ASAGAO
The death of Prince Momozono meant, of course, the return to Court
of the Kamo Vestal, Lady Asagao; and Genji followed up his letter
of welcome by numerous other notes and messages. For it was, as I
have said before, a peculiarity of his character that if he had once
become fond of any one, neither separation nor lapse of time could
ever obliterate his affection. But Asagao remembered only too well the
difficulty that she had before experienced in keeping him at arm’s
length, and she was careful to answer in the most formal and guarded
terms. He found these decorous replies exceedingly irritating. In
the ninth month he heard that she had moved into her father’s old
residence, the Momozono Palace, which was at that time occupied by
Princess Nyogo, a younger sister of the old Emperor.[39] Here was an
opening; for it was perfectly natural and proper that Genji should
visit this princess, who had been his father’s favourite sister and
with whom he had himself always remained on excellent terms. He found
that the two ladies were living in opposite wings of the Palace,
separated by the great central hall. Though old Prince Momozono had so
recently passed away the place had already assumed a rather decayed
and depressing air. Princess Nyogo received him immediately. He
noticed at once that she had aged very rapidly since he last saw her.
She was indeed quite decrepit, and it was difficult to believe that
she was really younger than Aoi’s mother, who seemed to him never to
have changed since he had known her; whereas in the quavering accents
and palsied gait of the aged lady who now greeted him it was well nigh
impossible to recognize the princess of former days.
‘Everything has been in a wretched way since the old Emperor, your
poor father, was taken from us, and as the years go by the outlook
seems to grow blacker and blacker; I confess, I never have an easy
moment. And now even my brother Prince Momozono has left me! I go on,
I go on; but it hardly seems like being alive, except when I get a
visit like yours to-day, and then I forget all my troubles....’ ‘Poor
thing,’ thought Genji, ‘how terribly she has gone to pieces!’ But he
answered very politely: ‘For me too the world has been in many ways a
different place since my father died. First, as you know, came this
unexpected attack upon me, followed by my exile to a remote district.
Then came my restoration to rank and privilege, bringing with it all
manner of ties and distractions. All this time I have been longing to
have a talk with you, and regret immensely that there has never before
been an opportunity....’ ‘Oh, the changes, the changes,’ she broke in;
‘such terrible destruction I have seen on every side. Nothing seems
safe from it, and often I feel as though I would give anything to
have died before all this began. But I do assure you I am glad I have
lived long enough to witness your return. To die while you were still
in such trouble, not knowing how it was all going to end—that would
indeed have been a melancholy business.’ She paused for a while and
then went on in her quavering, thin voice: ‘You know, you have grown to
be a very handsome man. But I remember that the first time I saw
you, when you were only a little boy, I was astonished at you, really
I was. I could never have believed that such loveliness would be seen
shining in the face of any mortal child! And every time I see you I
always feel just as I did then. They say that his present Majesty, the
Emperor Ryōzen, is the image of you; but I don’t believe a word of it.
He may be just a little like; but no one is going to persuade me that
he is half as handsome as you.’ So she rambled on. Coming from any one
else such flattery would have very much embarrassed him. But at this
strange old lady’s out-pourings one could only be amused. ‘Since my
exile I have quite lost whatever good looks I may once have possessed,’
he said; ‘one cannot live for years on end under those depressing
conditions without its changing one very much. As for the Emperor, I
assure you that his is a beauty of an altogether different order. I
should doubt if a better-looking young man has ever existed, and to
assert that he is less handsome than me is, if you will forgive my
saying so, quite ridiculous.’ ‘If only you came to see me every day I
believe I should go on living for ever,’ she burst out. ‘I am suddenly
beginning to feel quite young, and I am not at all sure that the world
is half so bad a place as I made out just now.’ Nevertheless it was not
long before she was again wailing and weeping. ‘How I envy my sister
Princess Ōmiya,’[40] she cried; ‘no doubt, being your mother-in-law,
she sees a great deal of you. I only wish I were in that position.
You know, I expect, that my poor brother often talked of affiancing
his daughter to you and was very sorry afterwards that he did not do
so.’ At this Genji pricked up his ears. ‘I desired nothing better,’
said he, ‘than to be connected on close terms with your family, and
it would still give me great pleasure to be on a more intimate
footing in this house. But I cannot say that I have hitherto received
much encouragement....’ He was vexed that he had not discovered this
at the time. He looked towards the other wing of the house. The garden
under the younger princess’s windows was carefully tended. He scanned
those borders of late autumn flowers, and then the rooms behind; he
pictured her sitting not far from the window, her eyes fixed upon
these same swiftly-fading petals. Yes, he must certainly contrive to
see her; and bowing to Princess Nyogo he said: ‘I naturally intend to
pay my respects to your niece to-day; indeed, I should not like her to
regard my visit as a mere afterthought, and for that reason I shall,
with your permission, approach her apartments by way of the garden
instead of going along the corridor and through the hall.’ Skirting
the side of the house he came at length to her window. Although it was
now almost dark, he could see, behind grey curtains, the outline of a
black screen-of-state. He was soon observed, and Asagao’s servants,
scandalized that he should have been left standing even for a moment
in the verandah, hurried him into the guest-room at the back of the
house. Here a gentlewoman came to enquire what was his pleasure, and he
handed to her the following note: ‘How this carries me back to the days
of our youth—this sending in of notes and waiting in ante-chambers! I
had hoped, I confess, that my reticence during the years of your sacred
calling would have won for me, still your ardent admirer, the right
to a somewhat less formal reception.’ It would be hard indeed if she
gave him no more encouragement than this! Her answer was brought by
word of mouth: ‘To come back to this house and find my father no longer
here, is so strange an experience that it is difficult to believe those
old days were not a mere dream from which I now awake to a fleeting
prospect of the most comfortless realities. But in a world where
all is change, it would, I confess, be ungracious not to cherish and
encourage a devotion so undeviating as that which you have described.’
She need not, he thought, remind him of life’s uncertainties. For who
had in every circumstance great and small more grievously experienced
them than he? In reply he sent the poem: ‘Have I not manfully held
back and kept cold silence year on year, till the Gods gave me leave?’
‘Madam,’ he added, ‘you are a Vestal no longer and cannot plead that
any sanctity now hedges you about. Since last we met I have experienced
many strange vicissitudes. If you would but let me tell you a little
part of all that I have seen and suffered....’ The gentlewoman who took
his answer noticed that his badges and decorations were somewhat more
dazzling than in old days; but though he was now a good deal older, his
honours still far out-stripped his years.
‘Though it were but to tell me of your trials and sorrows that you
have made this visit, yet even such tidings the Gods, my masters till
of late, forbid me to receive.’ This was too bad! ‘Tell your lady,’ he
cried peevishly, ‘that I have long ago cast my offence[41] of old days
to the winds of Shinado; or does she think perhaps that the Gods did
not accept my vows?’[42] The messenger saw that though he sought to
turn off the matter with these allusions and jests he was in reality
very much put about, and she was vexed on his behalf. She had for years
past been watching her mistress become more and more aloof from the
common interests and distractions of life, and it had long distressed
her to see Prince Genji’s letters so often left unanswered. ‘I did ill
to call at so late an hour,’ he said; ‘I can see that the purpose
of my visit has been wholly misunderstood.’ And sighing heavily he
turned to go, saying as he did so: ‘This is the way one is treated
when one begins to grow old.... It is useless, I know, after what has
passed, even to suggest that her Highness should come to the window for
a moment to see me start ...’ and with that he left the house, watched
by a bevy of ladies who made all the usual comments and appraisements.
Not only was it delightful weather, but at this moment the wind was
making a most agreeable music in the neighbouring trees, and these
ladies soon fell to talking of the old days when Prince Momozono was
alive; particularly of Genji’s visits long ago and the many signs he
had given of a deep and unaltering attachment to their mistress.
After his return from this unsuccessful expedition, Genji felt in no
mood for sleep, and soon he jumped up and threw open his casement.
The morning mist lay thick over the garden of flowers, which, at the
season’s close, looked very battered and wan. Among them, its blossoms
shimmering vaguely, was here and there a Morning Glory,[43] growing
mixed in among the other flowers. Choosing one that was even more
wilted and autumnal than the rest, he sent it to the Momozono palace,
with the note: ‘The poor reception which you gave me last night has
left a most humiliating and painful impression upon me. Indeed, I can
only imagine it was with feelings of relief that you so soon saw my
back turned upon your house, though I am loth to think that things can
even now have come to such a pass: “Can it be that the Morning Glory,
once seen by me and ever since remembered in its beauty, is now a dry
and withered flower?” Does it count with you for nothing that I have
admired you unrequited, year in year out, for so great a stretch of
time? That at least might be put to my credit....’ She could not
leave so mannerly an appeal quite unheeded, and when her people pressed
round her with ink-stone and brush, she yielded to their persuasion so
far as to write the poem: ‘Autumn is over, and now with ghostly flower
the Morning Glory withers on the mist-bound hedge.’ ‘Your comparison,’
she added, ‘is so just that the arrival of your note has brought
fresh dewdrops to the petals of the flower to whom this reminder was
addressed.’ That was all, and it was in truth not very interesting
or ingenious. But for some reason he read the poem many times over,
and during the course of the day found himself continually looking at
it. Perhaps what fascinated him was the effect of her faint, sinuous
ink-strokes on the blue-grey writing-paper which her mourning dictated.
For it often happens that a letter, its value enhanced to us either by
the quality of the writer or by the beauty of the penmanship, appears
at the time to be faultless. But when it is copied out and put into a
book something seems to have gone wrong.... Efforts are made to improve
the sense or style, and in the end the original effect is altogether
lost.
He realized the impropriety of the letters with which he had in old
days assailed her and did not intend to return to so unrestrained a
method of address. His new style had indeed met with a certain measure
of success; for whereas she had formerly seldom vouchsafed any answer
at all, he had now received a not unfriendly reply. But even this
reply was far from being such as to satisfy him, and he was unable to
resist the temptation of trying to improve upon so meagre a success.
He wrote again, this time in much less cautious terms, and posting
himself in the eastern wing[44] of his palace he sent a carriage to
fetch one of Asagao’s ladies, and presently sent her back again with
the letter. Her gentlewomen would themselves never have dreamed
of discouraging far less distinguished attentions, let alone those of
such a personage as Prince Genji, and they now urged his claims upon
their mistress as one ‘for whose sake a little virtue was surely worth
sacrificing.’ But after all her efforts in the past to keep free of
such an entanglement, this was hardly the moment to give in; for she
felt that both he and she had now reached an age when such things
are best put aside. She feared that even her inevitable allusions to
the flowers and trees of the season might easily be misinterpreted,
and even if Genji himself was under no misapprehension, there are
always those who made a business of getting hold of such things and
turning them to mischief, and in consequence she was careful to avoid
the slightest hint of anything intimate or sentimental. About this
time a rumour ran through the Court to the effect that Genji was in
active correspondence with the former Vestal, abetted and encouraged
by Princess Nyogo and the lady’s other relatives. The pair seemed
very well suited to one another and no one expressed any surprise at
the existence of such an attachment. The story eventually reached
Murasaki’s ears. At first she refused to credit it, making sure that
if he were indeed carrying on any such intrigue it would be scarcely
possible for him to conceal it from her. But observing him with this
tale in her mind she thought that he seemed unusually abstracted and
depressed. What if this affair, which he had always passed off as a
mere joke between himself and his cousin, were to turn out after all
to be something important—the beginning of what she dreaded day and
night? In rank and in accomplishments perhaps there was little to
choose between Asagao and herself. But he had begun to admire and court
this princess long, long ago; and if an affection grounded so far back
in the past were now to resume its sway over him, Murasaki knew
that she must be prepared for the worst. It was not easy to face what
she now believed to threaten her. For years past she had held, beyond
challenge or doubt, the first place in Genji’s affections—had been the
centre of all his plans and contrivings. To see herself ousted by a
stranger from a place which long use had taught her to regard as her
own by inalienable right—such was the ordeal for which she now began
silently to prepare herself. He would not, of course, abandon her
altogether; of that she was sure. But the very fact that they had for
so many years lived together on terms of daily intimacy and shared so
many trifling experiences made her, she felt, in a way less interesting
to him. So she speculated, sometimes thinking that all was indeed lost,
sometimes that the whole thing was her fancy and nothing whatever was
amiss. In his general conduct towards her there was not anything of
which she could reasonably complain. But there were from time to time
certain vague indications that he was not in the best of tempers, and
these were enough whenever they occurred to convince her that she was
undone for good and all,—though she showed no outward sign of the
despair which had now settled upon her. Genji, meanwhile, spent much of
his time in the front[45] of the house and was also frequently at the
Emperor’s Palace. His leisure was employed in writing endless letters.
Murasaki wondered how she could have ever doubted the rumours that were
now rampant throughout the Court. If only he would tell, give even the
slightest hint of what was in these days passing through his mind!
Winter drew on, and at last the eleventh month came round. But
this year there were none of the usual religious festivals and
processions[46] to distract him, and Genji became more and more
restless. One evening when the delicate twilight was sprinkled with
a few thin flakes of snow, he determined to set out for the Momozono
palace. All day he had been more than usually preoccupied with thoughts
of its occupant, and somehow he could not help feeling that she too
would on this occasion prove less unyielding. Before starting, he
came to take leave of Murasaki in the western wing. ‘I am sorry to
say Princess Nyogo is very unwell,’ he said; ‘I must go and offer her
my sympathy.’ She did not even look round, but went on playing with
her little foster-child as though determined not to be interrupted.
Evidently there was going to be trouble. ‘There has been something
very strange in your manner lately,’ he said. ‘I am not conscious
of having done anything to offend you. I thought we understood one
another well enough for me to be able to spend a day or two now and
then at the Emperor’s Palace without your taking offence. But perhaps
it is something else?’ ‘I certainly understand you well enough,’ she
answered, ‘to know that I must expect to put up with a great deal of
suffering ...’ and she sank back upon the divan, her face turned away
from him. He could never bear to leave her thus, and knew he would be
wretched every step of the way to Princess Nyogo’s house. But the hour
was already late, and as he had promised beforehand that he would call
there that evening, it was impossible to defer his departure.
Murasaki meanwhile lay on her couch, continually debating within
herself whether this affair might not really have been going on for
years past—perhaps ever since his return—without her having any
suspicion of it. She went to the window. He was still dressed chiefly
in grey; but the few touches of colour which his mourning permitted
showed up all the more brightly, and as she watched his handsome
figure moving against a background of glittering snow, the thought
that she might be losing him, that soon, very soon perhaps, he would
vanish never to return, was more than she could endure. His cortège
consisted only of a few favourite outriders, to whom he said: ‘I am
not feeling inclined just now to go about paying calls; indeed, you
will have noticed that apart from a few necessary visits to Court, I
have hardly left home at all. But my friends at the Momozono palace are
passing through a very trying time. Her Highness has for years relied
upon her brother’s aid and, now that he is taken from her, the least
I can do is to help her occasionally with a little encouragement and
advice....’ But his gentlemen were not so easily deceived and whispered
among themselves as they rode along: ‘Come, come, that will not do.
Unless he has very much changed his ways it is not to chatter with old
ladies that his Highness sets out at this hour of a winter night. There
is more here than meets the eye,’ and they shook their heads over his
incurable frivolity.
The main gate of the palace was on the north side; but here there was
usually a great deal of traffic, and not wishing to attract attention
he drove up to a side-entrance, the one which Prince Momozono himself
commonly used, and sent in a servant to announce his arrival. As he
had promised to appear at a much earlier hour Princess Nyogo had by
now quite given up expecting him, and, much put about by this untimely
visit, she bade her people send the porter to the western gate. The man
made his appearance a moment later, looking wretchedly pinched and cold
as he hastened through the snow with the key in his hand. Unfortunately
the lock would not work, and when he went back to look for help no
other manservant could anywhere be found. ‘It’s very rusty,’ said
the old porter dolefully, fumbling all the while with the lock, that
grated with an unpleasant sound but would not turn. ‘There’s nothing
else wrong with it, but it’s terribly rusty. No one uses this gate now.’
The words, ordinary enough in themselves, filled Genji with an
unaccountable depression. How swiftly the locks rust, the hinges grow
stiff on doors that close behind us! ‘I am more than thirty,’ he
thought; and it seemed to him impossible to go on doing things just
as though they would last ... as though people would remember. ‘And
yet,’ he said to himself, ‘I know that even at this moment the sight
of something very beautiful, were it only some common flower or tree,
might in an instant make life again seem full of meaning and reality.’
At last the key turned and with a great deal of pushing and pulling the
gate was gradually forced open. Soon he was in the Princess’s room,
listening to her usual discourses and lamentations. She began telling
a series of very involved and rambling stories about things all of
which seemed to have happened a great while ago. His attention began
to wander; it was all he could do to keep awake. Before very long the
Princess herself broke off and said with a yawn: ‘It’s no good; I can’t
tell things properly at this time of night, it all gets mixed up....’
Then suddenly he heard a loud and peculiar noise. Where did it come
from? What could it be? His eye fell upon the Princess. Yes; it was
from her that these strange sounds proceeded; for she was now fast
asleep and snoring with a resonance such as he would never have
conceived to be possible.
Delighted at this opportunity of escape he was just about to slip out
of the room when he heard a loud ‘Ahem,’ also uttered in a very aged
and husky voice, and perceived that some one had just entered the
room. ‘There! What a shame! I’ve startled you. And I made sure you
heard me come in. But I see you don’t know who in the world I am. Well,
your poor father, the old Emperor, who loved his joke, used to call me
the Grandam. Perhaps that will help you to remember....’ Could this
be.... Yes, surely it was that same elderly Lady of the Bedchamber
who had flirted with him so outrageously years ago, at the time of
the Feast of Red Leaves.[47] He seemed to remember hearing that she
had joined some lay order and become a pensioner in the late prince’s
household. But it had not occurred to him that she could possibly still
be in existence, and this sudden encounter was something of a shock. ‘I
am distressed to find,’ he answered, ‘that those old days are becoming
very dim in my mind, and anything that recalls them to me is therefore
very precious. I am delighted to hear your voice again. Pray remember
that, like the traveller whom Prince Shōtoku[48] found lying at the
wayside, I have ‘no parent to succour me’ and must therefore look to
old friends such as you for shelter from the world’s unkindness.’ It
was extraordinary how little she had changed in appearance, and her
manner was certainly as arch and coquettish as ever. Her utterance,
indeed, suggested that she now had very few teeth left in her head;
but she still managed to impart to her words the same insinuating and
caressing tone as of old. It amused him that she spoke of herself
as though she had been a mere girl when they first met and that she
continually apologized for the changes which he must now be noticing in
her. He was amused, but also saddened. For he could not help thinking
that of all the gentlewomen who had been this lady’s rivals scarce one
was now left at Court. Most were dead; others had fallen into disgrace
and were eking out a miserable existence no one knew where. Or
again, that a creature such as Lady Fujitsubo should vanish so soon,
while this absurd grandam, even in her younger days totally devoid
of charm or intelligence, should be left behind! And judging by her
appearance, there was every prospect that she would go on happily
pottering about and telling her rosary for another twenty years. No;
there was no sense, no purpose in all this.
She saw that thoughts which moved him deeply were passing through his
mind and at once assumed that he was recalling the details of what
she was pleased to think of as their ‘love affair’; and now in her
most playful voice she recited the poem: ‘Though your father called me
Granny, I am not so old but that you and I were sweethearts long ago.’
He felt somewhat embarrassed but he answered kindly: ‘Such motherly
care as yours not in this life only but in all lives to come none save
a scapegrace would forget.’ ‘We must meet again at a more convenient
time and have a good talk,’ he said; and with that he hastened towards
the western wing. The blinds were drawn and everything was shut up for
the night, save that at one window she[49] had left a lattice half
unclosed, feeling that to show no light at all on the evening of his
visit would be too pointedly uncivil. The moon had risen and its rays
blended with the glitter of the newly-fallen snow. It was indeed a most
charming night. ‘An old woman in love and the moon at mid-winter’: he
remembered the saying that these are the two most dismal things in the
world; but to-night he felt this collocation to be very unjust. He
sent in an urgent letter: if despite her scruples she intended ever to
admit him for a few moments to her presence, why not take advantage of
this excellent opportunity and not subject him to the irritation of
purposeless delays?
She did not doubt the reality of his feelings; but if at a time
when they were both young enough to be forgiven a few indiscretions,
when moreover her father was actually seeking to promote an alliance
between them, she had without a moment’s hesitation refused to yield
herself to him—what sense could there be, now that they were both
past the age to which such irresponsible gallantries by right belong,
what sense (she asked herself) could there be in parleying with him,
indeed, in admitting him into her presence at all? He saw that she was
absolutely unmoved by his appeal, and was both astonished and hurt. She
meanwhile disliked intensely this frigid interchange of messages and
notes, but for the moment saw no way of bringing it to a close. It was
now getting late, a fierce wind had begun to blow and Genji, feeling
a very real disappointment and distress, was about to make his way
homeward, flinging out as he did so the parting verse:
‘No penance can your hard heart find save such as you long since have
taught me to endure.’ As usual her gentlewomen insisted that she must
send a reply, and reluctantly she wrote the verse; ‘Is it for me to
change, for me who hear on every wind some tale that proves you, though
the years go by, not other than you were?’
He burst into a great rage when he received her note, but a moment
afterwards felt that he was behaving very childishly, and said to the
gentlewoman who had brought it: ‘I would not for the world have any
one know how I have been treated to-night. Promise me, I beg of you,
that you will speak of it to no one; stay, you had best even deny that
I was here at all....’ He whispered this in a very low voice; but some
servants who were hanging about near by noticed the aside, and one of
them said to another: ‘Look at that now! Poor gentleman! You can see
she has sent him a very stinging reply. Even if she does not fancy
him, she might at least treat him with common civility. For he does not
look at all the kind of gentleman who would take advantage of a little
kindness....’
As a matter of fact, she had no distaste for him whatever. His beauty
delighted her and she was sure that she would have found him a most
charming companion. But she was convinced that from the moment she
betrayed this liking he would class her among the common ruck of his
admirers and imagine that she would put up with such treatment as they
were apparently content to endure. A position so humiliating she knew
that she could never tolerate. She was resolute, therefore, in her
determination never to allow the slightest intimacy to grow up between
them. But at the same time she was now careful always to answer his
letters fully and courteously, and she allowed him to converse with her
at second hand whenever he felt inclined. It was hardly conceivable
that, submitted to this treatment, he would not soon grow weary of
the whole affair. For her part she wished to devote herself to the
expiation of the many offences against her own religion[50] that her
residence at Kamo had involved. Ultimately she meant to take orders;
but any sudden step of that kind would certainly be attributed to an
unfortunate love-affair and so give colour to the rumours which already
connected her name with his. Indeed, she had seen enough of the world
to know that in few people is discretion stronger than the desire to
tell a good story, and she therefore took no one into her confidence,
not even the gentlewoman who waited daily upon her. Meanwhile she
devoted herself more and more ardently to preparation for the mode of
life which she hoped soon to embrace.
She had several brothers; but they were the children of Prince
♦Zembō’s first wife[51] and she knew very little of them. Other visitors
at the Momozono palace became increasingly rare; but the fact that no
less a person than Genji was known to be Princess Asagao’s admirer
aroused a widespread curiosity concerning her.
♦ “Zembo’s” replaced with “Zembō’s”
As a matter of fact, he was not very desperately in love with her; but
her apparent indifference had piqued him and he was determined to go
on till he had gained his point. He had recently gathered from several
sources of information, including persons of every rank in society, but
all of them in a position to know what they were talking about, that
his own reputation now stood very high in the country. He felt indeed
that his insight into affairs had very greatly improved since old days,
and it would certainly be a pity if a scandal once more deprived him of
popular confidence. Nevertheless, if gossip were to concern itself with
the matter at all, he could not help feeling he should prefer to figure
in the story as having succeeded than as having been ignominiously
repulsed.
Meanwhile his frequent absences from the Nijō-in had already convinced
Murasaki that the affair was as serious as it could possibly be. She
tried to conceal her agitation, but there were times when it was
evident that she had been secretly weeping, and Genji said to her one
day: ‘What has come over you lately? I cannot imagine any reason why
you should be so depressed’; and as he gently stroked the hair back
from her forehead they looked such a pair as you might put straight
into a picture.
‘Since his mother’s death,’ Genji went on presently, ‘the Emperor
Ryōzen has been in very low spirits and I have felt bound to spend a
good deal of time at the Palace. But that is not the only thing which
takes up my time in these days; you must remember that I have now to
attend personally to a mass of business which the old Minister of
the Left used formerly to take off my hands. I am as sorry as you are
that we see so much less of one another; but I do my best, and you must
really try henceforward to bear with me more patiently. You are no
longer a child; yet you make as little effort to enter into my feelings
and see my point of view as if you were still in the nursery.’ And with
that, just as though she were indeed a small child, he put back in
its place a lock of her hair that had become disordered while she was
weeping.
But still she turned away from him and would not speak a word. ‘This
is quite new,’ he said; ‘who has been teaching you these pettish airs
and graces?’ He spoke lightly; but how long, he wondered, was this
going to last, how much time were they going to spend in this dismal
fashion, while at any moment one of those countless horrors that
life perpetually holds over us might suddenly descend upon them and
reconciliation be no longer possible? Determined to bring the matter to
a head, he said at last: ‘I think you have perhaps been misled by very
foolish rumours concerning my friendship with the former Vestal. As a
matter of fact, it is of the most distant kind, as in the end you will
yourself probably realize. She has always, since I first got to know
her years ago, treated me with an exaggerated coldness. This hurts me,
and I have more than once remonstrated with her on the subject. As very
little now goes on at the Momozono palace, she has a good deal of time
on her hands and it amuses her to keep up a desultory correspondence.
This is all that has happened between us; and even you will surely
admit that is not worth crying about! If it is really this affair that
has been on your mind, I assure you that there is no cause whatever
for anxiety....’ He spent the whole day in trying to win back her
confidence, and his patience was at last rewarded.
By this time the snow was lying very deep, and it was still
falling, though now very lightly. So far from obliterating the
shapes of pine-tree and bamboo, the heavy covering of snow seemed
only to accentuate their varying forms, which stood out with strange
distinctness in the evening light. ‘We decided the other day,’ said
Genji to Murasaki, ‘that Lady Akikonomu’s season is Autumn, and yours
Spring. This evening I am more sure than ever that mine is Winter.
What could be more lovely than a winter night such as this, when the
moon shines out of a cloudless sky upon the glittering, fresh-fallen
snow? Beauty without colour seems somehow to belong to another world.
At any rate, I find such a scene as this infinitely more lovely and
moving than any other in the whole year. How little do I agree with the
proverb that calls the moon in winter a dismal sight!’ So saying he
raised the window-blind, and they looked out. The moon was now fully
risen, covering the whole garden with its steady, even light. The
withered flower-beds showed, in these cold rays, with painful clearness
the ravages of wind and frost. And look, the river was half-choked
with ice, while the pond, frozen all over, was unutterably strange
and lonesome under its coat of snow. Near it some children had been
allowed to make a monster snow-ball. They looked very pretty as they
tripped about in the moonlight. Several of the older girls had taken
off their coats and set to in a very business-like way, showing all
sorts of strange under-garments; while their brothers, coming straight
from their tasks as page-boys and what not, had merely loosened their
belts, and there was now a sight of smart coat-tails flapping and long
hair falling forwards till its ends brushed the white garden floor—an
effect both singular and delightful. Some of the very little ones were
quite wild with joy and rushed about dropping all their fans and other
belongings in their mad excitement.
The glee imprinted on these small faces was charming to behold. The
children made so big a snow-ball that when it came to rolling it along
the ground they could not make it budge an inch, and the sight of their
frantic endeavours to get it moving provoked much jeering and laughter
from another party of children which had just made its appearance at
the eastern door.
‘I remember,’ said Genji, ‘that one year Lady Fujitsubo had a
snow-mountain built in front of her palace. It is a common enough
amusement in winter time; but she had the art of making the most
ordinary things striking and interesting. What countless reasons I
have to regret her at every moment! I was during the greater part of
her life not at all intimate with her and had little opportunity of
studying her at close quarters. But during her residence at the Palace,
she often allowed me to be of service to her in various small ways,
and I frequently had occasion to use her good offices. In this way we
were constantly discussing one piece of business or another, and I
discovered that though she had no obvious or showy talents, she had the
most extraordinary capacity for carrying through even quite unimportant
and trivial affairs with a perfection of taste and management that has
surely never been equalled. At the same time she was of a rather timid
disposition and often took things too much to heart. Though you and she
both spring from the same stem and necessarily have much in common, I
have noticed that you are a good deal less even in temperament than she.
‘Lady Asagao, now, has a quite different nature. If in an idle moment I
address to her some trifling fancy she replies with such spirit that I
have hard work not to be left lagging. I know no one else at Court to
compare with her in this respect.’
‘I have always heard,’ said Murasaki, ‘that Lady Oborozuki is
extremely accomplished and quick-witted. I should have thought, too,
from all I know of her that she was very sensible and discreet; and
that makes me all the more surprised at certain stories that I have
heard repeated....’
‘You are quite right,’ said Genji. ‘Among all the ladies now at Court
she is the one I should pick out both for liveliness and beauty. As
to the rumours you speak of—I know quite well what you are referring
to. I bitterly regret what happened; as indeed I regret much else that
belongs to that part of my life. And what quantities of things most
people must begin to repent of, as the years go by! For compared with
almost any of my friends, I have led a very quiet and decorous life.’
He paused for a moment; the mention of Oborozuki seemed to have moved
him deeply. Presently he continued: ‘I have a feeling that you look
down upon country people such as the Lady of Akashi. I assure you that,
unlike most women in that station of life, she is extremely cultivated
and intelligent; though of course people of her class are bound in many
ways to be very different from us, and I admit she has certain strained
and exaggerated ideas, of which I cannot approve.
‘About women of the common sort I know nothing; but among our own
people it has always seemed to me that few indeed were in any way
remarkable or interesting. An exception however is our guest in the
new wing[52]; she remains charming as ever. But though such beauty and
intelligence are very rare, she has never cared to parade them; and
since the time when I first realized her gifts and hastened to make her
acquaintance, she has always continued to show the same indifference to
the worldly conquests which she might so easily have secured. We have
now been friends for so long that I do not think we are ever likely
to part; I at any rate should be very sorry if she were to leave my
house.’ While he thus talked of one thing and another, it grew very
late. The moon shone brighter and brighter, and a stillness now reigned
that, after the recent wintry storms, was very agreeable. Murasaki
recited the verse: ‘The frozen waters are at rest; but now with waves
of light the moon-beam ebbs and flows.’ She was looking out at the
window, her head a little to one side, and both the expression of her
face and the way her hair fell reminded him, as so often before, of her
whom he had lost. Suddenly his affections, which for many weeks past
had to some small extent been divided, were once more hers, and hers
alone.
Just then a love-bird[53] cried, and he recited the verse: ‘Does it
not move you strangely, the love-bird’s cry, to-night when, like the
drifting snow, memory piles up on memory?’ Long after he and Murasaki
had retired to rest, recollections of Lady Fujitsubo continued to crowd
into his mind, and when at last he fell asleep, a vision of her at once
appeared to him, saying in tones of deep reproach: ‘It may be that
you on earth have kept our secret; but in the land of the dead shame
cannot be hid, and I am paying dearly for what you made me do....’ He
tried to answer, but fear choked his voice, and Murasaki, hearing him
suddenly give a strange muffled cry, said rather peevishly: ‘What are
you doing that for? You frightened me!’ The sound of her voice roused
him. He woke in a terrible state of grief and agitation, his eyes full
of tears which he at once made violent efforts to control. But soon he
was weeping bitterly, to the bewilderment of Murasaki, who nevertheless
lay all the time stock still at his side. He was now too miserable
and distracted to think of sleep, and slipping out of bed presently
began writing notes to various temples in the district, directing that
certain texts and spells should be recited; he did not however dare
to state on whose behalf these things were to be done.
Small wonder that in the dream she turned upon him so bitter and
reproachful a gaze, feeling (as by her words he judged she did) that
this one sin had robbed her of salvation. He remembered her constant
devotions; never since that fatal day had she omitted one single
prayer, penance or charity that might serve as atonement for her guilt.
Yet all had been in vain, and even in the world beyond, this one crime
clung to her like a stain that could not be washed away. In the past
he had never thought clearly about such things; but now they lived
in his mind with a terrible vividness and certainty. Were there but
some spell, some magic that could enable him to seek her out in the
obscure region where her soul was dwelling, and suffer in her stead
the penalties of his own offence! Yet the truth was that he could not
so much as have a few poor Masses said for her soul; for, had he named
her, the suspicions of the Court would at once have been aroused.
Concerning the Emperor, too, Genji’s conscience was very uneasy; for
had Ryōzen indeed discovered the true story of his birth, he must now
be living in a state of continual apprehension. It was at about this
time that Genji put himself under the especial protection of Amida,
Buddha of Boundless Light, beseeching the Blessed One that in due time
his soul and that of the lady whom he had undone might spring from the
same lotus in His holy Paradise. But of such an issue he had little
hope, and often he would disconsolately recite the verse: ‘Fain would I
follow her, could I but hope to thread my way among the sunless Rivers
of the World Below.’[54]
[39] Consequently an aunt both of Asagao and Genji, who were first
cousins; Prince Momozono, Asagao’s father, being a brother of
Genji’s father, the old Emperor. Asagao was the one lady whom
Genji had courted in vain. See vol. i, p. 68.
[40] Aoi’s mother.
[41] I.e. making love to her.
[42] Allusion to the poem: ‘By the River of Cleansing I tied
prayer-strips inscribed “I will love no more”; but it seems
that the Gods would not accept my vow.’
[43] Asagao.
[44] Where Murasaki would not be likely to come.
[45] In the men’s quarters.
[46] During the 10th month the Gods withdraw themselves and cannot
hear our prayers; their return in the 11th month is celebrated
with rejoicing; but this year, owing to the National Mourning
for Fujitsubo’s death, these ceremonies were omitted.
[47] See vol. i, p. 229.
[48] 572–621 A.D.
[49] Asagao.
[50] Buddhism. She had been Vestal in the Shintō temple at Kamo,
where no Buddhist prayers or observances were allowed.
[51] Rokujō was his second.
[52] The lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.
[53] Generally called by the ugly name ‘Mandarin Duck.’
[54] Through each of the Three Evil Realms (of Animals, Hungry
Ghosts and Demons) runs a meandering river.