young

and inexperienced she had no notion that such things were of everyday

occurrence, brooded incessantly upon the wickedness of those about her,

and finally consorted only with persons so staid that they could be

relied upon not to cause her a moment’s anxiety.

‘Thus she has gathered round her a number of very worthy young ladies.

They have the merit of sharing all her opinions, but seem in some

curious way like children who have never grown up.

‘As the years go by her Majesty is beginning to acquire more experience

of life, and no longer judges others by the same rigid standards as

before; but meanwhile her Court has gained a reputation for extreme

dullness, and is shunned by all who can manage to avoid it.

‘Her Majesty does indeed still constantly warn us that it is

a great mistake to go too far, “for a single slip may bring very

unpleasant consequences,” and so on, in the old style; but she now

also begs us not to reject advances in such a way as to hurt people’s

feelings. Unfortunately, habits of long standing are not so easily

changed; moreover, now that the Empress’s exceedingly stylish brothers

bring so many of their young courtier-friends to amuse themselves at

her house, we have in self-defence been obliged to become more virtuous

than ever.’

There is a type of disappointed undergraduate, who believes that all

his social and academic failures are due to his being, let us say,

at Magdalene instead of at St. John’s. Murasaki, in like manner, had

persuaded herself that all would have been well if her father had

placed her in the highly cultivated and easy-mannered entourage of the

Emperor’s aunt, Princess Senshi.[4] ‘Princess Senshi and her ladies,’

Murasaki writes, ‘are always going off to see the sunset or the fading

of the moon at dawn, or pursuing some truant nightingale amid the

flowering trees. The Princess herself is a woman of marked character,

who is determined to follow her own tastes, and would contrive to

lead at Court a life as detached as her present existence at the Kamo

Shrine. How different from this place, with its perpetual: “The Empress

has been summoned into the Presence and commands you to attend her,” or

“Prepare to receive his Excellency the Prime Minister, who may arrive

at any moment.” Princess Senshi’s apartments are not subject to the

sudden alarms and incursions from which we suffer. There one could

apply oneself in earnest to anything one cared for and was good at;

there, occupied perhaps in making something really beautiful, one would

have no time for those indiscreet conversations which at our own

Court are the cause of so much trouble. There I should be allowed to

live buried in my own thoughts like a tree-stump in the earth; at the

same time, they would not expect me to hide from every man with whom

I was not already acquainted; and even if I addressed a few remarks

to such a person, I should not be thought lost to all sense of shame.

Indeed, I can imagine myself under such circumstances becoming, after a

certain amount of practice, quite lively and amusing!’

While pining for the elegance and freedom of Princess Senshi’s Court,

Murasaki was employed by her earnest young mistress for a purpose that

the world would have considered far more improper than the philandering

of which Akiko so sternly disapproved. The Empress had a secret

desire to learn Chinese. The study of this language was considered at

the time far too rough and strenuous an occupation for women. There

were no grammars or dictionaries, and each horny sentence had to be

grappled and mastered like an untamed steer. That Akiko should wish

to learn Chinese must have been as shocking to Michinaga as it would

have been to Gladstone if one of his daughters had wanted to learn

boxing. Murasaki had, as we have seen, picked up something of the

language by overhearing her brother’s lessons. She did everything in

her power to conceal this knowledge, even pretending (as she tells

us in the _Diary_) that she could not read the Chinese characters on

her mistress’s screen; but somehow or other it leaked out: ‘Since the

summer before last, very secretly, in odd moments when there happened

to be no one about, I have been reading with her Majesty the two

books of “Songs.”[5] There has of course been no question of formal

lessons; her Majesty has merely picked up a little here and there,

as she felt inclined. All the same, I have thought it best to say

nothing about the matter to anybody....’

We gather, however, that what in the long run made Akiko’s Court

distasteful to Murasaki was not the seriousness of the women so much

as the coarseness and stupidity of the men. Michinaga, Akiko’s father,

was now forty-two. He had already been Prime Minister for some fourteen

years, and had carried the fortunes of the Fujiwara family to their

apogee. It is evident that he made love to Murasaki, though possibly in

a more or less bantering way. In 1008 she writes: ‘From my room beside

the entrance to the gallery I can see into the garden. The dew still

lies heavy and a faint mist rises from it. His Excellency[6] is walking

in the garden. Now he has summoned one of his attendants and is giving

directions to him about having the moat cleared. In front of the orange

trees there is a bed of lady-flowers (_ominabeshi_) in full bloom. He

plucks a spray and returning to the house hands it to me over the top

of my screen. He looks very magnificent. I remember that I have not yet

powdered my face and feel terribly embarrassed. “Come now,” he cries,

“be quick with your poem, or I shall lose my temper.” This at any

rate gives me a chance to retire from his scrutiny; I go over to the

writing-box and produce the following: “If these beyond other flowers

are fair, ’tis but because the dew hath picked them out and by its

power made them sweeter than the rest.” “That’s right,” he said, taking

the poem. “It did not take you long in the end.” And sending for his

own ink-stone he wrote the answer: “Dew favours not; it is the flower’s

thoughts that flush its cheeks and make it fairer than the rest.”’

The next reference to Michinaga’s relations with Murasaki is as

follows: ‘His Excellency the Prime Minister caught sight of _The Tale

of Genji_ in her Majesty’s room, and after making the usual senseless

jokes about it, he handed me the following poem, written on a strip

of paper against which a spray of plum-blossom had been pressed: “How

comes it that, sour as the plum-tree’s fruit, you have contrived to

blossom forth in tale so amorous?” To this I answered: “Who has told

you that the fruit belies the flower? For the fruit you have not

tasted, and the flower you know but by report.”[7]

‘One night when I was sleeping in a room which opens on to the

corridor, I heard some one tapping. So frightened was I that for the

whole of the rest of the night I lay dead still on my bed, scarcely

daring to breathe. Next morning came the following poem from His

Excellency: “More patient than the water-rail that taps upon the

tree-root all night long, in vain I loitered on the threshold of your

inhospitable room.” To this I answered: “So great was your persistence

that for a water-rail I did indeed mistake you; and lucky am I to have

made this merciful mistake.”’[8]

Again, in 1010: ‘To-day his Excellency had an audience with the

Emperor; when it was over they came out of the Audience Chamber

together, and banqueted. As usual, his Excellency became very drunk

and, fearing trouble, I tried to keep out of his way. But he noticed

my absence and sent for me, crying out: “Here’s your mistress’s papa

taking dinner with the Emperor; it is not every one who gets the chance

of being present on an occasion like this. You ought to be uncommonly

grateful. Instead of which your one idea seems to be how to escape at

the earliest possible moment. I can’t make you out at all!”

He went on scolding me for some time, and then said: “Well, now

you are here, you must make a poem. It is one of the days when the

parent’s[9] poem is always made by a substitute. You will do as well

as anybody; so be quick about it....” I was afraid at first that if I

showed myself he would behave in such a way as to make me feel very

uncomfortable. But it turned out that he was not so extraordinarily

drunk after all; indeed, he was in a very charming mood and, in the

light of the great lamp, looked particularly handsome.’

It has often been observed that whereas in her commonplace book (the

_Makura no Sōshi_) Sei Shōnagon[10] scarcely so much as mentions the

existence of the other ladies-in-waiting, Murasaki refers constantly

to her companions, and to one of them at least she was evidently

very strongly attached. Her great friend was Lady Saishō. ‘On my way

back from the Empress’s rooms I peeped in at Saishō’s door. I had

forgotten that she had been on duty at night and would now be having

her morning sleep. She had thrown over her couch various dresses with

bright-coloured linings, and on top of them had spread a covering

of beaten silk, lustrous and heavily scented with perfume. Her face

was hidden under the clothes; but as she lay there, her head resting

on a box-shaped writing-case, she looked so pretty that I could not

help thinking of the little princesses in picture-books. I raised

the clothes from her face and said to her: “You are like a girl in a

story.” She turned her head and said sharply: “You lunatic! Could you

not see I was asleep? You are too inconsiderate....” While she was

saying this she half raised herself from her couch and looked up at

me. Her face was flushed. I have never seen her so handsome. So it

often is; even those whom we at all times admire will, upon some

occasion, suddenly seem to us ten times more lovely than ever before.’

Saishō is her constant companion and her fellow victim during the

drunken festivities which they both detested. The following is from a

description of an entertainment given on the fiftieth day after the

birth of the Empress Akiko’s first child: ‘The old Minister of the

Right, Lord Akimitsu, came staggering along and banged into the screen

behind which we sat, making a hole in it. What really struck us was

that he is getting far too old[11] for this kind of thing. But I am

sure he did not at all know that this was the impression he was making.

Next followed matching of fans, and noisy jokes, many of which were in

very bad taste.

‘Presently the General of the Right came and stood near the pillar on

our left. He was looking at us and seemed to be examining our dresses,

but with a very different expression from the rest. He cannot bear

these drunken revels. If only there were more like him! And I say this

despite the fact that his conversation is often very indecent; for

he manages to give a lively and amusing turn to whatever he says. I

noticed that when the great tankard came his way he did not drink out

of it, but passed it on, merely saying the usual words of good omen. At

this Lord Kintō[12] shouted: “The General is on his best behaviour. I

expect little Murasaki is somewhere not far off!” “You’re none of you

in the least like Genji,” I thought to myself, “so what should Murasaki

be doing here?” ... Then the Vice-Councillor began pulling about poor

Lady Hyōbu, and the Prime Minister made comic noises which I found very

disagreeable. It was still quite early, and knowing well what would be

the latter stages of an entertainment which had begun in this way,

I waited till things seemed to have come to a momentary pause and then

plotted with Lady Saishō to slip away and hide. Presently however the

Prime Minister’s sons and other young Courtiers burst into the room; a

fresh hubbub began, and when they heard that two ladies were in hiding

they tracked us down and flung back the screen behind which we had

ensconced ourselves. We were now prisoners....’

The _Diary_ contains a series of notes chiefly upon the appearance but

also in a few cases upon the character of other ladies at Court. Her

remarks on Lady Izumi Shikibu, one of the greatest poets whom Japan has

produced, are of interest: ‘Izumi Shikibu is an amusing letter-writer;

but there is something not very satisfactory about her. She has a gift

for dashing off informal compositions in a careless running-hand; but

in poetry she needs either an interesting subject or some classic model

to imitate. Indeed it does not seem to me that in herself she is really

a poet at all.

‘However, in the impromptus which she recites there is always something

beautiful or striking. But I doubt if she is capable of saying anything

interesting about other people’s verses. She is not intelligent enough.

It is odd; to hear her talk you would certainly think that she had a

touch of the poet in her. Yet she does not seem to produce anything

that one can call serious poetry....’

Here, too, is the note on Sei Shōnagon,[13] author of the famous

_Makura no Sōshi_: ‘Sei Shōnagon’s most marked characteristic is

her extraordinary self-satisfaction. But examine the pretentious

compositions in Chinese script which she scatters so liberally over

the Court, and you will find them to be a mere patchwork of

blunders. Her chief pleasure consists in shocking people; and as each

new eccentricity becomes only too painfully familiar, she gets driven

on to more and more outrageous methods of attracting notice. She was

once a person of great taste and refinement; but now she can no longer

restrain herself from indulging, even under the most inappropriate

circumstances, in any outburst that the fancy of the moment suggests.

She will soon have forfeited all claim to be regarded as a serious

character, and what will become of her[14] when she is too old for her

present duties I really cannot imagine.’

It was not likely that Murasaki, who passed such biting judgments

on her companions, would herself escape criticism. In her diary she

tells us the following anecdote: ‘There is a certain lady here called

Sayemon no Naishi who has evidently taken a great dislike to me, though

I have only just become aware of it. It seems that behind my back she

is always saying the most unpleasant things. One day when some one had

been reading _The Tale of Genji_ out loud to the Emperor, his Majesty

said: “This lady has certainly been reading the Annals of Japan. She

must be terribly learned.” Upon the strength of this casual remark

Naishi spread a report all over the Court that I prided myself on my

enormous learning, and henceforth I was known as “Dame Annals” wherever

I went.’

The most interesting parts of the _Diary_ are those in which Murasaki

describes her own feelings. The following passage refers to the winter

of 1008 A.D.: ‘I love to see the snow here,[15] and was hoping from

day to day that it would begin before Her Majesty went back to Court,

when I was suddenly obliged to go home.[16] Two days after I arrived,

the snow did indeed begin to fall. But here, where everything is so

sordid, it gives me very little pleasure. As, seated once more at the

familiar window, I watch it settling on the copses in front of the

house, how vividly I recall those years[17] of misery and perplexity!

Then I used to sit hour after hour at this same window, and each day

was like the last, save that since yesterday some flower had opened or

fallen, some fresh song-bird arrived or flown away. So I watched the

springs and autumns in their procession, saw the skies change, the moon

rise; saw those same branches white with frost or laden with snow. And

all the while I was asking myself over and over again: “What has the

future in store for me? How will this end?” However, sometimes I used

to read, for in those days I got a certain amount of pleasure out of

quite ordinary romances; I had one or two intimate friends with whom I

used to correspond, and there were several other people, not much more

than acquaintances, with whom I kept up a casual intercourse. So that,

looking back on it now, it seems to me that, one way and another, I had

a good many minor distractions.

‘Even then I realized that my branch of the family was a very humble

one; but the thought seldom troubled me, and I was in those days far

indeed from the painful consciousness of inferiority which makes life

at Court a continual torment to me.

‘To-day I picked up a romance which I used to think quite entertaining,

and found to my astonishment that it no longer amused me at all. And

it is the same with my friends. I have a feeling that those with

whom I used to be most intimate would now consider me worldly and

flippant, and I have not even told them that I am here. Others, on

whose discretion I completely relied, I now have reason to suspect of

showing my letters to all and sundry. If they think that I write to

them with that intention they cannot know very much of my character! It

is surely natural under such circumstances that a correspondence should

either cease altogether or become formal and infrequent. Moreover, I

now come here so seldom that in many cases it seems hardly worth while

to renew former friendships, and many of those who wanted to call I

have put off with excuses.... The truth is I now find that I have not

the slightest pleasure in the society of any but a few indispensable

friends. They must be people who really interest me, with whom I can

talk seriously on serious subjects, and with whom I am brought into

contact without effort on my side in the natural course of everyday

existence. I am afraid this sounds very exacting! But stay, there is

Lady Dainagon. She and I used to sleep very close together every night

at the Palace and talk for hours. I see her now as she used to look

during those conversations, and very much wish that she were here. So I

have a little human feeling, after all!’

A little later in the same winter Murasaki sees the Gosechi dancers[18]

at the Palace, and wonders how they have reached their present pitch

of forwardness and self-possession: ‘Seeing several officers of the

Sixth Rank coming towards them to take away their fans, the dancers

threw the fans across to them in a manner which was adroit enough, but

which somehow made it difficult to remember that they were women at

all. If I were suddenly called upon to expose myself in that fashion I

should completely lose my head. But already I do a hundred things

which a few years ago I should never have dreamed myself capable of

doing. So strange indeed are the hidden processes which go on in the

heart of man that I shall no doubt continue to part with one scruple

after another till in the end what now appears to me as the most

abandoned shamelessness will seem perfectly proper and natural. Thus

I reflected upon the unreality of all our attitudes and opinions, and

began sketching out to myself the probable course of my development.

So extraordinary were the situations in which I pictured myself that I

became quite confused, and saw very little of the show.’

The most direct discussion of her own character comes in a passage

towards the end of the diary: ‘That I am very vain, reserved,

unsociable, wanting always to keep people at a distance—that I am

wrapped up in the study of ancient stories, conceited, living all the

time in a poetical world of my own and scarcely realizing the existence

of other people, save occasionally to make spiteful and depreciatory

comments upon them—such is the opinion of me that most strangers hold,

and they are prepared to dislike me accordingly. But when they get

to know me, they find to their extreme surprise that I am kind and

gentle—in fact, quite a different person from the monster they had

imagined; as indeed many have afterwards confessed. Nevertheless, I

know that I have been definitely set down at Court as an ill-natured

censorious prig. Not that I mind very much, for I am used to it and see

that it is due to things in my nature which I cannot possibly change.

The Empress has often told me that, though I seemed always bent upon

not giving myself away in the royal presence, yet she felt after a time

as if she knew me more intimately than any of the rest.’

The _Diary_ closes in 1010. After this we do not know one solitary

fact concerning Murasaki’s life or death; save that in 1025 she was

still in Akiko’s service and in that year took part in the ceremonies

connected with the birth of the future Emperor Go-Ryōzen.

The Composition of Genji

It is generally assumed that the book was written during the three or

at the most four years which elapsed between the death of Murasaki’s

husband and her arrival at Court. Others suggest that it was begun

then, and finished some time before the winter of 1008. This assumption

is based on the three references to _The Tale of Genji_ which occur in

the _Diary_. But none of these allusions seem to me to imply that the

_Tale_ was already complete. From the first reference it is evident

that the book was already so far advanced as to show that Murasaki was

its heroine; the part of the _Tale_ which was read to the Emperor[19]

was obviously the first chapter, which ends with a formula derived

directly from the early annals: ‘Some say that it was the Korean

fortune-teller who gave him the name of Genji the Shining One.’ Such

‘alternative explanations’ are a feature of early annals in most

countries and occur frequently in those of Japan. Lastly, Michinaga’s

joke about the discrepancy between the prudishness of Murasaki’s

conduct and the erotic character of her book implies no more than that

half-a-dozen chapters were in existence. It may be thought odd that

she should have shown it to any one before it was finished. But the

alternative is to believe that it was completed in seven years, half of

which were spent at Court under circumstances which could have given

her very little leisure. It is much more probable, I think, that _The

Tale of Genji_, having been begun in 1001, was carried on slowly

after Murasaki’s arrival at Court, during her holidays and in spare

time at the Palace, and not completed till, say, 1015 or even 1020.

The middle and latter parts certainly give the impression of having

been written by some one of comparatively mature age. In 1022 the book

was undoubtedly complete, for the _Sarashina Diary_ refers to the

‘fifty-odd chapters of _The Tale of Genji_.’ In 1031 Murasaki’s name

is absent from a list where one might expect to find it, and it is

possible that she was then no longer alive.[20]

The Empress Akiko lived on till 1074, reaching an even riper age than

Queen Victoria, whom in certain ways she so much resembled.

NOTES

On Genji’s Household.

Polygamy in Japan as elsewhere was confined to the upper classes, who

alone were able to support the expense of so costly an institution.

The actual wife (_kita no kata_, ‘north side’) of a man in Genji’s

position had to be of the same social class as the husband, a condition

fulfilled by Aoi, but not by Murasaki, who was never strictly speaking

a _kita no kata_, but merely a _tai no uye_ (‘lady of the wing’). It

will be remembered that Murasaki’s mother was not of noble birth.

Falling Flowers, Akashi and the rest were theoretically on the same

footing as Murasaki. The number of ladies in an establishment was

limited not by law or religion, but by expense and above all (in a

case such as that of Genji) by the difficulty of dealing with the

emotional situation that arose from large households. Did polygamy

create different emotional situations from those to which we are

accustomed—if, for example, it were so much taken for granted that

jealousy ceased to exist—a novel dealing with a polygamous society

would make very little appeal to us. It is because in _Genji_ the

re-actions of the characters are precisely the same as ours would be

under similar circumstances, that the book holds our attention.

Another point concerning Genji’s household that perhaps requires

comment is the apparent ability of persons to live years in the same

house without ever having met. But such a thing happens frequently at

English University Colleges, and we must envisage Genji’s palace as

more like a college than a house,—consisting, in fact, of separate

courtyards and cloisters, joined by covered galleries. Hence it

comes about that, in the story, Genji’s various favourites tend to be

isolated from one another in a way which is not always advantageous

to the construction of the book. Later on the authoress realizes the

danger of the tale falling into a series of disconnected episodes, in

which the personality of Genji is the only common factor—and takes

pains to bring her heroines into relation with one another.

On the Time-scheme in Genji.

A pamphleteer has recently shown how complete and elaborate is the

time-scheme that underlies Emily Bronte’s _Wuthering Heights_. It is

obvious that _Genji_ is based upon an equally precise scheme. Here is

no ‘Oriental vagueness’; indeed it is inconceivable that Murasaki had

not prepared for herself some species of chronological chart, which

she kept constantly by her when at work. If it has appeared to any

reader that her sense of time is vague, the fault is entirely mine. In

one case, indeed, I am conscious of having created this impression by

translating inappropriately a phrase about the young Emperor Ryōzen,

whereby I make him seem much older than the chronology warrants. But

there is never a moment in the story at which the authoress has not got

a precise idea about the age of every character in it.

[1] _Diary_, Hakubunkwan text, p. 51.

[2] Died young, perhaps about 1012, while serving on his father’s

staff in Echigo.

[3] _Diary_, p. 51.

[4] 963–1035. Vestal at Kamo during five successive reigns. One of

the most important figures of her day; known to history as the

Great Vestal.

[5] The third and fourth body of Po Chü-i’s poetical works,

including _Magic_, _The Old Man with the Broken Arm_, _The

Prisoner_, _The Two Red Towers_, and _The Dragon of the Pool_,

all of which are translated in my ‘170 Chinese Poems.’

[6] Michinaga.

[7] ‘You have neither read my book nor won my love.’ Both poems

contain a number of double-meanings which it would be tedious

to unravel.

[8] _Kui-na_ means ‘water-rail’ and ‘regret not.’

[9] The parent of the Empress.

[10] Lady-in-waiting to the Empress Sadako, Akiko’s predecessor.

[11] He was now 64.

[12] Fujiwara no Kintō (966–1041), famous poet; cousin of Michinaga.

[13] See p. 22. Shōnagon was about ten years senior to Murasaki. She

was lady-in-waiting first to the Empress Sadako (died,

1000 A.D.); then to Sadako’s sister Princess Shigesa (died,

1002 A.D.); finally to the Empress Akiko.

[14] Murasaki suggests that Shōnagon will lose Akiko’s confidence and

be dismissed. There is indeed a tradition (_Kojidan_, vol. ii)

that when some courtiers were out walking one day they passed a

dilapidated hovel. One of them mentioned a rumour that Sei

Shōnagon, a wit and beauty of the last reign, was now living in

this place. Whereupon an incredibly lean hag shot her head out

at the door, crying ‘Won’t you buy old bones, old rags and

bones?’ and immediately disappeared again.

[15] At the Prime Minister’s.

[16] Her parents’ house.

[17] After the death of her husband.

[18] See below, p. 125.

[19] For the Emperor’s remark, see above, p. 25.

[20] Murasaki was outlived by her father, so that it is improbable

that she reached any great age.

A WREATH OF CLOUD

A WREATH OF CLOUD

CHAPTER I

A WREATH OF CLOUD

As winter drew on, the Lady of Akashi in her house by the Ōi river

became very dispirited. Formerly the prospect of a visit from Genji

was sufficient to rouse her from her melancholy; but now he found her

always in the same dejected posture morning, noon and night: ‘How much

longer is this to go on?’ he cried impatiently. ‘Do, I beg of you,

make up your mind to come to my palace and use the quarters I have

reserved for you.’ But he could never persuade her that she would not

be thus exposing herself to a hundred indignities and affronts. It

was of course impossible to be quite sure how things would go, and

if, after all his assurances, the move did not turn out well, her

vague resentment against him would henceforth be transformed into a

definite and justified grievance. ‘Do you not feel,’ he said, ‘that it

would be unfair to your child to keep it here with you much longer?

Indeed, knowing as you do what plans[21] I have made for its future,

you must surely see that you are behaving towards it with a lack of

proper respect.... I have constantly discussed this matter with my

wife and she has always shown great interest in the child’s future.

If it is put for a while under her care, she will no doubt be

willing to stand sponsor to it; so that it will be possible to carry

out the Initiation ceremony and other rituals of induction[22] with

full publicity.’ So far from being convinced by his arguments, she saw

herself now being inveigled into doing precisely what she had always

suspected with horror that he would one day ask of her. ‘Take the

child away from me if you like,’ she said at last, ‘and give her to

these grand people to bring up as though she were their own. But just

when you think you have repaired the accident of her birth, some one

will let out the secret, and where will you be then?’ ‘Yes, we must be

careful about that,’ answered Genji. ‘But you need have no fear that

the child will not be properly looked after. As you know, though we

have been married for many years, Lady Murasaki has no children of her

own, and this very much distresses her. She badly needs companionship,

and when at one time there was some question of her adopting Lady

Akikonomu, the former Vestal Virgin, she was obviously delighted at

the prospect, though this lady was already a grown-up person. But

when it comes to a child,—at an age, too, when such creatures have an

irresistible charm—it is quite certain that she will welcome it with

alacrity and henceforward devote all her time to its care. Of that

there is no doubt at all ...’ and he proceeded to a general eulogy

upon Murasaki’s docility and charm. But while he was speaking the Lady

of Akashi recalled the stories of Genji’s adventurous past, and of

numerous other attachments with which rumour credited him. It seemed

on the one hand very unlikely that Lady Murasaki would not ultimately

suffer the fate of her predecessors, and why should her child be

entrusted to a favourite who might soon be forgotten or thrust aside?

If on the other hand Murasaki were indeed endowed with such pre-eminent

qualities that she alone of all her rivals and predecessors was

destined to enjoy permanent favour, then as long as mother and child

remained in their present obscurity there was little danger that this

magnificent lady would regard them as worth a moment’s thought. But

as soon as one or both should make an appearance in the Nijō palace,

Murasaki’s pride would be affronted and her jealousy aroused.... Her

mother, however, was a woman who looked beyond the difficulties of

the moment, and she now said with some severity: ‘You are behaving

very foolishly. It is natural enough that you should dislike parting

with the child; but you must make up your mind to do what will be best

for it. I feel certain that His Highness is perfectly serious in his

intentions concerning its future, and I advise you to entrust it to him

at once. You need have no misgivings. After all, even Royal Princes are

of very varying stock on the mother’s side. I seem to remember that

Prince Genji himself, who is reckoned the greatest gentleman in the

land, could not be put forward as a successor to the Throne because

his mother was so far inferior to the other ladies of the Court; and

indeed, judged from that point of view, he is a mere waiting-woman’s

son. If such disadvantages are not fatal even in the most exalted

spheres, we lesser folk certainly need not trouble ourselves about

them....’ The Lady of Akashi took the advice of several other persons

who had a reputation for sagacity in such matters, and also consulted

various soothsayers and astrologers. In every case the answer was the

same: the child must go to the Capital. In face of such unanimity she

began to waver. Genji, for his part, was still as anxious as ever

that his plan should be carried out. But the subject was evidently

so painful to her that he no longer attempted to broach it, and in

the course of his next letter merely asked what were her wishes

concerning the Initiation ceremony. She answered: ‘I see now that,

being what I am, I cannot keep the child with me without injuring its

prospects. I am ready to part with it; but I still fear that amid

such surroundings....’ He was very sorry for her; but all the same he

ordered his clerks to search the calendar for a suitable day, and began

secretly to make preparations for the child’s arrival.

To hand over her own child to another woman’s keeping was indeed a

bitter trial; but she kept on repeating to herself that, for its own

sake, this sacrifice must sooner or later be made. The nurse whom Genji

had originally sent to Akashi would of course go to take charge of it

at the palace, and the prospect of losing this lady, to whom she had

long confided all her sorrows, finding in her society the one solace

of her monotonous and unhappy existence, added greatly to her present

distress. ‘Madam,’ the nurse would say to her, ‘I shall never forget

your kindness to me ever since the day when, so unexpectedly, yet as

I think not without the intervention of some kind fate, it fell to my

lot to serve you. You may be sure that I shall all the while be longing

to have you with me. But I shall never regard our separation as more

than an expedient of the moment. In the end I am convinced that all

will come right. Meanwhile, do not think that I look forward with any

pleasant anticipations to a life that will take me so far from your

side.’ She wept; and thus day after day was spent in sad forebodings

and preparations till the twelfth month was already come.

Storms of snow and hail now made the situation at Ōi more than ever

depressing and uncomfortable. It appalled the Lady of Akashi to

discover what manifold varieties of suffering one can be called upon

to endure at one and the same time. She now spent every moment of the

day in tending and caressing her little girl. One morning when the

fast-falling snow was piling up high on every side she sat with the

child in her arms, again and again going back in her mind over all the

miseries of the past, and picturing to herself the yet more desolate

days that were to come. It was long since she had gone into the front

of the house. But this morning there was ice on the moat, and she

went to the window to look. She was clad in many wraps of some soft,

white, fluttering stuff, and as she stood gazing before her with hands

clasped behind her head, those within the room thought that, prince’s

daughter though her rival was, she could scarce be more lovely in poise

and gesture than their lady in her snowy dress. Raising her sleeve to

catch the tears that had now begun to fall the Lady of Akashi turned to

the nurse and said: ‘If it were upon a day such as this,[23] I do not

think that I could bear it....’ And she recited the poem: ‘If country

roads be deep in snow, and clouds return, tread thou the written path,

and though thyself thou comest not, vouchsafe a sign.’[24] To comfort

her the nurse answered through her tears: ‘Though the snow-drifts of

Yoshino were heaped across his path, doubt not that whither his heart

is set, his footsteps shall tread out their way.’ The snow was now

falling a little less fast. Suddenly Genji appeared at the door. The

moments during which she waited to receive him put her always into a

state of painful agitation. To-day guessing as she did the purpose

of his visit, his arrival threw her immediately into an agonizing

conflict. Why had she consented? There was still time. If she refused

to part with the child, would he snatch it from her? No, indeed; that

was unthinkable. But stay! She had consented; and should she now

change her mind, she would lose his confidence forever. At one moment

she was ready to obey; a moment afterwards, she had decided to resist

by every means in her power.

She sat by the window, holding the little girl in her arms. He thought

the child very beautiful, and felt at once that her birth was one of

the most important things that had happened in his life. Since last

spring her hair had been allowed to grow[25] and it was now an inch

or two long, falling in delicate waves about her ears like that of a

little novice at a convent. Her skin too was of exquisite whiteness

and purity, and she had the most delightful eyes. To part with such

a creature, to send her away into strange hands,—he understood well

enough what this must mean, and suddenly it seemed to him that it was

impossible even to suggest such a sacrifice. The whole matter was

re-opened, and a discussion followed which lasted the better part of

the day. ‘Whether it is worth while depends on you,’ she said at last.

‘It is in your power to make amends to the child for the disadvantages

of its birth. And if I thought that you meant to do so ...’ she was

worn out by the long discussion, and now burst into tears. It was

terrible to witness such distress. But the child, heedless of what was

going on about it, was lustily demanding ‘a ride in the nice carriage.’

The mother picked it up and carried it in her own arms to the end of

the drive. When she had set it down, it caught at her sleeve and in

the prettiest, baby voice imaginable begged her to ‘come for a ride

too.’ There framed themselves in the lady’s heart the lines: ‘Were

all my prayers in vain, or shall I live to see the two-leaved pine

from which to-day I part spread mighty shadows on the earth?’; but she

could scarce speak the words, and seeing her now weeping wildly Genji

strove to comfort her with the verse: ‘Like the little pine-tree

that at Takekuma from the big one grows, grafted to my deep roots long

shall this stripling thrive secure.’ ‘Wait patiently,’ he added. She

strove hard to persuade herself that he was right, that all was for the

best. But now the carriages were moving away....

With the child rode the nurse and also a gentlewoman of good family

called Shōshō, holding on their knees the Sword, the Heavenly

Children[26] and other emblems of royalty. In the next carriage

followed a band of youths and little girls whom he had brought to form

the child’s escort on the homeward way. All the time they were driving

to the Capital Genji was haunted by the image of the sorrow-stricken

figure that had watched their departure. Small blame to her if at the

moment she was feeling bitterly towards him!

It was quite dark when they arrived. So soon as the carriages had

been drawn in, Shōshō and the nurse began looking about them at

the splendours amid which they were now destined to reside. They

felt indeed (coming as they did from rural and quite unpretentious

surroundings) somewhat awestruck and ill at ease. But when they were

shown the apartments which had been set aside for the new arrival,

with a tiny bed, screens-of-state, and everything which a little lady

could require, all beautifully set out and arranged, they began to take

heart. The nurse’s own room was in the corridor leading to the western

wing, on the north side of the passage.

The child had fallen asleep during the journey and while she was

carried into the house had not cried or seemed at all put out. She was

taken straight to Murasaki’s room and there given her supper. After

a while she began to look round her.

She evidently wondered why her mother was nowhere to be seen, and after

a further search her little lips began to tremble. The nurse was sent

for and soon succeeded in distracting her attention. If only, thought

Genji, who had witnessed this scene—if only the mother in that slow

country home could be as easily comforted! But now there was no way to

make amends to her, save to see to it that never in one jot should the

child’s care and upbringing fall short of what its mother might in her

wildest dream have craved for it. For the moment indeed he accounted

it a blessing that Murasaki had not borne him a child of her own, and

was thus free to devote herself to the reparation of the wrong which

he had inflicted upon this little newcomer by the circumstances of its

birth. For some days the child continued occasionally to ask for its

mother or some other person whom it had been used to see daily at Ōi,

and when they could not be produced it would have a fit of screaming

or of tears. But it was by nature a contented, happy little thing, and

soon struck up a friendship with its new mother, who for her part was

delighted to take charge of a creature so graceful and confiding. She

insisted on carrying it about in her own arms, attended herself to all

its wants and joined in all its games. Gradually the nurse became a

personal attendant upon Lady Murasaki rather than the under-servant

she had been before. Meanwhile a lady of irreproachable birth happened

to become available as a wet-nurse and was accordingly added to the

establishment. The ceremony of her Initiation did not involve any

very elaborate preparations, but the child’s little companions were

naturally aware that something was afoot. Her outfit, so tiny that

it looked as though it came out of a doll’s-house, was a charming

sight. So many people came in and out of the house all day even at

ordinary times that they hardly noticed the guests who had assembled in

their little mistress’s honour. It was only when she raised her arms

for the Binding of the Sleeves that the unwonted gesture caught their

attention; they had never seen her in so pretty a pose before.

Meanwhile the mother at Ōi was all the more wretched because she

now felt that her misery was self-inflicted. Had she been firm, the

child might still be with her and life in some measure endurable. She

could not believe that so extreme a course could really have been

indispensable to its interests and bitterly repented of her docility.

Even the grandmother, who had been foremost in urging the sacrifice,

missed the baby sadly and went about the house with tears in her eyes.

But news had reached them of the pains which Genji was bestowing upon

its upbringing, and she felt no doubt that she had advised for the best.

A peculiar compunction prevented the Lady of Akashi from sending

any gift or message to the child which was no longer hers, but she

took immense pains in contriving presents for all its companions and

attendants from the nurse downwards, and would spend hours in the

matching of colours and the choosing of stuffs.

Genji did not at all want her to think that, now she had parted with

the child, his visits were going to become any the less frequent, and

though it was very difficult to arrange, he made a point of going out

to Ōi before the turn of the year. It must at the best of times, he

thought, be an uninteresting place to live in; but at any rate she had

had the child to look after, and (what with getting it up and putting

it to bed) that seemed to occupy a good deal of time. How she managed

to get through the day now he could not imagine, and coming away from

this visit with a heavy heart he henceforward wrote to her almost

daily. Fortunately Murasaki no longer showed any jealousy on this

score, feeling, as it seemed, that the surrender of so exquisite a

child needed whatever recompense Genji found it in his heart to bestow.

The New Year[27] was ushered in by a spell of bright, clear weather. At

the Nijō-in everything seemed to be going particularly well and, now

that all the improvements were completed, an unusually large number of

guests was entertained during the period of festivities. The older,

married visitors came, as is customary, on the seventh day, bringing

with them their children to assist in the ceremonies of congratulation;

and these young visitors all seemed to be in excellent health and

spirits. Even the lesser gentlemen and retainers who came to pay their

respects, though no doubt many of them had worries and troubles enough

of their own, managed to keep up, during these few days at any rate, an

outward appearance of jollity.

The lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, who was now installed

in the new eastern wing, seemed completely satisfied by her new

surroundings. She had her work cut out for her in keeping up to the

mark all the writing-women and young girls whom Genji had allotted to

her service. Nor could she feel that she had gained nothing by her

present proximity; for whenever he had a few moments to spare, he would

come round and sit with her. He did not however visit her by previous

appointment or stay at all late at night in her apartments. Happily she

was by nature extremely unexacting. If what she wanted did not come her

way, she at once assumed that this particular thing was not ‘in her

destiny,’ and ceased to worry about it. This habit of mind made her

quite unusually easy to handle, and he for his part lost no opportunity

of publicly showing by his manner towards her that he regarded her as

of scarcely less consequence than Murasaki; with the result that

those who came to the house felt they would be displeasing him if

they did not pay their respects to her as well as to his wife; while

stewards and servants saw that she was a person whom it would not

be advisable to neglect. Thus everything seemed to be working very

smoothly, and Genji felt that the arrangement was going to be a great

success.

He thought constantly of the country house at Ōi and of the dull

hours which the Lady of Akashi must be passing there at this season

of festivity. So soon as the New Year celebrations both at his own

house and in the Palace were drawing to a close, he determined to pay

her another visit, and with this object in view he put on his finest

clothes, wearing under his cherry-coloured cloak a matchless vesture

of deep saffron hue, steeped in the perfumes of the scented box where

it had lain. Thus clad he went to take his leave of Murasaki, and as

he stood in the full rays of the setting sun, his appearance was so

magnificent that she gazed at him with even greater admiration than

was her wont. The little princess grabbed at the ends of his long

wide trousers with her baby hands, as though she did not want him to

go. When he reached the door of the women’s apartments she was still

clinging to him and he was obliged to halt for a moment in order to

disentangle himself. Having at last coaxed her into releasing him,

he hurried down the corridor humming to himself as he did so the

peasant-song ‘To-morrow I will come again.’[28] At the door he met

one of Murasaki’s ladies and by her he sent back just that message,

‘To-morrow I will come again.’ She instantly recognized whence the

words came and answered with the poem: ‘Were there on the far

shore no person to detain your boat, then might I indeed believe that

to-morrow you will come again.’ This was brought to him before he drove

away, and smiling at her readiness of wit he answered: ‘In truth I

will but look to my business and come back again; come back to-morrow,

though she across the waters chide me as she will.’ The little girl did

not of course understand a word of all this; but she saw that there

was a joke, and was cutting the strangest capers. As usual the sight

of her antics disarmed all Murasaki’s resentment, and though she would

much rather there had been no ‘lady on the far shore,’ she no longer

felt any hostility towards her. Through what misery the mother must

be passing, Murasaki was now in a position to judge for herself. She

continually imagined what her own feelings would be if the child were

taken from her, never for an instant let it go out of her sight, and

again and again pressed it to her bosom, putting her lovely teats to

its mouth, and caressing it for hours together.

‘What a pity that she has never had one of her own!’ her ladies

whispered; ‘To be sure if this were hers, she could not wish it

different....’

Meanwhile the Lady of Akashi was setting herself to face with resolute

calm the dullness and monotony of country life. The house had a curious

charm of its own, which appealed very much to Genji during his visits,

and as for its occupant,—he was astonished at the continual improvement

in her looks. Indeed, had not that queer father of hers taken such

extraordinary pains to prevent her ever mixing with the world, he

believed there was no reason why she should not have done extremely

well for herself. Yes, all she had needed was an ordinary father;

even a rather shabby one would not have mattered. For such beauty and

intelligence as hers, if once given the chance, could not have failed

to pull her through. Each visit left him restless and unsatisfied,

and he found himself spending his time in continual goings and comings,

his life ‘a tremulous causeway linking dream to dream.’

Sometimes he would send for a zithern and remembering the exquisite

music with which she had beguiled those nights at Akashi, he begged

her to play to him upon her lute. She would not now play alone; but

she sometimes consented to accompany him, doing so with a mastery he

could not imagine how she had contrived to acquire. The rest of the

time was generally spent in minute recital of the little princess’s

sayings and doings. Often he had come over on business connected with

his new oratory at Saga or his estate at Katsura; and then there would

perhaps be only time enough to eat a little fruit and dried rice with

her at Ōi before he hurried back to town. On such occasions there was

not time for intimacies of any kind; but the mere fact that he snatched

at every chance of seeing her and that he did so without any attempt

at concealment, marked her as one who held a not inconsiderable place

in his affections. She was quite aware of this; but she never presumed

upon it, and without any tiresome display of humility she obeyed his

orders and in general gave him as little trouble as possible. By all

that she could hear, there was not one of the great ladies at Court

with whom he was on so intimate a footing as with herself; indeed, he

was said to be somewhat stand-offish and difficult of approach. Were

she to live closer at hand he would perhaps grow weary of her, and in

any case there would certainly be unpleasant rivalries and jealousies.

Thus or in some such way may we suppose the Lady of Akashi to have

reconciled herself to these brief and accidental visits. Her father,

despite his disavowal of all worldly interests, was extremely anxious

to hear how Genji was behaving towards his daughter and constantly sent

messengers to Ōi to pick up what news they could. Much of what he

heard distressed and disappointed him; but frequently too there were

signs and indications of a more encouraging kind, and he would grow

quite elated.

About this time Lady Aoi’s father died. His name had carried great

weight in the country and his death was a heavy loss to the present

government. It so happened that the period during which he took part

in public life had been marked by much disorder and unrest. A renewal

of these upheavals was now expected and general depression prevailed.

Genji too was much distressed, both for personal reasons and because

he had been in the habit of delegating to the old Minister most of

the public business which fell to his lot. He had thus managed to

secure a reasonable amount of leisure. He saw himself henceforward

perpetually immersed in a multiplicity of tiresome affairs, and the

prospect greatly depressed him. The Emperor, though still only twelve

years old, was extremely forward for his age both in body and mind, and

although it was not to be expected that he should act alone, the task

of supervising his work was not a difficult one. But for some years

such supervision would still be needed, and unfortunately there was no

one else to whom Genji could possibly entrust such a task. Thus the

prospect of being able to lead the retired life which alone appealed to

him was still remote, and he frequently became very discontented.

For some while he was occupied with the celebration of rituals and

services on behalf of the dead man’s soul; these he carried out even

more elaborately than did the sons and grandsons of the deceased. This

year, as had been predicted, was marked by a number of disorders and

calamities. The Palace was frequently visited by the most disagreeable

and alarming apparitions, the motions of the planets, sun and moon were

irregular and unaccountable, and clouds of baleful and significant

shape were repeatedly observed. Learned men of every school sent in

elaborate addresses to the Throne, in which they attempted to account

for these strange manifestations. But they were obliged to confess that

many of the reported happenings were unique, and of a very baffling

character. While speculation thus reigned on every side, Genji held

in his heart a guilty secret[29] which might well be the key to these

distressing portents.

Lady Fujitsubo had fallen ill at the beginning of the year and since

the third month her malady had taken a serious turn. The August visit

of the Emperor to her bedside and other unusual ceremonies had already

taken place. He was a mere child when she relinquished the care of him,

and he had grown up without any very strong feelings towards her. But

he now looked so solemn as he stood by the bedside that she herself

began to feel quite sad. ‘I have for some while felt certain,’ she said

to him calmly, ‘that this would be the last year of my life. But as

long as my illness did not prevent me from going about as usual, I gave

no hint to those around me that I knew my end was near; for I dreaded

the fuss and outcry that such a confession would have produced. Nor

did I alter in any way my daily prayers and observances. I longed to

visit you at the Palace and talk with you quietly about old days. But I

seldom felt equal to so great an exertion.... And now it is too late.’

She spoke in a very low, feeble voice. She was thirty-seven years

old, but seemed much younger. The Emperor, as he looked at her, was

overwhelmed by pity and regret. That just as she was reaching an age

when she would need his care, she should, unknown to him, have

passed through months of continual suffering, without once having

recourse to those sacred expedients which alone might have saved

her—this thought made the most painful impression upon him; and now,

in a last attempt to rescue her from death, he set in motion every

conceivable sort of ritual and spell. Genji too was dismayed at the

discovery that for months past she had been worn out by constant pain,

and now sought desperately to find some remedy for her condition. But

it was apparent that the end was at hand; the Emperor’s visits became

more and more frequent and many affecting scenes were witnessed.

Fujitsubo was in great pain and seldom attempted to speak at any

length. But lying there and looking back over the whole course of her

career, she thought that while in the outward circumstances of life few

women could have been more fortunate than herself, inwardly scarce one

in all history had been more continually apprehensive and wretched. The

young Emperor was of course still wholly ignorant of the secret of his

birth. In not acquainting him with it she felt that she had failed in

the discharge of an essential duty, and the one matter after her death

in which she felt any interest was the repair of this omission.

Merely in his position as head of the government it was natural that

Genji should be gravely concerned by the approaching loss to his

faction of so distinguished a supporter, coming, as it seemed likely

to, not many months after the death of the old Grand Minister. This

public concern could indeed be openly displayed. But concealed from all

those about him there was in his inmost heart a measureless sorrow, to

which he dared give vent only in perpetual supplication and prayer.

That it was no longer possible to renew even such casual and colourless

intercourse as had been theirs in recent years was very painful to him.

He hurried to her bedside at the first news of the serious turn

which her condition had taken.

To his surprise she did, in a faint and halting manner, contrive to

speak a few words to him when she realized that he was near. First

she thanked him for carrying out so scrupulously the late Emperor’s

wishes with regard to the surveillance of his present Majesty. Much

had happened in the last years for which she had cause to be grateful

to him, and she had often meant to tell him how sensible she was of

his kindness. And there was another matter of which she had meant

for some time to speak ... to the Emperor himself. She was sorry she

had never.... Here her voice became inaudible, and tears for a while

prevented him from making a reply. He feared that this display of

emotion would arouse comment among those who were standing by; but

indeed any one who had known her as she used to be might well have been

overcome with grief to see her in so woeful a condition. Suddenly he

looked up. No thought or prayer of his could now recall her; and in

unspeakable anguish, not knowing whether she heard him or no, he began

to address her: ‘In spite of the difficulties into which I myself have

sometimes fallen, I have tried to do my best for His Majesty, or at any

rate, what then seemed to me best. But since the death of the old Grand

Minister, everything has gone wrong; and with you lying ill like this

I do not know which way to turn. Were you now to die, I think I should

soon follow you....’ He paused, but there was no reply; for she had

died suddenly like a candle blown out by the wind, and he was left in

bewilderment and misery.

She was, of all the great ladies about the Court at that time, the most

tender-hearted and universally considerate. Women of her class do not

as a rule expect to compass their own ends without causing considerable

inconvenience to ordinary people. Fujitsubo on the contrary

invariably released even her servants and retainers from any duty which

she felt to be an undue infringement of their liberty.

She was devout; but unlike many religious persons she did not display

her piety by impressive benefactions paid for out of funds which other

people had collected. Her charities (and they were considerable)

were made at the expense of her own exchequer. The ranks, titles

and benefices which were at her disposal she distributed with great

intelligence and care, and so many were her individual acts of

generosity that there was scarcely a poor ignorant mountain-priest in

all the land who had not reason to lament her loss. Seldom had the

obsequies of any public person provoked so heart-felt and universal a

sorrow. At Court no colour but black was anywhere to be seen; and the

last weeks of spring lacked all their usual brilliance and gaiety.

Standing one day before the great cherry-tree which grew in front of

the Nijō-in Genji suddenly remembered that this was the season when,

under ordinary circumstances, the Flower Feast would have been held at

the Emperor’s Palace. ‘This year should’st thou have blossomed with

black flowers,’[30] he murmured and, to hide the sudden access of grief

that had overwhelmed him, rushed into his chapel and remained there

weeping bitterly till it began to grow dark. Issuing at last, he found

a flaming sun about to sink beneath the horizon. Against this vivid

glow the trees upon the hill stood out with marvellous clearness,

every branch, nay every twig distinct. But across the hill there

presently drifted a thin filament of cloud, draping the summit with a

band of grey. He was in no mood that day to notice sunsets or pretty

cloud-effects; but in this half-curtained sky there seemed to him to be

a strange significance, and none being by to hear him he recited

the verse: ‘Across the sunset hill there hangs a wreath of cloud that

garbs the evening as with the dark folds of a mourner’s dress.’

There was a certain priest who had for generations served as chaplain

in Lady Fujitsubo’s family. Her mother had placed extraordinary

confidence in him, and she herself had instilled the young Emperor

Ryōzen with deep veneration for this old man, who was indeed known

throughout the land for the sanctity of his life and the unfailing

efficacy of his prayers. He was now over seventy and had for some

time been living in retirement, intent upon his final devotions. But

recently the occasion of Lady Fujitsubo’s death had called him back to

the Court, and the Emperor had more than once summoned him to his side.

An urgent message, conveyed by Prince Genji, now reached him. The night

was already far advanced, and the old man at first protested that these

nocturnal errands were no longer within his capacity. But in the end

he promised, out of respect for His Majesty, to make a great effort to

appear, and at the calm of dawn, at a moment when, as it so happened,

many of the courtiers were absent and those on duty had all withdrawn

from the Presence, the old man stepped into Ryōzen’s room. After

talking for a while in his aged, croaking voice about various matters

of public interest, he said at last: ‘There is one very difficult

matter which I wish to discuss with you. I fear I may not have the

courage to embark upon it, and I am still more afraid that if I succeed

in broaching this topic I may give you great offence. But it concerns

something which it would be very wrong to conceal; a secret indeed such

as makes me fear the eye of Heaven. What use is there, now that I am

so near my end, in locking it up so tightly in my heart? I fear that

Buddha himself might cast me out should I approach him defiled by this

unholy concealment.’ He began trying to tell the Emperor something;

but he seemed unable to come to the point. It was strange that there

should be any worldly matter concerning which the old priest retained

such violent emotions. Perhaps, despite his reputation, he had once

secretly pursued some hideous vendetta, had caused an innocent person

to be entrapped, done away with ... a thousand monstrous possibilities

crowded to the Emperor’s mind. ‘Reverend Father,’ he said at last, ‘you

have known me since I was a baby, and I have never once hidden anything

from you. And now I learn that there is something which you have for

a long time past been concealing from me. I confess, I am surprised.’

‘There is nothing that I have kept from you,’ the old man cried

indignantly. ‘Have I not made you master of my most secret spells, of

the inner doctrines that Buddha forbids us to reveal? Do you think that

I, who in these holy matters reposed so great a confidence in your

Majesty, would have concealed from you any dealing of my own?

‘The matter of which I speak is one that has had grave results already

and may possibly in the future entail worse consequences still. The

reputations concerned are those of your late august Mother and of some

one who now holds a prominent place in the government of our country

... it is to Prince Genji that I refer. It is for their sake, and lest

some distorted account of the affair should ultimately reach you from

other sources, that I have undertaken this painful task. I am an old

man and a priest; I therefore have little to lose and, even should this

revelation win me your displeasure, I shall never repent of having made

it; for Buddha and the Gods of Heaven showed me by unmistakable signs

that it was my duty to speak.

‘You must know, then, that from the time of your Majesty’s conception

the late Empress your mother was in evident distress concerning

the prospect of your birth. She told me indeed that there were reasons

which made the expected child particularly in need of my prayers;

but what these reasons were she did not say; and I, being without

experience in such matters, could form no conjecture. Soon after your

birth there followed a species of convulsion in the state; Prince Genji

was in disgrace and later in exile. Meanwhile your august Mother seemed

to grow every day more uneasy about your future, and again and again I

was asked to offer fresh prayers on your behalf. Strangest of all, so

long as Prince Genji was at the Capital he too seemed to be acquainted

with the instructions I had received; for on every occasion he at once

sent round a message bidding me add by so much to the prayers that had

been ordered and make this or that fresh expenditure on some service or

ritual....’

The disclosure[31] was astonishing, thrilling, terrifying. Indeed so

many conflicting emotions struggled for the upper hand that he was

unable to make any comment or reply. The old priest misunderstood this

silence and, grieved that he should have incurred Ryōzen’s displeasure

by a revelation which had been made in His Majesty’s own interest, he

bowed and withdrew from the Presence. The Emperor immediately ordered

him to return. ‘I am glad that you have told me of this,’ said Ryōzen.

‘Had I gone on living in ignorance of it I see that a kind of contempt

would have been attached for ever to my name; for in the end such

things are bound to be known. I am only sorry that you should have

concealed this from me for so long; and tremble to think of the things

that in my ignorance I may have said or done....[32] Tell me, does

anyone besides yourself know of this, ... any one who is likely to

have let out the secret?’ ‘Besides myself and your mother’s maid Ōmyōbu

there is no one who has an inkling of the matter,’ the priest hastened

to assure him. ‘Nevertheless the existence of such a secret causes me

grave misgivings. Upheavals of nature, earthquakes, drought and storm,

have become alarmingly frequent; and in the State, we have had constant

disorder and unrest. All these things may be due to the existence of

this secret. So long as your Majesty was a helpless infant Heaven took

pity on your innocence; but now that you are grown to your full stature

and have reached years of understanding and discretion, the Powers

Above are manifesting their displeasure; for, as you have been taught,

it frequently happens that the sins of one generation are visited upon

the next. I saw plainly that you did not know to what cause our present

troubles and disorders are due, and that is why I at last determined

to reveal a secret which I hoped need never pass my lips.’ The old man

spoke with difficulty, tears frequently interrupted his discourse, and

it was already broad daylight when he finally left the Palace.

No sooner had he realized the full significance of this astonishing

revelation than a medley of conflicting thoughts began to harass

Ryōzen’s mind. First and foremost, he felt indignant on behalf of the

old Emperor, whom he had always been taught to regard as his father;

but he also felt strangely uncomfortable at the idea that Genji, who

had a much better right to the Throne than he, should have been cast

out of the Imperial family, to become a Minister, a mere servant of

the State. Viewed from whatever standpoint, the new situation was

extremely painful to him, and overcome by shock and bewilderment he

lay in his room long after the sun was high. Learning that his Majesty

had not risen, Genji assumed that he was indisposed and at once

called to enquire. The Emperor was in tears, and utterly unable to

control himself even in the presence of a visitor. But this was after

all perhaps not so very surprising. The young man had only a few

weeks ago lost his mother, and it was natural that he should still

be somewhat upset. Unfortunately it was Genji’s duty that morning to

announce to his Majesty the decease of Prince Momozono.[33] It seemed

to Ryōzen as though the whole world, with all its familiar landmarks

and connections, were crumbling about him. During the first weeks of

mourning Genji spent all his time at the Palace and paid an early

visit to the Emperor every day. They had many long, uninterrupted

conversations, during the course of which Ryōzen on one occasion said:

‘I do not think that my reign is going to last much longer. Never

have I had so strong a foreboding that calamity of some stupendous

kind was at hand; and quite apart from this presentiment, the unrest

which is now troubling the whole land is already enough to keep me

in a continual state of agitation and alarm. Ever since this began

I have had great thoughts of withdrawing from the Throne; but while

my mother was alive I did not wish to distress her by doing so. Now,

however, I consider that I am free to do as I choose, and I intend

before long to seek some quieter mode of life....’ ‘I sincerely hope

you will do nothing of the kind,’ said Genji. ‘The present unrest casts

no reflection upon you or your government. Difficulties of this kind

sometimes arise during the rule of the most enlightened government,

as is proved by the history of China as well as by that of our own

country. Nor must you allow yourself to be unduly depressed by the

demise of persons such as your respected uncle, who had, after all,

reached a time of life when we could not reasonably expect ...’

Thus Genji managed, by arguments which for fear of wearying you I will

not repeat, to coax the Emperor into a slightly less desperate state of

mind. Both were dressed in the simplest style and in the same sombre

hue. For years past it had struck the Emperor, on looking at himself

in the mirror, that he was extraordinarily like Prince Genji. Since

the revelation of his true parentage, he had more frequently than ever

examined his own features. Why, of course! There was no mistaking

such a likeness! But if he was Genji’s son, Genji too must be aware

of the fact, and it was absurd that the relationship should not be

acknowledged between them. Again and again he tried to find some way of

introducing the subject. But to Genji, he supposed, the whole matter

must be a very painful one. He often felt that it was impossible to

refer to such a thing at all, and conversation after conversation went

by without any but the most general topics being discussed; though it

was noticeable that Ryōzen’s manner was even more friendly and charming

than usual. Genji who was extremely sensitive to such changes did not

fail to notice that there was something new in the young Emperor’s

attitude towards him—an air of added respect, almost of deference.

But it never occurred to him that Ryōzen could by any possibility be

in possession of the whole terrible secret. At first the Emperor had

thought of discussing the matter with the maid Ōmyōbu and asking her

for a fuller account of his birth and all that had led up to it. But

at the last moment he felt that it was better she should continue to

think herself the only inheritor of the secret, and he decided not

to discuss the matter with any one. But he longed, without actually

letting out that he knew, to get some further information from Genji

himself. Among other things he wanted to know whether what had happened

with regard to his birth was wholly unexampled, or whether it was

in point of fact far more common than one would suppose. But he could

never find the right way to introduce such a subject. It was clear that

he must get his knowledge from other sources, and he threw himself

with fresh ardour into the study of history, reading every book with

the sole object of discovering other cases like his own. In China, he

soon found, irregularities of descent have not only in many cases been

successfully concealed till long afterwards, but have often been known

and tolerated from the beginning. In Japan he could discover no such

instance; but he knew that if things of this kind occurred, they would

probably not be recorded, so that their absence from native history

might only mean that in our country such matters are hushed up more

successfully than elsewhere.

The more he thought about it, the more Genji regretted that Ryōzen

should have discovered (as from His Majesty’s repeated offers of

abdication he now felt certain to be the case) the real facts

concerning his birth. Fujitsubo, Genji was sure, would have given

anything rather than that the boy should know; it could not have been

by her instructions that the secret had been divulged. Who then had

betrayed him? Naturally his thoughts turned towards Ōmyōbu. She had

moved into the apartments which had been made out of the old offices of

the Lady of the Bedchamber. Here she had been given official quarters

and was to reside permanently in the Palace. Discussing the matter with

her one day, Genji said: ‘Are you sure that you yourself, in the course

of some conversation with his Majesty, may not by accident have put

this idea into his head?’ ‘It is out of the question,’ she replied. ‘I

know too well how determined my Lady was that he should never discover

... indeed, the fear that he might one day stumble upon the facts for

himself was her constant torment And this despite the dangers into

which she knew that ignorance might lead him.’[34] And they fell to

talking of Lady Fujitsubo’s scrupulous respect for propriety, and how

the fear of scandals and exposures which another woman would in the

long run have grown to regard with indifference, had embittered her

whole life.

For Lady Akikonomu he had done all and more than all that he led her to

expect, and she had already become a prominent figure at Court. During

the autumn, having been granted leave of absence from the Palace, she

came to stay for a while at the Nijō-in. She was given the Main Hall,

and found everything decked with the gayest colours in honour of her

arrival. She assumed in the household the place of a favourite elder

daughter, and it was entirely in this spirit that Genji entertained

and amused her. One day when the autumn rain was falling steadily and

the dripping flowers in the garden seemed to be washed to one dull

tinge of grey, memories of long forgotten things came crowding one

after another to Genji’s mind, and with eyes full of tears he betook

himself to Lady Akikonomu’s rooms. Not a touch of colour relieved the

dark of his mourner’s dress, and on pretext of doing penance for the

sins of the nation during the recent disorders he carried a rosary

under his cloak; yet he contrived to wear even this dour, penitential

garb with perfect elegance and grace, and it was with a fine sweep of

the cloak that he now entered the curtained alcove where she sat. He

came straight to her side and, with only a thin latticed screen between

them, began to address her without waiting to be announced: ‘What an

unfortunate year this is! It is too bad that we should get weather

like this just when everything in the garden is at its best. Look at

the flowers. Are not you sorry for them? They came when it was

their turn, and this is the way they are welcomed.’ He leant upon the

pillar of her seat, the evening light falling upon him as he turned

towards her. They had many memories in common; did she still recall, he

asked, that terrible morning when he came to visit her mother at the

Palace-in-the-fields? ‘Too much my thoughts frequent those vanished

days,’ she quoted,[35] and her eyes filled with tears. Already he was

thinking her handsome and interesting, when for some reason she rose

and shifted her position, using her limbs with a subtle grace that made

him long to see her show them to better advantage.... But stay! Ought

such thoughts to be occurring to him? ‘Years ago,’ he said, ‘at a time

when I might have been far more happily employed, I became involved,

entirely through my own fault, in a number of attachments, all of the

most unfortunate kind, with the result that I never knew an instant’s

peace of mind. Among these affairs there were two which were not

only, while they lasted, far more distressing than the rest, but also

both ended under a dark cloud of uncharitableness and obstinacy. The

first was with Lady Rokujō, your mother. The fact that she died still

harbouring against me feelings of the intensest bitterness will cast a

shadow over my whole life, and my one consolation is that in accordance

with her wishes, I have been able to do something towards helping _you_

in the world. But that by any act of mine the flame of her love should

thus forever have been stifled will remain the greatest sorrow of my

life.’ He had mentioned two affairs; but he decided to leave the other

part of his tale untold and continued: ‘During the period when my

fortunes were in eclipse I had plenty of time to think over all these

things and worked out a new plan which I hoped would make every one

satisfied and happy. It was in pursuance of this plan that I induced

the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers to take up residence in

the new eastern wing. Her own resources are quite inadequate, and I

used to feel very uncomfortable about her; it is a great relief to know

that she is getting all she needs. Fortunately she is very easy to

deal with, we understand each other perfectly and there is (or at any

rate I hope so) complete satisfaction on both sides. Soon after I came

back a great deal of my time began to be taken up in looking after the

young Emperor and helping him to conduct the business of the State. I

am not particularly interested in that sort of thing, but I was glad

to be of use. It was only when it came to filling his Household that I

found myself confronted with a task that was definitely uncongenial.

I wonder whether you realize what very strong impulses of my own I

had to overcome before I surrendered you to the Palace? You might at

least tell me that you feel for me and are grateful; then I should no

longer think that this sacrifice was made quite in vain....’ She was

vexed. Why must he needs start talking in that strain? She made no

reply. ‘Forgive me,’ he said; ‘I see that I have displeased you ...,’

and he began hastily to talk of other matters: ‘How much I should like

to retire to some quiet place,—to know that for the rest of my life

on earth I should have no more anxieties or cares and could devote

myself for as long as I liked each day to preparation for the life to

come. But of course all this would be very dull if one had nothing

interesting to look back upon. There are many things to be thought

of first. For example, I have young children, whose place in the

world is very insecure; it will be a long time before I can establish

them satisfactorily. And here you can be of great use to me; for

should you—forgive me for speaking of such a thing— one day bring

increase to his Majesty’s house, it would be in your power to render

considerable services to my children, even though I should chance no

longer to be with you.... It was evident that this sort of conversation

was far more to her liking. She did not indeed say more than a word or

two at a time; but her manner was friendly and encouraging, and they

were still immersed in these domestic projects when darkness began

to fall. ‘And when all these weighty matters are off my hands,’ said

Genji at last, ‘I hope I shall have a little time left for things which

I really enjoy—flowers, autumn leaves, the sky, all those day-to-day

changes and wonders that a single year bring forth; that is what I

looked forward to. Forests of flowering trees in Spring, the open

country in Autumn.... Which do you prefer? It is of course useless to

argue on such a subject, as has so often been done. It is a question

of temperament. Each person is born with “his season” and is bound

to prefer it. No one, you may be sure, has ever yet succeeded in

convincing any one else on such a subject. In China it has always been

the Spring-time with its “broidery of flowers” that has won the highest

praise; here however the brooding melancholy of Autumn seems always to

have moved our poets more deeply. For my own part I find it impossible

to reach a decision; for much as I enjoy the music of birds and the

beauty of flowers, I confess I seldom remember at what season I have

seen a particular flower, heard this or that bird sing. But in this

I am to blame; for even within the narrow compass of my own walls, I

might well have learnt what sights and sounds distinguish each season

of the year, having as you see not only provided for the springtime

by a profusion of flowering trees, but also planted in my garden many

varieties of autumn grass and shrub, brought in, root and all, from

the countryside. Why, I have even carried hither whole tribes of

insects that were wasting their shrill song in the solitude of lanes

and fields. All this I did that I might be able to enjoy these things

in the company of my friends, among whom you are one. Pray tell me

then, to which season do you find that your preference inclines?’ She

thought this a very difficult form of conversation; but politeness

demanded some sort of reply and she said timidly: ‘But you have just

said you can never yourself remember when it was you saw or heard the

thing that pleased you most. How can you expect me to have a better

memory? However, difficult as it is to decide, I think I agree with

the poet[36] who found the dusk of an autumn evening “strangest and

loveliest thing of all.” Perhaps I am more easily moved at such moments

because, you know, it was at just such a time ...’ Her voice died away,

and knowing well indeed what was in her mind Genji answered tenderly

with the verse: ‘The world knows it not; but to you, oh Autumn, I

confess it: your wind at night-fall stabs deep into my heart.’[37]

‘Sometimes I am near to thinking that I can hold out no longer,’ he

added. To such words as these she was by no means bound to reply and

even thought it best to pretend that she had not understood. This

however had the effect of leading him on to be a little more explicit;

and matters would surely have come a good deal further had she not at

once shown in the most unmistakable manner her horror at the sentiments

which he was beginning to profess. Suddenly he pulled himself up. He

had been behaving with a childish lack of restraint. How fortunate that

she at least had shown some sense! He felt very much cast down; but

neither his sighs nor his languishing airs had any effect upon her. He

saw that she was making as though to steal quietly and unobtrusively

from the room, and holding her back he said: ‘I see that you are

terribly offended; well, I do not deny that you have good cause. I

ought not to be so impetuous; I know that it is wrong. But, granted I

spoke far too suddenly—it is all over now. Do not, I beg of you, go

on being angry with me; for if you are unkind....’[38] And with that

he retired to his own quarters. Even the scent of his richly perfumed

garments had become unendurable to her; she summoned her maids and

bade them open the window and door. ‘Just come over here and smell

the cushion that his Highness was sitting on!’ one of them called to

another. ‘What an exquisite fragrance! How he contrives to get hold of

such scents I simply cannot imagine. “If the willow-tree had but the

fragrance of the plum and the petals of the cherry!” So the old poet

wished, and surely Prince Genji must be the answer to his prayer, for

it seems that in him every perfection is combined.’

He went to the western wing; but instead of going straight into

Murasaki’s room, he flung himself down upon a couch in the vestibule.

Above the partition he could see the far-off flicker of a lamp; there

Murasaki was sitting with her ladies, one of whom was reading her

a story. He began to think about what had just occurred. It was a

sad disappointment to discover that he was still by no means immune

from a tendency which had already played such havoc with his own and

other people’s happiness. Upon what more inappropriate object could

his affections possibly have lighted? True, his chief offence in old

days had been of far greater magnitude. But then he had the excuse

of youth and ignorance, and it was possible that, taking this into

consideration, Heaven might by this time have forgiven the offence. But

on this occasion he could hardly plead inexperience; indeed, as

he ruefully admitted to himself, he ought by now to have learnt every

lesson which repeated failure can teach.

Lady Akikonomu now bitterly repented of having confessed her partiality

for the autumn. It would have been so easy not to reply at all, and

this one answer of hers seemed somehow to have opened up the way for

the distressing incident that followed. She told no one of what had

occurred, but was for a time very much scared and distressed. Soon

however the extreme stiffness and formality of address which Genji

henceforth adopted began somewhat to restore her confidence.

On entering Murasaki’s room at a later hour in the day of the incident,

he said to her: ‘Lady Akikonomu has been telling me that she likes

Autumn best. It is a taste which I can quite understand, but all the

same, I am not surprised that you should prefer, as you have often

told me that you do, the early morning in Spring. How I wish that I

were able to spend more time with you! We would pass many hours in the

gardens at all seasons of the year, deciding which trees and flowers we

liked the best. There is nothing which I more detest than having all my

time taken up by this endless succession of business. You know indeed

that if I had only myself to consider I should long ago have thrown up

everything and retired to some temple in the hills....’

But there was the Lady of Akashi; she too must be considered. He

wondered constantly how she was faring; but it seemed to become every

day more impossible for him to go beyond the walls of his palace. What

a pity she had got it into her head that she would be miserable at

Court! If only she would put a little more confidence in him and trust

herself under his roof as any one else would do, he would prove to her

that she had no reason for all these reservations and precautions.

Presently one of his accustomed excursions to the oratory at Saga

gave him an excuse for a visit to Ōi. ‘What a lonely place to live in

always!’ he thought as he approached the house, and even if the people

living there had been quite unknown to him he would have felt a certain

concern on their behalf. But when he thought how she must wait for him

day after day and how seldom her hopes could ever be fulfilled, he

suddenly felt and showed an overwhelming compassion towards her. This

however had only the effect of making her more than ever inconsolable.

Seeking for some means of distracting her mind, he noticed that behind

a tangle of close-set trees points of flame were gleaming—the flares

of the cormorant-fishers at work on Ōi River; and with these lights,

sometimes hardly distinguishable from them, blended the fireflies that

hovered above the moat. ‘It is wonderful here,’ said Genji; ‘you too

would feel so, were not one’s pleasure always spoiled by familiarity.’

‘Those lights on the water!’ she murmured. ‘Often I think that I am

still at Akashi. “As the fisher’s flare that follows close astern, so

in those days and in these has misery clung to my tossing bark, and

followed me from home to home.”’ ‘My love,’ he answered, ‘is like the

secret flame that burns brightly because it is hidden from sight; yours

is like the fisherman’s torch, that flares up in the wind and presently

is spent. No, no; you are right,’ he said after a pause; ‘life (yours

and mine alike) is indeed a wretched business.’ It happened to be a

time at which he was somewhat less tied and harassed than of late, and

he was able to devote himself more wholeheartedly than usual to the

proceedings at his oratory. This kept him in the district for several

days on end, a circumstance which did not often occur and which he

hoped would, for the moment at any rate, make her feel a little less

neglected.

[21] Genji had promised in due course to marry the child to the Heir

Apparent, son of the Emperor Ryōzen.

[22] Buddhist ceremonies corresponding to the Christian

‘Confirmation.’

[23] That Genji fetched the child.

[24] There is a play on words: _fumi_ = ‘letter’; also ‘treading.’

_Ato_ = ‘the tracks of feet,’ but also ‘tracks of the pen,’

σήματα.

[25] Babies’ heads were shaved, save for two tufts.

[26] The sword was the emblem of the child’s royal blood. The

Heavenly Children were dolls which were intended to attract

evil influences and so save the child from harm.

[27] Genji must now have been 30.

[28] ‘Stop your boat, oh cherry-man! I must sow the ten-rood island

field. Then I will come again. To-morrow I will come again!’

The lady answers: ‘To-morrow, forsooth! Those are but words.

You keep a girl upon the other side, and to-morrow you will not

come, no, not to-morrow will you come.’

[29] The secret that the Emperor was his son. The safety of the

State depended upon the cult of ancestors. This could only be

performed by their true descendants. Moreover the occupation of

the throne by one who was not by birth entitled to it would

arouse the wrath of the Sun, from whom the Emperor of Japan

claims descent.

[30] Quoting a poem of Uyeno Mine-o’s upon the death of Fujiwara no

Mototsune, 891 A.D.

[31] That Ryōzen was in reality Genji’s son.

[32] See above, note on p. 49, and below note on p. 60.

[33] Prince Momozono Shikibukyō, brother of the old Emperor and

father of Princess Asagao.

[34] Into performing ceremonies at the grave of his supposed father

which unless performed by a true son, were sacrilegious and

criminal.

[35] From a poem by Ono no Komachi’s sister, say the commentaries;

but such a poem is not to be found in her surviving works.

[36] Anon, in _Kokinshū_, No. 546.

[37] He identifies Akikonomu with the Autumn.

[38] ‘If you are unkind, I too by unkindness will teach you the pain

that unkindness can inflict.’ Anonymous poem.