CHAPTER X

THE SACRED TREE

BEING THE SECOND 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

1926

To

MARY MacCARTHY

PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN

PREFACE

Several critics have asked to be told more about the writer of the

Tale of Genji. Unfortunately little is known of Murasaki’s life save

the bare facts recorded in the first appendix of Volume I. What other

knowledge we possess is derived from her _Diary_, which will be

discussed in a later volume and is meanwhile available in Mr. Doi’s

translation. Reviewers have also asked for information concerning

the state of literature in Japan at the time when the _Tale_ was

written. This I have supplied; and I have further ventured upon a short

discussion of Murasaki’s art and its relation to the fiction of the

West.

I have been blamed for using Catholic terms to describe heathen

rituals. My reason for doing so is that the outward forms of medieval

Buddhism stand much nearer to Catholicism than to the paler ceremonies

of the Protestant Church, and if one avoids words with specifically

Catholic associations one finds oneself driven back upon the still

less appropriate terminology of Anglicanism. Thus ‘Vespers’ is a less

misleading translation than ‘Evening Service’ though the latter is far

more literal.

Finally, I have thought it might be of interest to give a few notes

concerning the transmission of the text.

Volume III is finished and will appear shortly.

_Note on Pronunciation_.—The G in ‘Genji’ is hard, as in ‘gun.’ Vowels,

as in Italian.

CONTENTS

PAGE

PREFACE 5

LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS 9

GENEALOGICAL TABLES 11

SUMMARY OF VOL. 1 13

INTRODUCTION:

FICTION IN JAPAN PREVIOUS TO THE _Tale of Genji_ 15

THE ART OF MURASAKI 30

NOTE ON THE TEXT 35

CHAPTER

X. THE SACRED TREE 39

XI. THE VILLAGE OF FALLING FLOWERS 94

XII. EXILE AT SUMA 99

XIII. AKASHI 141

XIV. THE FLOOD GAUGE 188

XV. THE PALACE IN THE TANGLED WOODS 225

XVI. A MEETING AT THE FRONTIER 252

XVII. THE PICTURE COMPETITION 258

XVIII. THE WIND IN THE PINE-TREES 282

LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS

(ALPHABETICAL)

Akashi, Lady of Daughter of the old recluse of Akashi.

Akikonomu, Lady Vestal Virgin at Ise; daughter of Rokujō.

Aoi, Princess Genji’s first wife.

Asagao, Princess Genji’s first-cousin; courted by him in

vain.

Chūjō Short for ‘Tō no Chūjō.’

Chūjō, Lady Tō no Chūjō’s daughter by his legitimate

wife.

Chūnagon Maid to Oborozuki.

Emperor, The Old Genji’s father.

Fujitsubo The Old Emperor’s consort; loved by Genji.

Genji, Prince The Old Emperor’s son by a concubine.

Gosechi, Lady Dancer at the winter festival; admired by

Genji.

Hyōbukyō, Prince Fujitsubo’s brother; Murasaki’s father.

Iyo no Suke Husband of Utsusemi.

Jijū Maid to Suyetsumu.

Jōkyōden, Lady Consort of Suzaku.

Ki no Kami Son of Iyo no Suke by his first wife.

Kōkiden Original consort of the Old Emperor;

supplanted first by Genji’s mother, then

by Fujitsubo.

Koremitsu Retainer to Genji.

Murasaki Genji’s second wife.

Oborozukiyo, Princess Younger sister of Kōkiden.

Ōmyōbu Maid to Fujitsubo.

Reikeiden Lady-in-waiting at the Old Emperor’s Court.

Reikeiden, Princess Niece of Kōkiden.

Rokujō, Princess Widow of the Old Emperor’s brother.

Ryōzen, Emperor Son of Genji and Fujitsubo; successor to

Suzaku.

Shōnagon Murasaki’s old nurse.

Sochi no Miya, Prince Genji’s half-brother.

Suyetsumu, Lady Daughter of Prince Hitachi; the red-nosed

(Suyetsumuhana) lady.

Suzaku, Emperor Genji’s half-brother; successor to the Old

Emperor.

Tō no Chūjō Brother of Genji’s first wife, Lady Aoi.

Ukon no Jō (Ukon) Faithful retainer to Genji; brother of

Ki no Kami.

Utsusemi Wife of Iyo no Suke. Courted by Genji.

Village of Falling Sister of Reikeiden; protected by Genji.

Flowers, Lady from the

GENEALOGICAL TABLES

┌ Prince Zembō, _m_. Lady Rokujō, and died young.

│ │

│ └ Lady Akikonomu.

│

│

├ THE OLD EMPEROR.

│ │

│ ├ Suzaku (his mother was Lady Kōkiden).

│ │

│ └ Genji (his mother was Lady Kiritsubo).

│

│

├ Prince Momozono Shikibukyō.

│ │

│ └ Princess Asagao.

│

└ Princess Ōmiya, _m_. the Minister of the Left.

│

├ Aoi.

│ │

│ └ Yūgiri.

│

└ Tō no Chūjō.

│

└ Lady Chūjō.

MINISTER OF THE RIGHT.

│

├ Kōkiden (eldest daughter).

│

└ Oborozukiyo[1] (sixth daughter), wife of Suzaku, who is Emperor

for a time, but soon retires.

A FORMER EMPEROR.

│

├ Prince Hyōbukyō.

│ │

│ └ Murasaki (Genji’s second wife).

│

└ Fujitsubo.

│

└ Ryōzen (supposed to be the old Emperor’s child; really Genji’s).

Becomes Emperor in Suzaku’s stead.

[1] Whom in this volume I call Oborozuki for short.

SUMMARY OF VOLUME ONE

Genji is an illegitimate son of the Emperor; his mother dies soon

after his birth. At the age of twelve he is affianced to Lady Aoi, the

daughter of the Minister of the Left; but she is older than he is, and

looks down upon him as a mere schoolboy. Years go by and they are still

upon indifferent terms. Meanwhile Genji falls in love with Lady Rokujō,

a widow eight years older than himself. She is passionately jealous of

his wife (whom, however, Genji hardly ever sees) 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 great

friend Tō no Chūjō: to the fantastic Lady Suyetsumuhana, the ‘lady

with the red nose.’ Utsusemi is carried away to the provinces by her

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

Meanwhile Genji manages to establish better terms with his wife, Aoi,

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

had destroyed Yūgao. Since his childhood Genji has had a passionate

admiration for Lady Fujitsubo, his father’s second wife and therefore

his own stepmother. He has a son by her which is believed by the world

to be the Emperor’s child. Had this misdemeanour became known, Genji’s

enemies, led by Lady Kōkiden who had been his mother’s rival, would

have had an ample pretext for driving him away from Court. As it is,

the actual cause of Genji’s banishment (recounted in Vol. II) is his

intrigue with Oborozukiyo, a much younger sister of his enemy,

Lady Kōkiden.

At the end of Vol. I, Genji marries, _en secondes noces_, Lady

Murasaki, a niece of Fujitsubo, whom he had some years before taken

into his house and adopted.

INTRODUCTION

Fiction in Japan Previous to “The Tale of Genji”

_The Tale of Genji_ was probably written about 1001–1015 A.D. We know

the titles of a good many earlier stories and romances. About a dozen

are mentioned in the _Tale_ itself. But only three actual works of

fiction survive, _The Bamboo-cutter_, _The Hollow Tree_ (‘Utsubo’), and

the _Room Below Stairs_ (‘Ochikubo’). Besides these there are a few

works which, though belonging to a rather different category, throw

some light on the development of fiction and will be mentioned in due

course.

_The Bamboo-cutter_ dates from about 860–870. It is a harmless little

fairy-story. An old peasant finds a minute child in a bamboo-stem. She

grows up into a woman of surpassing beauty, is courted by numerous

lovers to whom she sets a series of grotesque tasks which they entirely

fail to perform. Finally celestial messengers arrive and carry her away

to the sky.

The _Hollow Tree_ cannot be much earlier than 980. No doubt in this

interval of more than a hundred years much was written that is now

lost. But it cannot be said that _The Hollow Tree_ shows much sign

of progress. As it exists to-day it is a very long book—more than

half as long as _Genji_. But it is not quite certain whether, of

the fourteen chapters which we now possess, any but the first

(called _Toshikage_) is really earlier than _Genji_. _Toshikage_ is

the story of a man who on the way from Japan to China, regardless of

geographical probabilities, gets wrecked ‘on the coast of Persia.’ In

this country he falls in with supernatural beings from whom he obtains

thirty miraculous zitherns and the knowledge of enchanted tunes. After

a distinguished career on the Continent he returns to Japan with ten

zitherns which he distributes among the grandees of the Court, keeping

one for his small daughter, to whom alone he teaches the marvellous

Persian tunes. He and his wife die, the daughter marries unhappily and

is finally left with no possessions save the marvellous zithern and

a little son of twelve. They take refuge in a hollow tree, but soon

discover to their consternation that their new home is the den of a

bear who, returning from his day’s hunting, is about to devour them,

when the little boy makes a speech of several pages. The bear is so

much moved that, far from molesting the intruders, it puts the hollow

tree at their disposition and trots off to look for another home.

Finally the wicked husband repents, takes back the wife and child whom

he had deserted and all ends happily. The child embarks upon its career

as an infant prodigy and at the age of eighteen takes part victoriously

in a musical competition at Court.

The remaining chapters deal chiefly with the rivalry of this young

musician and other courtiers for the hand of the Prime Minister’s

daughter. They possess a certain historical interest as pictures of

Court life, but are long-winded and boring to an almost unbelievable

degree. Even _Toshikage_ (the first chapter), which, when summarized,

may sound mildly entertaining, is for the most part unendurably silly.

A little later, but not very far removed in date, is the _Room Below

Stairs_. It is a feebly sentimental story about an ill-used

step-child, somewhat in the manner of the edifying stories told in the

_Fairchild Family_, but wholly lacking in the occasional felicities

which spring unexpectedly from Mrs. Sherwood’s pen. It is, however, a

short book (only about 200 pages) and that is the best that can be said

for it.

In none of these works is there any ability or desire to portray

character. That is not in itself fatal to a work of fiction. The

_Arabian Nights_ are without it, and it exists only in the most

rudimentary form in Defoe. But if this resource be neglected, something

must take its place. There must be a fertility of narrative invention

(as in Near Eastern fiction) or the building up of effect by sequences

of actual word-texture (as in Virginia Woolf). Otherwise not literature

but mere perfunctory anecdote will result, as has indeed happened in

the case of _Genji’s_ predecessors.

Now Murasaki herself has every quality which these earlier writers

lack. She exploits character, in a very restrained way, it is true, but

with an unerring instinct how to produce the greatest effect with the

least possible display. And to this she adds not only an astonishing

capacity for invention, but also a beauty of actual diction unsurpassed

by any long novel in the world. For none of these qualities was she

indebted in any way to such of her predecessors as survive. Concerning

lost works it is useless to speculate.

I have said that besides the three early stories there are other

prose works which have some bearing on the history of Japanese

fiction. To begin with there are the _Tales of Ise_, written somewhere

about 890 A.D. They consist of 125 short paragraphs (often only two

or three lines) containing little poems and a description of the

circumstances under which they were written. They appear to concern the

love-adventures of a single person, but are quite disconnected. I

have translated one of the longer episodes in my _Japanese Poetry_. The

_Yamato Tales_, about half a century later, also centre round poems.

They consist of rather trivial anecdotes about courtiers of the period.

We now come to the one book which, though it is not a work of fiction

and though it lacks the qualities of deliberate art which make _Genji_

so astonishing, at least seems to move in the same world of thought and

feeling. This is the _Gossamer Diary_ (‘Kagerō Nikki’).

The writer was mistress of the great statesman Fujiwara no Kane-iye

(929–999). By him she had a son called Michitsuna, and her name not

being recorded she is known to history as ‘Michitsuna’s mother.’ He

made her acquaintance in 954 and Michitsuna was born the year after.

But Kane-iye already had a wife, a legitimate family and numerous

mistresses. Lady Gossamer (as we will for convenience call the writer

of the _Diary_) could not expect undivided attention. This was a fact

that she took years to recognize, and when the diary closes (in the

twentieth year of their _liaison_!) she had indeed recognized her

position, but was still as far from accepting it as at the start.

The record begins in 954, the year in which they met. ‘For twenty

days he has not been here at all.’ ‘This month he has written

only twice....’ Such entries are frequent from the beginning. Her

grievance grew and grew. It became her whole life. When he did not

come, she wept; when he came, she wept because he had not come

sooner. She was immersed in perpetual devotions; while he, like our

own eighteenth-century bucks whom in every particular he so strongly

resembled, only turned religious when he was ill. Often he found her

kneeling before an image of Buddha, lost in prayer; and one day,

suddenly infuriated by this dismal reception, he kicked over her

incense-bowl and, snatching the rosary from her hands, flung it across

the room. He loved gaiety, noise, funny stories, practical jokes. She

was shy, sensitive and, above all, terribly serious. His method of

entertaining her was to repeat with immense gusto ‘every piece of silly

clownery or tomfoolery’ that was current in the City, spiced with jokes

and puns of his own.

She was incurably sentimental. Never for an instant could she recognize

that time must bring changes, and after ten years she was still

expecting him to court her with the ardour of _arishi toki_, ‘the times

that were.’

One night when she is awaiting him she lights the candles. No! She will

let him find her in the dark, as in those old days when their love

was still a secret escapade. She puts the candles out and, hearing

him fumbling at the entry, cries _Koko ni_! (Here!) and stretches out

her hand as she had often done before. But to-night he is in no mood

for hide-and-seek. ‘What game is this?’ he cries angrily, ‘light the

candles at once. I cannot see my way into the room.’ Then he asks if

they can find him a snack of something to eat; he has had no supper.

He eats his fish in silence, then says that he has had a tiring day,

yawns, and falls asleep. At dawn his sons, the children of her rival,

come to fetch him, and he calls her to the window to ‘look what fine

young fellows they have grown.’

His visits become more and more infrequent. She is desperately unhappy,

talks of suicide, threatens to become a nun and on more than one

occasion actually instals herself in a nunnery, but always allows

herself to be ‘rescued’ at the last minute. The second flight was to

a temple at Narutaki. Here she remained for many months in a state of

the greatest agitation; but she did not take her vows, and in the end

allowed herself to be fetched, quietly away by Kane-iye and her

son Michitsuna, now a boy in his ’teens.

It was at this moment that she actually began the composition of the

_Diary_, the first part of which is not a day-to-day record but an

autobiographical fragment composed many years later than the events

which it records. But henceforward the book has all the character of a

diary and is indeed very minute; scarcely a shower passes unrecorded.

A new phase in the story begins with the adoption by Lady Gossamer of

a little orphan girl aged twelve, a child of her lover Kane-iye by a

woman whom years ago he had seduced and immediately abandoned. The

child grows up and is ultimately courted by the head of the office in

which Lady Gossamer’s son Michitsuna is now working. Kane-iye gives his

consent to the match; Lady Gossamer hears stories to the young man’s

discredit, foresees for her adopted daughter a life all too like her

own and opposes the plan.

Here (in 974 A.D., twenty years after she first met Kane-iye) the

_Diary_ ends abruptly.

Publication in our sense of the word did not of course exist in those

days. But no doubt a few copies of the book were made for those who

were likely to be interested. Kane-iye himself, who lived on for

another twenty-five years, surely possessed one. Now it was in the

family of Kane-iye’s legitimate son Michinaga[1] that Murasaki, the

authoress of the _Tale of Genji_, served as lady-in-waiting, and we

know from Murasaki’s diary that this Michinaga fell in love with her

and courted her. It is more than probable that Michinaga had inherited

a copy of the _Gossamer Diary_ from Kane-iye and in that case it is

also very probable that he showed it to Murasaki. This much at any

rate is certain, that we find in the _Gossamer Diary_ an anticipation

of just those characteristics which mark off _Genji_ from other

Japanese romances,—apt delineation of character, swift narrative, vivid

description and above all the realization that a story of actual life,

such as is led by hundreds of real men and women, is not necessarily

less interesting than a tale crammed with ogres and divinities. The

following passage refers to the year 970, when Kane-iye (the lover) was

41, Michitsuna (the bastard) 15 and Lady Gossamer herself perhaps about

35.

‘Every day he promises that it shall be to-morrow. And when to-morrow

comes, it is to be the day after. Of course I do not believe him;

yet each time that this happens I begin imagining that he has

repented,—that all has come right again. So day after day goes by.

‘At last I am certain. He does not intend to come. I did not think that

about unhappiness I had anything fresh to learn; I confess that never

before have I endured such torture as in these last days. Hour after

hour the same wretched thoughts chase through my brain. Shall I be able

to endure it much longer? I have tried to pray; but no prayer forms

itself in my mind, save the wish that I were dead.

‘But there is this lovely creature (her son Michitsuna) to think of. If

only he were a little older and I could see him married to some girl

whom I trusted, then I would indeed be glad to die. But as it is how

can I leave him to shift for himself,—to wander perhaps from house to

house? No, that is too horrible. I must not die.

‘I might of course become a nun and try to forget all this. Indeed,

I did once speak of it (i.e. to Michitsuna),—quite lightly, just to

see how he would take it. He was terribly distressed and, struggling

with his tears, he told me that if I did so he would become a monk,

“For what would there be,” he said, “to keep me in the world? You are

the only thing I care for.” And at that he burst into a flood of

tears. By this time I too was weeping; but seeing him almost beside

himself with grief I tried to pass the thing off as a jest, saying

“Well, I mean to one day; and what will your highness do then?” It

happened that he had a falcon on his wrist, and jumping straight to his

feet he set it free, reciting as he did so the verse: “Desolate must

she be, and weary of strife, whose thoughts, like this swift bird, fly

heavenward at a touch.”

‘At this, some of my servants who chanced to be sitting near by could

not restrain their tears; and it may be imagined with what feelings I,

in the midst of the unendurable misery and agitation with which I was

contending, heard my child utter these words.

‘It was growing dark when suddenly _he_ (her lover) arrived at the

house. For some reason I felt certain that he had come only to regale

me with all the empty gossip that was going round. I sent a message

that I was not well and would see him some other time.

‘It is the tenth day of the seventh month. Every one is getting ready

their Ullambana[2] presents. If, after all these years, he should fail

to send me anything for the festival I think the most hard-hearted

person in the world could not help being sorry for me! However, there

is still time.

‘Last night, just when I was thinking I should have to get the

offerings for myself and was weeping bitterly, a messenger came with

just the same presents as in other years, and a letter attached! Even

the dead were not forgotten.[3] In his letter he quoted the poem:

“Though never far away, yet wretched must I bide....” If that is indeed

how he feels, his conduct becomes more than ever inexplicable! No

allusion to the fact that he has transferred his affections to some one

else. Yet I am certain it is so.

‘It suddenly occurs to me that there is a certain gentlewoman in the

household of that Prince Ono no Miya[4] who died the other day. I

believe that it is she whom my lord is courting. She is called Ōmi,

and I heard some one whispering not long ago that this Ōmi was having

an adventure of some kind. He does not want her to know that he comes

here. That is why he decided to break with me beforehand. I said this

to one of my maids; but she doubted if there were anything in it. “O

well, it may be so,” she said, “but in any case this Ōmi is not the

sort of person to ask many questions....”

‘I have got another idea. I think it is one of the daughters of the

late Emperor. But what difference does it make? In any case, as every

one tells me, it is no use just sitting and watching him slip away from

me as one might watch the light fade out of the evening sky. “Go away,

pay a visit somewhere or other,” they say to me. I have thought about

nothing else day or night but this hideous business. The weather is

very hot. But it is no use going on talking about what I am going to

do. This time my mind is made up. I am going to Ishiyama for ten days.

‘I decided to tell no one, not even my brothers, and stole from the

house very secretly, just before dawn. Once outside, I began to run as

fast as I could. I had almost reached the Kamo River when some of my

women came rushing after me laden with all sorts of stuff. How they

discovered that I had fled and that this was the direction I had taken,

I still do not know. The setting moon was shining very brightly and

we might easily have been recognized; but we met no one. When we came

to the river some one told me there was a dead man lying face

downwards on the shingle. I did not feel afraid.

‘By the time we reached the Awada Hill I began to be very exhausted and

was obliged to rest. I had still not decided what I should do when I

arrived,[5] and in the agony of trying to make up my mind I burst into

tears. I could not risk being seen in such a state and staggering to my

feet I set out once more, just able to drag myself along a step or two

at a time.

‘By the time we reached Yamashina it was quite light. I felt like a

criminal whose guilt has suddenly been exposed and became so agitated

that I scarcely knew what I was doing. My women had now fallen behind.

I waited for them and made them go in front, myself walking alone so

that we might attract as little attention as possible. Yet the people I

met stared at me curiously and whispered excitedly. I was terrified.

‘Scarcely able to draw breath I at last reached Hashiri-i. Here they

said it was time for breakfast, and having opened the picnic baskets

they were just arranging the mats and getting things ready when we

heard people coming towards us shouting at the top of their voices.

What was I to do? Who could it be? I could only suppose that they

were friends of one or another of the maids who were with me. “Could

anything more tiresome have happened?” I was just thinking, when I saw

that the people were on horseback and formed part of a large travelling

party, consisting of numerous riders and a number of waggons and

coaches. It was in fact the retired governor of Wakasa coming back from

his province. Soon they began to pass the place where we were sitting.

Fortunate travellers! Among them are many who from to-day onwards will

kneel in my Lord’s presence noon and night. This thought cut

through my heart like a knife. It seemed to me that the drivers took

the waggons as close as they could to where we had spread our mats.

While they were passing us, not only the servants who were at the back

of the coaches but even the drivers and grooms behaved disgracefully,

making such remarks as I had never heard before. My ladies showed great

spirit, hastily moving our belongings as far from the roadside as they

could and calling out: “This is a public highway, isn’t it? We have

just as good a right to be here as you!” What an odious scene to be

mixed up with! As soon as they were well out of sight we pressed on

again, and were soon passing through the Ōsaka gate. I reached the quay

at Uchide[6] more dead than alive. My people whom I had sent on ahead

had gathered long bulrushes and built for me a kind of shelter or cabin

on the deck. I crept on board and lay down, scarcely noticing whether

we had the boat to ourselves or not. Soon we were far out upon the

lake. During the voyage, as we drew further and further from the City,

I felt a loneliness, an anguish, an utter helplessness impossible to

describe. It was well after the Hour of the Monkey (i.e. about 5 p.m.)

that we reached the temple.

‘As soon as I had taken a bath, I went and lay down. Again I began

trying to make up my mind what I should do, and for several hours I lay

tossing from side to side, unable to get any rest. At dusk I washed

again and went into the Chapel.

‘I began trying to make my confession to Buddha; but tears choked me

and my voice fell to a whisper. It was now quite dark. I went to the

window and looked out. The Chapel stood high, and below it was what

seemed like a precipitous ravine; it lay in a cup or hollow and the

steep banks on either side were overgrown with tall trees, so

that the place was very closed-in and dark. The moon was some twenty

days old and having risen late in the night was now shining with

extraordinary brilliance. Here and there the moonlight pierced through

the trees, making sudden patches of brightness; there was one such just

at the foot of the cliff. Looking straight below me I could see what

appeared to be a vast lake, but was indeed only a small drinking-pool.

I went on to a balcony and leant over the railing. Among the grass on

the steep bank far below me I could see something white appearing and

disappearing, and at the same time there was a curious, rustling sound.

I asked what it was and was told that these were deer. I was wondering

why I had not heard them cry as one generally does, when suddenly from

the direction of quite a different valley there came a faint weak sound

like the wailing of a new-born child. Surely it must be a young doe

crying a great way off? At first I thought that I was imagining the

sound; but presently it became unmistakable.

‘I was lost in prayer and knew nothing of what was going on around

me, when a hideous yelling, seeming to come from the far side of the

hills at which I had been looking, broke in upon my prayers. It was

a peasant chasing some one off his land. Never have I heard a voice

more pitiless, more ferocious. If such sounds as that proved to be

common happenings in this place, I knew that I should not hold out very

long and, utterly shattered, I sat for a while trying to recover my

composure. At last I heard a sound of chanting in the temple; the monks

had begun to sing the _goya_,[7] and I left the chapel. Feeling very

weak, I again took a bath. It was beginning to grow light, and looking

about me I saw that a heavy night-mist was rolling away to the

West, blown by a light, steady wind. The view beyond the river looked

as though painted in a picture. Near the water horses were quietly

grazing; they looked strangely small and far away. It was very lovely.

‘If only my beloved child were in safe hands I would give everything up

and arrange to end my days here. But the moment I think of him I long

to be back in the City and become very depressed.

‘He will be coming with the other boys on the excursion to Sakura-dani,

which is not far from here. If he were to come, I could not bear to

hear that he had passed so close.... I do not want to go back; but I

think if any one fetched me I should consent to go. But should I? I

worry about this all the time and cannot bring myself to eat anything.

‘They came and told me they had been for a walk behind the monastery

and found some meadow-sweet growing near a pond. I asked them to bring

me some, which they did, and put the flowers in a bowl along with some

lemons on stripped stems. It really looked very pretty.

‘When it was dark I went back to the chapel and spent the night in

confession and prayer, weeping bitterly the whole while. Towards

daybreak I dozed for a moment and dreamt that I saw one of the monks

(the one who seems to act as a sort of steward here) fill a bucket

of water and put it on the seat on my right. I woke up with a start

and knew at once that the dream had been sent to me by Buddha. It was

certainly not of a kind to bring much encouragement.[8] Presently some

one said that it was now broad daylight, and breaking off my prayers I

came down from the chapel. I found, however, that it was really

still quite dark. Only across the surface of the lake a whiteness was

creeping, against which were dimly outlined the figures of some twenty

men clustered together on the shore. They seemed all to be gazing

intently at something that was hidden from me by the shadow of the

cliff. But though I could see nothing I knew that from the dark place

would presently issue the boat for which they were waiting. A priest,

who had just come from the early morning service, was standing on the

cliff watching the boat put out from the shore, and as it drew further

and further away from him, it seemed to me that he gazed after it

almost wistfully. Should I too, if I had been here as many years, grow

weary of the place and long for escape? It may be so. “This time next

year!” the young men on the boat shouted; and by the time the priest

had called “goodbye” they were already mere shadows in the distance.

I looked up at the sky. The moon was very slim. Its narrow bow was

reflected in the lake. A rainy wind was now blowing and presently the

whole surface of the water became covered with glittering ripples. The

young men on the boat had begun to sing, and though their voices were

faint I could hear what song they were singing. It was “Haggard has

grown the face ...” and the sound of it brought back the tears to my

eyes.

‘Ikaga Point, Yamabuki Point,—promontory after promontory was now

emerging from the darkness. And as my eye travelled along the shore I

suddenly saw something moving through the reeds. Before I could see

clearly what it was I began to hear the noise of oars, then the low

humming of a rowers’ song. A boat was drawing near. Some one standing

further down the shore called out as it passed “Where are you making

for?” “For the temple,” a voice from the boat answered, “to fetch the

lady....”

‘How my heart beat when I heard those words! It seems that despite

all my precautions he[9] caught wind of my plan, and sent some servants

to escort me; but by then I suppose I had already started. They were

at first wrongly directed; hence the delay. The boat pulled inshore,

room was made for us, and soon we were on our homeward way, the oarsmen

singing lustily. As we passed along the side of Seta Bridge it began to

grow quite light. A covey of sand-plovers, with much frilling of wings,

flew right across us; and indeed, before we reached the quay where two

days ago I had taken boat, we had seen many lovely and moving sights. A

carriage was waiting for me at the quay and I was back in the City soon

after the hour of the Snake (10 a.m.). No sooner did I reach home than

my women gathered round me full of lurid stories about all that had

been going on in the world since my departure. It is really very odd

that they should still think such things have any interest for me; and

so I told them.’

In the _Izumi Shikibu Nikki_, the record of a love-affair which took

place in 1003–1004, we find the romantic diary already becoming a

rather effete and self-conscious _genre_. This little book (some

forty pages) is utterly lacking in the intensity and directness of

Lady Gossamer’s journal; it has been translated into English[10]

and the environment of the story is so new to European readers that

its weakness as literature tends to be condoned. Another work which

preceded _Genji_ by a few years was the _Makura no Sōshi_ or ‘Pillow

Sketches’ of Sei Shōnagon. This is a spirited commonplace-book, but it

contains no connected narrative and therefore does not here concern us.

The greater part of it was translated by the late Abbé Noël Péri, and

no doubt his translation will one day be published.

The Art of Murasaki

Most critics have agreed that the book is a remarkable one and that

Murasaki is a writer of considerable talent; but few have dealt with

the points that seem to me fundamental. No one has discussed, in

anything but the most shadowy way, the all-important question of how

she has turned to account the particular elements in story-telling

which she has chosen to exploit. The work, it is true, is a

translation, and this fact prevents discussion of Murasaki as a poet,

as an actual handler of words. But it has for long been customary to

criticize Russian novels as though Mrs. Garnett’s translation were the

original; nor is there any harm in doing so, provided actual questions

of style are set aside.

One reviewer did indeed analyse the nature of Murasaki’s achievement to

the extent of classifying her as ‘psychological’ and in this respect he

even went so far as to class her with Marcel Proust. Now it is clear

that, if we contrast _Genji_ with such fiction as does not exploit the

ramifications of the human mind at all (the _Arabian Nights_ or _Mother

Goose_), it appears to be ‘psychological.’ But if we go on to compare

it with Stendhal, with Tolstoy, with Proust, the _Tale of Genji_

appears by contrast to possess little more psychological complication

than a Grimm’s fairy tale.

Yet it does for a very definite reason belong more to the category

which includes Proust, than to the category which includes Grimm.

Murasaki, like the novelist of to-day, is not principally interested

in the events of the story, but rather in the effect which these

events may have upon the minds of her characters. Such books as hers

it is convenient, I think, to call ‘novels,’ while reserving for other

works of fiction the name ‘story’ or ‘romance.’ She is ‘modern’

again owing to the accident that medieval Buddhism possessed certain

psychological conceptions which happen to be current in Europe to-day.

The idea that human personality is built up of different layers

which may act in conflict, that an emotion may exist in the fullest

intensity and yet be unperceived by the person in whom it is at

work—such conceptions were commonplaces in ancient Japan. They give to

Murasaki’s work a certain rather fallacious air of modernity. But it is

not psychological elements such as these that Murasaki is principally

exploiting. She is, I think, obtaining her effects by means which

are so unfamiliar to European readers (though they have, in varying

degrees, often been exploited in the West) that while they work as they

were intended to do and produce aesthetic pleasure, the reader is quite

unconscious how this pleasure arose.

What then are the essential characteristics of Murasaki’s art?

Foremost, I think, is the way in which she handles the whole course

of narrative as a series of contrasted effects. Examine the relation

of Chapter VIII (_The Feast of the Flowers_) to its environment. The

effect of these subtly-chosen successions is more like that of music

(of the movements, say, in a Mozart symphony) than anything that we

are familiar with in European fiction. True, at the time when the

criticisms to which I refer were made only one volume of the work had

been translated; but the quality which I have mentioned is, I should

have supposed, abundantly illustrated in the first chapters. That to

one critic the _Tale of Genji_ should have appeared to be memoirs—a

realistic record of accidental happenings rather than a novel—is to me

utterly incomprehensible. But the first painted makimonos that were

brought to Europe created the same impression. They were regarded

merely as a succession of topographical records, joined together

more or less fortuitously; and Murasaki’s art obviously has a close

analogy with that of the makimono. Then there is her feeling for shape

and tempo. She knows that, not only in the work as a whole, but in

each part of it there is a beginning, a middle and an end, and that

each of these divisions has its own character, its appropriate pace

and intensity. It is inconceivable, for example, that she should open

a book or episode with a highly-coloured and elaborate passage of

lyrical description, calculated to crush under its weight all that

follows. Another point in which she excels is the actual putting of

her characters on to the scene. First their existence is hinted at,

our curiosity is aroused, we are given a glimpse; and only after much

manoeuvring is the complete entry made. The modern novelist tends to

fling his characters on to the canvas without tact or precaution of any

kind. That credence, attention even, may be a hard thing to win does

not occur to him, for he is corrupted by a race of readers who come to

a novel seeking the pleasures of instruction rather than those of art;

readers who will forgive every species of clumsiness provided they are

shown some stratum of life with which they were not previously familiar.

How finally does Murasaki achieve the extraordinary reality, the

almost ‘historical’ character with which she succeeds in investing her

scenes? Many readers have agreed with me in feeling that such episodes

as the death of Yūgao, the clash of the coaches at the Kamo festival,

the visit of Genji to the mountains, the death of Aoi, become, after

one reading, a permanent accession to the world as one knows it,

are things which have ‘happened’ as much as the most vivid piece of

personal experience. This sense of reality with which she invests her

narrative is not the result of realism in any ordinary sense. It is

not the outcome of those clever pieces of small observation by

which the modern novelist strives to attain the same effect. Still

less is it due to solid character building; for Murasaki’s characters

are mere embodiments of some dominant characteristic; Genji’s father

is easy-going; Aoi, proud; Murasaki, long-suffering; Oborozukiyo,

light-headed. This sense of reality is due rather, I think, to a

narrative gift of a kind that is absolutely extinct in Europe. To

analyse such a gift would require pages of quotation. What does it

in the last resort consist in, save a preeminent capacity for saying

the most relevant things in the most effective order? Yet, simple as

this sounds, I believe that in it rests, unperceived by the eye of

the Western critic, more than half the secret of Murasaki’s art. Her

construction is in fact classical; elegance, symmetry, restraint—these

are the qualities which she can set in the scales against the

interesting irregularities of European fiction. That such qualities

should not be easily recognized in the West is but natural; for here

the novel has always been Gothic through and through.

NOTE ON THE TEXT

The Medieval Manuscripts

In the Middle Ages (from the thirteenth to the seventeenth centuries)

the MSS. of _Genji_ were divided into two groups, (1) Those which were

founded on the copy made for Fujiwara no Sadaiye about the middle of

the thirteenth century. His was known as the Blue Cover Copy and is the

basis of all printed editions[11] down to the present day. (2) Those

which were founded on the copy made for Minamoto no Mitsuyuki early in

the thirteenth century. His was known as the Kōchi Copy, owing to the

fact that he was Governor of Kōchi. At first the more popular of the

two, it was afterwards almost entirely disregarded.

Existing Manuscripts

The earliest existing _Genji_ manuscript is a series of rolls

illustrating some of the later chapters of the _Tale_. They are

attributed to Tosa no Takayoshi (early twelfth century). Then comes a

manuscript of Chapter xxiv (_The Tide-Gauge_), which is supposed to

be in the handwriting of Fujiwara no Sadaiye and therefore to date

from the first half of the thirteenth century. The earliest complete

manuscript is the Hirase Copy, which is in private possession at Ōsaka.

It was made during the years 1309–1311 and is founded principally

on the Kōchi Copy. It has thus a quite different pedigree from the

currently printed text. I know it only from facsimiles of Chapters i

and xxxi kindly presented to me by Professor Naitō, on whose researches

the above information is largely based. My translation is based chiefly

on the Hakubunkwan edition of 1914; but numerous other editions have

been consulted.

[1] 966–1027 A.D.

[2] Festival on the 15th day of the 7th month. The presents given are

to be used as offerings to Buddha.

[3] I.e. specially her mother. The festival was on behalf of the souls

of dead parents and ancestors.

[4] An uncle of Kane-iye’s.

[5] Whether she should stay permanently in the monastery.

[6] The modern Ōtsu, now reached from Kyōto (her starting-point) by

tramway in half an hour.

[7] The late night service.

[8] It foreboded ill to Kane-iye, who was at that time Marshal of the

bodyguard of the _Right_. Water typifies weakness and death.

[9] Kane-iye.

[10] _Diaries of Court Ladies_, 1920.

[11] The earliest printed edition known to me is that of 1650, of which

there is a copy in the British Museum. I imagine this to be the _editio

princeps_.

THE SACRED TREE

CHAPTER X

THE SACRED TREE

As the time for her daughter’s departure came near, Lady Rokujō

fell into utter despair. It had at first been generally supposed

that the death of the lady at the Great Hall would put an end

to all her troubles and the attendants who waited upon her at

the Palace-in-the-Fields were agog with excitement. But their

expectations remained unfulfilled. Not a word came from Genji, and

this unprecedented treatment on his part finally convinced her that

something[1] had indeed happened which it was impossible for him to

forgive. She strove to cast out all thought of him from her heart so

that when the time came she might set out upon her journey without

misgiving or regret. For a parent to accompany her daughter on such

an occasion was in the highest degree unusual; but in this case the

Virgin’s extreme youth was a convenient excuse, and Rokujō put it

about that as the child still needed surveillance she had decided to

quit the temporal world in her daughter’s company. Even after all that

had happened the prospect of parting with her forever was extremely

painful to Genji, and as the day drew near he again began to send her

letters full of tenderness and solicitude. But he did not propose a

meeting, and she herself had by now given up all hope that there

could be any question of such a thing. She was certain that (for all

his politeness) what had happened must in reality have made her utterly

odious to him, and she was determined not to plunge herself, all to no

purpose, into a fresh period of conflict and agitation. From time to

time she made short visits to her palace, but so secretly that Genji

did not hear of it. The Palace-in-the-Fields was not a place where

he could see her without inconvenient restrictions and formalities.

He fully intended to see her, but put off the visit from day to day

till at last months had elapsed since she left the city. Then the

ex-Emperor’s health began to decline. He had no definitely serious or

alarming symptoms, but constantly complained of feeling that there was

something wrong with him. Genji’s thoughts were therefore a great deal

occupied with his father’s condition; but he did not want Rokujō to

leave with the impression that he had lost all feeling for her, nor did

he wish those who knew of their friendship to think that he had treated

her heartlessly, and despite all difficulties he set out one day for

the Palace-in-the-Fields. It was the seventh of the ninth month and

the departure of the Virgin for Ise was bound to take place within the

next few days. It may be imagined that Rokujō and her maids were in no

condition to receive visits, but he wrote again and again begging her

to see him even if it were only at the moment of her departure, and at

last, despite the fluster into which her whole household was plunged,

and feeling all the while that she was acting very imprudently, she

could no longer fight against her longing once more to see him and

sent word secretly that, if he came, she would contrive to speak to

him for a moment from behind her screen-of-state. As he made his

way through the open country that stretched out endlessly on every

side, his heart was strangely stirred. The autumn flowers were

fading; along the reeds by the river the shrill voices of many insects

blended with the mournful fluting of the wind in the pines. Scarcely

distinguishable from these somewhere in the distance rose and fell a

faint, enticing sound of human music. He had with him only a handful

of outriders, and his attendants were by his orders dressed so as to

attract as little notice as possible. They noted that this lack of show

contrasted strangely with the elaborate pains which their master had

bestowed upon his own equipment, and as they looked with admiration

at the fine figure he cut, the more romantically disposed among them

were thrilled at the thought that it had befallen them to accompany

him upon a journey, every circumstance of which was calculated to

stir to the depth such sensitive hearts as theirs. So delighted was

Genji with the scene before him that he continually asked himself why

it was that he had deferred this visit for so long; and he regretted

that while Rokujō was at the Palace-in-the-Fields he had not made a

constant practice of visiting her. They came at last to a group of very

temporary-looking wooden huts surrounded by a flimsy brushwood fence.

The archways,[2] built of unstripped wood, stood out black and solemn

against the sky. Within the enclosure a number of priests were walking

up and down with a preoccupied air. There was something portentous

in their manner of addressing one another and in their way of loudly

clearing their throats before they spoke. In the Hill of Offering there

was a dim flicker of firelight, but elsewhere no single sign of life.

So this was the place where he had left one who was from the start in

great distress of mind, to shift for herself week after week, month

after month! Suddenly he realized with a terrible force all that she

must have suffered. He hurried to the place where she had told him

he would find her (a room in the northern outbuilding) and sent in a

long message contrasting his present quiet and serious existence with

his now discarded frivolities. She in return replied with a message,

but did not suggest that they should meet. This angered him. ‘You do

not seem to realize,’ he said, ‘that such excursions as this are now

no part of my ordinary existence and can only be arranged with the

greatest difficulty. I had hoped that instead of keeping me beyond

the pale, you would hasten to relieve all the anxiety that I have had

concerning you in the long months since we met.’ To this appeal were

added the protests of her waiting-ladies who were scandalized at the

idea of Prince Genji being left waiting outside the house. At first

she pleaded the impossibility of receiving a guest in surroundings so

cramped and wretched, her duty towards her daughter at this critical

hour, the undesirability of such an interview just on the eve of her

permanent departure. But though the prospect of facing him filled

her with unspeakable depression, she had not the heart to treat him

unkindly, and at last, looking very grave, with sighs and hesitation

at every step she came forward to meet him. ‘I presume that here one

is allowed no further than the verandah,’ he said, and mounting the

narrow bamboo platform that surrounded the building he took his seat

there. An evening moon had risen and as she saw him moving in its

gentle light she knew that all this while she had not been wrong; he

was indeed more lovely, more enticing than anyone in the world beside.

He began trying to explain why it was that for so many months on end

he had not been able to visit her; but he soon got into a tangle,

and feeling suddenly embarrassed he plucked a spray from the Sacred

Tree[3] which grew outside her room and handing it to her through

her blinds-of-state he said: ‘Take this evergreen bough in token that

my love can never change. Were it not so, why should I have set foot

within the boundaries of this hallowed plot? You use me very ill.’

But she answered with the verse ‘Thought you perchance that the Holy

Tree from whose boughs you plucked a spray was as “the cedar by the

gate”?’[4] To this he replied: ‘Well knew I what priestess dwelt in

this shrine, and for her sake came to pluck this offering of fragrant

leaves.’

Though the position was not likely to be a very comfortable one, he now

thrust his head under the reed blinds and sat with his legs dangling

over the wooden framework of the bamboo platform. During all the years

when he could see her as often and as intimately as he chose and she on

her side withheld nothing from him, he had gone on serenely assuming

that it would be always so, and never once in all that time had he

felt so deeply moved as at this moment. Suddenly he realized with

astonishment that though after that unhappy incident he had imagined

it to be impossible for them to meet and had so avoided all risk of

his former affection being roused to new life, yet from the first

moment of this strange confrontation he had immediately found himself

feeling towards her precisely as he had before their estrangement.

Violently agitated he began to cast his mind rapidly over the long

years of their friendship. Now all this was over. It was too horrible.

He burst into tears. She had determined not to let him see what she

was suffering, but now she could restrain herself no longer and he was

soon passionately entreating her not to go down to Ise after all. The

moon had set, but the starlit sky was calm and lovely. Pausing

often to gaze up into the night he began at last to speak to her of

what had lain so heavily on his heart. But no sooner was it openly

mentioned between them than all the pent-up bitterness of so many weeks

was suddenly released and vanished utterly away. Little by little, in

preparation for her final departure, she had at last accustomed herself

to think of him almost with indifference. Now in a moment all this was

undone, and when she heard Genji himself entreating her to abandon the

journey her heart beat violently, and the wildest thoughts agitated

her brain. The garden which surrounded her apartments was laid out in

so enchanting a manner that the troops of young courtiers who in the

early days of the retreat had sought in vain to press their attentions

upon her, used, even when she had sent them about their business, to

linger there regretfully; and on this marvellous night the place seemed

consciously to be deploying all its charm. In the hours which followed,

no secret was withheld on her side or on his; but what passed between

them I shall not attempt to tell.

At last the night ended in such a dawn as seemed to have been fashioned

for their especial delight. ‘Sad is any parting at the red of dawn; but

never since the world began, gleamed day so tragically in the autumn

sky,’ and as he recited these verses, aghast to leave her, he stood

hesitating and laid her hand tenderly in his.

A cold wind was blowing. The pine-crickets in neighbouring trees were

whispering in harsh despairing tones, as though they knew well enough

what was toward. Their dismal voices would have struck a chill to the

heart of any casual passer-by, and it may well be imagined what cheer

they gave to lovers already at the height of distraction and anguish.

She recited the verse ‘Sad enough already is this autumn parting;

add not your dismal song, O pine-crickets of the moor.’ He knew that

it was his neglect that had forced this parting upon them. But now it

was too late to make amends. Full of useless regrets, while the grey

light of morning spread over the sky, he journeyed back disconsolately

to the town, through meadows deep in dew. As she watched him go she

could no longer restrain herself, and at the thought that she had lost

him forever broke into a fit of reckless weeping. Her gentlewomen,

who on the evening before caught a fleeting glimpse of him in the

moonlight, enjoyed next morning the excitement of detecting in their

mistress’s room a lingering fragrance of the princely scent which he

had carried.[5] It may well be imagined that they at any rate were far

from condemning the crime to which she had been accessory. ‘It would

have to be a marvellous journey indeed that I was going to take, before

I could bring myself to part from such a one as this young prince!’ So

one of the ladies exclaimed; and at the thought that they had seen him

for the last time all were on the verge of tears.

His letter, which arrived during the day, was so full and affectionate

that had it been within her power she might have attempted to alter

her plans. But matters had gone too far for that and it was useless to

think of it. Nor were his feelings towards her (she was convinced) of

a sort to warrant such a step. Much of what he had said was inspired

simply by pity for her. But the mere fact that he took the trouble to

say such things—that he thought it worth while to comfort her—showed

that he still retained something of his old feeling, and the thought

that even upon such remnants of affection as this she must now soon

turn her back forever, filled her mind with the most painful longings

and regrets. He sent her many costumes and all else of which she

could possibly have need upon the journey, with suitable presents to

all her ladies. But to these handsome and costly gifts she gave hardly

a thought. Indeed as the hour of her departure drew near she sank into

a state of utter collapse. It was as though she had never till that

moment fully realized the desolation and misery into which an intrigue,

undertaken originally in a reckless and frivolous spirit, had at last

plunged her. Meanwhile the Virgin, who had to the last been far from

certain that her mother really meant to accompany her, was delighted

that all was now fixed beyond power of recall. The unusual decision

of the mother to accompany her daughter was much discussed in the

world at large. Some scented a scandal; a few were touched by so rare

an exhibition of family attachment. It is indeed in many ways more

comfortable to belong to that section of society whose actions are

not publicly canvassed and discussed. A lady in Rokujō’s conspicuous

position finds her every movement subjected to an embarrassing scrutiny.

On the sixteenth day of the seventh month the Virgin was purified in

the Katsura River. The ceremony was performed with more than ordinary

splendour, and her escort for the journey to Ise was chosen not

from among the Chamberlains and Counsellors, but from noblemen of

the highest rank and reputation. This was done in compliment to the

old ex-Emperor who showed a particular interest in the Virgin, his

favourite brother’s child. At the moment of her departure from the

Palace-in-the-Fields Rokujō was handed a letter. It was from Genji

and was couched in all those tender terms that had once been current

between them. Remembering the sacred errand upon which she was bound

he tied the letter to a streamer of white bark-cloth.[6] ‘Such love as

ours,’ he wrote, ‘not even the God of Thunder whose footsteps shake the

fields of Heaven ...’[7] and added the verse: ‘O all ye Gods of the

Kingdom, Rulers of the Many Isles, to your judgment will I hearken;

must needs this parting sever a love insatiable as ours?’[8] Though

the letter arrived just when the procession was forming and all was

bustle and confusion, an answer came. It was not from Rokujō but from

the Virgin herself, and had been dictated by her to her aunt who was

acting as Lady Intendant: ‘Call not upon the Gods of Heaven to sit in

judgment upon this case, lest first they charge you with fickleness and

pitiless deceit.’ He longed to witness the presentation of the Virgin

and her mother at the Palace,[9] but he had a feeling that since it was

to avoid him that Rokujō was leaving the City, it would be embarrassing

for both of them if he took part in the ceremonies of farewell, and

overcoming his desire to see her once more, he stayed in his own

palace sunk in idle thoughts. The reply of the Virgin showed a quite

astonishing precocity, and he smiled as he read it through again. The

girl had begun to interest him. No doubt she was precocious in charm

as well as intelligence, and since it was his foible invariably to set

his heart upon possessing, even at the cost of endless difficulties,

whatever custom and circumstance seemed to have placed beyond his

utmost reach, he now began thinking what a misfortune it was that he

had in earlier days never once availed himself of his position in the

house to make her acquaintance, which would indeed at any time have

been perfectly easy. But after all, life is full of uncertainties;

perhaps one day some unforeseen circumstance would bring her into his

life once more.

The fame of Lady Rokujō brought many spectators to view the procession

and the streets were thronged with coaches. The Palace Gates were

entered at the hour of the monkey.[10] Lady Rokujō, sitting in the

sacred palanquin by her daughter’s side, remembered how her father,

the late Minister of State, had brought her years ago to these same

gates, fondly imagining that he would make her the greatest lady in

the land.[11] Thus to revisit the Palace now that so many changes had

come both to her life and to the Court, filled her with immeasurable

depression. At sixteen she had been married, at twenty she had been

left a widow and now at thirty again she had set foot within the

Ninefold Palisade. She murmured to herself the lines: ‘Though on this

sacred day ’twere profanation to recall a time gone by, yet in my

inmost heart a tinge of sadness lurks.’

The Virgin was now fourteen. She was extremely handsome and her

appearance at the presentation-ceremony, decked in the full robes of

her office, made a profound impression. The Emperor, when he came to

setting the Comb of Parting in her hair, was deeply moved and it was

observed that he shed tears.

Outside the Hall of the Eight Departments a number of gala-coaches

were drawn up to witness the departure of the Virgin from the Palace.

The windows of those coaches were hung with an exquisitely contrived

display of coloured scarves and cloaks, and among the courtiers who

were to go down to Ise there were many who thought with an especial

pang of one who in his honour had added some gay touch of her own to

the magnificence of this unprecedented show. It was already dark when

the procession left the Palace. When after traversing the Second

Wood they turned into the Dōi Highway the travellers passed close by

Genji’s palace. Deeply moved, he sent the following poem tied to a

spray of the Holy Tree—‘Though to-day you cast me off and lightly set

upon your way, yet surely when at last you ferry the Eighty Rapids of

Suzuka Stream[12] your sleeve will not be dry.’ When this message was

brought to her it was already quite dark. This and the noisy bustle

of her journey prevented her from answering till the next day. When

her reply came it was sent back from beyond the Barrier: ‘Whether at

the Eighty Rapids of Suzuka Stream my sleeve be wet or no, all men

will have forgotten me long ere I come to Ise’s Land.’ It was hastily

written, yet with all the grace and distinction that habitually marked

her hand; but his pleasure in it was marred by the strange bitterness

of her tone. A heavy mist had risen, and gazing at the dimly-veiled

semblances that were belatedly unfolding in the dawn he whispered to

himself the lines: ‘O mist, I long to follow with my eyes the road that

she passed; hide not from me in these autumn days the slopes of Meeting

Hill.’[13] That night he did not go to the western wing,[14] but lay

sleepless till dawn, brooding disconsolately upon a turn of affairs for

which, as he well knew, he alone was responsible. What _she_ suffered,

as day by day she travelled on through unknown lands, may well be

guessed.

By the tenth month the ex-Emperor’s condition had become very grave

indeed. Throughout the country much concern was felt. The young Emperor

was in great distress and hastened to pay him a visit-of-state. Weak

though he was the sick man first gave minute instructions as to the

upbringing of the Heir Apparent and then passed on to a discussion

of Genji’s future. ‘I desire you,’ he said, ‘still to look upon him

as your guardian and to seek his advice in all matters, whether small

or great; as indeed I have accustomed you to do during my lifetime.

In the handling of public business he shows a competence beyond his

years. There is no doubt that his natural vocation is to administer the

affairs of a people rather than to lead the secluded life of a Royal

Prince, and when I attached him to a clan devoid of Royal Blood it was

that he might the better keep watch for us over the public affairs

of our kingdom. I therefore entreat you never to act contrary to his

advice.’ He gave many other parting instructions to his successor, but

such matters are not for a woman’s pen and I feel I must apologize for

having said even so much as this.

The young Emperor, deeply moved, repeatedly signified that he would

obey all these instructions in every particular. It gave his father

great comfort and pleasure to note that he was already growing up into

a fine handsome young fellow. But after a short while Court affairs

necessitated the Emperor’s immediate presence, and his father, who

longed to keep him by his side, was in the end more distressed than

comforted by this brief visit. The Heir Apparent was to have come at

the same time as the Emperor; but it was thought that this arrangement

would be too tiring and the little boy[15] was brought on another day.

He was big for his age and very pretty. The old man looked fondly at

him and the child, unconscious of the purpose for which he had been

summoned, stood watching him with laughter in his face. Fujitsubo, who

sat near by, was weeping bitterly; and, suddenly catching sight of her,

the ex-Emperor for a while lost his composure. To this little

prince also he gave a variety of instructions; but it was evident that

he was too young to understand what was being said, and remembering

the uncertainties of his future the ex-Emperor gazed at the child

with pity and distress. In his final instructions to Genji concerning

the management of public affairs he recurred again and again to the

question of the Heir Apparent and the importance of giving him due

protection and advice. It was now late at night and the Heir Apparent

was taken off to bed. A vast number of Courtiers followed in his

train, so that his visit created almost as much bustle and confusion

as that of the Emperor himself. But this visit had seemed to the sick

man only too short and it was with great distress that he watched the

procession depart. The Empress Mother, Lady Kōkiden, had also intended

to come; but hearing that Fujitsubo was at his side she felt somewhat

disinclined, and while she was trying to decide whether to go or not,

his Majesty passed quietly and painlessly away.

The ex-Emperor’s death caused profound consternation in many quarters.

Though it was some while since he resigned the Throne, he had continued

to control the policy of the government just as in former days. The

present Emperor was a mere child; his grandfather, the Minister of

the Right, was known to be a man of hasty temper and treacherous

disposition. Courtiers and noblemen alike regarded with the greatest

apprehension a government subjected to his arbitrary power. But among

them all none had better reason than Fujitsubo and Prince Genji to

dread the coming reign. It was indeed natural that this prince should

take a foremost part in the ceremonies of mourning which were performed

by the family on each seventh day, and in the Filial Masses for the

dead man’s soul; but his piety was generally noted and admired.

Despite the unbecoming dress which custom required, his beauty made

everywhere a deep impression; and this, combined with his evident

distress, procured him a great share of sympathy.

He had lost in one year his wife and in the next his father. The scenes

of affliction through which he had passed weighed heavily upon his

spirits and for a while deprived him of all zest for life. He thought

much of retiring from the world, and would have done so had he not been

restrained by many earthly ties. During the forty-nine days of mourning

the ladies of the late ex-Emperor’s household remained together in his

apartments. But at the expiration of this period they retired to their

respective homes. It was the twentieth day of the twelfth month. The

dull sky marked (thought Fujitsubo) not only the gloom of the departing

year, but the end of all fair prospects. She knew with what feelings

Kōkiden regarded her and was aware that her existence at a Court

dominated by this woman’s arbitrary power could not be otherwise than

unhappy. Above all it was impossible for her to go on living in a place

where, having for so many years enjoyed the old Emperor’s company, she

found his image continually appearing to her mind. The departure of

all his former ladies-in-waiting and ladies-of-the-household rendered

her situation unendurable and she determined to move to her mansion in

the Third Ward. Her brother Prince Hyōbukyō came to fetch her away.

Snow was falling, blown by a fierce wind. The old Emperor’s quarters,

now rapidly becoming denuded of their inhabitants, wore a desolate

air. Genji happened to be there when Hyōbukyō arrived and they fell

to talking of old times. The great pine-tree in front of the Palace

was weighed down with snow and its lower boughs were withered. Seeing

this, Hyōbukyō recited the verses: ‘Because the great pine-tree

is withered that once with wide-spread branches sheltered us from the

storm, lo! we the underboughs droop earthward in these last moments of

the year.’ No very wonderful poem, but at that moment it moved Genji

deeply, and noticing that the lake was frozen all over he in his turn

recited the poem: ‘Now like a mirror shines the frozen surface of the

lake. Alas that it reflects not the form and face we knew so well!’

Such was the thought that came to him at the moment, and he gave it

utterance well knowing that the prince would think it forced and crude.

Ōmyōbu, Fujitsubo’s gentlewoman, now interposed with the verse: ‘The

year draws in; even the water of the rock-hewn well is sealed with ice,

and faded from those waters is the face that once I saw.’ Many other

poems were exchanged; but I have other things to tell.

Fujitsubo’s return to her mansion was carried out with no less ceremony

than on former occasions, but to her mind the transit seemed this time

a distressing affair and more like a journey to some strange place than

a home-coming; and as she approached the house her thoughts travelled

back over all the months and years that had passed since this place had

been her real home.

The New Year brought with it none of the usual novelties and

excitements. Genji, in very dismal humour, shut himself up in his room.

At the time when the new appointments were being made, during the old

Emperor’s reign and to an equal extent even after his retirement,

Genji’s doors had always been thronged with suitors. But this year

the line of horses and carriages waiting outside his palace was thin

indeed, and the bags[16] of courtiers were no longer to be seen at all.

When he looked about him and saw his reception halls frequented

only by his personal retainers, who looked as though time were hanging

heavily on their hands, the thought that this was but a pretaste of

the dreariness and insignificance with which his whole life would

henceforth be tinged reduced him to a state of great depression.

In the second month Oborozukiyo was made chief Lady of the Bedchamber,

the former occupant of this office having at the ex-Emperor’s death

become a nun. Her birth and education, together with her unusual charm

both of person and disposition, combined to make her much sought after

even at a Court where such qualities were to be found in remarkable

profusion. Her sister Lady Kōkiden was now seldom at Court, and on

the rare occasion when she needed a room she lodged in the Umetsubo,

resigning her old apartments to the Lady of the Bedchamber. No longer

was Oborozukiyo buried away in the inconvenient Tōkwaden; she had space

and light and a vast number of ladies in her employ, while all about

her was in the gayest and newest style. But she could not forget a

certain brief and unexpected adventure[17] which had once befallen her,

and was very unhappy. A desultory correspondence was still carried on

between them with the greatest caution and secrecy.

He knew well enough how fatal would now be the consequences of

discovery; but this, as has often been noted, so far from discouraging

him served only to increase his interest in such an affair.

During the late Emperor’s lifetime Kōkiden had been obliged to behave

with a certain restraint. Now she was free to revenge herself with

the ferocity of a long-curbed malice upon those who had hitherto been

sheltered from her spite. Genji found himself thwarted at every turn.

He had expected these intrigues, but having for so long enjoyed a

favoured and protected existence he was at a loss how to cope with them.

The Minister of the Left felt that his influence was gone and no

longer presented himself at Court. Kōkiden had never forgiven him for

marrying the late princess his daughter to Genji instead of giving

her, as had originally been intended, to her son the present Emperor.

Moreover there had always been a certain amount of ill-feeling between

the families of the two Ministers. During the late Emperor’s reign the

Minister of the Left had managed things pretty much as he chose, and it

was but natural that he now had no desire to take part in the triumph

of his rival. Genji continued to visit him as before and was assiduous

in his attention to Aoi’s maids-of-honour, as also in providing for the

education of the little prince her son. This delighted the old Minister

and he continued to treat his son-in-law with the same affectionate

deference as in old days.

The high position to which Genji had been raised two years ago had

entailed much tiresome business and made considerable inroads upon his

leisure. He found himself in consequence obliged to discontinue many of

the intimacies in which he had been previously engaged. Of his lighter

distractions he was now thoroughly ashamed and was glad to abandon

them; so that for a while his life became altogether quiet, regular and

exemplary. The announcement of his marriage with Murasaki was very well

received by the world at large. Shōnagon and her companions naturally

attributed their little mistress’s success to the prayers of her

pious grandmother the late nun, and in secret conclave congratulated

themselves on the turn which events had taken. Her father Prince

Hyōbukyō asked for nothing better than such a match. But his wife,

who had not managed to do half as well for her own children on whom

she doted, was extremely jealous of her step-child’s triumph, and this

marriage continued to be a very sore point with her. Indeed, Murasaki’s

career had been more like that of some step-child in fiction[18] than

of a real young person.

The Vestal Virgin of Kamo, third daughter of the late Emperor by

Lady Kōkiden, was now in mourning and had to resign her charge. Her

successor was the Princess Asagao.[19] It had not very often happened

that a collateral descendant of the Emperor was chosen for this post;

but on this occasion no other princess of suitable age and lineage was

available. Genji’s admiration for this lady had not, in all the years

that had passed since he first courted her, in any degree abated, and

it was painful to him to learn that she was now to embark upon so

different a way of life. She still sent him an occasional message and

he had never ceased to write to her. He had known her as a Lady of the

Court. Now he must try to picture her to himself as a priestess. This

he could not manage to do, and his repeated failure to evoke any image

which corresponded to her as she now was bitterly tormented him.

The young Emperor punctiliously obeyed his father’s last injunctions

and treated Genji with great consideration. But he was still very

young, and being somewhat weak and yielding in character he was easily

influenced by those about him. Again and again, under pressure from

Kōkiden or the Minister of the Right, he allowed public measures to

be taken of which he did not really in the least approve. Meanwhile

Kōkiden’s sister the Lady Oborozukiyo, though her new position rendered

the carrying on of a secret intrigue in the highest degree

difficult and perilous, was becoming more and more unhappy, and at

last found a means of informing Genji of her unaltered attachment.

He would have been glad enough if she had felt otherwise; but after

what had passed between them he could not disregard such a message.

Accordingly he waited till the Court was immersed in the Celebration

at the Five Altars[20] and went secretly to her apartments. The

encounter was brief and dream-like as on that first occasion, on the

night of the Flower-feast.[21] Her maid Chūnagon smuggled him in by

the little side door which had before caught his attention. There

happened to be a good many people about at the time, and it was with

great trepidation that this lady conducted him through the exposed and

frequented ante-chambers which led to her mistress’s apartments. To

look upon Prince Genji was a ceaseless delight even to those who daily

served him. It can be imagined then what rapture his visit brought to

one who had waited so long for his return. Nor was Genji on his side

by any means indifferent to her charms. She was at the height of her

youth and good-looks; lively, graceful, confiding. Indeed, save for a

certain light-heartedness and inconsequence, there was nothing in her

which he would wish to change. Suddenly he heard people stirring in

the corridor outside and for a moment thought that it must already be

morning. He soon realized however that these were not the people of the

house, but members of the Imperial Guard come to report themselves.

No doubt some officer of the Guard was known to be spending the night

in this part of the Palace; but for a moment Genji had the wild idea

that some malicious person had revealed to the soldiers of the

Guard the unexpected presence of their Commander.[22] He was amused at

his mistake, but at the same time horrified at the realization of the

risks which he was running. Outside in the corridor they could still

hear the soldiers tramping up and down looking for their officer and

calling out as they went ‘First hour of the Tiger Watch, first hour of

the Tiger Watch!’[23] Then Oborozukiyo whispered the verse: ‘Though

the watch-man of the night cries out “Enough!” yet seems it from

your tears and mine we are not of his mind.’[24] Her plaintive tone

touched his heart and he answered with the verse: ‘Must we, because

they say the time is spent, in tears relinquish what our own hearts’

reluctance bids us still enjoy?’ So saying he left her. Though daylight

had not yet come and the setting moon was heavily veiled in mist, he

felt very uneasy. And in fact, despite his disguise, his bearing and

figure were so notable that he was at once recognized by a brother

of Lady Jōkyōden[25] who happened, at the moment when Genji passed

unsuspecting on his way, to have just left Fujitsubo’s old quarters and

was now standing in the shadow of a trellis-gate. This gentleman was

vastly amused and did not fail to make good use of the episode in his

conversation.

So great were the risks he had run that for some time afterwards

Genji found himself wishing Fujitsubo’s prudence and reserve were

more commonly practised, and at such times he almost applauded her

unkindness. At any rate it saved him from these nerve-racking

experiences. But such moods did not last long. With the Lady of the

Bedchamber his deeper feelings were not involved, whereas he was drawn

towards Fujitsubo as though by some secret power, and except at rare

moments her coldness caused him nothing but torment and despair.

This princess, though she no longer felt at ease in the Palace and

could not bring herself to visit it, was distressed that she was now

unable to see her son. It was very awkward that there was no one to

advise her about the child except Prince Genji, who unfortunately still

persisted in regarding her with the same strange adoration. She was in

a continual panic lest he should take advantage of her dependence upon

him. True the Emperor had died without betraying the least suspicion

concerning the child’s parentage. But she shuddered to think of the

predicament in which this deception had involved her. Any renewal of

their relationship, quite apart from the effect it might have upon her

own fortunes, would react disastrously upon her son. So heavily did

this matter weigh upon her that when she was supposed to be at her

prayers she did nothing but turn over in her mind, a hundred times

this way and that, how best she might persuade him to feel differently

towards her.

Yet despite all her precautions he managed one night to enter the

house and get very near indeed to the room where she was sitting. Not

a soul in the house had conspired with him or expected his coming.

He seemed to have risen mysteriously up among them like a figure in

a dream. He sent her many passionate messages, such as I cannot here

transcribe, but she would not let him come to her. At last, worn out

by his persistency, she began to feel so faint that Ōmyōbu, Myōbu no

Ben and the rest of her favourite waiting-women took fright and were

soon busily employed in attending to her. Meanwhile Genji, in a

frenzy of irritation and disappointment, scarce knew how he came to be

in her ante-chamber nor thought how he was going to retire from it.

So completely had he lost all sense of real things that though broad

daylight was come he did not stir from where he stood. The news of her

indisposition quickly spread through the house. There was a sound of

footsteps, and Genji, still but half conscious, groped his way into

a large lumber-room or clothes-cupboard that happened to be near by.

An embarrassed lady-in-waiting hastily stowed away a cloak and other

effects which she saw lying about.

Fujitsubo herself remained in much distress both of body and mind

throughout the night. As she was feeling very giddy, her brothers, who

had now arrived upon the scene, sent out for a priest. All this Genji

heard from his hiding-place with great grief and alarm. The day was

far advanced when she began at last to mend. She had not of course the

least idea that he was still in the house and her ladies feared that if

they were to tell her of his presence the news might cause a recurrence

of last night’s attack. At last she dragged herself from her bed to the

chair in which she generally sat, and her brothers, thinking that the

worst was now over, withdrew and she was left alone. Even her intimate

and personal attendants had retired from her daïs and could be heard

moving away to and fro behind the screens at the other end of the room.

The sole preoccupation of Ōmyōbu and the few other ladies who shared

the secret of Genji’s presence was now how best to get him out of the

house. They were certain that if he stayed where he was the same scene

would be repeated that night, with the same unhappy effects, and they

were whispering together in a tone of great concern when Genji, first

cautiously pushing the door a little ajar and then gently slipping

out, darted from his hiding-place to the shelter of one of the screens

which surrounded her daïs. From this point of vantage he was able at

last to gaze upon her to his heart’s content, and as he did so tears

of joy and wonder filled his eyes. ‘I am wretched, wretched,’ she was

murmuring; ‘but soon my misery will end, soon all will be over....’ She

was looking out towards the centre of the room and he caught a profile

view of her face which he found inexpressibly charming. Presently

Ōmyōbu came with fruit for her breakfast. Though the cover of the

fruit-box was of rare and beautiful workmanship she did not so much as

glance at it, but sat rigidly staring in front of her, like one for

whom life has lost all interest and meaning.

How beautiful she was! And, now that it was possible to compare them on

equal terms, how like in every minutest detail of pose and expression

to the girl at home! Particularly in the carriage of her head and the

way her hair grew there was the same singular charm. For years Murasaki

had served to keep Lady Fujitsubo, to some extent at any rate, out of

his thoughts. But now that he saw how astonishingly the one resembled

the other he fancied that all the while Murasaki had but served as a

substitute or eidolon of the lady who denied him her love. Both had

the same pride, the same reticence. For a moment he wondered whether,

if they were side by side, he should be able to tell them apart.

How absurd! Probably indeed, he said to himself, the whole idea of

their resemblance was a mere fancy; Fujitsubo had for so many years

filled all his thoughts. It was natural that such an idea should come

to him. Unable to contain himself any longer, he slipped out of his

hiding-place and gently crept between her curtains-of-state, till he

was near enough to touch the train of her cloak. By the royal scent

which he carried she knew at once that it was he, and overcome by

astonishment and terror she fell face downwards upon her couch. ‘Can

you not bear to set eyes upon me?’ he cried, and in despair clutched

at the skirt of her cloak. She in panic slipped the cloak from her

shoulders and would have fled, leaving it in his hands; but by ill luck

her hair caught in the buckle and she was held fast. With horror she

realized that a fate too strong for her was planning to put her at his

mercy. He for his part suddenly lost all dignity and self-restraint.

Sobbing violently he poured out to her, scarce knowing what he said,

the whole tale of his passion and despair. She was horrified; both the

visit and the outburst seemed to her unpardonable, and she did not

even reply. At last, hard-pressed, she pleaded illness and promised

to see him some other time. But he would not be put off and continued

to pour out his tale of love. In the midst of all this talk that so

much displeased her and to which she paid no heed at all, there came

some phrase which caught her attention and for some reason touched

her; and though she was still determined that what had happened on

that one unhappy occasion should never, never be repeated, she began

to answer him kindly. Thus by skilful parryings and evasions she kept

him talking till this night too was safely over. By her gentleness she

had shamed him into submission and he now said: ‘There cannot surely

be any harm in my coming occasionally to see you in this way. It would

be a great relief to me if I could do so.’ This and much else he said,

now in a far less desperate mood. Even in quite commonplace people such

situations produce strange flights of tenderness and fancy. How much

the more then in such lovers as Genji and the queen!

But it was now broad daylight. Ōmyōbu and her daughter arrived and

soon took possession of their mistress. Genji, retiring from the

room, sent her many tender messages. But now she sat staring vacantly

in front of her as though she were but half alive. Exasperated by

her martyred attitude, he cried out at last: ‘Answer me, answer me!

I cannot live without you. And yet, what use to die? For I know that

in every life to come I am doomed to suffer the torment of this same

heinous passion.’ Still, to the alarm of those who waited upon her, she

sat staring fixedly in front of her. He recited the verse: ‘If indeed

the foeman fate that parts us works not for to-day alone, then must I

spend Eternity in woe.’ When she heard him saying that the bonds of her

love would hold him back from Paradise, she began to weep and answered

with the verse: ‘If to all time this bond debars you from felicity, not

hostile fate but your own heart you should with bitterness condemn.’

The words were spoken with a tenderness that was infinitely precious to

him; yet he knew that a prolongation of the interview could not but be

painful to both of them, and he rushed from the room.

He felt that he made himself odious to her. He would never be able to

face her again, and contrary to custom he wrote no morning letter. For

a long while he paid no visit either to the Emperor or to the Heir

Apparent, but lay in his room brooding upon Fujitsubo’s unkindness.

Misery and longing brought him at last to so pitiable a plight that

it was as though with agonizing pain his inmost soul were dissolving

within him. Often there ran in his head the lines: ‘Soon upon causeways

of resounding stone my footsteps shall beat out their song!’[26] And

indeed the world again seemed to him so cheerless that his decision

would soon have been taken had he not remembered that there was one

over whose happiness he was pledged to watch. So exquisite, so

trustful a creature he could not abandon, and the project was soon put

aside.

Fujitsubo too reflected upon what had taken place with great uneasiness

of mind. She had now learnt how he had concealed himself for a whole

day in her house without giving her the slightest intimation of his

presence. This fact Ōmyōbu and the rest had not, in their indignation

at his plight, managed to restrain themselves from revealing to her.

Such conduct she could not tolerate. Yet she well knew that if she

showed her displeasure Genji would feel a disinclination towards the

Heir Apparent, and this she was above all things anxious to avoid.

In a fit of despair he might even take some step which could not be

rectified, and that thought, despite the torment of his importunity,

filled her even now with horror. If such an occurrence as that of

last night were often to be repeated it was certain that both their

reputations would soon be irrecoverably destroyed. She felt that it

would in a way disarm the censures of the world if she were to give up

the rank of Empress, the bestowal of which had been received with such

caustic comments by Lady Kōkiden. She remembered with what intention

and with what explicit injunctions this title had been granted her

by the late Emperor. But she felt herself no longer bound by his

instructions; for since his death the whole position at Court had

utterly changed. She had no fear of suffering the fate of Lady Chi,[27]

but she had every reason to suppose that her position as Empress would

henceforth be both ludicrous and humiliating. She felt no inclination

to struggle against ridicule and opposition. Soon her mind was made

up. She must renounce the world. But first she must visit her son. She

could not bear that he should never again see her as he had known

her in days of old. She drove to the Palace without public escort. On

many occasions when she had travelled in even less state than this,

Genji had attended her and arranged every detail of her progress. This

time he pleaded sickness and was not present. Previously he had been in

the habit of sending constantly to enquire after her health. The fact

that he had discontinued this practice was cited by the sympathetic

Ōmyōbu as a proof that he must be now plunged in the utmost misery.

The little prince[28] had grown into a handsome boy. His mother’s

visit surprised and delighted him and he was soon telling her all

his secrets. She looked at him sadly. The step that she contemplated

seemed unendurably hard to take. Yet a glance at the Palace reminded

her how great were the changes and upheavals that had taken place,

how insecure had now become her own position at the Court. The Lady

Kōkiden still showed the same unrelenting hostility, finding at every

turn some means to inconvenience or humiliate her. Her high rank, so

far from protecting her, now imperilled both herself and her son. For

a long while she hesitated, torn by many conflicting feelings. At

last she succeeded in saying to the child: ‘What would you think if I

were to go away for a long while and, when at last I came back to see

you, were to look quite different, almost as though it were another

person?’ She watched his face while she spoke. ‘What would happen to

you?’ he said, very much interested; ‘would you become like old Lady

Shikibu? Why do you want to be like that?’ and he laughed. It was very

difficult to tell him. She began again: ‘Shikibu is ugly because she

is so old. That is not what I mean. I shall have even less hair than

Shikibu and I shall wear a black dress, like the chaplain whom

you have seen coming to say prayers here in the evenings; but it will

be a long while before they let me come here to see you.’ He saw that

she was crying and at once said very decidedly: ‘If you do not come

for a long while, I shall miss you terribly.’ He too began to cry, and

ashamed of his tears, turned his head away. As he did so his long hair

fell rippling across his cheek. The eyes, the brow—all was as though

a cast had been taken from the face she knew so well. He had not yet

lost his baby-teeth. One or two of them were a little decayed, their

blackness amid a row of white giving to his smile a peculiar piquancy

and charm. As she watched him standing there in his half-girlish beauty

and suddenly realized how like he was to his father, she became more

than ever unhappy. But if the resemblance was painful to her and seemed

to her at that moment almost to spoil his beauty, it was only because

she dreaded the gossip to which this likeness would give rise.

Genji too was longing to see his son, but while Princess Fujitsubo was

at Court he was resolved to keep away. Perhaps this would make her

realize how completely he had been frustrated by her harshness; for

she would certainly be expecting to meet him in the young prince’s

apartments.

He was in very ill humour and the time hung heavily on his hands.

It was now autumn and it seemed a pity not to be in the country.

He decided to spend a little while at the Temple in the Cloudy

Woods.[29] Here in the cell of his mother’s elder brother, a master

of the Vinaya,[30] he spent several days reading the sacred texts and

practising various austerities. During this time much happened both

to move and delight him. The maple leaves in the surrounding

forests were just turning and he remembered Sōjō’s song written in the

same place: ‘Proud autumn fields....’ In a little while he had almost

forgotten that this quiet place was not his home. He gathered about

him a number of doctors famous for their understanding of the Holy

Law and made them dispute in his presence. Yet even in the midst of

scenes such as these, calculated to impress him in the highest degree

with the futility of all earthly desires, one figure from the fleeting

world of men still rose up importunately before him and haunted every

prayer. One day at dawn by the light of a sinking moon the priests of

the temple were making the morning offering of fresh leaves and flowers

before an image that stood near by. He could hear the clink of the

silver flower-trays as they scattered chrysanthemum and maple leaves of

many hues around the Buddha’s feet. It seemed to him then that the life

these people led was worth while, not merely as a means to salvation

but for its own pleasantness and beauty. Again and again he marvelled

that he could have for so long endured his own aimless existence. His

uncle, the Vinaya-master, had an extremely impressive voice and when

he came to the passage ‘None shall be cast out, but take unto him all

living things that call upon his name,’ Genji envied him the assurance

with which he uttered the Buddha’s promise. Why should not he too avail

himself of this promise, why should not he too lead this sanctified

existence? Suddenly he remembered Murasaki and his home. What must she

be thinking of him? It was many days since he had seen her, and he

hastened to repair this neglect: ‘I came here as an experiment,’ he

wrote, ‘that I might decide whether it would not be better for me to

withdraw forever from the world. Since I have been here it has been

gradually becoming clearer to me that my present way of life can

bring me nothing but misery; and to-day I heard something read out loud

which made a deep impression upon me and convinced me that I ought not

any longer to delay....’ The letter was written on sandalwood paper

of Michinoku, informally but with great elegance. With it he sent the

poem: ‘Because I left you in a home deep-girt with dewy sedge, with

troubled mind I hear the wild winds blow from every side.’ This he

said and much else beside. She cried when she read it. Her answer was

written on a white slip: ‘First, when the wild wind blows, flutters

the dewy web that hangs upon the wilting sedge-row in the fields.’ He

smiled to himself with pleasure as he read it, noting how swiftly her

hand had improved. He had written her so many letters that her writing

had grown to be very like his, save that to his style she had added

some touches of girlish delicacy and grace. In this as in all else she

at least had not disappointed him.

It occurred to him that Kamo was not so very far off and he thought

he would send a message to the Vestal Virgin.[31] To Chūjō her maid

he sent the letter: ‘That here among strangers in deep affliction I

languish unconsoled, your mistress cannot know.’ To this he added a

long tale of his present woes and to the Virgin herself addressed the

poem: ‘Goddess Immaculate, the memory of other days has made me bold

to hang this token at thy shrine!’ And to this, quoting an old song,

he added the words ‘Would that like a ring upon the hand I might turn

Time around till “then” was “now.”’ He wrote on light green paper, and

with the letter was a twig of the Sacred Tree festooned with fluttering

tassels of white as befitted the holy place to which it was addressed.

In answer the maid Chūjō wrote: ‘There is so little here to break the

sameness of the long empty days that sometimes an idle memory of

the past will for a moment visit the Virgin’s heavenly thoughts. Of you

she has spoken now and again, but only to say that now all thought of

you is profitless.’ The gentlewoman’s letter was long and written with

great care. On a small strip tied to a white ritual tassel the Virgin

herself had written the poem: ‘Full well you know that in those other

days no secret was between us for you to hang as ritual-token at your

heart.’ It was not written with much pains, but there was an easy flow

in the cursive passages which delighted his eye and he realized that

the Court had lost one who would in time have grown to be a woman of no

ordinary accomplishments.

He shuddered. How pitiless is God! Suddenly he remembered that only

last autumn the melancholy gateway of the Palace-in-the-Fields had

filled him with just such an indignation and dismay. Why should these

Powers be suffered to pursue their hideous exactions?

That strange trait of perversity, so often noted, was indeed at work

again under the most absurd circumstances. For in all the years when

Asagao was within reach he had not made one serious effort to win her,

but had contented himself with vague protestations and appeals. But

now that she was utterly unattainable he suddenly imagined that he had

never really cared for anyone else! Believing him to be the victim of

an inconsolable passion, the Virgin had not the heart to leave his

letters unanswered, and a correspondence of a rather strange and unreal

kind was for some while carried on between them.

Before he left the Temple in the Cloudy Woods he read the whole of the

Sixty Chapters,[32] consulting his uncle on many obscure points. The

delight of the priests, down to the humblest servitor, may well be

imagined. It seemed as though the Lord Amida must hold their poor

country temple in especial favour, or he would not have vouchsafed that

such a radiance should shine among them.

But soon Genji began to grow restless. His mind strayed constantly to

mundane affairs, and though he dreaded the return, there was one whom

it was not in his heart any longer to neglect. Before his departure he

ordered a grand chanting of the Scripture to be held and gave suitable

presents to all the resident priests both high and low, and even to the

peasants of the surrounding country. Then, after many other rituals

and benefactions, he drove away. The country people from far and near

crowded round the gates to see him go, uncouth figures strangely

gnarled and bent. His carriage was draped with black and he himself was

still dressed in the drab unbecoming robes of mourning. Yet even the

momentary glimpse of him that they caught as he entered his carriage

sufficed to convince them that a prince of no ordinary beauty had been

dwelling near to them and many were moved to tears.

It seemed to him when he was back in his palace that Murasaki had in

these last months become far less childish. She spoke very seriously

of the changes at Court and showed great concern for his future. That

in these last weeks his affections had been much occupied elsewhere

could hardly have escaped her notice. He remembered with a pang that

in the last poem she had sent him there was some reference to ‘the

wilting sedge-row,’ and full of remorse he treated her with more than

ordinary kindness. He had brought her a branch of autumn leaves from

the country temple where he had been staying. Together they compared it

with the trees in his palace garden, and found when they set them side

by side that the country leaves were dyed to a yet deeper red. There

was one who was at all times paramount in his thoughts, and the sight

of these leaves, tinged with so strong a hue that they eclipsed

whatever colours were set beside them, reminded him that to her alone

he had given no token of his return. The desire to have news of her so

tormented him that at last he wrote a letter to Ōmyōbu announcing that

he had left the temple: ‘I heard with surprise and joy of your Lady’s

visit to the Court. I longed for news both of her and of the young

prince; but though I was uneasy on their account, I could not interrupt

my appointed course of penance and study. Thus many days have passed

since last I gave you any news. Here are some sprays of autumn leaf.

Bid your Lady look at them when she feels so disposed, lest unregarded

they should waste their beauty “like silken stuffs spread out by

night.”’

They were huge, leaf-laden boughs, and when she looked closer,

Fujitsubo saw that the usual tiny strip of paper, such as he always

used in writing to her, was tied to one of them. Her gentlewomen

were watching her, and as she examined the offering she felt herself

blushing. So he was still in the same deplorable state of mind! Surely

he must realize that it was very embarrassing for her to receive

offerings of this kind from one who was known to be her admirer!

Wishing that he would show more regard for her feelings and reputation

she bade a servant put the boughs in a vase and stand it against one of

the pillows on the verandah, as far out of the way as possible.

In her reply she confined herself to matters of business upon which she

needed his advice. Her cold and impersonal tone deeply wounded him.

But as it was his usual practice to assist her in every difficulty,

he felt that his absence on the day of her departure from Court would

give rise to unwelcome speculations, and hearing that the day had been

fixed he hastened to the Palace. He went first to the apartments of the

young Emperor and finding him at leisure settled down to a long

conversation. In person His Majesty much resembled the late Emperor,

but he was of a quicker and livelier disposition. He was very easy

to get on with and they were soon exchanging recollections of their

late father. The Emperor had heard that Genji was still on intimate

terms with his aunt the Princess Oborozuki, and had on his own account

observed many signs of such an attachment. If the affair had begun

since the Princess’s arrival at Court he would have felt bound to take

cognizance of it. But he knew that the friendship between them was of

very old standing and felt that under these circumstances there was no

great impropriety in it.

They discussed all manner of affairs together, including their Chinese

studies, and the Emperor consulted him about the interpretation of

various difficult passages. They then repeated to one another such

poems of gallantry as they had lately addressed to ladies of the

Court, and it was in the course of this conversation that the Emperor

mentioned his admiration of the Lady Rokujō’s daughter and his

distress on the occasion of her departure for Ise. This emboldened

Genji, and soon he was telling the Emperor about his own visit to the

Palace-in-the-Fields and all the sad circumstances attending it. The

waning moon had begun at last to rise. ‘It is at such moments as this,’

said the Emperor sadly, ‘that one longs for music.’[33]

Genji now took his leave, explaining that he must wait upon the

ex-Empress before she retired again to her own home. ‘You will

remember,’ he said, ‘that the late Emperor our father committed

the Heir Apparent to my guardianship and protection. There happens

unfortunately to be no one else to watch over his interests, and as

I am very uneasy concerning his future I am obliged to take counsel

fairly frequently with his mother.’ ‘Our father certainly asked

me to retain him as Heir Apparent,’ replied the Emperor, ‘and I have

always tried to help him in any way I could. But there is really

nothing much that I can do for him. I hear he has made astonishing

progress with his handwriting and is in every way satisfactory. I am

afraid he is more likely to be a credit to me than I a help to him.’

‘He does indeed seem to be in most ways very forward and intelligent,’

said Genji, ‘but his character is still quite unformed.’ And after some

further description of the child’s attainments he proceeded to the Heir

Apparent’s apartments.

There was a certain Tō no Bēn, a son of Kōkiden’s elder brother Tō

Dainagon. Being young, good-looking and popular he had grown somewhat

out of hand. This young man was now on his way to the rooms of his

sister Princess Reikeiden. For a moment Genji’s servants who were

preceding him to the Heir Apparent’s rooms blocked his path and forced

him to stand waiting till they had passed. In a low voice, but quite

distinctly enough for Genji to hear every word, the young courtier

chanted the lines ‘When a white rainbow crossed the sun the Crown

Prince[34] trembled.’ Genji flushed, but it was obviously best to let

the matter pass.

That Kōkiden should have succeeded in infecting her whole clan with her

venomous hostility towards him was both vexatious and alarming. Genji

was indeed much disquieted; but he contrived on all such occasions to

conceal his discomfiture.

In arriving at Fujitsubo’s rooms he sent in a message to explain that

he had been detained in the Presence. It was a moonlit night of unusual

beauty. It was at such times as this that the old Emperor would

call for music. Fujitsubo remembered those dazzling midnight parties.

Here were the old courtyards, the old gardens and rooms, and yet this

was not the Palace after all! Through Ōmyōbu her maid she sent to him

the poem: ‘Though now dark exhalations hide from sight the Palace of

the Ninefold Wall, yet goes my heart to the bright moon[35] that far

above the cloud-bank dwells.’ She did not in this message give any hint

that she wished to see him; yet her tone was not unkind, and forgetting

all his rancour he wrote with tears in his eyes: ‘Though lovely still

as in past years the moonbeams of this night, for me in vain their

beauty, since now in shadows of unkindness they are wrapped.’

She was to leave the Palace at dawn and was much preoccupied with the

young prince her son. In her anxiety for his future she overwhelmed him

with warnings and instructions. The child understood but little of what

she was saying, and seeing that his attention had wandered, she felt

more than ever that he was of no age to shift for himself. He usually

went to bed very early, but on this occasion he had asked to sit up

till his mother started. It was evident that he was very much upset by

her departure, but he was very brave about it, and this made her feel

more than ever remorseful at leaving him.

Genji could not banish from his mind the thought of Tō no Bēn’s

insolent behaviour. It spoilt all his enjoyment in life and for a long

while he wrote to no one, not even to Oborozuki. The autumn rains set

in and still no word came from him. She began to wonder what could be

amiss, and at last sent him the poem: ‘While leaf by leaf autumn has

stripped the trees, all this long windy while have I in sadness waited

for the news that did not come.’ Doubtless it had cost her some

trouble to communicate with him in secret; moreover the poem itself

was not at all displeasing. Genji detained the messenger, and going

to his desk opened the drawer where he kept his Chinese writing-paper

and chose the prettiest piece he could find. Mending his pen with

the greatest care, he indited a note so elegant even in its outside

appearance that on its arrival there was quite a stir among the ladies

who were at her side. Who could be the sender of such a missive?

Significant glances were exchanged. ‘I have for some while, for reasons

about which it would be useless to speak, been in the last depths of

depression.’ So he wrote and to this he added the poem: ‘Why, think

you, fell the rains of autumn yet faster than of yore? It was my tears

that swelled them, my tears because we could not meet.’ He told her too

that if the path of their friendship were but clear, he should soon

forget the rain and his depression and all that was amiss in the world.

He took much pains with this letter. There were several other people

who had written to complain of his neglect, but though he sent them all

encouraging replies there were some of them about whom he did not feel

very strongly one way or the other.

On the anniversary of the Emperor’s death, in addition to the usual

ceremonies, he caused the Service of the Eight Recitals[36] to be

celebrated with particular magnificence. The day of national mourning

was the first of the eleventh month. A heavy snow was falling. He sent

to Fujitsubo the poem: ‘Though once again the time of his departure has

come back, not yet dare hope we for the day when we shall meet.’[37] It

happened that on that day she felt in utter despair, seeing no hope of

happiness on any side. She answered: ‘Though sad to have outlived

him for so long, yet in this day’s return found I some peace; it was as

though the world again were in his rule.’

It was not written with very great display of penmanship, but there was

(or Genji fancied that there was) a peculiar distinction and refinement

in the writing. It was not quite in the fashion of the moment; but that

did not matter, for she had a style that was completely of her own

invention.

But this, he remembered, was the day of the great masses for his

father’s soul. He must put Fujitsubo out of his thoughts; and wet

through by the perpetual downpour of rainy snow, he played his part in

the elaborate rituals and processions.

The Service of the Eight Recitals was to be celebrated in Fujitsubo’s

house on the tenth of the twelfth month and the four succeeding

days. She was at great pains to render the ceremony as impressive as

possible. The tents to be used on each of the five days were wound

on rods of ivory; they were backed with thin silk and laid in cases

of woven bamboo. All was ordered with a splendour such as had seldom

been seen before. But under her management even the most trivial daily

arrangements became invested with a singular beauty and completeness.

It did not therefore surprise Genji that the Recitals were carried

out with unequalled impressiveness and dignity. The adornments of the

Buddha, the coverings of the flower-altars, all were of a beauty that

made him dream he was indeed a dweller in Amida’s Land of Bliss.

The first day’s Recital was dedicated to the memory of her father;[38]

the next was on behalf of her mother, the deceased Empress; the third

day was in memory of her husband, the late ex-Emperor. It is on this

day that the fifth book is read; despite the disapproval of Kōkiden

and her flatterers, the ceremony was attended by the greater

part of those about the Court. The readers of this third day had been

chosen with especial care, and when they came to the passage: ‘Then he

gathered sticks for firewood and plucked wild berries and the fruit of

the mountains and trees,’ the words that all had heard so many times

before took on a strange significance. It fell to the lot of the dead

man’s sons to officiate at the altar, circling it with gold and silver

dishes held aloft in their hands, and these dishes piled high with

offerings of many kinds. This rite was performed by Genji with a grace

and deftness that was not equalled by any of his companions. You will

say that I have noted this superiority many times before; that is true,

and I can only plead in excuse that people were actually struck by it

afresh each time they saw him.

The last day’s Recital was on behalf of her own salvation. To the

astonishment of all present it was announced that she herself wished

to take this opportunity of abandoning the world, and had desired the

clergy to intimate her renunciation to the Lord Buddha. It may well be

imagined with what consternation both Prince Hyōbukyō her brother and

Genji himself received this utterly unexpected announcement. It was

made in the middle of the service, and Hyōbukyō, without waiting for

the Recital to end, left his seat and went at once to her side. But all

his pleading was in vain. At the end of the service she sent for the

Head of the Tendai Sect[39] and told him that she was ready to receive

the Rules forthwith. Her uncle the High Priest of Yogawa thereupon

ascended the daïs and shaved her head. A murmur of horror ran through

the hall; there was a sound of sobbing. There is something strangely

moving in the spectacle of such a renunciation, even when some

decrepit old woman decides at last that it is time to take her vows.

But here a lady in the prime of her beauty, who till now had given the

world no inkling of her intention, was suddenly casting herself away.

Her brother found himself weeping with the rest; and even strangers

who had come merely for the sake of the service felt, under the spell

of the reader’s solemn voice and of this sudden declaration, that a

personal calamity had befallen them. The sons of the late Emperor who

remembered her proud bearing at their Father’s Court were particularly

distressed, and all of them intimated their regret at the step which

she had taken. Only Genji stood rooted to the spot in speechless horror

and dismay. At last he realized that his behaviour must be attracting

attention, and when all the princes had left her he made his way to her

daïs.

Most of the people had cleared off and only a few ladies-in-waiting,

all of them on the verge of tears, sat here and there in small

disconsolate groups. An unclouded moon heightened the sparkling

radiance of the fresh snow which lay around the house. Old memories

crowded to his mind and for a moment he feared that he would break

down. But at last controlling himself he said very quietly ‘What made

you suddenly decide to do this?’ ‘I have been meaning to for a long

while, but so many things were happening and I had not time to think

about it quietly....’ He was standing outside her curtains-of-state.

This answer was not spoken directly to him, but was brought by Ōmyōbu,

her maid. Within the curtains he knew that her favourites were gathered

round her. He could hear a faint, reiterated rustling, as though a

company of silent mourners were swaying in inconsolable grief. How well

he understood their utter despair! From the hanging incense-burner

behind her curtain-of-state there rose a heavy perfume of

_kurobo_,[40] carried through the room by the fierce snow-wind which

had blown since dusk; and with it mingled a faint remnant of the holy

incense which the priests had that day been burning in the house. Add

to this the princely scent which Genji wore and you may well imagine

that the night air was fragrant as the winds of Paradise.

A messenger came from the Heir Apparent’s household. There rose before

her mind the memory of the child’s pretty speeches and ways, that last

morning in the Palace. It was more than she could bear, and lest she

should break down altogether she left the message unanswered. Seeing

the messenger go away empty-handed, Genji wrote a few words on her

behalf. It was now time for him to take his leave; but both he and she

were in a state of agitation which they could barely control, and he

dared not utter the thoughts that were at that moment passing through

his mind. Through Ōmyōbu he sent her this poem: ‘Though fain I too

would seek that stainless tract whither the moon has climbed, yet how

unguided in the darkness should those small feet not go astray?’[41]

He spoke of his regret at the step she had taken, but only in formal

terms, for he knew that she was not alone. Of the tumultuous thoughts

which surged through his brain there was not one to which he could at

such a time give vent. And answer came: ‘Though now upon life and all

its sorrow I have looked my last, yet are there certain earthly things

I shall not soon forget....’ ‘The stain of the world clings fast to

me....’ This and much else was in the answer; but he guessed that a

great part of it had been supplied by those who were about her.

There was no more to be done, and heavy at heart he left the house.

At the Nijō-in he lay alone upon his bed, never once closing his

eyes. He was now firmly convinced that if it were not for his duty to

Fujitsubo’s son he would certainly retire from the world. The late

Emperor had hoped that by investing Lady Fujitsubo with definite

public rank he would assure the boy’s future. But now, by becoming a

nun, she had upset all his calculations; for it was almost certain

that she would not continue to hold her present position in the State.

Were Genji also now to desert the child, what would become of him?

These were the thoughts that still perplexed him when morning came. He

remembered that Fujitsubo would now have to provide herself with such

articles as appertain to a nun’s life. In this matter at least he could

assist her, and he hastened to send to her palace before the end of

the year a suitable provision of rosaries, prayer-desks and the like.

He heard that Ōmyōbu also had renounced the world that she might keep

her mistress company, and to this gentlewoman he sent a message of

affectionate condolence. In this letter he touched on many incidents of

their common past, and a correspondence ensued, of such length that it

would not be possible to record it. As was natural on so affecting an

occasion many poems were exchanged between them, and as these were of

considerable merit I regret that they must be omitted.

Now that Fujitsubo had definitely embraced the religious life she felt

that there was less impropriety in her receiving him, and on several

occasions she no longer conversed through an intermediary, but actually

admitted him to her presence. His feelings towards her were absolutely

unchanged, but now that there could be no question of intimacy between

them he could face her with some degree of tranquillity.

The close of that year ended the period of Court mourning, and the New

Year was celebrated at the Palace with the usual festivities, including

the Imperial Banquet and the Dance Songs.[42] But of these things no

echo reached Fujitsubo’s house. Day after day was spent in prayers,

penances and meditations on the life to come, and he who had been at

once her comfort and despair no longer found any place in her thoughts.

She continued to use the old palace-chapel for her daily observances;

but for the celebration of more elaborate rites she built a new chapel

in front of the west wing, but at some distance from the house.

He visited her on New Year’s Day. Nowhere was there a sign of renewal

or rejoicing. The house was very quiet and seemed almost deserted.

Here and there stood a few of her most devoted retainers, looking (or

was it only his fancy?) very downcast and depressed. Of the usual New

Year offerings from the Palace only the white horse[43] had this year

arrived. The gentlewomen of the house could not but remember how at

this season in former years princes and courtiers had thronged these

halls. Now they drove straight past, making one and all for the great

palace in the next Ward.[44]

This was under the circumstances perfectly natural and Fujitsubo had

fully expected it. Yet when it happened she became very depressed. But

now the arrival of one whom she would not have exchanged for a thousand

visitors put all this chagrin out of her head.

So great were the changes that had taken place since he was last in

her room that for a while he could do nothing but stare about him in

bewilderment.

The canopy of her daïs and the hangings of her screen-of-state were now

of dark blue; here and there behind the curtains he caught a glimpse of

light grey and jasmine-coloured sleeves. The effect was not displeasing

and he would gladly have studied it more closely.

The ice on the lake was just beginning to break up. The willows on the

banks showed a faint tinge of green; they at least remembered that

a new season had begun. These and other portents of the approaching

spring he watched till it grew dark. From behind the curtains Fujitsubo

gazed at him as he sat singing softly to himself the song: ‘Happy the

fisher-folk[45] that dwell ...’; she thought that in all the world

there could be no one so beautiful.

She remained all the while behind her curtains, but a great part of the

room was taken up by images and altars, so that she was obliged to let

him sit very near the daïs and he did not feel wholly cut off from her.

A number of elderly nuns were installed at her side, and fearing lest

in their presence his parting words might betray too great an emotion

he stole in silence from the room. ‘What a fine gentleman he has grown

up to be!’ they exclaimed after Genji’s departure. ‘One might have

thought that it would have spoiled him always having things his own

way as he did in his Father’s time, and being first in everything.

How little can he then have guessed that he would ever come to know

the world’s ingratitude! But you can see that he bears his troubles

manfully, though there is a graver look in his face now than there was

in the old days. Poor gentleman, it makes one’s heart bleed to see him

so sad!’ So the old ladies whispered together, shaking their heads

and calling blessings upon him, while to Fujitsubo herself came many

painful recollections.

It was the time when the yearly distribution of honours took place.

Fujitsubo’s kinsmen and retainers were entirely passed over. This was

quite natural and she did not resent it; but she noticed that even the

usual bounties were withheld, and promotions which had always been

taken as a matter of course were in many cases not granted. There was a

great deal of disappointment and annoyance. Moreover on the ground that

she would shortly have to give up her official rank and would not then

be able to maintain so large an establishment,[46] many other changes

and readjustments were made.

All this she had expected. It was indeed the inevitable consequence

of her retirement from secular life; but when she saw her former

pensioners and retainers going about with dismal faces and in many

instances left without proper support, she was very much upset. But

above all her thoughts were centred on one persistent desire; that,

even though she herself should come to utter ruin, the Heir Apparent

might in due course come peacefully to the Throne, and it was to this

end that she caused perpetual services to be celebrated in the chapel

attached to her house.

To what secret peril was the young prince’s life exposed? Those who

were called upon to officiate at these incessant litanies could

themselves form no conjecture. But her own prayers were more explicit.

Again and again she called upon the Buddha to save the young prince

from the ruin which would immediately overtake him should the true

story of his birth be known; and she prayed with all her heart that,

if retribution must needs come, it might fall upon herself rather than

upon the child. These prayers had at least the effect of bringing her

to a calmer state of mind. Genji, for his part, regarded them as

by no means superfluous.

His own servants and retainers had in the recent distribution of

honours fared little better than hers and were in very ill humour.

Thoroughly discontented with the march of public affairs both they and

their master henceforward appeared but seldom at Court. About this

time the Minister of the Left decided to send in his resignation.

The changes in his home as well as the decline of his own political

influence had recently told very much upon his spirit and he no

longer felt equal to his charge. The Emperor remembered the unbounded

confidence which his father had placed in this Minister’s sagacity, and

how in his last hours the old Emperor had said that to dispense with

such a man’s counsel must needs endanger the security of the Throne. He

was therefore very reluctant to give this resignation effect and for

a while attempted to ignore it. But the Minister stuck to his point

and, though his retirement had not been formally accepted, no longer

appeared at Court.

Henceforward the whole government of the country fell into the hands of

a single family, that of Kōkiden’s father, the Minister of the Right.

The powerful influence of the retired Minister had indeed been the last

check upon the complete dominance of this ascendant faction, and his

withdrawal from public affairs was regarded with grave apprehension

both by the young Emperor himself and by all right-thinking people.

The late Minister’s sons, who had hitherto enjoyed a consideration

in the world somewhat beyond that to which their own abilities would

have entitled them, were mortified to discover that they could no

longer have everything their own way. The most crestfallen of them all

was Tō no Chūjō, who through his connexion[47] with the family which

was now dominant, might have been expected to fare rather better

than the rest. Unfortunately he was still on very bad terms with his

wife, and his neglect of her had deeply offended the Minister, who no

longer received Chūjō as a son-in-law. No doubt as a punishment for

his misdemeanour, his name had been altogether omitted from the list

of New Year honours and promotions. Such things however did not much

interest him and he was not nearly so disappointed as the Minister had

hoped. He could indeed hardly expect to enjoy much influence when even

Genji’s fortunes were so obviously on the decline, and leaving public

business to look after itself he would go off to Genji’s palace, where

the two of them spent the time in the study of music and letters. Often

they would remind one another of the many absurd exploits in which

they had once been rivals; and even in their present quiet pursuits

the old rivalry continued. Genji was much occupied with the readings

of Holy Scripture which are appointed for spring and autumn, and with

the performance of various other annual observances.[48] He also

gathered round him a number of scholars who seemed, no doubt owing to

the present state of public affairs, to be out of employment, and put

them to writing Chinese poems and essays. He also spent many hours in

playing literary games such as rhyme-covering and the like. He soon

became so interested in these trivial pursuits that for a month on

end he never once set foot in the palace. This incivility, together

with his enthusiasm for what were considered frivolous and undignified

occupations, was commented upon very unfavourably in many quarters.

The summer rains had set in, and one day when a steady downpour made

other amusements impossible Chūjō arrived at the palace with a

great pile of books. Genji too opened his library, and after exploring

several cases which had not been unlocked for a long time he produced

some very remarkable collections of ancient Chinese poetry. There

happened to be with him that day several friends who, though they were

not scholars by profession, had a very considerable knowledge of such

matters. From among these gentlemen and the learned doctors who were

present Genji picked sides, and ranging them to left and right of the

room instituted a grand competition with very handsome prizes. In

the course of the rhyme-covering contests they came across some most

unusual and puzzling rhyme-words, and even well-known scholars were

occasionally at a loss. More than once Genji was able to come to their

rescue. They were astonished at his knowledge. How, they wondered,

did he find time to pick up so many accomplishments? There seemed to

be no art or pastime in which he did not show the same marvellous

proficiency. The ‘right’ won easily and it fell to Chūjō’s lot to

provide the winners with a feast. This took place on the following day.

It was not an elaborate affair, but consisted of a collation served in

elegant luncheon boxes.

Various prizes were also given and when this was over the doctors of

literature were again called upon to divert the company with essays.

The rose-trees at the foot of the steps were in full bloom and coming

as they did in a somewhat dull season, when the brightness of spring is

over and the riot of autumn colours has not yet begun, these flowers

gave Genji an especial pleasure.

Chūjō’s son, a little boy of eight or nine who had only that year been

introduced at Court, was present that day. He sang well and could play

the _shō_. Genji was very fond of him and they used often to practise

together. He was Chūjō’s second son by his wife, the sister of Kōkiden,

and as grandson of the all-powerful Minister of the Right he was

treated by every one at Court with great deference. But he was also not

only handsome but extremely intelligent, and in the present company his

performance received so much encouragement that he was soon singing

that rather noisy song the _Ballad of Takasago_, which he got through

with great credit and applause. As a reward for this song Genji laid

his own cloak on the boy’s shoulders, and as he sat flushed with the

excitement of the party and wearing only an unlined shirt of thin gauze

that showed the delicate texture of his skin beneath, the old doctors

of literature stared at him with delight and amazement from the distant

part of the room where they had respectfully taken up their stand;

and many of them shed tears of wonder and delight. At the close of

the stanza: ‘May I be there where lilies bloom’ Chūjō picked up the

wine-bowl and handed it to Genji, reciting as he did so the poem: ‘Not

the first rose that but this morning opened on the tree, with thy fair

face would I compare.’ Laughing, Genji took the cup and whispered the

poem: ‘Their time they knew not, the rose-buds that to-day unclosed.

For all their fragrance and their freshness the summer rains have

washed away.’ Then Chūjō, who had become somewhat excited, accused

Genji of toying with the wine-bowl and forced him to drink what he

considered a proper draught.

Much else happened before the banquet closed. But to describe in detail

all that was said and done on an occasion such as this would, I think,

be very unfair to the persons concerned. I will therefore observe

Tsurayuki’s warning and refrain from tiring you with any further

particulars. Suffice it to say that the company made a great many

poems both in Chinese and Japanese, all of them containing flattering

references to their host, and Genji soon began to feel in very good

humour with himself. He could not help thinking of the passage

in Chinese history where the Duke of Chou boasts that he is ‘the son

of King Wen and the brother of King Wu.’ These were very good names

and fitted his case exactly. ‘Son of King Wen, brother of King Wu.’

Suddenly, as he murmured these words, he remembered that the Chinese

duke had added ‘and uncle of King Ch’ēng.’ But here he was on difficult

ground; something seemed to have gone wrong with the parallel. The

‘King Ch’ēng’[49] of his case, though something more than a nephew, was

still a very long way from being a king!

Prince Sochi no Miya[50] frequently joined these gatherings, and as he

was not only a man of taste and fashion but also an excellent performer

on various instruments, his presence added greatly to the pleasure of

the company.

About this time Princess Oborozuki left the Court for a while and went

to stay at her father’s house. She had for some time been suffering

from slight attacks of malaria and it was thought that she could be

treated for this illness more conveniently at her home than amid the

bustle of the Court. Priests were summoned and their incantations were

at once effective. Among the many people who wrote to congratulate

her upon her recovery Genji was naturally one, and as both of them

happened for the moment to have a good deal of time on their hands, a

correspondence ensued which led in the end to his paying her a somewhat

reluctant visit. This was followed by others and he was soon seeing

her every night. She was well made, tending even to plumpness, so

that the slight pallor and thinness which had ensued from her recent

indisposition only enhanced her charm. It happened that at the

time Kōkiden was also staying in the house. This made Genji’s visits

particularly imprudent, but it was just this added risk which attracted

him and induced him to repeat them. It was not of course long before

several inmates of the house became aware that something of this kind

was going on, but they were too frightened of Kōkiden to say anything

to her about it, nor had the Minister of the Right any suspicion

whatever.

One night when Genji was with her a violent storm suddenly came on.

The rain fell in such torrential floods as to be quite alarming

and just after midnight tremendous crashes of thunder began.

Soon the whole place was astir. The young princes and Kōkiden’s

gentlemen-in-attendance seemed to be wandering all over the house,

while the ladies-in-waiting, terrified by the thunderstorm, were

clinging to one another hysterically in the passage just outside. There

were people everywhere and Genji began to wonder how he was ever going

to escape.

It was now broad daylight. Oborozuki’s maids had entered the room

and seemed to be crowding round the great curtained bed. Genji was

appalled by the situation. Among these ladies there were two who knew

the secret, but they quite lost their heads in this emergency and were

unable to be of any use. The thunderstorm was over and the rain was

now less violent. The Minister was now up and about. He first paid his

elder daughter a visit, and then, just at a moment when the rain was

falling rather heavily, stepped lightly and briskly into Oborozuki’s

room. The rain was making such a noise that they did not hear him and

it was not till a hand was thrust through the bed-curtains that they

realized what had happened. ‘We have had a very bad thunderstorm,’ he

said, pulling the curtain slightly aside as he spoke. ‘I thought of you

in the night and had half a mind to come round and see how you were

getting on, but somehow or other I didn’t. Your brothers were on

duty at the Palace last night. Just fancy....’ So he went on, speaking

in an excited inconsequent manner which, even in his present quandary,

Genji could not help contrasting with the gravity and good-sense of

that other Minister, Aoi’s father, and he smiled to himself. Really if

he had so much to say he had better come right inside and have done

with it. Oborozuki, determined to screen her lover if she could, now

crept to the edge of the bed and issued cautiously from between the

curtains. Her face was so flushed and she looked so very ill at ease

that her father was quite alarmed. ‘What have you been doing?’ he said,

‘you are not looking at all well. I am afraid we stopped the treatment

too soon. These attacks are very troublesome to get rid of....’ As he

spoke his eye suddenly fell upon a man’s pale violet-coloured belt that

had got mixed up with her clothes, and at the same time he noticed a

piece of paper with writing upon it lying near the bed. How did these

things come to be in his daughter’s room? ‘Whose is this?’ he asked,

pointing at the paper. ‘I think you had better give it to me; it may

be something important. I shall probably know the writing.’ She looked

where he was pointing. Yes, there was Genji’s paper lying conspicuously

upon the floor. Were there no means of heading her father away from it?

She could think of none and did not attempt to answer his question. It

was evident that she was acutely embarrassed, and even though she was

his own child he ought to have remembered that she was now a lady of

some consequence, whose feelings, however reprehensible might be her

conduct, he was bound in some measure to respect. Unfortunately there

was not in his nature a particle either of moderation or restraint. He

stooped to pick up the paper, and as he did so, without the slightest

hesitation or compunction he opened the bed-curtains and peered

right in. There full length upon the bed and apparently quite at

his ease lolled a charming young man, who when the curtain stirred

merely rolled quietly over and hid his face in the pillows. Enraged,

astonished as the Minister was, even he had not quite the courage to

press the discovery home. Blind with fury he thrust the paper into his

pocket and rushed out of the room.

Genji was indeed extremely concerned about the consequences of this

incident, coming as it did in the wake of so many other indiscretions.

But his first care was to comfort his companion, which he did as best

he could.

Self-restraint had never been a characteristic of the lady’s father

and now that he was getting old he found it more than ever impossible

to keep anything to himself. It was therefore only to be expected that

without considering the consequences or turning the matter over in

his mind for a single moment, he went and told the whole story to his

daughter Kōkiden.

‘Well there it is,’ he wound up, ‘and you will not be surprised to hear

that the handwriting was that of no less a person than Prince Genji!

Of course I know quite well that this affair has been going on for a

long time. A good deal of licence is allowed to people in his position

and unfortunately I was weak-minded enough to let the matter pass.

Then came the death of his wife, and it seemed certain that he would

now legitimize his relations with your sister. Instead of doing so he

suddenly abandoned her in the most heartless and disgraceful fashion.

I was very uneasy about what had happened, but there was nothing to do

except to make the best of a bad business, and I sent her to Court,

fully trusting that His Majesty would not regard this one escapade as

a fatal objection. Unfortunately he looked upon her as still more or

less betrothed to Genji and left her severely alone. One would

have thought she had suffered enough already! It is really disgusting,

after what has happened, that he should have the face to start the

thing all over again. You may say that a young man is bound to have his

fling; but this Prince Genji goes a great deal too far. I hear that he

has been behaving very badly with the Vestal Virgin of Kamo, carrying

on a secret correspondence with her, and according to some people

going a good deal further than that. If he has no respect for her holy

calling he might at least realize that this kind of thing does his own

reputation no good. How anyone holding an important and responsible

position in the State can bring himself to behave in this way I simply

cannot imagine....’ Kōkiden had always detested Genji and she now burst

out angrily: ‘They call him their Emperor, but from the very beginning

they have gone out of their way to heap every sort of indignity upon

him. Even before he came to the Throne they had already begun to treat

him abominably. Remember how the Minister of the Left behaved about the

marriage of his cherished only daughter! He insisted forsooth in giving

her to this wretched Prince Genji instead of to my son, though my boy

was older and had already been proclaimed Heir Apparent, while Genji

did not count as a member of the royal family at all and was so young

that the wedding took place on the same day as his Initiation! We too,

you may remember, were planning to give my sister to Genji when we were

outwitted by this hasty wedding, of which till the last minute no one

was given the slightest intimation. Every one was indeed astonished

that we should allow ourselves to be tricked in this unscrupulous

fashion. We should all much have preferred to see her married to this

young man, but when that fell through there was nothing for it but to

do the best we could for her at Court. It is really extraordinary

that after all the painful experiences she has had with this wretch she

should still imagine she can make a permanent conquest of him. I have

no doubt he is treating the Vestal Virgin in just the same way; and

his behaviour in this matter, as indeed in many others, is causing His

Majesty the greatest anxiety; which is not to be wondered at, seeing

that the heir to the Throne is entirely in this Prince Genji’s hands.’

She went on in this strain for so long and with so much rancour that

her father, who never remained angry for more than a short time, soon

began to sympathize with Genji rather than with her and was sorry that

he had mentioned the matter at all. ‘I think that for the present,’

he said, ‘you had better not speak of this to anyone, not even to His

Majesty your son. Prince Genji’s conduct is certainly outrageous; but

you are very fond of your sister and you cannot denounce him without

getting her too into trouble. Leave the matter to me. I intend to

speak to her very seriously, and if this has no effect, then we shall

have done our best and she must take the consequences.’ But it was too

late to mend matters; she was indeed only further exasperated by his

attempt to conciliate her. That Genji should have been carrying on this

intrigue in her own house, and that too at a time when he knew she

was in residence, showed an impudent contempt for her authority which

deeply wounded her, and all that she now thought of was how best she

might use this discovery to his undoing.

[1] Rokujō was still uncertain whether it was her jealousy that had

killed Yūgao.

[2] Torii.

[3] The _sakaki_, a species of evergreen oak, is planted at Shintō

shrines.

[4] In allusion to the old song ‘My home is at the foot of Miwa Hill.

If you like me, come some day to visit me. You will know the house by

the cedar which grows at the gate.’

[5] Princes used rich scents forbidden to commoners.

[6] Used in making offerings to Shintō gods.

[7] An allusion to the poem (_Kokinshū_ 701) ‘Can even the God of

Thunder whose footfall echoes in the sky put those asunder whom love

has joined?’

[8] In reality an appeal to the Virgin (representative of the Gods) to

dissuade her mother from accompanying her.

[9] Before departing for Ise the Virgin was presented to the Emperor

and formally invested.

[10] 4 p.m.

[11] Prince Zembō, her father, was at that time Heir Apparent.

[12] A river in the Province of Ise.

[13] ‘Ōsaka’ means Hill of Meeting; a gentle slope on the road from

Kyōto to Ōtsu.

[14] I.e. to Murasaki.

[15] Genji’s son by Fujitsubo; supposed to be the Emperor’s child. He

was now four years old.

[16] In which they packed the costumes they wore while on duty at the

palace.

[17] Her relations with Genji. See vol. i, p. 241. She had now become

the Emperor’s mistress.

[18] The neglected step-child who in the end triumphs over her pampered

rivals is a favourite theme in Japanese stories. Cf. the _Sumiyoshi

Monogatari_ and the _Ochikubo_.

[19] See vol. i, pp. 68 and 252.

[20] A ritual in honour of the Five Mysterious Buddhas of the Tantric

Sect, to wit: Gōsanze, Gundari, Dai-itoku, Kongō-yasha and Fudō.

[21] See vol i, pp. 241 _seq_.

[22] Genji was Commander of the Imperial Guard. The soldiers of the

Guard had to report at 4 a.m. to the senior officer of the Guard who

happened on that night to be in the Palace. They had really come to

report to some subordinate officer who happened to be lodging close by.

[23] I.e. 4 a.m. They had to go on calling the hour till their officer

replied ‘So be it’ to show that he had heard them.

[24] There is a play of words on _aku_ ‘enough’ and _aku_ ‘dawn’; in

the next poem between _aku_ ‘enough’ and _aku_ ‘open.’

[25] Wife of the young Emperor Suzaku.

[26] I.e. in a monastery.

[27] Who, after the death of her lover, the Chinese Emperor Kao Tsu,

was tortured and mutilated (c. B.C. 200) by his wife.

[28] Genji’s child by Fujitsubo: supposed by the world to be the late

Emperor’s son.

[29] The Unrinin, near Kyōto.

[30] Books on monastic discipline, and morality in general.

[31] Princess Asagao.

[32] The canonical book of the Tendai Sect.

[33] The Court was still in mourning and music was not allowed.

[34] The Crown Prince sent an assassin to murder the King of Ch‘in;

whereupon the above phenomenon was observed and the Crown Prince felt

convinced that the plot would fail. The young courtier vaguely hints

that Genji is meditating treason.

[35] I.e. the late Emperor.

[36] Of the Hokkekyō.

[37] Ostensibly the poem refers to the late Emperor, but it has a

hidden reference to the meeting of Fujitsubo and Genji. There is a pun

on _yuki_, ‘snow,’ and _yuki_, ‘go.’

[38] Of whom we are vaguely told that he was ‘a former Emperor.’

[39] The bishop of the Enryakuji on Mount Hie.

[40] An incense made of sandal-wood, cloves, etc.

[41] I should like to become a priest, but I must stay and look after

the child. There is an allusion to the famous poem on the death of a

child: ‘Because in Death’s dark land he will not know the way, I will

make offerings to the Guardian of Souls that on his shoulders he may

carry him.’

[42] Performed by girls on the 16th day and by young men on the 14th

and 15th days of the first month.

[43] Twenty-one white horses were offered to the Emperor on the 7th

day, and afterwards distributed by him among members of his family.

[44] The residence of the Minister of the Right, Kōkiden’s father.

[45] _Ama_, ‘fishermen,’ also means ‘nun.’

[46]The State grant allowed to an ex-Empress was sufficient to maintain

2,000 dependants.

[47] His wife was the fourth daughter of the Minister of the Right.

[48] Such as Buddha’s birthday, Māyā’s birthday, Buddha’s Nirvāna day,

etc.

[49] The Heir Apparent, Genji’s son by Fujitsubo, supposed to be the

old Emperor’s child.

[50] One of Genji’s step-brothers.