EXILE AT SUMA
The intrigue against him was becoming every day more formidable. It was
evident that he could not in any case go on living much longer where he
was, and by a voluntary withdrawal he might well get off more lightly
than if he merely allowed events to take their course.
There was Suma. It might not be such a bad place to choose. There had
indeed once been some houses there; but it was now a long way to the
nearest village and the coast wore a very deserted aspect. Apart from
a few fishermen’s huts there was not anywhere a sign of life. This did
not matter, for a thickly populated, noisy place was not at all what he
wanted; but even Suma was a terribly long way from the Capital, and the
prospect of being separated from all those whose society he liked best
was not at all inviting. His life hitherto had been one long series of
disasters. As for the future, it did not bear thinking of! Clearly the
world held in store for him nothing but disappointment and vexation.
But no sooner had he proved to himself convincingly that he was glad
to leave the Capital than he began to recollect a thousand reasons for
remaining in it. Above all, he could not imagine what would become of
Murasaki if he were to leave her. Even when for one reason or another
he was obliged to pass a few days away from his palace, he spent so
much of the time wondering how she was getting on without him that he
never really enjoyed himself and in the end dreaded even these
short absences almost as much as she did. Now he was going away not
for a fixed number of days or even years, but for a huge, incalculable
period of time; perhaps (for who knew what might not happen either to
him or her?) forever. The thought that he might never see her again
was unendurable and he began to devise a scheme for hiding her in his
retinue and secretly taking her with him. He soon saw however that this
was quite impracticable. First there was the difficult sea-journey; and
then, at Suma, the total lack of amusements and society. The waves and
winds of that desolate shore would make poor companions for one used
to the gaieties of a fashionable house. It would moreover be utterly
impossible in such a place to make adequate provision for the comfort
of a fastidious and delicately-nurtured lady. Her presence would soon
involve him in all sorts of difficulties and anxieties. She herself
felt that she would rather face every danger, every hardship, than
be left behind at the Nijō-in, and that he should doubt her courage
wounded her deeply.
The ladies at the ‘village of falling flowers,’ though in any case they
saw him but seldom, were dismayed at the news of his departure, not
for personal reasons only, but also because they had come to depend
in numerous ways on his patronage and support. Many others whose
acquaintance with him was very slight, were, though they would not have
confessed it, shattered at the prospect of his disappearance from the
Court. The abbess[1] herself feared that if she showed him any open
mark of sympathy at this turn in his fortunes she would give new life
to rumours which had already been used against him by his enemies. But
from the time when his decision was first announced she contrived to
send him constant secret messages. He could not help reflecting
with some bitterness that she might sometimes have shown an equal
concern while it was still possible for her to console him in more
concrete ways. But it seemed to be fated that throughout all this long
relationship each, however well disposed, should only cause torment to
the other. He left the City about the twentieth day of the third month.
The date of his departure had not been previously disclosed and he
left his palace very quietly, accompanied only by some seven or eight
intimate retainers. He did not even send formal letters of farewell but
only hasty and secret messages to a few of those whom he loved best,
telling them in such words as came to him at the moment what pain it
cost him to leave them. Those notes were written under the stress of
deep emotion and would doubtless interest the reader; but though some
of them were read to me at the time, I was myself in so distracted a
state of mind that I cannot accurately recall them. Two or three days
before his departure he paid a secret visit to Aoi’s father. He came
in a rattan-coach such as women use, and heavily disguised. When they
saw that it was indeed Prince Genji who had stepped out of this humble
equipage the people at the Great Hall could hardly believe that this
was not some strange dream. Aoi’s old room wore a dismal and deserted
air; but the nurses of his little boy and such of Aoi’s servants as
were still in the house soon heard the news of his unexpected arrival
and came bustling from the women’s quarters to gaze at him and pay him
their respects. Even the new young servants who had not seen him before
and had no reason to take his affairs particularly to heart were deeply
moved at this farewell visit, which brought home to them so vividly the
evanescence of human grandeurs. The little prince recognized him and
at once ran up to him in the prettiest and most confiding way. This
delighted Genji; taking the child on his knee he played with
it so charmingly that the ladies could hardly contain their emotion.
Presently the old Minister arrived: ‘I have often meant,’ he said,
‘during these last months when you have been living so much at home,
to come round and talk over with you various small matters connected
with the past; but first I was ill and for a long time could not attend
to my duties, and then at last my resignation was definitely accepted.
Now I am merely a private person, and I have been afraid that if I came
to see you it would be said that it must be to promote some personal
intrigue that I was bestirring my aged bones. As far as I am concerned
I am out of it all, and have really nothing to be afraid of. But these
new people are very suspicious and one cannot be too careful.... I
am distressed beyond measure that you should be obliged to take the
course which you are now contemplating; I would gladly not have lived
to witness such a day. These are bad times, and I fully expected to see
a great deal of mischief done to the country. But I confess I did not
foresee that you would find yourself in such a situation as this, and
I am heart-broken about it, utterly heart-broken....’ ‘We are told,’
answered Genji, ‘that everything which happens to us in this life is
the result of our conduct in some previous existence. If this is to be
taken literally I suppose I must now accept the fact that in a previous
incarnation I must have misbehaved myself in some way. It is clear, at
any rate, that I am in bad odour at Court; though, seeing that they
have not thought it necessary to deprive me of my various offices and
titles, they cannot have very much against me. But when the Government
has shown that it mistrusts a man, he is generally considered much to
blame if he continues to flaunt himself at Court as though nothing
were amiss. I could cite many instances in the history both of our own
and other countries. But distant banishment, the penalty which
I hear is contemplated in my case, has never been decreed except as
the penalty of scandalous and open misdemeanour. My conscience is of
course perfectly clear; but I see that it would be very dangerous to
sit down and await events. I have therefore decided to withdraw from
the Capital, lest some worse humiliation should befall me.’ He gave
the Minister many further details of his proposed flight. The old man
replied with a multitude of reminiscences, particularly of the late
Emperor, with anecdotes illustrating his opinions and policies. Each
time that Genji tried to go his father-in-law gripped his sleeve and
began a new story. He was indeed himself deeply moved by these stories
of old days, as also by the pretty behaviour of his little son, who
while they were talking of policies and grave affairs constantly ran up
to one or the other with his absurd, confiding prattle. The Minister
continued: ‘Though the loss of my dear daughter is a sorrow from which
to my dying day I shall not recover, I find myself now quite thankful
that she did not live to see these dreadful days. Poor girl, she would
have suffered terribly. What a nightmare it all is! More than anything
else I am distressed that my grandson here should be left with us
elderly people and that for months or even years to come you will be
quite cut off from him.
‘As you say, exile has hitherto been reserved as a punishment for
particularly grave offences. There have indeed been many cases both
here and in China of innocent persons being condemned to banishment,
but always in consequence of some false charge being made against them.
But against you a threat of exile seems to have been made without any
cause being alleged. I cannot understand it....’
Tō no Chūjō now joined them and wine was served. It was very late, but
Genji showed no signs of going, and presently all the gentlewomen
of the household collected round him and made him tell them stories.
There was one among them, Chūnagon by name, who, though she never spoke
of it, had always cared for Genji far more deeply than did any of her
companions. She now sat sad and thoughtful waiting to say something to
him but unable to think of anything to say. He noticed this and was
very sorry for her. When all the rest had gone to their rooms he kept
her by him and talked to her for a long while. It may perhaps have
been for her sake that he stayed so long. Dawn was beginning to come
into the sky and the moon, which had not long risen, darted its light
among the blossom of the garden trees, now just beyond their prime.
In the courtyard leafy branches cast delicate half-shadows upon the
floor, and thin wreaths of cloud sank through the air till they met the
first flicker of the white grass-mists which, scarcely perceptible, now
quivered in the growing light.
He hung over the balustrade outside the corner room and for a while
gazed in silence at this scene, which transcended even the beauty of
an autumn night. Chūnagon, that she might watch him go, had opened the
main door and stood holding it back. ‘I shall return,’ Genji said, ‘and
we shall surely meet again. Though indeed, when I think about it, I can
find no reason to suppose that I shall ever be recalled. Oh, why did I
not make haste to know you in better days, when it would have been so
easy for us to meet?’ She wept but made no answer.
Presently Aoi’s mother sent a message by Saishō, the little prince’s
nurse: ‘There are many things that I want to talk over with you, but
my mind is nowadays so clouded and confused that I hesitate to send
for you. It is kind of you to have paid us so long a visit and I would
ask you to come to me; but I fear that to talk with you would remind
me too much of all that is now so changed. However, pray do not
leave the house till your poor little son is awake.’ He answered with
the poem: ‘To a shore I go where the tapering smoke of salt-kilns
shall remind me of the smoke that loitered by her pyre.’ He wrote no
letter to go with the poem, but turning to the nurse he said: ‘It is
sad at all times to leave one’s friends at dawn. How much the more
for one such as I, who goes never to return!’ ‘Indeed,’ she answered,
‘“farewell” is a monster among words, and never yet sounded kindly in
any ear. But seldom can this word have had so sinister an import as to
all of us on this unhappy morning.’
Touched by her concern at his departure he felt that he must give her
what she evidently expected,—some further message for her mistress,
and he wrote: ‘There is much that I should like to say, but after
all you will have little difficulty in imagining for yourself the
perplexity and despair into which my present situation has plunged me.
I should indeed dearly like to see the little prince before I go. But
I fear that the sight of him might weaken my resolution to forsake the
fleeting world, and therefore I must force myself to leave this house
without further delay.’
The whole household was now awake and every one was on the watch to
see him start. The moon shone red at the edge of the sky, and in its
strange light he looked so lovely, yet so sad and thoughtful, that the
hearts of wolves and tigers, nay of very demons, would have melted at
the sight of him. It may be imagined then with what feelings those
gentlewomen watched him drive away, many of whom had known and loved
him since he was a child. But I had forgotten to say that Aoi’s mother
replied with the poem: ‘Seek not another sky, but if you love her,[2]
stay beneath these clouds with which her soul is blent.’ When he
reached his own palace he found that none of the gentlewomen there had
slept a wink. They were sitting a few here, a few there, in frightened
groups, looking as though they would never lift their heads again.
Those officers of his household and personal retainers who had been
chosen to go with him to Suma were busy preparing for their departure
or saying good-bye to their friends, so that the retainers’ hall was
absolutely deserted; nor had the gentlewomen whom he was leaving
behind dared to present themselves on the occasion of his departure,
for they knew that any demonstration of good will towards an enemy of
those in power would be remembered against them by the Government. So
that instead of his doors being thronged, as once they had been, by
a continual multitude of horsemen and carriages, he found them that
morning utterly deserted and realized with bitterness how frail is the
fabric of worldly power. Already his great guest-tables, pushed against
the wall, were looking tarnished and dusty; the guest-mats were rolled
up and stowed away in corners. If the house looked like this now, what
sort of spectacle he wondered would it present when he had been absent
for a few months?
On reaching the western wing he found the partition door still open.
Murasaki had sat there watching till dawn. Some of the little boys
who waited upon her were sleeping on the verandah. Hearing him coming
they now shook themselves and rose with a clatter. It was a pleasant
sight to see them pattering about in their little pages’ costumes; but
now he watched them with a pang at his heart, for he could not help
remembering that while he was away they would grow up into men and in
the end have to seek service elsewhere. And indeed during those days
he looked with interest and regret on many things which had never
engaged his attention before. ‘I am so sorry about last night,’ he
said. ‘One thing happened after another, and by the time I was
free to come back it would not have been worth while. You must have
thought it horrid of me. Now that there is so little time left, I hate
to be away from you at all. But my departure from the Court naturally
involves me in many painful duties, and it would be quite impossible
for me to remain shut up here all the time. There are other people,
some of whom I may very likely never see again, who would think it
unkind of me if I did not even bid them good-bye....’ ‘It is your going
away that matters,’ she answered; ‘nothing else is of any consequence
now....’ She said no more, but sat staring before her in an attitude of
the profoundest despair. And indeed, as Genji realized, she had every
possible reason to dread his departure. Her father Prince Hyōbukyō had
never put himself out for her, and since Genji’s disgrace he stopped
writing and no longer even enquired about her. She was ashamed of his
worldly caution and dreaded lest others should notice it. For her part
she was resolved that, since he showed no interest in her, she would
be the last to remind him of her existence. Some one told her that
her step-mother[3] went about saying: ‘This is what comes of trying
to get on too quickly in the world. Look how she has been punished!
All her relatives expire and now her lover takes flight!’ She was
deeply distressed and felt that she could not ever communicate with
her step-mother again. There was indeed no one to whom she could turn
for help, and her position was likely to be in every way unhappy and
difficult. ‘I promise,’ said Genji to comfort her, ‘that if my exile
seems likely to last for a considerable time, I will send for you to
join me, even if I can offer you nothing better to live in than a hole
in the rocks. But it would be considered most improper for me to take
you with me now. People who are disapproved of by the Government
are expected to creep about miserably in the dark, and if they try to
make themselves happy and comfortable it is considered very wicked.
I have not of course done anything wrong, but my misfortune must
certainly be due to some sin in a previous life, and I am sure that if
I did anything so unusual as to take my lady into exile with me, fate
would find some yet more cruel way to punish me for the presumption.’
He then lay down and slept till noon. Later in the day his half-brother
Prince Sochi no Miya and Tō no Chūjō called and offered to help him
dress. He reminded them that he had resigned his rank and they brought
him a cloak of plain silk without any crest or badge. This costume had
an informal air which became him better than they had expected. When
he went to the mirror that his servants might do his hair he could not
help noticing how thin his face had lately grown, and he said ‘What a
fright I look! Can I really be such a skeleton as this? It is indeed
a bad business if I am.’ Murasaki, her eyes full of tears, came and
peeped at the mirror. To distract her he recited the poem: ‘Though I
wander in strange lands and far away, in this mirror let me leave my
image, that it may never quit your side.’ ‘That, yes, even so little as
that, would comfort me, if indeed this mirror might hold the image of
your distant face.’ So she answered, and without another word sank into
a seat behind the roof-pillar, that her tears might not be seen. His
heart went out to her, and he felt at this moment that among all the
women he had known she was indeed the most adorable.
His step-brother now fell to reminding him of scenes in their common
childhood, and it was already growing dark when he left Genji’s room.
The lady at the ‘village of falling flowers’ had written to him
constantly since she heard the news of his approaching departure. He
knew that she had many reasons for dreading his absence and it
seemed unfeeling not to pay her one more visit before he left. But if
he spent another evening away from his palace Murasaki would be very
disappointed, and he therefore did not start till late in the night.
He went first to the room of Princess Reikeiden, who was flattered and
delighted beyond measure that hers should be the only house to which he
paid the honour of a farewell visit. But what passed between them was
not of sufficient interest to be recorded. He remembered that it was
only through his help and protection that she had managed to overcome
the difficulties and anxieties of the last few years. Now matters would
go from bad to worse. In the house nothing stirred. The moon had risen
and now shimmered faintly through the clouds. The lake in front of
the building was large and wild, and dense thickets of mountain-trees
surrounded it. He was just thinking that there could hardly in all the
world be a lovelier, stranger place, when he remembered the rocky shore
of Suma,—a thousand times more forbidding, more inaccessible!
The younger sister had quite made up her mind that Genji was going
to leave the house without visiting her, and she was all the more
surprised and delighted when at last, more lovely than ever by
moonlight and in the grave simplicity of his exile’s dress, he stole
into her room. At once she crept towards the window and they stood
together gazing at the moonlight. They talked for a while, and found
to their astonishment that it was nearly day. ‘How short the night has
been,’ said Genji. ‘Yet even such a hasty meeting as this may never be
ours again. Why did I not know you better in all those years when it
would have been so easy to meet? Never have such misfortunes befallen
an innocent man before, nor ever will they again. I go from torment to
torment. Listen ...’ and he was beginning to recount to her the
disasters and miscalculations of the past when the cock crowed, and
fearing detection he hastened away.
The moon was like last night, just on the point of setting; it seemed
to him a symbol of his own declining fortunes. Shining through the dark
purple of her dress the moonlight had indeed, as in the old poem, ‘the
leaden look of those who weep,’ and she recited the poem: ‘Though to
the moonlight my sleeve but narrow lodging can afford, yet might it
dwell there for ever and for ever, this radiance[4] of which my eyes
can never tire.’ He saw that she was deeply moved by this parting and
in pity sought to comfort her with the poem: ‘In its long journeying
the moon at last shall meet a clearer sky; then heed not if for a while
its light be dimmed.’ ‘It is foolish,’ he added, ‘to spoil the present
with tears for sorrows that are still to come,’ and with that he
hurried away, that he might be out of the house while it was still dark.
At home he had a great many things to arrange before his departure.
First of all he had to give instructions concerning the upkeep of
his palace to the few faithful retainers who had taken the risk of
remaining in his service. When these had at last all been assigned
their functions, difficulties arose about some of the attendants who
were to have gone with him into exile, and a fresh choice had to
be made. Then there was the business of deciding how much luggage
he should take with him to his mountain fastness. Some things were
obviously indispensable; but even when he cut down his equipment to
the barest possible necessities there were still all kinds of odds and
ends, such as writing-materials, poems, Chinese books, which all had to
be fitted into the right sort of boxes. And then there was his zithern;
he could not leave that behind. But he took no large objects
of furniture nor any of his more elaborate costumes, having resigned
himself to the prospect of a completely bucolic existence. Finally he
had to explain to Murasaki all the arrangements he had made about the
servants who were to stay behind, and a hundred other matters. Into
her charge too he put all the documents concerning his various estates
and grazing-lands in different parts of the country. His granaries
and store-houses he put into the keeping of the nurse Shōnagon whose
vigilance and reliability he had often noted, giving her the help
of one or two trusted household officers. And here again there were
numerous arrangements to be made.
With the gentlewomen of his palace he had never been on intimate terms.
But he kept them in a good humour by sending for them occasionally to
talk with him, and he now summoned them all, saying to them: ‘I am
afraid it will be rather dull here while I am away. But if any of you
care to stay in my service on the chance that I may one day return to
the Court, which if I live long enough is indeed certain to happen
sooner or later,—please consider yourselves at the disposition of
the Lady in the western wing.’ So saying he sent for all the other
servants, high and low, and distributed suitable keepsakes among them.
No one was forgotten; to the nurse of Aoi’s little son and even to the
servants at the ‘village of falling flowers’ he sent tokens of his
appreciation, chosen, you may be sure, with the greatest taste and care.
To Oborozuki, despite a certain reluctance, he wrote at last: ‘That
after what happened between us you should have ceased to communicate
with me was both natural and prudent. But I would now have you know
that the unparalleled ferocity of my enemies has at last driven me from
the Court. “The rising torrent of your reproachful tears has carried me
at last to the flood-mark of exile and disgrace.” I cannot forget
that this folly alone was the instrument of my undoing.’ There was some
danger that the letter might fall into wrong hands before it reached
its destination, and for that reason he made it brief and vague.
The lady was heart-stricken, and though she strove to hide her tears,
they flowed in a torrent that her sleeve was not broad enough to dam.
She sent him the poem: ‘Long ere I reach the tide of your return shall
I, poor scum upon the river of tears, be vanished out of sight.’ She
was weeping violently when she wrote it, and there were many blotches
and mistakes, but her writing was at all times elegant and pleasing. He
would very much have liked to see her once more before his departure,
and he many times thought of arranging it. But she was too intimately
connected with just those people who had been chiefly responsible for
his undoing, and somewhat regretfully he put the idea aside.
On the evening of the day before his departure he went to worship at
his father’s tomb on the Northern Hills. As the moon did not rise till
after midnight he found himself with time on his hands, and went first
to visit the Abbess Fujitsubo. She allowed him to stand close up to
her curtain, and on this occasion spoke to him with her own mouth.
She naturally had many questions to talk over concerning the future
of her son, which was now more than ever uncertain. But apart from
this, two people who had once lived on such terms as this prince and
princess, could not now fail to have much to say to one another of a
far more intimate and tender character. He thought her every bit as
charming and graceful as in old days, and this made him allude with
bitterness to her heartless treatment of him. But he remembered in time
that her present state made any such complaints in the highest degree
unseemly and inappropriate. He was allowing his feelings to get out
of hand, and withdrawing for a while into his own thoughts, he
said at last: ‘This punishment has come upon me quite unexpectedly,
and when I try to account for it, one possible explanation of a most
alarming character presents itself to my mind. I am not thinking of the
danger to myself should a certain fact be known, but of the disastrous
consequences of such a disclosure upon the career of the young prince,
your son....’ The same possibility had of course occurred to her. Her
heart beat wildly, but she did not answer. The many painful scenes in
which he had recently taken part had broken his spirit and he now wept
unrestrainedly. ‘I am going to the Royal Tombs,’ he said at last. ‘Have
you any message?’ She answered with the poem: ‘He that was, is not; and
he that is, now hides from the afflictions of the world. What increase
but of tears did my renunciation bring?’
At last the moon rose, and he set out. Only five or six attendants were
with him, men of low rank, but all of them deeply attached to him.
Genji himself rode on horseback like the rest. This was quite natural
on such an occasion, but his companions could not help contrasting
this melancholy cavalcade with the splendours of his retinue in former
days. Among them the most downcast was Ukon,[5] who had formed part of
his special escort on the occasion of the Kamo festival a few years
ago. This gentleman had since that time seen himself repeatedly passed
over at the annual distribution of honours, and finally his name
disappeared altogether from the lists. Being without employment he had
been obliged to go into service, and was now acting as Genji’s groom.
As they rode along Ukon’s eye lighted on the Lower Shrine of Kamo which
lay quite near their road, and remembering that wonderful day of the
festival he leapt from his horse and holding Genji’s bridle he
recited the verse: ‘Well I remember how, crowned with golden flowers,
we rode together on that glorious day! Little, alas, they heed their
worshippers, the churlish gods that in the Shrine of Kamo dwell.’
Genji well knew what was passing through the man’s mind. He remembered
with indignation and pity how Ukon had been the gayest, the most
resplendent figure among those who had ridden with him on that day.
Genji too alighted from his horse and turning his face towards the
Shrine repeated this parting poem: ‘Thou who art called the Righter
of Wrongs, to Thee I leave it to clear the name that stays behind me,
now that I am driven from the fleeting haunts of men.’ Ukon was a very
impressionable youth, and this small episode thrilled and delighted him
beyond measure.
At last they reached the Tombs. Genji’s mind was full of long-forgotten
images. He saw his father seated on the throne in the days of his
prime, the pattern of a kindly yet magnificent king. Who could then
have guessed that death would in an instant deface all memory of that
good and glorious reign? Who could have foreseen that the wise policies
which, with tears in his eyes, he had time and again commended to those
about him, would in an instant be reversed, and even his dying wishes
contemptuously cast aside? The path to the Royal Tomb was already
overgrown with tall thick grass, so that in pressing his way along it
he became soaked with dew. The moon was hidden behind clouds, dank
woods closed about him on either hand, such woods as give one the
feeling one will never return through them alive. When at last he knelt
at the tomb, his father’s face appeared so vividly before him that he
turned cold with fear. Then murmuring the verse: ‘How comes it that thy
vanished image looms before me, though the bright moon, symbol of thy
high fortunes, is hidden from my sight?’ he set out towards the
town, for it was now broad daylight. On his return he sent a message
to the Heir Apparent. Ōmyōbu had taken charge of the child since
Fujitsubo’s retirement and it was through her that Genji now addressed
his son: ‘I leave the City to-day. That I have been unable to visit
you once more is the greatest of my many vexations. You indeed know
better than I can tell what thoughts are mine in this extremity, and I
beg you to commend me to your little master in such terms as you deem
best.’ With this letter he enclosed a spray of withered cherry-blossoms
to which was tied the poem: ‘When again shall I see the flowers of
the City blossoming in Spring, I whom fortune has cast out upon the
barren mountains of the shore?’ This she passed on to the boy who,
young though he was, quite well understood the import of the message,
and when Ōmyōbu added ‘It is hard at present to say when he will
return...!’ the young prince said sadly ‘Even when he stays away for a
little while I miss him very much, and now that he is going a long way
off I do not know how I shall get on.... Please say this to him for me.’
She was touched by the simplicity of his message. Ōmyōbu often
called to mind all the misery which in past days had grown out of
her mistress’s disastrous attachment. Scene after scene rose before
her. How happy they might both have been, if only.... And then she
would remember that she and she alone had been the promoter of their
ruin. She had pleaded for Genji, arranged those fatal meetings! And
a bitter remorse filled her soul. She now sent the following reply:
‘His Highness dictated no formal answer. When I informed him of your
departure, his distress was very evident....’ This and more she wrote,
somewhat incoherently, for her thoughts were in great confusion. With
the letter was the poem: ‘Though sad it is to mark how swift
the flowers fall, yet to the City Spring will come again and with it,
who can tell....’ ‘Oh if that time were come!’ she added, and spent
the hours which followed in recounting such moving tales of Genji’s
wisdom and kindness that every one in the Palace was soon dissolved
in tears. If these people who but seldom caught sight of him were
distressed at the prospect of his departure, it may be imagined what
were the feelings of those whose duties brought them constantly into
his presence. At the Nijō-in every one down to the mere scullery-maids
and outdoor servants, who could never hope to exchange a single word
with him and had thought themselves very lucky if they obtained an
occasional glance or smile, had always been in despair when it was
known that he would be absent from the palace even for a few days.
Nor was his downfall by any means welcome in the country at large.
Since his seventh year he had enjoyed the privilege of running in and
out of the old Emperor’s rooms just as he felt inclined. Everything
he asked for had been granted without question, and there were few
who had not at one time or another found themselves beholden to his
boundless good-nature and generosity. Even among the great nobles and
Ministers of the Crown there were some who owed their first promotion
to Genji’s good offices; and countless persons of less importance knew
quite well that they owed everything to him. But such was their dread
of the present Government, with its ruthless methods of persecution
and suppression, that not one of them now came near him. Expressions
of regret were everywhere heard; but it was only in the secrecy of
their own hearts that these sympathizers dared blame the Government for
happenings which they universally deplored. After all, what was the
good of risking their own positions by showing to the exiled prince
civilities which could be of no real use to him? There was some
sense in this, but on Genji their prudence made a most painful and
dispiriting impression. He suddenly felt the world was inhabited by a
set of mean and despicable creatures, none of whom were worth putting
oneself out for in any way at all.
He spent the whole of that day quietly with Murasaki at his palace.
He was to start soon after midnight. She hardly knew him as he stood
before her dressed in his queer travelling clothes. ‘The moon has
risen,’ he said at last. ‘Come out to the door and see me start. I
know that at the last minute I shall think of all kinds of things I
meant to say to you to-day. Even when I am only going away for a few
nights, there are always so many things to remember....’ He raised the
curtain-of-state behind which she was sitting and drew her with him
towards the portico. She was weeping bitterly. Her feet would not obey
her and she stumbled haltingly at his side. The moonlight fell straight
upon her face. He looked down at her tenderly. The thought came to him
that he might die at Suma. Who would look after her? What would become
of her? He was indeed no less heart-broken than she; but he knew that
if he gave way to his feelings her misery would only be increased and
he recited the verse: ‘We who so long have sworn that death alone
should part us, must suffer life for once to cancel all our vows.’ He
tried to speak lightly, but when she answered: ‘Could my death pay to
hold you back, how gladly would I purchase a single moment of delay,’
he knew that she was not speaking idly. It was terrible to leave her,
but he knew that by daylight it would be harder still, and he fled from
the house. All the way down to the river her image haunted him and it
was with a heart full to bursting that he went aboard the ship. It was
a season when the days are long, and meeting with a favourable wind
they found themselves at Suma between three and four o’clock in
the afternoon.[6] It was indeed a trifling journey, but to Genji, who
had never crossed the sea before, the experience was somewhat alarming,
though his fears were mingled with wonder and delight. As they came
in sight of that wild and lonely headland where stands the Hall of
Ōye[7] marked by its solitary pine, he recited the verse: ‘A life more
outcast shall be mine among these hills than all those exiles led
whose sufferings the books of Kara[8] have rehearsed.’ He watched the
waves lapping up over the sands and then creeping back again. It put
him in mind of the ancient song: ‘Oh would that like the tides I went
but to return!’ Those who were with him knew the song well enough, but
never before had it moved them as now when Genji murmured to himself
the long-familiar words. Looking back he saw that the mountains behind
them were already melting into the hazy distance, and it seemed to him
that he had indeed travelled the classical ‘three thousand leagues’
of which the Chinese poets so often speak. The monotonous dripping
of the oars now became almost unendurable. ‘Now is my home hid from
me by the mist-clad hills, and even the sky above me seems not the
lovely cloudland that I knew.’ So he sang, being for the moment utterly
downcast and dispirited.
His new home was quite close to the place where in ancient days Ariwara
no Yukihira[9] once lived in exile, ‘trailing his water-buckets along
the lonely shore.’ At this point the sea bends back, forming a
shallow inlet, encompassed by desolate hills.
He proceeded to inspect the hut which had been prepared for his
reception. Never had he seen such a place before. Even the hedge was
built in quite a different way from what he was used to; and the hut
itself, with its thatched roof and wide-spreading gables covered with
wattled bull-rushes, seemed to him the most extraordinary place to
live in. But he could not help admiring the ingenuity with which it
was constructed, and he knew that if he had come there under different
circumstances the prospect of staying in such a cottage would have
fascinated and delighted him. How, in the old days, he had longed for
such an experience!
Many repairs and alterations were necessary, and Genji sent at once for
the bailiffs of some of his estates which lay in the neighbourhood.
They and their workmen, directed by the faithful Yoshikiyo, soon
carried out Genji’s plans, and the place began to assume a much more
habitable air. The pond was dredged and deepened, plantations were
laid out. Soon he settled down to his new life in a way that he would
never have dreamed to be possible. The Governor of the province had
formerly been attached to his household, and though he did not dare
to give him a public welcome, he made it clear in private that his
sympathies were on Genji’s side. Thus even in this remote spot he was
not entirely deprived of society; but there was no one with whom he was
really intimate and such conversation as he could get was of the most
superficial and uninteresting kind. He felt almost as isolated as if
he had been cast up on a desert island, and the prospect of spending
months, nay years, buried away amid these uncivilized surroundings
still appalled him. He was just beginning to reconcile himself a little
to his rustic employments when the summer rains set in. During
this tedious period of inactivity he thought much of his friends at
the Capital. Often he called to mind the picture of Murasaki’s misery
in those last hours, of the Heir Apparent’s infant beauty or the
heedless antics of Aoi’s little son. He determined to send a courier
to the City, and began writing letters to everybody. While he wrote to
the Lady of his palace and again while he wrote to Fujitsubo in her
cloister he wept so bitterly that the letters had many times to be put
aside. To Oborozuki he dared not write direct, but as he had sometimes
done before enclosed a message to her in a letter to Lady Chūnagon,
with the acrostic poem: ‘That I, though cast like weed upon the barren
margin of the sea, am unrepentant still, how should they guess,—these
fisherfolk that tend their salt-kilns on the shore?’ To the retired
Minister and to Nurse Saishō he sent many instructions concerning the
upbringing of the child. It may well be imagined that the arrival of
his post-bag in the City set many hearts a-flutter.
The condition of Murasaki after his departure had gravely alarmed her
attendants. She lay for many days utterly overcome by the shock of his
departure. Every effort to cheer her was in vain. The sight or mention
of things which she connected with him, a zithern which he had once
played, the perfume of a dress which he had left behind, threw her at
once into a new paroxysm of grief. She behaved indeed for all the world
as though he were not merely exiled but already in his grave. At last
Shōnagon, becoming seriously alarmed, sent for her uncle the priest
and begged his aid. The liturgy of intercession which he conducted
had for its aim both the recovery of Lady Murasaki from her present
prostration and the early recall of Genji himself. For a while she
was somewhat calmer and began to go about the house again. She spent
much time at her devotions, praying fervently that he might soon
return and live with her as before. She sent him sleeping-clothes and
many other comforts which she feared he might not otherwise be able to
secure. Among the garments which she packed were a cloak and breeches
of plain homespun. She folded them with a sigh, remembering his Court
apparel with its figured silks and glittering badges. And there was his
mirror! He had left it behind as in his poem he had jestingly promised
to do; but his image he had taken with him, and much good was a mirror
that reflected another face than his! The places where he used to walk,
the pinewood pillar against which he used to lean,—on these she could
still never look without a bitter pang. Her situation might well have
dismayed even a woman long inured to the world; for an inexperienced
girl the sudden departure of one who had taken the place of both father
and mother, to whom she had confided everything, to whom she had looked
on every occasion for comfort and advice, was a blow from which it
could hardly be expected that she would quickly recover. Deep down in
her heart there was the haunting fear that he might die before his
recall. But apart from this dread (which did not bear thinking of),
there was the possibility that gradually, at such a distance as this,
his affection for her would cease. True, she could write to him, and
had his absence been fixed at a few weeks or months she would have had
no great anxiety. But as it was, year might follow year without the
slightest change in his prospects, and when he found that this was so
who knew what might not come...?
The Lady Abbess too was at this time in great distress. The sin of
the Heir Apparent’s birth was a constant weight upon her heart. She
felt that she had up to the present escaped more lightly than her
_karma_ in any degree warranted and that a day of disastrous reckoning
might still be at hand. For years she had been so terrified
lest her secret should become known that she had treated Genji with
exaggerated indifference, convinced that if by any sign or look she
betrayed her partiality for him their attachment would at once become
common knowledge at Court. She called to mind countless occasions when,
longing for his sympathy and love, she had turned coldly away. The
result of all her precautions did indeed seem to be that, in a world
where everything that anyone knows sooner or later gets repeated, this
particular secret had, so far as she could judge by the demeanour of
those with whom she came in contact, remained absolutely undivulged.
But the effort had cost her very dear, and she now remembered with pity
and remorse the harshness which this successful policy had involved.
Her answer to the letter which he sent from Suma was long and tender;
she sought indeed to explain and expiate her seeming heartlessness in
former days.
An answer also came from Oborozuki: ‘Not even to fishers that on the
shore of Suma their faggots burn must we reveal the smouldering ashes
of our love.’ ‘More I have no heart to write,’ she added in the margin
of this poem, which was on a tiny strip of paper discreetly hidden
between the pages of a note from Lady Chūnagon. In her own letter
this lady gave a most melancholy account of her mistress’s condition.
All these tales of woe made the arrival of Genji’s return post-bag a
somewhat depressing event.
Murasaki’s letter was full of the tenderest allusions and messages.
With it was the poem: ‘Look at the sleeves of the fisherfolk who trail
salt-water tubs along the shore: you will not find them wetter than
mine were on the night you put out to sea.’ The clothes and other odds
and ends which she sent him were all of the most delicate make and
colour. She had evidently taken immense trouble, and he reflected
that she could now have little indeed to employ her. No doubt she had
in her loneliness deliberately prolonged this task. Day and night her
image floated before him and at last, unable to endure any longer
the idea of her remaining by herself in that dull lonely palace, he
began to make fresh plans for bringing her out to join him. But after
further reflection he changed his mind. Such a step would at once bring
down upon him the full retribution of his offences, and putting the
idea out of his head he took to prayer and fasting, in the hope that
Buddha would have pity on him and bring his exile to a speedy end. He
was also somewhat distressed at being separated from Aoi’s son. But
here the case was different from that of older people. There was every
probability that he would eventually see the child again, and meanwhile
he had the comfort of knowing that it was in excellent hands.
But stay! There has been so much to tell that one important matter had
quite escaped me. I ought to have told you that before his departure
he sent a message to Ise with a letter informing Lady Rokujō of the
place at which she must in future address him. An envoy now arrived at
Suma with her reply. It was long and intimate. Both the handwriting
and mode of expression showed just that extraordinary distinction and
fineness of breeding which he had always admired in her. ‘I find it
impossible,’ she wrote, ‘to conceive of you in such a place as that
at which you bid me to address you. Surely this must be some long,
fantastic dream! I cannot but believe that I shall soon hear of you
as again at the Capital; alas, even so it will be far longer before
_my_ fault is expiated and we can meet face to face. “Forget not those
who for salvation dredge their misery by Ise’s shore, while you with
fisherfolk drag dripping buckets to the kiln.”’ This and much more was
written, not as it seemed at one time, but bit by bit as fresh
waves of feeling prompted her. There were altogether four or five large
sheets of white Chinese paper, and there were many passages which in
the handling of the ink were quite masterly. This woman, whom he once
so passionately admired, had, after the fatal outcome of her jealousy,
become utterly distasteful to him. He knew well enough that she was not
to blame for what had occurred and that his own feelings towards her
were utterly unreasonable, and now that he was himself suffering the
penalty of exile he felt more than ever ashamed of having driven her
away by his sudden coldness. Her present letter moved him so deeply
that he detained the messenger for several days, questioning him upon
every detail of the life at Ise. The man was a young courtier of good
family and was enchanted at the opportunity of living in the company of
this famous prince at such close quarters as the limited accommodation
of the cottage made necessary. In his reply Genji said: ‘Had I known
that I was to be driven from the Court, I might have done well to join
you in your journey. “Were I but in the little boat that the men of Ise
push along the wave-tops of the shore, some converse would at least be
mine.”... Now, alas, there is less prospect even than before that we
shall ever meet again....’
He had now acquitted himself of all his epistolary duties, and no one
had any right to complain. Meanwhile a letter arrived from the lady
in the ‘village of falling flowers,’ or rather a journal in which she
had from time to time noted down her impressions since his departure.
The manner in which she recorded her despondency at his absence was
both entertaining and original. The letter was a great distraction
and aroused in him a quite new interest in this lady. It had come to
his ears that the summer rains had done considerable damage to the
foundations of her house and he sent word to his people at the Capital
to get materials from such of his farms as were nearest to the
ladies’ home and do whatever was necessary in the way of repairs.
The Emperor still showed no signs of summoning Princess Oborozuki to
his side. Her father imagined that she felt her position and, since she
was his favourite daughter, was most anxious to get matters put right.
He spoke about it to Kōkiden, begging her to use all her influence,
and indeed went so far as to mention his daughter’s disappointment to
the Emperor himself. It was hoped that he might be prevailed upon to
instal her, if not as a regular mistress, at any rate in some dignified
capacity in his immediate entourage. The Emperor had hitherto neglected
her solely because of her supposed attachment in another direction.
When at last, yielding to the persuasion of her relatives, he summoned
her to him, she was as a matter of fact more than ever absorbed in her
unlucky passion. She moved into the Inner Palace during the seventh
month. As it was known that the Emperor had previously been very much
in love with her, no surprise was felt when he began immediately to
treat her as a full lady-in-waiting. From the first he showered upon
her a multitude both of endearments and reproaches. He was by no means
distasteful to her either in person or character, but a thousand
recollections crowded to her mind and continuously held her back. He
did not fail to notice this, and once when they were at music together
he said to her suddenly: ‘I know why you are unhappy. It is because
that man has gone away. Well, you are not the only one who misses him;
my whole Court seems to be plunged in the darkest gloom. I see what it
is; I ought never to have let him go. The old Emperor on his death-bed
warned me of all this, but I took no notice, and now I shall suffer
for it.’ He had become quite tearful. She made no comment, and after a
while he continued: ‘I get very little pleasure out of my life. I
am fast realizing that there is no point in any of the things I do. I
have the feeling that I shall probably not be with you much longer....
I know quite well that you will not be much upset; certainly much less
than you were recently. That poet was a fool who prayed that he might
know what happened to his mistress after he was gone. He cannot have
cared much about her, or he would certainly rather not have known.’ He
really seemed to set such store by her affection and spoke in so bitter
and despondent a tone that she could bear it no longer and burst into
tears. ‘It is no good your crying like that,’ he said peevishly, ‘I
know well enough that your tears are not in any way connected with me.’
For a while he was silent. Then he began again: ‘It is so depressing
not to have had any children. Of course I shall keep Lady Fujitsubo’s
son as my Heir Apparent, since the old Emperor desired it. But there is
sure to be a great deal of opposition, and it is very inconvenient....’
In reality, the government of the country was not in his hands at
all; at every turn he saw his own wishes being violated and a quite
contrary policy pursued by men who knew how to take advantage of his
inexperience and weakness of character. All this he deplored but was
powerless to alter.
At Suma autumn had set in with a vengeance. The little house stood
some way back from the sea; but when in sudden gusts the wind came
‘blowing through the gap’ (the very wind of Yukihira’s poem[10]) it
seemed as though the waves were at Genji’s door. Night after night he
lay listening to that melancholy sound and wondering whether in all the
world there could be any place where the sadness of autumn was more
overwhelming. The few attendants who shared the house with him had all
gone to rest. Only Genji lay awake, propped high on his pillow,
listening to the storm-winds which burst upon the house from every
side. Louder and louder came the noise of the waves, till it seemed to
him they must have mounted the fore-shore and be surging round the very
bed on which he lay. Then he would take up his zithern and strike a few
notes. But his tune echoed so forlornly through the house that he had
not the heart to continue and, putting the zithern aside, he sang to
himself the song:
“The wind that waked you,
Came it from where my Lady lies,
Waves of the shore, whose sighs
Echo my sobbing?”
At this his followers awoke with a start and listened to his singing
with wonder and delight. But the words filled them with an unendurable
sadness, and there were some whose lips trembled while they rose and
dressed.
What (Genji asked himself) must they think of him? For his sake they
had given up their homes, parents, brothers, friends from whom they
had never been absent for a day; abandoned everything in life which
they had held dear. The thought that these unfortunate gentlemen should
be involved in the consequences of his indiscretion was very painful
to him. He knew that his own moodiness and ill humour had greatly
contributed to their depression. Next day he tried to cheer them with
jokes and amusing stories; and to make the time pass less tediously he
set them to work to join strips of variegated paper into a long roll
and did some writing practice, while on a piece of very fine Chinese
silk he made a number of rough ink sketches which when pasted on to a
screen looked very well indeed. Here before his eyes were all those
hills and shores of which he had so often dreamed since the day long
ago when they had been shown to him from a far-off height.[11] He
now made good use of his opportunities and soon got together a
collection of views which admirably illustrated the scenery of this
beautiful coast-line. So delighted were his companions that they were
anxious he should send for Chiyeda and Tsunenori[12] and make them
use his sketches as models for proper-coloured paintings. His new
affability soon made them forget all their troubles, and the four or
five retainers who habitually served him felt that the discomforts of
exile were quite outweighed by the pleasure of waiting upon such a
master.
The flowers which had been planted in front of the cottage were
blooming with a wild profusion of colour. One particularly calm and
delightful evening Genji came out on to the verandah which looked
towards the bay. He was dressed in a soft coat of fine white silk with
breeches of aster-colour. A cloak of some dark material hung loosely
over his shoulders. After reciting the formula of submission (‘Such a
one, being a disciple of the Buddha Śākyamuni, does obeisance to him
and craves that in the moonlit shelter of the Tree of Knowledge he may
seek refuge from the clouds of sorrow and death’) he began in a low
voice to read a passage from the Scriptures. The sunset, the light
from the sea, the towering hills cast so strange a radiance upon him
as he stood reading from the book, that to those who watched he seemed
like some visitant from another world. Out beyond the bay a line of
boats was passing, the fishermen singing as they rowed. So far off were
these boats that they looked like a convoy of small birds afloat upon
the high seas. With the sound of oars was subtly blended the crying of
wild-geese, each wanderer’s lament swiftly matched by the voice of his
close-following mate. How different his lot to theirs! And Genji
raised his sleeve to brush away the tears that had begun to flow. As he
did so the whiteness of his hand flashed against the black wooden beads
of his rosary. Here indeed, thought those who were with him, was beauty
enough to console them for the absence of the women whom they had left
behind.
Among his followers was that same Ukon who had gone with him to the old
Emperor’s tomb. Ukon’s father had become Governor of Hitachi and was
anxious that he should join him in his province. He had chosen instead
to go with Genji to Suma. The decision cost him a bitter struggle, but
from Genji he hid all this, and appeared to be quite eager for the
journey. This man, pointing to the wild-geese above, now recited the
poem: ‘Like flocks that unafraid explore the shifting highways of the
air, I have no fear but that my leader should outwing me in the empty
sky.’
About this time the Secretary to the Viceroy came back to Court. As
he was travelling with his wife, daughters and a very large staff of
attendants he preferred to make the whole journey by water. They were
proceeding in a leisurely fashion along the coast and had intended to
stop at Suma which was said to be the most beautiful bay of all, when
they heard that Genji was living there. The giddy young persons in the
boat were immediately in the wildest state of excitement, though their
father showed no signs of putting them ashore. If the other sisters,
who did not know Genji, were in a flutter, it may be imagined what a
commotion was going on in the breast of Lady Gosechi.[13] She could
indeed hardly restrain herself from cutting the tow-cord, and when the
boat put in so near the shore that a faint sound of string-music could
be heard floating down from Genji’s cottage, the beauty of the shore,
the proximity of so interesting a personage and the interrupted
strains of the tune combined to make a powerful impression upon the
imaginations of these young people, and the tears came into their eyes.
The Secretary sent the following letter ashore: ‘I had hoped that after
my long absence it would be from your lips that I should first hear all
the gossip of the Capital. I now learn to my intense surprise and, if
you will allow me to say so, to my deep regret, that you are at present
living in retirement in this remote place. As we are a large and mixed
party, I must excuse myself from troubling you, but I hope to have the
pleasure of your society upon some other occasion.’ This letter was
brought by his son the Governor of Echizen, a nobleman who had been
one of Genji’s equerries and had been treated by him with particular
kindness. He was distressed at his former master’s ill fortune and did
not wish to seem ungrateful; but he knew that there were persons in his
father’s train who had their eye upon him and would, if he lingered
in Genji’s company, denounce him to the authorities. He therefore
handed in the letter and at once hurried away. ‘You are the first of my
friends to visit me since I left the Capital,’ said Genji. ‘I cannot
sufficiently thank you for sparing me so much of your time....’ His
reply to the Viceroy’s letter was couched in much the same terms. The
young Governor returned in very low spirits, and his account of what he
had seen and heard provoked loud expressions of sympathy not only from
the ladies of the party but also from the Viceroy himself. Lady Gosechi
contrived to send a short message on her own account, together with the
poem: ‘Little you guessed that at the sound of your distant lute one
hand was near indeed to severing the tow-cord of the boat.’ ‘Do not
think me forward if under these strange circumstances I have ventured
once more to address you,’ she added. He smiled as he read the letter.
She seemed to have become very demure. ‘Had you in truth been
minded to visit me, what easier than to cut the cable that drags you
past this shore?’ So he wrote and again: ‘You are a little taken aback,
I think, to find me “among the fishers at their toil.”’ So much did
he long for some distraction that he would indeed have been delighted
if she had found courage to come ashore; nor is this strange when we
remember how not far away from this same place a mighty exile[14] found
solace in the company of an ostler.
In the Capital Genji’s absence was still universally deplored. His
step-brothers and some of the noblemen with whom he was most intimate
had in the early days of his exile sent sometimes to enquire about
him and had composed elegies in his honour, to which he had replied.
This soon reached Kōkiden’s ears. She was furious at this proof of
his continued popularity: ‘It is unheard of,’ she burst out angrily,
‘that a man condemned of offences against the Government of his country
should be allowed to live as he pleases and even share in the literary
pastimes of the Court. There he sits (by the way I hear he has got a
very pretty house!) railing all day at the Government, and no doubt
experimenting on loyal servants of the Crown for all the world like
that man in the History Book who declared that a stag was a horse.’[15]
Henceforward Genji received no letters from Court.
The lady at the Nijō-in remained inconsolable. The servants in the
eastern wing had at first been somewhat reluctant to transfer their
services to her; but after a while her charming manners and
amiable disposition completely won their hearts, and none of them
showed any signs of seeking service elsewhere. Their employment had
given them opportunity of observing, albeit at a distance, most of
the great ladies of the Court. They were soon willing to allow that
in beauty of character Murasaki far excelled them all, and they well
understood why Genji had singled her out to be his pupil.
He, meanwhile, longed more and more to have her with him. But apart
from the fact that the roughness of life at Suma would be utterly
unsuited to her, he knew that his sending for her would be regarded as
an impudent challenge to those who had achieved his downfall.
They were within easy distance of Akashi, and Yoshikiyo naturally
thought of the strange lady whom he had once courted there, daughter
of the eccentric recluse[16] who had made his home near the bay. He
wrote to her several times, but received no reply. Finally a note
came not from her but from her father, saying that he had something
to tell Yoshikiyo and would be glad if he could find time to call. It
was quite clear what this meant. The old man merely wanted to tell him
that his suit was unwelcome. Yoshikiyo saw no point in going to the
house on purpose to be snubbed, and left the letter unanswered. As a
rule provincial governors seem to think that there are no reputable
families in the land except those of other provincial governors, and
it would never occur to them to marry their daughters into any other
class. But this ex-Governor was a man who not only had ideas of his own
but clung to them with passionate obstinacy. For years past, the sons
of provincial officials had been courting his daughter, and one and
all he had sent them about their business. His own notion of a husband
was very different. Then came Genji’s arrival at Suma. So soon
as he heard of it, the ex-Governor said to his wife: ‘I hear that Lady
Kiritsubo’s boy, Prince Hikaru Genji, has got into some sort of trouble
with the authorities and has come to live at Suma. I confess I am
delighted to hear it. What a splendid opportunity for our girl....’
‘You must be mad!’ broke in the mother. ‘I have been told by people
at Court, that he already keeps several ladies of the highest rank as
his mistresses; and not content with that, it appears that he has now
got into trouble about some lady in the Imperial Household. I cannot
imagine why you suppose that a coxcomb of this kind is likely to take
any interest in a simple, country girl....’ ‘You know nothing whatever
about it,’ interrupted the father testily. ‘I have very good reasons
for thinking as I do, and I must trouble you to fall in with my plans.
I intend to invite Prince Genji over here at the earliest possible
opportunity.’ He now spoke in a gentler tone, but it was evident that
he meant to have his own way, and to his wife’s consternation he began
to make the most lavish preparations for Genji’s entertainment.’ I
cannot imagine,’ she said, ‘why you are so set upon marrying our
daughter to this man. However exalted his position may once have been,
that does not alter the fact that he has now been expelled from the
City as a criminal. Even if by any chance he did take a fancy to her,
the idea of accepting such a person as our son-in-law is one which
you cannot surely entertain even as a joke....’ ‘What is all this
about criminals?’ he growled. ‘Surely you know that some of the most
distinguished men in history both here and in China have been forced at
one time or another to retire from Court. There is nothing disgraceful
about it. Just consider for a moment who this prince is. His mother was
the daughter of my own uncle, the late Inspector of Provinces,
who having made a name for himself by his public services was able
to obtain for her a position in the Imperial Palace. Here she at
once became the idol of our beloved Monarch, and although the very
exceptional favour with which she was treated aroused a good deal of
jealousy and in the end brought about her undoing, her career cannot be
considered unsuccessful, since she became the mother of His Majesty’s
most cherished son. In short, the family with which his august father
was not ashamed to ally himself is surely good enough for this young
prince, and though our daughter is a country-bred girl, I do not think
you will find he turns up his nose at her....’
The young woman in question was not remarkably handsome, but she had
considerable distinction and charm. Indeed many of the greatest ladies
at Court had, so far as good looks went, far less to boast of. She was
painfully conscious of her own deficiencies and had made up her mind
that no one of good position would ever take any notice of her. Men of
her own rank in life she knew that she had no opportunity of meeting.
Sooner or later her parents would die, and then she would either become
a nun or else drown herself in the sea; she was not sure which. Her
father brought her up with extreme strictness, and her only outings
were pilgrimages to the Shrine of Sumiyoshi, whither he brought her
regularly twice a year, secretly hoping that the God would be moved to
assist his ambitious designs.
The New Year had begun. The days were growing longer and already there
was a faint show of blossom on the cherry-trees which Genji had planted
in his garden at Suma. The weather was delightful, and sitting idly in
the sunshine he recalled a thousand incidents that were linked in his
mind with former springs. The twentieth day of the second month! It was
just a year ago that he left the Capital. All those painful scenes of
farewell came back vividly to his mind, bringing with them a new
access of longing. The cherry-trees of the Southern Hall must now be in
full bloom. He remembered the wonderful Flower Feast of six years ago,
saw his father’s face, the elegant figure of the young Crown Prince;
and verses from the poems which he had himself made on that occasion
floated back into his mind.
All this while Tō no Chūjō had been living at the Great Hall, with
very little indeed to amuse him. He had been put down again into the
Fourth Rank and was very much discouraged. It was essential to his
prospects that he should not come under any further suspicion, but he
was an affectionate creature and finding himself longing more and more
for Genji’s society, he determined, even at the cost of offending the
Government, to set out at once for Suma. The complete unexpectedness
of his visit made it all the more cheering and delightful. He was
soon admiring Genji’s rustic house, which seemed to him the most
extraordinary place to be living in. He thought it more like some
legendary hermit’s hut in a Chinese book than a real cottage. Indeed
the whole place might have come straight out of a picture, with its
hedge of wattled bamboo, the steps of unhewn stone, the stout pine-wood
pillars and general air of improvisation. Chūjō was enchanted by the
strangeness of it all. Genji was dressed in peasant style with a grey
hunting-cloak and outer breeches over a suit of russet-brown. The way
in which he played up to this rustic costume struck Chūjō as highly
absurd and at the same time delighted him. The furniture was all of
the simplest kind and even Genji’s seat was not divided off in any
way from the rest of the room. Near it lay boards for the games of
_go_ and _sugaroku_, and chessmen, with other such gear as is met with
in country houses. The meals, which were necessarily of a somewhat
makeshift character, seemed to Chūjō positively exciting. One day some
fishermen arrived with cockles to sell. Genji sent for them and
inspected their catch. He questioned them about their trade and learned
something of the life led year in and year out by those whose homes
were on this shore. It was a story of painful unremitting toil, and
though they told it in a jargon which he could only half understand, he
realized with compassion that their feelings were, after all, very much
like his own. He made them handsome presents from his wardrobe and they
felt that these shells had indeed been life-giving.[17]
The stable was quite close by and in full view of the cottage. It
amused Chūjō to watch the labourers fetching rice-husks from a queer
building which seemed to be a sort of store-house or granary and using
them as provender for the horses; and he would sing the ballad: ‘Sweet
is the shade....’[18]
He had of course a great deal to tell to his friend, and it was
sometimes with laughter, sometimes with tears that they went step by
step over all that had happened in the long months of their separation.
There were many stories of Aoi’s little son, happily still too young
to understand what was going on in the world around him, of the old
Minister, who now was sunk into a state of unremitting melancholy, and
of a thousand other happenings at the Great Hall and Court, which could
not possibly be recounted in full and would lose all interest if told
incompletely. Neither of them had any inclination to sleep, and at dawn
they were still exchanging Chinese odes.
Though Chūjō had said that he no longer cared what the authorities
thought of him, he was reluctant to aggravate his offence by
lingering on this forbidden shore, and he now announced that he must
start for home again immediately. This was a terrible blow to Genji
who knew that so short a visit would leave him even more wretched
than before. Wine was brought and as they drank the farewell cup they
murmured in unison the words of Po Chü-i’s parting poem:
“Chin on hand by the candle we lay at dawn
Chanting songs of sadness, till the tears had splashed
Our cup of new-made wine....”
Chūjō had brought with him some delightful presents from the Capital.
With many apologies Genji offered him in return a black colt, saying as
he did so: ‘I fear that it may be embarrassing for you to receive even
so poor a gift as this from one in my position. But I beg of you to
accept it as a symbol of my longing to return, for in the _Old Poem_ it
is written:
“The Tartar horse neighs into the northern wind;
The bird of Yueh nests on the southern bough.”
It was in fact a magnificent horse and could hardly have been matched
in all the kingdom. Among the presents brought by Chūjō was a
celebrated flute which had long been in his possession, and many other
small but beautiful objects such as could easily be secreted and would
serve as tokens of his affection without exciting troublesome comment.
The morning was well advanced before Chūjō set out. He could hardly
believe that the long-dreamed-of meeting was already over and looked
back again and again to where his friend was standing. The sight of
Genji gazing after him as the boat drew away made it more difficult
than ever to endure so speedy a parting, and he cried out ‘When, when
shall we meet again? I cannot think that they will let you go on
much longer....’ At which Genji answered him with the poem: ‘O crane,
who travellest at will even to the very margin of the Land on High,
look well upon me, whether in intent I be not cloudless as this new day
of Spring.’[19] ‘Sometimes for a while I have hope,’ he added; ‘but of
those who before have been in my case even the most grave and virtuous
have seldom managed to repair their fortunes. I fear I shall not see
the precincts of the Capital again.’ ‘Hapless in cloudland shall your
crane’s solitary voice re-echo till with his lost friend, wing to wing
again, he can renew his flight.’ This was the poem that Chūjō now
recited as his boat left the shore.
The third month was now beginning and some one who was supposed to be
well up in these matters reminded Genji that one in his circumstances
would do well to perform the ceremony of Purification on the
coming Festival Day.[20] He loved exploring the coast and readily
consented. It happened that a certain itinerant magician was then
touring the province of Harima with no other apparatus than the crude
back-scene[21] before which he performed his incantations. Genji now
sent for him and bade him perform the ceremony of Purification. Part
of the ritual consisted in the loading of a little boat with a number
of doll-like figures and letting it float out to sea. While he watched
this, Genji recited the poem: ‘How like these puppets am I too cast
out to dwell amid the unportioned fallows of the mighty sea....’ These
verses he recited standing out in the open with nothing but the wind
and sky around him, and the magician, pausing to watch him, thought
that he had never in his life encountered a creature of such beauty.
Till now there had not been the least ripple on the face of the sea.
Genji, wondering what would in the end become of him, began to
review the whole course of his past life and the chances of better
fortune in the future. He gazed on the quiet aspects of both sky and
sea. ‘The Gods at least, the myriad Gods look kindly on my fate,
knowing that sinful though I be, no penalty have I deserved such as I
suffer in this desolate place.’ As he recited these words, the wind
suddenly rose; the sky grew dark and without waiting to finish the
ceremony every one began hastily preparing to make for home. Just when
they had decided to return as quickly as possible, a squall of rain
commenced, beginning so unexpectedly that there was no time even to
put up umbrellas. The wind was now blowing with unparalleled violence
and things which the calmness of the morning had tempted them to
leave carelessly lying about the shore were soon scattered in every
direction. The sea too was rapidly advancing and they were obliged to
run for their lives. Looking back they saw that the whole surface of
the bay was now covered with a blanket of gleaming white foam. Soon the
thunder was rolling and great flashes of lightning fell across the sky.
It was all they could do to make their way home. The peasants had never
witnessed such a gale before. ‘It blows pretty stormy sometimes,’ they
said; ‘but you can generally see it coming up a long while before.’
Of such a storm as this, coming on without a moment’s warning, they
could make nothing at all. Still the thunder crashed, and the rain
fell with such violence that each shaft struck deep into the earth. It
seemed indeed as though the end of the world were come. Some of Genji’s
servants became very restless and uneasy; but he himself settled
quietly in his chair and read out loud from the Scriptures. Towards
evening the thunder became less violent, but the wind remained very
high all night. It was soon apparent that if the wind did not change,
the waves would carry away their house. Sudden high tides had
often before done great damage on the coast, but it was agreed that
such a sea as this had never been seen before. Towards dawn every one
went off to get a little rest. Genji too began to doze a little. There
appeared to him in his dream a vague and shadowy figure who said: ‘I
have come from the Palace to fetch you. Why do you not follow me?’ He
tried to obey the command, but suddenly awoke. He realized that the
‘Palace’ of his dream did not mean, as he had at first supposed, the
Palace of the Emperor, but rather the dwelling of the Sea God. The
whole import of the dream was that the Dragon King[22] had taken a
fancy to him and wished to detain him yet longer on the shore of his
domains. He became very depressed and from this time onwards took a
dislike to the particular part of the coast in which he had chosen to
reside.
[1] Fujitsubo.
[2] The dead Aoi, Genji’s first wife.
[3] Hyōbukyō’s wife. Murasaki was his illegitimate daughter.
[4] Genji.
[5] See vol. i, pp. 253 seq.
[6] The distance is about 60 miles. It could, says Moto-ori, in no
circumstances have been covered in one day. He therefore concludes that
the travellers spent a night at Naniwa (the modern Ōsaka) on the way. A
much more probable solution is that Murasaki was herself rather vague
about the time which such a journey would take.
[7] Near Naniwa. It was here that the returning Vestals of Ise lodged
on their way back to the Capital.
[8] China.
[9] For the story of his exile, see the Nō play _Matsukaze_ in my _Nō
Plays of Japan_, p. 268.
[10] See _Nō Plays of Japan_, p. 268.
[11] See vol. i, pp. 137 seq.
[12] Tsunenori was a famous painter, c. 950 A.D. So presumably was
Chiyeda. Some people say Chiyeda was a name used by Tsunenori.
[13] See above, p. 96.
[14] The great statesman Sugawara no Michizane, 845–903.
[15] Chao Kao was plotting to overthrow the Second Emperor (3rd cent.
B.C.). He brought his majesty a stag, telling him it was a horse. The
Emperor laughed, but some of the Courtiers were so much afraid of Chao
Kao that they sided with him and insisted that it was indeed a horse.
Then Kao knew that they feared him more than the Emperor and definitely
decided to revolt.
[16] See vol. i, p. 138.
[17] There is here a play on words. The other meaning is: ‘That life
was indeed worth living.’
[18] ‘Sweet is the shade, the lapping waters cool, and good the pasture
for our weary steeds. By the well of Asuka, here let us stay.’ See vol.
i, p. 46.
[19] I.e. You have access to the Emperor, put in a word on my behalf.
[20] The third day of the third month.
[21] _Zeshō_, a screen or in some cases curtain with a pine-tree
painted on it used as a background to sacred performances.
[22] Sovereign of the Ocean.