CHAPTER XIII

AKASHI

The bad weather continued; day after day nothing but rain, wind and

repeated thunderstorms, bringing with them countless troubles and

inconveniences. So depressing was the past to look back upon and so

little hope did the future hold out for him that, try as he might,

Genji could no longer keep up even the appearance of cheerfulness. His

prospects were indeed dark. It was just possible that he might some day

be permitted to return to the Capital. But with the dominant faction

at Court still working against him he would be subject to unendurable

slights and vexations. He thought more than once of withdrawing from

the coast and seeking shelter at some point well back among the inland

hills. But he knew that if he did so it would be said he had been

scared away by a few days of foul weather. The smallest actions of

people in his position are recorded, and he did not care to figure in

the history-books as the Prince who ran away from a storm. Night after

night he had the same dream of a messenger summoning him to the realms

below the sea. It seemed as though the Dragon of the Ocean had indeed

set his heart upon him.

Day followed day without the least break showing in the sky. It was

now a long time since he had heard any news from the Capital, and

he was becoming very anxious. To be immured for weeks on end in his

small house was to the last degree enervating and depressing;

but in this villainous weather there was no question of so much as

even sticking one’s head out of doors for two minutes. Needless to say

no one came to visit him. At last a pitifully bedraggled figure hove

into view, fighting its way through the storm. A messenger from the

Nijō-in. So he announced himself; but the journey had reduced him to

such a plight that Genji would scarce have known that this tattered,

dripping mass was a human being at all. He was indeed a common peasant,

such a one as in old days would have been unceremoniously bundled out

of Genji’s path. Now Genji found himself (not without some surprise at

the degree of condescension to which his misfortunes had brought him)

welcoming the fellow as an equal, and commiserating with him upon his

plight.

In her letter Murasaki said: ‘In these odious days when never for a

single instant has the least gleam or break pierced our sodden sky,

the clouds have seemed to shut you off from me and I know not behind

which part of this dark curtain to look for you. “How fiercely must

the tempests be blowing on your shore, when even here my sleeves are

drenched with ceaseless spray!”’

The letter was full of sad and tender messages. He had no sooner opened

it than a darkness spread before his eyes and tears fell in floods,

‘belike to swell the margin of the sea.’

He learnt from the messenger that at Kyōto too the storm had raged with

such violence and persistency that it had been proclaimed a national

Visitation, and it was said that the great Service of Intercession[1]

had been held in the Palace. So great were the floods that the officers

of the Court were unable to reach the Inner City, and all

business was at a standstill. He told his story confusedly and in a

broken jargon that was very hard to follow. But what matter? Such as it

was, his news came from Kyōto, from the City, and that in itself was

enough to make Genji catch eagerly at every word. He had the messenger

brought to his own room and was soon plying him with questions. It

seemed that the same continuous downpour had gone on day after day

without a moment’s break, varied only by occasional hurricanes of wind.

Thunder they had not had, nor the alarming hailstorms which along the

coast were of such violence that the hailstones had penetrated far down

into the earth. Such horror came into the man’s face as he recalled the

scenes through which he had passed, and so lamentable was his present

condition that even those who had taken the storm somewhat lightly

now began to feel seriously alarmed. It seemed indeed as though a

continuance of the present deluge must speedily wash the world away;

but worse was to come, for next day, from dawn onwards, an even more

violent wind raged, causing a tremendous flood-tide along all the

shore. Soon the breakers were crashing with a din so stupendous that

you would have thought the rocks, nay the very hills, could not long

resist them. Suddenly a blaze of lightning, inexpressibly fierce and

dazzling, rushed earthward. They realized that something must have

been struck, and there was now no longer anyone who even pretended to

take the situation lightly. Each of Genji’s servants was wondering in

his heart what he had done to deserve at the hand of Fate so hideous

an experience. Here, it seemed, they were all to die; never again to

meet mother or father, far from the pitying faces of wife, of children,

or of friends. Genji himself had no desire to end his existence on

this inhospitable shore, but he managed to control his feelings

and did his best to introduce some order among his followers. This

proved to be by no means easy. At last he set them to offering up

prayer-strips and ribbons to the God of Sumiyoshi and himself called

upon the God to save from calamity a shore that was so near his own

Holy Abode and, if indeed he were a Present Deity, to prove it now by

his aid. So he prayed, with many other vows and supplications. And

his servants, as they heard him, forgot for a while the peril that

threatened their own lives, and could think only of the calamity which

would befall their country should such a prince be lost amid the waters

of this deserted shore. Then one, who was of greater courage than the

rest and had now somewhat regained the use of his faculties and better

feelings, began to call upon the God to take his life and welcome, so

be it Genji were saved. And after this, all began in chorus to invoke

both Buddhas and Gods of their own land; and presently one said:

‘Though nurtured in a palace of princes and inured from infancy to

softness and delights, our master has not hidden his face from common

men; for in every corner of the Eight Islands his patience and kindness

are known. How many that were downcast and obscure has he not helped

upward to greatness? Tell us now, Heaven, tell us, Earth, of what crime

has he been guilty, that he should be cast away, a victim to the winds

and seas? Guiltless he has been punished, has been robbed of rank and

office, has been torn from home and country, nor has been suffered to

be at peace either by day or night....’ Genji himself prayed again to

the gods, saying: ‘With such sights and sounds about us we cannot but

wonder whether the end of our days is come. Do ye now, O Powers, put

an end to this grievous visitation, whether it be the fruit of _karma_

or the punishment of present crimes; lest we should doubt if Gods and

Buddhas can indeed make manifest their will.’ Then turning in the

direction of the Sumiyoshi Shrine he uttered many further prayers to

that God, to the Dragon King of the Ocean and to a thousand and one

other Gods and Spirits. Suddenly, however, while he was in the midst

of these prayers, there was a louder thunder-clap than ever, and at

the same time lightning struck a pent-house which actually adjoined

Genji’s room. Flames shot up and that part of the building was soon in

ashes. His men were now without exception in such a state of panic that

they could do nothing. Finally Genji got them to move his things into

a sort of shed at the back of the house, which had sometimes been used

as a kitchen. Here, huddled with all his followers and grooms, he spent

the rest of the day, wearied by their ceaseless lamentations, which

indeed bid fair to out-din the thunder. The sky was still black as ink

when night fell. However, the wind began to subside and presently the

rain grew a little less heavy; and at last an occasional star began to

twinkle. The thought of their master spending the night in so strange

and undignified a situation was very perturbing to his attendants and

they began trying to make his proper bedroom habitable again. This,

however, did not prove to be feasible, for although a great part of

it had not been actually touched by the fire, ‘the Storm God in his

boisterous passage’ had left a terrible havoc behind him and the

room was strewn with the tattered wreckage of furniture, screens and

bedding. It was agreed that nothing could be done till next day.

Genji said his prayers and began to consider the situation. It was

indeed sufficiently alarming. So high had the tide risen that, now

the moon was up, the fine of the incoming waves was plainly visible

from his house, and standing at the open wicker door he watched the

fierce breakers plunge and recoil. Such conditions of storm and tide

had not occurred in recent times and no one was prepared to say

how far matters were likely to go. This being the only gentleman’s

house in the neighbourhood many of the fishing people and peasants who

lived along the shore had now collected in front of it. Their queer,

clipped dialect and the rustic topics of their conversation were alike

very strange to him; but he would not suffer them to be driven out of

earshot. ‘If this wind does not go down,’ one of them was saying, ‘we

shall have the sea right on top of us before the tide turns. God’s

help alone can save us.’ It may be imagined that these predictions

were far from disposing the townsmen towards a quiet night’s rest. A

brisk sea wind was again driving onward the swollen tide, and though he

tried to reassure his men Genji was himself in considerable anxiety;

when suddenly and quite unexpectedly he fell into a doze and dreamed

that his father, looking exactly as in the old days when he was on

the throne, stood beside the crazy bed which had been improvised for

him in this disordered place. ‘How comes it that you are sleeping in

such a place as this?’ the vision asked, and taking his hand made as

though to drag him from the bed. And again, ‘Put your trust in the God

of Sumiyoshi. Leave this place, take to your ship and He will show you

where to go.’ What joy it was to hear that voice once more! ‘Father,’

Genji answered, ‘since your protection was taken from me nothing but

sorrow and ill-fortune have befallen me, and now I am fully expecting

to perish miserably upon this forsaken shore.’ ‘It is not to be thought

of,’ answered the Emperor. ‘Your offence was not so great that you must

needs be driven to such a place as this. Unfortunately I myself am at

present expiating a few small offences (such as it is indeed impossible

to avoid; for the Judges of the Dead have not managed to prove that

during my whole reign I did serious harm to anyone). However, for

the present this expiation keeps me very busy, and I have not

been able to keep an eye upon what is happening here. But your late

misfortunes have been such as I could not bear to think of, and though

it cost me great labour, I have made my way through the depths of

ocean and up again on to the shore, that I might be with you in your

suffering. Yet this time I must not stay longer, but will go straight

to the Palace and tell these things to him who is now Ruler there.’ So

he spoke, and turned to fly away. ‘Let me go with you. Do not leave

me!’ cried Genji in his dream. But looking up he found that there was

no one there at all. The full-faced moon stared down at him, cold

and un-dreamlike; a cloud trailed across the sky, shaped to the dim

semblance of a figure in flight.

It was many years since he had dreamed of his father, though in his

waking hours he had never ceased to mourn for him and long for his

company. This sudden vision which, though so brief, had all the

vividness of a real encounter, brought him great comfort. The thought

that at the hour of his greatest despair, nay when death itself seemed

close at hand, his father’s spirit had hastened through the air to

succour him, made him almost glad that Fate had brought him to the

extremity which had moved his father’s compassion. So full was he of

new hope and comfort that in his exultation he utterly forgot the

perils that encompassed him, and lay trying to recall stray fragments

of his father’s dream-speech which had faded from his waking mind.

Thinking that the dream might be repeated, he tried to sleep again; but

this time all his efforts were in vain, and at daylight he was still

awake.

Next morning there landed at a point in the bay opposite to Genji’s

house a little boat with two or three persons aboard her. It proved on

enquiry that they had come from the Bay of Akashi and that the boat

belonged to the ex-Governor of the province, now turned lay-priest.

The messenger explained that his master was himself aboard and

desired to have a word in private with the Genshōnagon[2] Yoshikiyo,

if he were at present to be found at Suma. Yoshikiyo thought this very

peculiar. The ex-Governor was perfectly well aware of all that went

on in the district; but though he had been acquainted with Yoshikiyo

for years, he had not during all the while they had been at Suma paid

the slightest attention to him. It seemed indeed (thought Yoshikiyo)

as if he were definitely in the old man’s bad books. And now, in the

middle of an atrocious storm, he took it into his head to pay a call.

It was all very queer. But Genji, who saw in this new happening a

possible fulfilment of his dream, said at once ‘You had better go,’

and Yoshikiyo accordingly accompanied the messenger back to the boat.

How they had ever managed to launch it at all, under the conditions

which must have prevailed at the time they left Akashi, was a complete

mystery to him. ‘On the first day of this month,’ the old man began,

‘I had a most singular and interesting dream. What it portended seemed

to me at the time very improbable; but part of the dream was that if

I wished to see the promise fulfilled, I must get ready a boat and on

the thirteenth day, so soon as there was the slightest lull in the

storm, make straight for this coast. As this injunction was several

times repeated I had the boat manned and at the appointed time waited

for a chance of getting to sea. There was a fearful gale blowing;

rain was falling in torrents and a thunderstorm was in progress. It

certainly did not seem a very good moment to start. But there are

many instances in foreign history of people saving a whole country

from peril by obeying an apparently senseless dream. I feared

that if I delayed my departure beyond the day which had been named my

journey would be of no service to anyone. And so, determined that you

should know of the divine indication which had been vouchsafed to me,

I launched my boat. What was my surprise to discover that we had a

quite moderate wind blowing nicely in our wake! We had this wind behind

us all the way, and I cannot but regard the whole affair as a clear

instance of divine intervention. It is possible that on your side too

there has been some warning or message which fits in to the revelations

which I have received. I am very sorry to disturb His Highness; but I

should be obliged if you would tell him of what has passed.’ Yoshikiyo

accordingly went back to Genji and told him the whole story. The matter

needed some consideration. Here was a chance which it would not be

wise to let pass. Both actual events, such as the destruction of his

bedroom, and a general restlessness induced by his own singular dream,

with its warning to quit this place, inclined him to make use of the

ex-Governor’s visit. No doubt that if he retired to Akashi his move

would become the subject of a great many scurrilous jokes[3]; but on

the other hand he would look even more foolish if it turned out that

he had not availed himself of a genuine warning from the Gods. And

this must be a very dangerous thing to do; for even human beings are

extremely annoyed if one disregards their advice. His situation could

hardly be worse than it was already. The old Governor was many years

his senior; was even, as things went now, his superior in rank, and was

certainly viewed by the authorities in a very different light from that

in which Genji was regarded. In fact it would be most unwise not to

take advantage of his visitor’s evident friendliness and desire to be

connected with him. To go to Akashi would be to beat a retreat.

But a wise man[4] of ancient times has told us that ‘to retreat is no

disgrace.’ And then there was his own dream, in which his father had

begged him to leave this place. He had made up his mind about it. He

would ask if he might go back with them to Akashi. He therefore sent a

message to his visitor saying: ‘Though I am living in a strange land,

under circumstances in the highest degree painful and depressing, from

the direction of my own home there does not come a single message of

enquiry or condolence. Here all is unfamiliar to me; save the stars and

sun there is not one being or thing that recalls to me the life I used

to know. You can imagine then with what joy I saw your fishing-boat

draw near. Tell me, is there not on your shore some corner where I

could hide myself and be at peace?’

This was just what the old gentleman wanted, and in high delight he

hastened to welcome Genji’s suggestion. A great bustle commenced; but

before daybreak all Genji’s effects had been stowed away in the boat

and, with his usual band of chosen retainers, he at last set sail. The

wind had veered and was behind them on the return journey too, so that

the little ship flew to Akashi like a bird. The distance is of course

not great and the voyage does not in any case take more than a few

hours. But so assiduously did the wind follow them on this occasion

that it really seemed as though it were doing it on purpose.

Akashi was evidently a very different sort of place. Indeed his first

impression was that, if anything, it would be difficult here to find

seclusion enough. The ex-Governor’s estate comprised not only the

foreshore, but also a considerable extent of mountain-land

behind. And everywhere, in creeks and hill-folds and on river-shores,

were felt-roofed huts so situated that the old recluse might not lack

an agreeable place of retirement at any season of the year.

On all sides there rose groups of substantial granaries and barns,

which looked as though they must contain rice and corn enough to last

for the rest of his present existence. But though so careful to provide

for his earthly needs, he had by no means forgotten the life to come.

On a site which, commanding as it did a magnificent panorama, was

calculated to inspire him with the sublimest thoughts, he had built a

handsome temple, where part of his time was spent in the performance of

penances and mystic meditations.

During the recent storms he had moved his wife and daughter to a lodge

on the hill-side and was therefore able to place his seaside residence

entirely at Genji’s disposal. It was still dark when they left the

boat; but as they drove along the shore, the growing daylight at

last gave him an opportunity of taking a good look at his guest. So

delighted was he by the young man’s appearance and by the rapid success

of his expedition that his usually severe and formidable countenance

relaxed into a perfect efflorescence of smiles and affability. But

even in this state of preoccupation and excitement he did not forget

to offer up a prayer of thankfulness to the God of Sumiyoshi. To the

old man it was as though the sun and moon had been taken down from

the sky and entrusted to his keeping. It may easily be imagined that

he left no stone unturned to make Genji comfortable and contented.

Not only was the place one of great natural beauty, but it had been

laid out with unusual taste and skill. Copses had been planted,

rock-gardens constructed and flower-beds made,—all this around

the mouth of a little creek that ran in from the sea. The charms of

the place were such as a very skilful landscape-painter might possibly

manage to convey; to describe them in words would, I fear, be quite

useless. The contrast with the uncomfortable quarters where he had been

cooped up for months was immense. The house was equipped with every

possible elegance and convenience; it scarcely fell short of the great

mansions which he had been used to frequent at the Capital; and indeed

in many respects surpassed them. Thus admirably served and lodged

Genji began to regain some of his equanimity and was soon engaged in

writing letters to his friends at the Capital. The messenger who had

brought Murasaki’s letter was far too much shaken by his previous

experiences to be sent back immediately to the City and Genji had left

him behind at Suma. He now sent for him and entrusted to him a letter

in which he described all that he had recently been through and with

many tender messages explained the reasons which had led him to his

new abode. He also sent private intimation of his whereabouts and

present condition to various holy men who were charged to pray for

his welfare. To Fujitsubo he sent an account of the thunderstorm and

his own almost miraculous escape from harm. He had tried to write an

answer to Murasaki’s letter during the melancholy period when he was

still at Suma, but had never managed to finish it, for his tears fell

so fast that he was forever putting the letter aside. And it was indeed

a piteous sight to see him stop again and again to wipe away the tears

that soiled his page. In this letter he said: ‘More than once my misery

has become so intense that I was fully determined to give up my career

and end my days in some cloister cell. But then I always remembered

your little poem[5]: and felt that it was impossible to leave the

world, at least till I had seen you once again.

“Swift as before

My thoughts fly back to thee,

Though now from unknown shore

To stranger and more distant shores I flee....”

Forgive this letter which, written as in a dream, may well say

much which a waking mind can scarcely apprehend.’ It was written

distractedly and with a shaking hand: but those who were with him could

not forbear from peeping a little as he wrote, such was their curiosity

to know what he would say to one who held so great a sway over his

affections. And presently, having seen what they could, his servants

too began their own letter-writing, each of them having some dear one

at the City from whom he was anxious to obtain news.

The bad weather in which for so many weeks there had not been a single

break, had now completely vanished. Out came all the fishing boats,

eager to make up for lost time. The complete desertedness of Suma,

which apart from a few fishermen who lived in caves under the cliff,

had no inhabitants at all, was very depressing. Akashi could certainly

not be complained of on that score; indeed, he feared at first that it

might prove somewhat too populous. But the beauty of the place was so

great and afforded him so many surprises that he was soon perfectly

contented. His host seemed to be exclusively absorbed in religious

exercises. Only one other matter occupied his thoughts; it was clear

from stray allusions in his conversation that he lived in a state of

continual agitation about his only daughter, to whom he was evidently

attached with an almost morbid degree of concentration. Genji had not

forgotten the favourable account of this lady which had been given

him some years ago. Her presence had of course been no part of

his reason for coming to this place; but the fact that accident had

finally brought him so near her was in a way intriguing. However, his

misfortunes were still weighing heavily upon his mind and he was in a

mood for prayer and fasting rather than for any gallant diversions.

Moreover his thoughts were, for the time being, more than ever turned

towards the City, and he would not have dreamed of doing anything that

the girl whom he had left in his palace might feel to be a betrayal

of his promises. He was therefore careful not to show the slightest

interest in the topic to which his host so often returned. But various

indications had already convinced him that the lady in question was

a person of very unusual and attractive qualities, and despite this

assumed indifference he could not help feeling a certain curiosity with

regard to her. The ex-Governor showed himself to be an ideal host. He

stationed himself at the far end of the house, in a wing which was

completely cut off from Genji’s quarters. Here he was always to be

found when wanted, but never obtruded himself. The self-effacement was

the more remarkable seeing that he was all the time longing to be in

Genji’s company, and he was continually praying Gods and Buddhas for

guidance as to how he might best win the confidence of his exalted

guest. Although he was not much over sixty a constant habit of watching

and fasting had told much upon him, so that in appearance he was

wizened and almost decrepit. But he was by no means a dull companion,

for owing to the influential circles in which his youth had been passed

he was extremely well-informed concerning all the principal events of a

period which had hitherto lain outside Genji’s ken, and his anecdotes

were a considerable source of distraction. Genji found indeed that he

had started a veritable landslide of information about a generation

which his own distractions, both social and political, had never

left him time to study. So pleased was he both with his host and with

his new place of residence that he thought with horror how easily it

might never have occurred to him to pay this visit.

Though he had now become so intimate with his guest, the old man was

still daunted by a certain reserve and distance in Genji’s manner

towards him; and whereas in the first few days of their acquaintance he

had sometimes mentioned his daughter, he now hardly ever referred to

her. But all the while he was trying to discover some way of unfolding

his project and his complete failure to do so distressed him beyond

measure. He was obliged at last to confess to his wife that he had

made no progress; but she was not able to offer him any useful advice.

The girl herself had been brought up in a neighbourhood where there

was not a single male of any description whom she could possibly think

of as a lover. At last she had a chance of convincing herself that

such creatures as men of her own class did actually exist. But this

particular one was such an exalted person that he seemed to her in

his way quite as remote as any of the local people. She knew of her

parents’ project, which indeed distressed her greatly, for she was

convinced they were merely making themselves ridiculous.

It was now the fourth month. A dazzling summer outfit was supplied

for Genji’s use; magnificent fresh hangings and decorations were put

up in all his apartments. The attentions of his host were indeed so

lavishly bestowed that they would have proved embarrassing, had not

Genji remembered that he was in the hands of an eccentric, whose

exalted notions were notorious and must, in a man of such distinction,

be regarded with indulgence. About this time he began to have a fresh

distraction; for messengers again began to arrive from the Capital,

and came indeed in a pretty constant stream. One quiet moonlit night,

when a cloudless sky stretched over the wide sea, Genji stood

looking out across the bay. He thought of the lakes and rivers of his

native land. This featureless expanse of sea awakened in him only a

vague and general yearning. There was no intimate mark round which his

associations might gather, no bourne to which his eyes instinctively

turned. In all the empty space before him only the island of Awaji

stood out solidly and invited attention. ‘Awaji, from afar a speck of

foam,’ he quoted, and recited the acrostic verse: ‘Oh, foam-flecked

island that wast nothing to me, even such sorrow as mine is, on this

night of flawless beauty thou hast power to heal!’

It was so long since he had touched his zithern that there was a

considerable stir among his followers when they saw him draw it out

of its bag and strike a few random notes. Presently he began trying

that piece which they call the ‘Kōryō’[6] and played the greater part

of it straight through. The sound of his zithern reached the house on

the hillside near by, mingled with the sighing of pine-woods and the

rustling of summer waves. The effect of all this upon the imagination

of the impressionable young lady in the house above may well be

guessed. Even gnarled old peasants, whom one would not have expected

to make head or tail of this Chinese music, poked their noses out of

their cottage-doors and presently came to take an airing along the

shore. The Governor could not contain himself, and breaking off in the

middle of his prayers, hastened to Genji’s rooms. ‘How this brings

back to me the old days at Court, before I turned my back on all the

pleasures of the world,’ he exclaimed: ‘But surely the enchantment of

such music as this is not all earthly! Does it not turn our thoughts

towards those celestial strains which will greet us when we come

at last to the place of our desires?’ To Genji too the sound of the

zithern brought recollections of many music-makings at the Capital. He

remembered with just what turns and graces such a one had played the

zithern at a particular banquet or another had played the flute. The

very intonations of some singer’s voice came back to him from years

ago. He remembered many an occasion of his own triumph or that of his

friends; the acclamations, the compliments and congratulations of the

Court, nay, the homage of everyone from the Emperor downwards; and

these shadowy memories imparted to his playing a peculiar tinge of

melancholy and regret. The old recluse was deeply moved and sent to his

house on the hill for his own lute and large zithern. Then, looking

for all the world like a _biwa_ priest,[7] he played several very

admirable and charming pieces. Presently he handed the large zithern

to Genji, who struck a few chords, but was soon overcome by the tender

memories which this instrument[8] evoked. The poorest music may gain

a certain interest and beauty from the circumstances in which it is

performed. It may be imagined then how enchanting was the effect of

Genji’s touch as the notes sped across the bay. Nor indeed could any

flowering groves of spring nor russet winter woods have made a better

setting for his music than this huge space of open sea. Somewhere in

the region of soft, vague shadows along the shore, shrike were making

that strange tapping sound with their bills. It sounded as though

some one had been locked out and were rapping, rapping, rapping in

the desperate hope that those within might at last relent of their

unkindness. The old recluse then played so delightfully on both

instruments that Genji was fascinated. ‘This large zithern,’ he

said to the old man presently, ‘is usually supposed to be a woman’s

instrument and requires a very delicate, fluttering touch.’ He meant

this quite generally, and not as an apology for his own playing; but

the old man answered with a deprecatory smile: ‘I cannot imagine a

touch more suitable to this instrument than yours. This zithern was

originally a present from the Emperor Engi[9] and has been in my family

for three generations. Since my misfortunes and retirement I have had

little taste for such distractions as this, and have lost what small

skill I ever possessed. But in times of great spiritual stress or deep

depression I have occasionally turned to this instrument for solace and

support. And indeed there is in my household one who from watching me

at such times has herself developed a strange proficiency, and already

plays in a manner which would not, I venture to think, displease those

departed princes to whom the zithern once belonged. But perhaps by

now, like the mountain-hermit in the old story, I have an ear that is

better attuned to the rushing of wind through the tree-tops than to

the music of human hands. Nevertheless I wish that, yourself unseen,

you might one day hear this person’s playing’; and his eyes moistened

in fond paternal recollection. ‘I had no idea,’ answered Genji, ‘that

I was in the neighbourhood of genius such as you describe. I fear my

playing will have sounded to you indeed as a mere “rushing of wind

through the tree-tops,” and he hastened to put back the zithern in the

old priest’s hands. ‘It is indeed a curious fact,’ Genji continued,

‘that all the best players of this instrument have been women. You will

remember that the Fifth Princess became, under the instruction of her

father the Emperor Saga,[10] the most famous performer of her

whole generation. But none of her descendants seems to have inherited

her talent. Of all the players who in our own time have achieved a

certain reputation in this line, there is not one who is more than

an intelligent amateur. That in this remote place there should be

some one who is really a skilled performer excites me beyond measure.

Do please lose no time in arranging....’ ‘As for that,’ the priest

answered, ‘I do not see why there should be any great difficulty about

it, even if it meant bringing the player down here to meet you. Was not

one that had sunk into ignominy and made herself a merchant’s drudge

once summoned to a great man’s[11] side, because she could still play

upon her lute the music that long ago he had loved? And speaking of

the lute, I should tell you that the person to whom I refer is also

a remarkable lute-player, though this instrument too is one which is

very rarely mastered completely. Such absolute fluency, such delicacy

of touch, I assure you! And such certainty, such distinction of style!

Shut away for so long on this shore, where one hears no sound but the

roaring of the sea, I sometimes fall a prey to dark and depressing

thoughts; but I have only to listen for a while to this delightful

performer and all my sorrows disappear.’ He spoke with so much

enthusiasm and discernment that Genji was charmed with him and insisted

upon his playing something on the large zithern. The old man’s skill

was astonishing. True, his handling of the instrument was such as is

now considered very old-fashioned, and his fingering was all entirely

in the discarded ‘Chinese’ style, with the left-hand notes heavily

accentuated. But when (though this was not the sea of Ise) he played

the song ‘Let us gather shells along the clean sea-shore,’ getting one

of his servants, who had an excellent voice, to sing the words, Genji

enjoyed the performance so much that he could not refrain from

beating the measure and sometimes even joining in the words. Whereupon

the priest would pause in his playing and listen with an expression of

respectful rapture.

Fruit and other refreshments were then served, all with the greatest

taste and elegance. The old priest insisted upon every one present

drinking endless cups of wine, though the night itself was of a beauty

so intoxicating that the dull realities of life had long ago faded

from their minds. As the night wore on a cool wind began to blow among

the trees, and the moon, who in her higher course had been somewhat

overcast, now at her setting shone out of a cloudless sky. When the

company was grown a little quieter, the priest began gradually to tell

the whole story of his life on this shore, together with his reasons

for settling there and a voluminous account of his vows and religious

observances; when without difficulty he led the conversation towards

the topic of his daughter. She certainly sounded very interesting,

and despite the old man’s volubility Genji found himself listening

with pleasure at any rate to this part of the discourse. ‘It seems

a strange thing to say,’ his host went on, ‘but I sometimes wonder

whether, humble old cleric though I be, my own prayers are not really

responsible for your Highness’s excursion to these remote parts! You

will say that if this is so I have done you a very bad turn.... But

let me explain what I mean. For the last eighteen years I have put

myself under the special protection of the God of Sumiyoshi. From my

daughter’s earliest childhood I have been very much exercised in mind

regarding her future, and every year in the spring and autumn I have

taken her with me to the shrine of that deity, where praying day and

night I have performed the offices of the Six Divisions,[12] with

no other desire at heart save that, whether I myself should

be re-born upon a Lotus Throne or no, to her at least all might be

given that I asked. My father, as you know, was a Minister of State;

while I, no doubt owing to some folly committed in a former life, am

become a simple countryman, a mere yokel, dwelling obscurely among the

hills. If the process continued unchecked and my daughter was to fall

as far below me in estate as I am now below my illustrious father,

what a wretched fate, thought I, must be in store for her! Since the

day of her birth my whole object has been to save her from such a

catastrophe, and I have always been determined that in the end she

should marry some gentleman of good birth from the Capital. This has

compelled me to discourage many local suitors, and in doing so I have

earned a great deal of unpopularity. I am indeed, in consequence of my

efforts on her behalf, obliged to put up with many cold looks from the

neighbouring gentry; but these do not upset me at all. So long as I am

alive to do it, I am determined to afford her what little protection my

narrow sleeve can give. When I am no longer there to watch over her,

she will no doubt do as she thinks best. But I confess I would rather

hear she were drowned in the sea than that she had settled herself in

the sphere of life to which my folly has for the time reduced her.’

He went on thus for a long while, pausing now and again to shed a few

tears; but most of what he said would not be worth repeating. Genji was

for various reasons also in a very emotional and discursive mood, and

presently he interrupted: ‘I could never make out why I had suddenly

fallen into disgrace and been compelled to live in these remote

regions; for I have certainly done nothing in my whole life to deserve

so stern a punishment as this. But at last you have furnished me with

the explanation, and I am perfectly well satisfied. No doubt it was, as

you suggest, entirely in answer to your prayers that all this has

happened to me. I only regret that, since you must all the time have

been aware of this, you did not think fit to tell me about it a little

sooner. Since I left the City I have been so much obsessed by the

uncertainty of human life that I have felt no inclination towards any

save religious employments. I am now so worn out by months of penance

and fasting that no worldly impulse or desire is left in any corner

of my being. I had indeed been told long ago that a grown-up daughter

lived here with you; but I knew nothing more, and assumed that the

society of a disgraced and exiled man could only be distasteful to one

of her birth and breeding. But since you thus encourage me, I ask for

nothing better than to make her acquaintance as soon as possible. I do

not doubt that her company will prove a solace to my loneliness.’ His

prompt acceptance was more than the old man had dared to expect and in

high delight he answered with the verse: ‘You too have learnt to know

it, the loneliness of night upon Akashi shore, when hour and listless

hour must yet be filled before the dawn can come.’ ‘And when you

consider the anxiety in which I have for all these years been

living...’, the old man added: and though he trembled somewhat

affectedly at the recollection of what he had been through, Genji was

willing to concede that to have lived all one’s life in such a place

must indeed have been very disagreeable. However he would not be too

sympathetic and answered: ‘You at any rate have the advantage of being

used to the coast...’, and he recited the poem: ‘What know you of

sorrow, who wear not the traveller’s cloak, nor on an unaccustomed

pillow rest, groping for dreams till dawn?’ For the first time Genji was

treating him without the slightest formality or reserve. In his

gratitude and admiration the old man poured out an endless stream of

inconsequent but flattering remarks, which would be wearisome to read. I

am conscious indeed that the whole of this section is rather a bundle of

absurdities. But how else could I display the vanity and eccentricity

of the old recluse?

At last everything seemed to be turning out just as he desired. He

was already beginning to breathe more freely when, to crown his

satisfaction, very early on the morning of the next day a messenger

from Prince Genji arrived at the house on the hill. The letter which

he carried was written with a certain embarrassment, for the lady had

grown up in very different surroundings from those whom he was used to

address. But the very fact of discovering such talent and charm hidden

away in a place where one would least have expected it was enough to

kindle his fancy. He took unusual pains with the letter, writing it on

a _kurumi-iro_[13] paper from Korea. In it was the poem: ‘Long wandered

my lonely gaze with nought to rest on save the drifting pathways of the

clouds, till the mists divided and I saw the tree-tops by your house.’

‘Love has vanquished discretion...’, he ended, quoting from the old

song.

Anxious to be on the spot in case such a letter arrived, the old

priest had already installed himself in the mansion on the hill before

the messenger started. He imagined that his presence in the house

was entirely unsuspected. But Genji’s man, had he not already been

perfectly well aware that the old recluse had preceded him, would

certainly have guessed it by the almost embarrassing attentions which

were paid to him when he reached the house. Despite the distracting

refreshments with which he was being regaled the messenger could not

but wonder why the lady was taking such an immense while in composing

her reply. The truth was that though her father had gone through

into the women’s apartments and was giving her all the assistance

in his power, she found herself utterly at a loss to frame a reply.

Despite the trouble that Genji had taken with his letter, there was an

uneasiness about it which made her feel that it was not spontaneous;

and even had she known in what terms to reply there was still the

question of hand-writing. She guessed that in this matter he would be a

severe critic and felt utterly incapable of pleasing him. No! The gulf

between them was too great. Pretending that she was unwell she sank

helplessly upon a couch. There was nothing for it but to reply in her

stead, and the old priest wrote as follows: ‘You will think it very

peculiar that I should answer your letter in my daughter’s stead. Pray

attribute her inability to frame a reply not to any want of gratitude

or respect, but rather to the bashfulness engendered by country

breeding; pray reflect also that she has never yet had the privilege of

finding herself in your company. She has however ventured to compose

the following poem, which she bids me communicate to you: “That I too

for long years have gazed upon these selfsame pathways of the sky is

token of some strange kinship in the course of our desires.” She is, as

you will observe, deeply affected by the arrival of your message. Pray

do not think her answering poem impertinently bold.’

This was written on Michinoku paper, and although the style of the

writing was quite out of fashion it had a certain dignity and elegance

of its own. The poem did strike Genji as somewhat forward in tone, and

this surprised him.

He sent back the messenger loaded with handsome stuffs for dresses.

Next day he wrote to her again protesting that he was not used to

receive, in reply to a private letter, an answer dictated as though to

a Palace Secretary. And he added the verse: ‘This surely is a dismal

and outrageous thing, to greet a passer-by and get no friendly nod

nor “Say, how goes the world with you?”’ This time he wrote on

a very soft thin paper, with great delicacy and care. The appearance

of the letter was such that a young girl who did not admire it must

needs have been rustic, nay brutish indeed. The lady to whom it was

addressed was by no means insensible; but she felt that the writer

of it was too far removed from her in rank and influence for any

interchange of affection to be thinkable. The discovery that a world

existed which was populated by such dazzling creatures, so far from

giving her pleasure, merely left her more unhappy and discontented

than before. Again she found herself utterly at a loss how to reply,

and it was only the persistence of her father which forced her at last

to indite the poem: ‘“How goes the world?” is said to friends. That

one whom you have never seen should greet more stiffly, can do small

outrage to the feelings of your heart.’ It was written in sharply

contrasted light and heavy strokes on a deep-brown paper, in a masterly

style which would not have disgraced a lady of the Court. Genji was

naturally very pleased; but he did not want it to be reported at the

Capital that he had committed himself to a fresh entanglement. He was

therefore careful henceforward always to leave several days’ interval

between his letters to her. He wrote in fact only when it chanced that

the evening hours hung heavy on his hands, or upon the pretext of some

particularly beautiful sunrise or other natural effect; at such times

in short as he guessed that she might be under the influence of the

same impressions as himself. In such a correspondence it seemed to him

that there could not be any impropriety. He had heard so much about

her pride that he felt sorely tempted to put it to the test. But he

remembered that his retainer Yoshikiyo had spoken of her very much

as though she were his own property. Should Genji now by any chance

succeed where the devotion of years had brought no reward, he

would certainly feel that he had treated his gentleman very badly and

suffer the discomfort of remorse. But on reflection he decided that as

she had been so reluctantly thrust upon his notice, there could be no

harm in pursuing a guarded correspondence with her. She did indeed turn

out in the course of this correspondence to be possessed of a pride and

aloofness which rivalled that of the greatest princesses whom he had

known and, on such occasions as he pitted his own pride against hers,

it was generally she who came out on top.

Though now yet another range of hills separated him from the Capital,

his mind was more constantly than ever occupied with thoughts of his

friends at home. His longing for Murasaki often became unendurable.

What was there to be done? In such moments he could not resist making

plans for bringing her secretly from the Capital. But quiet reflection

would show him that it was unlikely he would go on living for more than

a year or two longer at Akashi and no step was worth while which might

merely provoke a fresh outburst on the part of his adversaries.

That year the Court was troubled by a succession of disquieting

portents and apparitions. On the thirteenth day of the third month,

during a night marked by violent thunderstorms and a fierce wind

with torrents of rain, the Emperor dreamed that he saw His Majesty

the late Emperor standing at the foot of the step before his throne,

wearing an expression of extreme displeasure, indeed glaring at him,

as it seemed, with an angry and astonished eye. The Emperor having

assumed an attitude of respectful attention, the apparition proceeded

to deliver a long discourse, part of which was concerned with Genji’s

present plight. The Emperor was very much frightened, and being in

any case somewhat uneasy at Genji’s prolonged absence, he hastened to

communicate his dream to Kōkiden. She was not at all sympathetic.

‘These stormy nights are very disturbing,’ she said. ‘It is quite

natural that you should have had bad dreams; the rain alone would

have accounted for it. You must not allow such trifles to upset you.’

About this time the Emperor began to suffer from a pain in his eyes.

Remembering his dream, he could not get out of his head the idea

that this pain was in some way caused by the wrathful glance of the

apparition which had rebuked him. His sufferings became more and more

acute, despite the fact that continual services of intercession were

held both in the Palace and at Kōkiden’s house.

Next came the death of Kōkiden’s father, the Grand Minister of the

Right. There was nothing unexpected in this, for he had reached a

very great age. But coming as it did on top of various other public

calamities it caused widespread consternation. Kōkiden herself, though

she had no definite malady, was also very far from well. As time went

on she seemed gradually to lose strength. A general gloom spread

over the Court. It was felt that if, as was alleged by his friends,

Prince Genji had indeed been banished without any sufficient cause,

the present misfortunes of the nation might well have been sent as

punishment for this injustice. Again and again the Emperor thought of

restoring Genji to his previous rank and appointments; but whenever he

mentioned this project to Kōkiden, that lady would answer: ‘To do so

would be to incur the public charge of inconsequence and frivolity. He

was banished and if, when less than three years have elapsed, he is

suddenly recalled to the Capital, a pretty figure you and I shall cut

in history!’ She spoke with such fierce conviction that the Emperor was

completely overawed. So the months went by, and meantime both he and

Kōkiden were gradually sinking under the burden of their respective

maladies.

At Akashi, as frequently happens in autumn, heavy winds were blowing

in the bay. Genji began to find the long evenings very monotonous

and depressing. Sometimes he would allow the priest to come and talk

to him, and in the course of one of these conversations Genji said:

‘I am longing for a little diversion. Could you not manage, without

attracting too much attention, to bring your daughter here one day

to see me?’ It seemed somehow to be accepted that for Genji to pay

a visit to the house on the hill was entirely out of the question.

Unfortunately the lady herself was equally averse to making any move.

She knew that gentlemen who visited the provinces on Government

business would often take up with some wretched peasant girl and, for

so long as they happened to be in the district, carry on a purely

frivolous affair with her. The Lady of Akashi was convinced that

Genji regarded her in just such a light. To accept his advances could

only render her in the end more wretched than before. Her parents,

she knew, were still clinging to the idea that all those long years

of watchfulness and isolation had at last borne fruit. To them the

inevitable disillusion would be a crushing blow. Her mind was quite

made up; so long as this prince remained at Akashi she would continue

to correspond with him, but further than that she would not go.

His name had been known to her for years past, and she had sometimes

wondered whether it would ever fall to her lot to meet, even in the

most superficial way, some such magnificent personage as he. Now,

astonishing though it seemed, he was actually living a stone’s throw

away. She could not be said exactly to have met him, but she constantly

caught glimpses of him, heard his inimitable zithern-playing, and knew,

one way and another, all that there was to know about his daily comings

and goings. That such a person should even be aware of her

existence was more than, as an inhabitant of this remote fishing-town,

she had any right to expect. As time went on it seemed to her less

than ever possible that any closer relationship should be established

between them. Meanwhile her parents were far less confident about the

situation than she supposed. They felt that in their anxiety to see the

prayers of half a lifetime at last fulfilled they had perhaps acted

somewhat precipitately. If Genji did not after all seem to regard their

daughter as ‘counting,’ her feelings would have been upset for nothing.

True he was a great catch and was worth certain risks; but that only

made it harder to lose him. They had an uneasy feeling that while they

had been placing all their trust in ‘Gods whom no eye seeth’ they had

paid too little attention to the dispositions of the human beings for

whose future they had schemed.

‘A little music,’ said Genji to the old priest one evening, ‘would

mingle pleasantly with the sound of these autumn waves. It is only as a

background to music that the sound of the sea is tolerable.’

The time for action had come. The old priest looked in his calendar,

chose a lucky day, and despite the misgivings of his wife began to

prepare the house on the hill for Genji’s visit. Not even to his most

intimate acolytes and disciples did he explain the object of these

elaborate preparations. The visit was to take place on the thirteenth

day of the month. It turned out to be a resplendent moonlit night.

The old man came to Genji’s room and recited the line: ‘Is this a

night to lose?’ Genji at once understood that this was an invitation

to the house on the hill. Suddenly what had seemed impossible became

perfectly simple. He set his cloak to rights and left the house. His

host had provided him with a magnificent coach, but the narrow lanes

would have made its use inconvenient and Genji preferred to go

on horseback. He was accompanied only by Koremitsu and one or two of

his other trusted servants. The house stood a little way back from the

shore and while he climbed to it he was all the time looking down over

the bays that spread out on every side. He remembered the verse: ‘Would

that to one who loves what I love I now might show it, this moon that

lies foundered at the bottom of the bay!’ For the first time since he

had agreed to set out upon this excursion he remembered the lady at his

palace far away, and at that moment he could hardly resist turning his

horse’s head and riding straight to the Capital. ‘O thou, my milk-white

pony, whose coat is as the moon-beams of this autumn night, carry me

like a bird through the air that though it be but for a moment I may

look upon the lady whom I love!’ So he murmured as he approached the

house, which was thickly girt with an abundance of fine timber. It

was indeed a house impressively situated and in many ways remarkable;

but it had not the conveniences nor the cheerful aspect of the house

on the shore. So dark and shut-in an appearance did it present as he

drew near, that Genji soon began to imagine all its inhabitants as

necessarily a prey to the deepest melancholy and felt quite concerned

at the thought of what they must suffer through living in so cheerless

a place. The Hall of Meditation stood close by and the sound of its

bell blent mournfully with the whispering of the pine-trees that on the

steep uneven ground grew precariously out of a ledge of rock, their

roots clutching at it like some desperate hand. From the plantations in

front of the house came a confused wailing of insect voices.

He looked about him. That part of the house which he knew to be

occupied by the lady and her servants wore an air of festive

preparation. Full in the moonlight a door stood significantly ajar. He

opened it. ‘I wish to rest for a few minutes,’ he said; ‘I hope you

have no objection to my coming in?’ She had in fact the greatest

objection, for it was against just such a meeting as this that she had

resolutely set her face. She could not actually turn him away; but she

showed no signs of making him welcome. He thought her in fact the most

disagreeable young person whom he had ever met. He was accustomed to

see women of very much greater consequence than this girl show at any

rate a certain gratification at being thought worthy of his attentions.

She would not, he felt, have dared to treat him so rudely but for the

present eclipse of his fortunes. He was not used to being regarded

so lightly, and it upset him. The nature of the circumstances was

obviously not such that he could carry off the situation with a high

hand. But though violence was out of the question, he would certainly

cut a very ridiculous figure in the eyes of the girl’s parents if he

had to admit that she showed no signs of wanting to be acquainted

with him. He felt embarrassed and angry. Suddenly one of the cords

of the screen-of-state behind which she was sitting fell across her

zithern, making as it did so a kind of casual tune. As she bent over

the instrument he saw her for an instant just as she must have looked

before his entry had made her stiffen; just as she must look when

carelessly and at ease she swept an idle plectrum over the strings.

He was captivated. ‘Will you not even play me something upon this

zithern of which I have heard so much?’ he added, and he recited the

poem: ‘Were it but from your zithern that those soft words came which

your lips refuse, half should I awaken from the wretched dream wherein

I am bemused.’ And she: ‘A night of endless dreams, inconsequent and

wild, is this my life; none more worth telling than the rest.’ Seen

dimly behind her curtains she recalled to him in a certain measure the

princess[14] who was now in Ise. It was soon evident that though

she had answered his poem she was no nearer than before to treating his

visit as otherwise than an impertinence. She had been sitting there

so comfortable and happy, when suddenly this tiresome person burst in

upon her without apology or warning. However, the remedy lay in her

own hands, and rising to her feet she fled into a neighbouring closet,

fastening the door behind her with ostentatious care. You might have

supposed that this was the end of the matter, for she had evidently

no mind to return, nor he any intention of forcing bolts and bars.

Curiously enough, however, this was not the end of the matter. The

difficulties that ensued may well be imagined if we remember the lady’s

unusual shyness and pride. Suffice it to say that from this night’s

meeting, which seemed at first to have been forced upon him by chance

and other people’s intrigues, sprang an intimacy which was grounded

in the deepest feeling. The night, generally so long and tedious at

Akashi, passed on this occasion all too quickly. It was essential that

he should leave unobserved, and at the first streak of dawn, with many

last endearments and injunctions, he crept stealthily from the room.

His next day’s letter was sent very secretly, for he was haunted by the

fear that some story of this adventure might find its way back to the

Capital. The lady for her part was anxious to show that she was to be

trusted, and deliberately treated Genji’s messenger without ceremony

of any kind, as though he were bound on some errand of merely domestic

import. He paid many subsequent visits to the house on the hill, always

with the greatest secrecy. Unfortunately the way there led nowhere

else, and knowing that fisher-folk are notorious gossips he began

to fear that his addiction to this particular road would be noticed

and commented upon. His visits now became far less frequent, and the

lady began to think that her early fears were soon to be fulfilled.

The old priest’s thoughts were, if the truth must be told, for

the time being much more frequently occupied with the coming of Genji

than with the coming of Amida.[15] He could not make out what had gone

wrong, and was in a terrible state of agitation. To make matters worse

he knew that such earthly considerations ought to leave him quite

unmoved and he was ashamed to discover how little his pious observances

had availed to render him indifferent to the blows of fortune.

Genji would not for all the world have had the news of his latest

adventure reach Murasaki as a piece of current gossip, even though it

were represented in the most harmless light. Her hold upon him was

indeed still strong as ever, and the mere idea of such a story reaching

her, of her feeling that she had been superseded, of a possible quarrel

or estrangement, filled him with shame and dismay. She was not indeed

given to jealousy; but more than once she had shown plainly that his

irregularities, so far from passing unobserved, were indeed extremely

distressing to her. How bitterly he now regretted those trivial

gallantries, so profitless to him, yet to her so miserably disquieting!

And even while he was still visiting the lady of the hillside, since

there was no other way of quieting his conscience concerning Murasaki,

he wrote to the Nijō-in more frequently and more affectionately than

ever before. At the end of one of these letters he added: ‘How it

grieves me to remember the many occasions when I have spoilt our

friendship for the sake of some passing whim or fancy in which (though

you could not believe it) my deeper feelings were not at all engaged.

And now I have another matter of this kind to confess, a passing dream,

the insignificance of which you can guess by the fact that I tell you

of it thus unasked. “Though with the shining seaweed of the shore

the fisherman a moment toys, yet seeks he but assuagement of a sorrow

that long ere this has filled his eye with burning tears.”’

Her answer showed no resentment and was couched in the tenderest terms.

But at the end, in reference to his disclosure, she wrote: ‘As regards

the “dream” which you could not forbear telling me, I have experience

enough in that direction to enable me to draw several conclusions. “Too

downrightly, it seems, have I obeyed it, our vow that sooner would the

Isle of Pines by the sea-waves be crossed....”’ But though her tone was

good-humoured, there was in all her letter an undercurrent of irony,

which disturbed him. He carried it about with him for a long while and

constantly re-read it. During this time his secret nocturnal excursions

were entirely abandoned, and the Lady of Akashi naturally imagined that

all her fears had now come true. He had amused himself to his fill and

had no longer any interest in what became of her. With no support, save

that of parents whose advanced age made it improbable that they could

much longer be of any assistance, she had long ago given up hope of

taking her place in the world with those of equal rank and attainments.

But she did now bitterly regret the waste of all those empty months and

years during which she had been so conscientiously guarded and kept—for

what? At last she had some experience of the usages which prevailed in

the ‘grand world’ outside, and she found them even less to her liking

than she had anticipated. She indulged however in no outburst of spleen

or disappointment, nor in her letters did she ever reproach him for

his long absence. He had indeed as time went on become more and more

attached to her, and it was only his desire to be able to allay the

anxiety of one who had after all a prior claim upon him that induced

him to suspend his visits to the lady on the hill. Henceforward

his nights at Akashi were again spent in solitude.

He amused himself by making sketches upon which he afterwards scribbled

whatever thoughts happened to be passing through his mind. These he

sent to Murasaki, inviting her comments. No method of correspondence

could have been better calculated to move and interest her. The

distance between them seemed in some sort to have been annihilated.

She too, at times when she was feeling out of spirits or at a loss for

employment, would also make sketches of the scenes around her, and at

the same time she jotted down all that was happening to her day by day

in the form of a commonplace book or diary.

What, she wondered, would she have to write in her diary? And he in his?

The New Year had come. At the Palace nothing was now talked of save the

Emperor’s illness, and the Court was full of restless speculation. The

only child of the present Emperor was a boy born to him by Princess

Jōkyōden, daughter of the new Minister of the Right. But he was

only two years old and therefore of no particular account. The Heir

Apparent, Fujitsubo’s son, was also a minor. The Emperor was fully

determined to resign the Throne to him at the earliest opportunity,

but should he do so it would be necessary to appoint a regent. There

were so few people to whom it would be in any way possible to entrust

the affairs of government that it seemed a pity Genji should be out

of the running. His presence was indeed becoming in every way more

and more imperative, and at last the Emperor decided to recall him,

whether Kōkiden approved or not. Since the end of the year her illness

had taken a more serious turn.[16] The Emperor too—although for

a time thanks to the immense efforts made on his behalf in consequence

of certain disastrous omens which had engendered something in the

nature of a natural panic, although for a time his eyes showed some

improvement—was soon in as bad a way as ever, and feeling very

uncertain of the future, he dictated an edict in which Genji was

commanded to return to the Capital by the end of the seventh month.

That sooner or later there would be a turn in his fortunes Genji had

always been convinced. But the shortness and uncertainty of life made

him little inclined to settle down quietly and wait for events to take

their course. This swift recall came therefore as an intense relief.

And yet, for one reason at any rate, he was by no means anxious to

leave the coast so soon. The priest too had never expected that Genji

would be with him very long; but the news of his immediate departure

came as something of a shock. However, it was a consolation to feel

that Genji was now definitely re-embarking upon the path of prosperity,

and that his partiality, should it continue, would be in the future

even more valuable than before. Genji now began again to visit the

upper house almost every evening. Since the beginning of the sixth

month the Lady of Akashi had been slightly indisposed and it was now

certain that she was with child. No sooner had a definite term been put

to their friendship than Genji’s feeling for her redoubled: surely in

those last days she was more charming than she had ever been before!

Here indeed, rash though his courtship had been, was one whom under no

circumstances he would ever feel that he had loved and cherished beyond

her deserts? She for her part sat in absolute silence before him, lost

in her own thoughts. Poor soul, he could not blame her.

When three years ago he had set out so reluctantly upon that miserable

journey to Suma, his only consolation had been to imagine the

joy and excitement with which on some far distant yet inevitable day

he would retrace his steps to the City. Now that day had come, and

to be returning was indeed very pleasant. But all the while, mingled

with delightful anticipations, was the strange fear that he might

never be able to re-visit the place of his banishment! His servants

however were all in high spirits, and this, combined with the bustle of

numerous friendly deputations from the Capital, created an atmosphere

of general liveliness and excitement, despite the obvious depression

that all these signs of departure brought to the host under whose roof

the numerous visitors were lodged. The seventh month had begun, and

the summer weather was even more delightful than usual. Why, wondered

Genji, was he, who took such pleasure in quiet and harmless pursuits,

doomed on every occasion to find himself involved in the most harrowing

and disastrous situations? It had not indeed escaped the notice of

those who knew him best that a fresh complication, of the kind they

already knew only too well, had arisen in his life. For several months

on end he had never once mentioned the lady’s name, and they began to

hope that the affair had run its course. But the curiously subdued

state of his spirits on the very eve of departure told them only too

plainly that this hope was premature. It was whispered that all this

trouble had arisen from Yoshikiyo’s indiscreet eloquence upon the

occasion when after Genji’s cure they had climbed the mountain summit

and looked down towards the western seas.[17] Yoshikiyo himself, as

indeed he had every reason to be, was very much irritated by the whole

affair.

Two days before his departure Genji visited the house on the hill some

hours earlier than was his wont. He had never before seen the

lady by full daylight, and her beauty astonished him. Such dignity

of bearing, such an air of proud decision he had not in the least

expected. This fresh discovery of her, this last-hour revelation filled

him with new longings and regrets. Must he lose her? Could not some

excuse be formed for bringing her to the Capital, for installing her

at Court? And to ease his feelings he began to discuss with her the

wildest plans as though they had been perfectly simple and practicable.

The austerities which he had practised during the earlier days of his

exile had left him still looking somewhat worn and thin. Yet such

was his beauty that while, touched by her misery, he sat beside her

and with tears in his eyes whispered the tenderest words of pity and

endearment, for a moment she felt that even if there had been but one

such night as that and after it he had disappeared forever, she would

still feel his love for her to have been the greatest happiness of her

life.

But for all his kindness he was a prince,—the inhabitant of a world

peopled not by creatures like herself, but by a remote and superior

order of beings. Such was the thought that even at moments like this

would obtrude itself with painful persistency. Oddly enough, though the

promise that she would play to him had been the excuse for his first

visit, she had never once touched her zithern since he had known her.

For this he had often scolded her, and now he determined to make a last

attempt. ‘Will you not play one small tune, so that I may carry it away

in my head to remember you by,’ he said, and sent to the lower house

for the zithern which he had brought with him from the Capital. He

tuned it with special care, and the few chords that he struck while he

did so floated with a strange distinctness through the still midnight

air. The old priest heard these sounds, and unable to contain himself

came bustling round to the women’s quarters with his Chinese

zithern in his arms and deposited it in the room where his daughter was

receiving her guest. Then he discreetly withdrew. Genji now renewed

his entreaties and at last she could resist no longer. He guessed at

once, by the way that she handled and tuned the instrument, that she

would prove to be a remarkable performer. Lady Fujitsubo used generally

to be considered the best zithern-player of the day, and though the

applause of the fashionable world was in part a tribute to her rank and

beauty, she was without question a very fine musician. But the Lady of

Akashi, in addition to a complete command of her instrument, played

with an intensity of feeling and a power of expression utterly unknown

to the princess. Such indeed was her playing that even he, who could

now so seldom get from music a pleasure that he had not experienced

many times before, was utterly taken aback. He could have listened

forever, and his only regret was that he had not forced her to play

to him months ago. Of course he must not lose her! And handing to her

his own zithern he begged her to keep it for him till they should

play together again. She answered with an acrostic poem in which she

prophesied that this loan was likely to remain forever on her hands.

And he, in indignation—‘Steadfast am I as the middle strings[18] of

this my zithern that I leave with you until we meet.’ ‘Who knows that

it may not be soon,’ he added; ‘Perhaps before these very strings have

fallen out of tune.’ Thus he sought to comfort her; but to her mind

one thought only was present,—that he was going away. She began to sob

bitterly.

On the day of his departure he was up long before sunrise. The setting

out of so large a party (for the house was now full of friends who had

come to escort him back to the City) occasioned a tremendous

bustle. Genji too was much preoccupied, but in the midst of these

distractions he found time to send her a message: ‘Because they have

left the sea behind them, the rising waves creep listlessly across the

sand. But I, a sinking wave, cast back disconsolate thoughts towards

the shore whence I retreat.’ And she: ‘My cabin by the shore the winds

have sheltered, and gladly now amid the receding wreckage of the

storm would I drift out to sea.’ His friends from the Capital noticed

that he was in great distress, and could only suppose that, despite

the untoward circumstances which had brought him to this place, he

had in the course of years become so attached to it that the actual

moment of parting was somewhat of a wrench. But they could not help

thinking that such a display of emotion was very excessive. On the

other hand Yoshikiyo and the rest saw their worst fears confirmed.

This was evidently a serious business, and they foresaw all kinds of

complications that might arise from it. These gentlemen were delighted

to be going home, but when it came to the actual moment of departure

they felt a certain regret at leaving this extremely agreeable coast,

and there were naturally many among them who had on their own account

to face somewhat painful scenes of farewell. Many affecting poems were

written and tearful speeches made; but what use would it be to record

them all?

In his preparations for the departure of the travellers the old

priest had surpassed himself. For every single person connected with

the expedition, down to the humblest carriers and menials, the most

sumptuous equipment was provided. It was indeed hard to imagine how

in these few weeks such elaborate preparations could possibly have

been made. The arrangements for Genji’s own comfort were of the most

extraordinary ingenuity; in fact the luxuries forced upon him filled so

many boxes that it required quite an army of porters to carry all

his luggage. Genji was indeed equipped more like a traveller setting

out from the Capital than like one returning from the provinces. There

seemed to be no imaginable contingency which the old priest had not

thought of. To the travelling cloak which had been specially designed

for that day’s journey the Lady of Akashi attached the poem: ‘That this

cloak of travel, cut and folded by the salt sea-shore, should bear a

stain or two of spray, you will not take amiss!’ Despite the noise and

confusion of departure, he found a moment in which to write the answer:

‘Though for a while I must wear it in remembrance, yet soon as certain

days and months are safely passed, once more no garment shall divide

us.’ This message he sent privately, and when he put on the new cloak

he was at pains to tell those about him that it was a present from the

old priest and worn at his especial desire. The cloak which he had

previously been wearing he sent to the house on the hill, where for

long afterwards the sight of it and the smell of the rare scent with

which it was perfumed awakened tantalizing memories in those from whose

thoughts he would in any case seldom have been absent.

The priest excused himself from accompanying the expedition even so

far as the frontier of the province, saying that in his present state

of grief and agitation he did not feel equal to so great an exertion.

‘Pray do not think me impertinent,’ he added, ‘but I ought perhaps to

remind you ... in fact, we none of us doubt for an instant.... But

quite at your own time and convenience, of course!’ He did not dare go

beyond these brief, disjointed hints, but Genji, so far from taking

offence, was extremely sorry for the old man, who, it was evident,

had taken the business to heart in the most unfortunate way. ‘There

is now a particular reason why I should cherish and remember

her,’ said Genji presently; ‘you may be sure that in a very little

while I shall see to it that she has her due. To leave you all at such

a moment grieves me more than I can say. But what would you have me

do?’ The lady herself was in a strange state of mind. She was still

convinced that the difference in rank between them precluded any

lasting union and was certain that in the long run she had no more

chance of happiness at the City than she had if left behind here in the

wilds. But when it came to his actually starting, she could not bear

to be left behind. Try as she might, she could not control herself.

His image perpetually haunted her and every effort to banish it ended

in a wild fit of sobbing. ‘It would have saved the poor girl untold

misery,’ said the mother, having in vain tried every means to distract

her, ‘if this wretched business had never begun. And how unnecessary it

all is! Nothing of the kind need ever have entered the child’s head,

but for the odious and perverse advice which certain people....’ ‘Hold

your tongue,’ the old priest said angrily. ‘This will all come right

in the end; he has told me so himself. He knows about her condition

and will do all that he can for her.’ ‘Come, child,’ he said, bringing

her a basin of hot water in his own hands; ‘you must get up at once

and let yourself be dressed. You really must not go on like this.

It is terrible, you know, terrible,’ and he stood at the corner of

the bed looking at her encouragingly. Not only the mother, but the

girl’s old nurse and most of the confidential servants were in a state

of indignation against their master and went about saying that his

misguided promptings had brought them all into this terrible trouble.

But the old man’s evident misery soon dismissed their anger. He went

about muttering to himself: ‘To think that I should have waited all

these years for a chance to do something that would help her! And just

when I thought everything was going so well, I find I have only

made the poor thing unhappy....’

So much did his mistake (for such he was now convinced that it was)

afflict the old man, that he became a little queer in the head. During

the day he did little but doze; but at night he would suddenly get

up and seated in an attitude of prayer would fumble with his hands

as though he had forgotten even how to use his rosary. One night his

disciples managed to persuade him to go for a walk in the moonlight.

Mumbling prayers as he went and quite unaware of his surroundings he

stumbled and fell headlong into the moat. He was soon fished out; but

in falling he had caught his leg against a large stone and done himself

considerable injury. During the illness which followed, his mind,

strangely enough, seemed to be somewhat easier and he appeared to be

worrying less about the unfortunate situation of his daughter.

Meanwhile Genji was on his homeward way. At Naniwa he halted to perform

the customary ceremony of Purification. He did not on this occasion

go to the Shrine of Sumiyoshi himself but sent a messenger to inform

the authorities that he was intending to perform his devotions there

quietly on some future occasion. He was now travelling so hurriedly

and with so large a retinue that a personal visit was impossible.

Apart from the halt at Naniwa he made no unnecessary discursions or

digressions, but pressed on with all possible speed to the Capital.

Upon his arrival the Nijō-in presented an extraordinary spectacle. The

friends who had accompanied him on the journey were here joined by

numerous others who had awaited him in the City. All of them now surged

in wild excitement through the Palace, some hurraying lustily, some

weeping with joy, and the scene soon became one of indescribable noise

and disorder.

And now Murasaki, who at the moment of his departure had vowed in her

poem that ‘could it but purchase an hour of respite, life itself was a

price she would not grudge to pay,’ was glad that the gift which in her

despair she had bartered so lightly, had not indeed been taken from her!

In these three years she had grown even handsomer than before. At

first he could not make out in what way it was that her appearance was

altered. But when they were alone together he noticed that her hair,

which even before he went away had begun to be almost too thick, had

been cleverly thinned out. He had to confess that this new way of

wearing it became her very well. But suddenly, while he watched her

with fond satisfaction, the pleasant thought that she would always be

near him was interrupted by a very different image. There rose before

his mind the figure of the lady whom he had left behind in that sad

mansion above the bay. Plainly as though she were with him he saw her

loneliness, her misery, her despair. Why was it that time after time

he of all people should find himself in this odious position? Lest

Murasaki should feel that things were passing through his mind which he

must hide from her, he began telling her about the lady of the shore.

But he took such evident pleasure in dilating upon this subject that

his frankness had the effect of convincing her that the matter was

a far more serious one than she had before supposed. ‘It is not for

myself I mind,’[19] she quoted, only half meaning him to understand.

How terrible that he had lost three whole years of her company, and

lost them, too, in punishment for those very infidelities which he

would now have given so much to undo!

Soon after his return all his original titles were restored and he

was accorded the rank of supernumerary President of Council; while

his supporters were re-established in offices equivalent to those of

which they had been deprived. Indeed so wide an amnesty was proclaimed

that the Court soon wore the aspect of a withered tree that one spring

morning suddenly begins to sprout again.

A message came summoning Genji to the Palace. Great excitement

prevailed among the Court attendants. It seemed to them that he looked

more handsome and flourishing than ever. Had he really spent the last

three years under such harrowing conditions as rumour had reported?

Among the gentlewomen present were some who had served the old Emperor

his father and these old ladies, who had always taken his side, now

pressed round him chattering and weeping. The Emperor had been somewhat

nervous about this interview. Anxious to make a good impression, he

had spent an immense while over his toilet. On this particular day

he was feeling somewhat stronger; but for a long while he had been

seriously out of health and he was looking sadly altered. They talked

quietly till nightfall. It was the fifteenth day of the month. The

weather was calm and fine and, as he sat in the moonlight, such a host

of memories crowded to the young Emperor’s mind that he shed a few

tears. He was indeed at that time full of the darkest forebodings.

‘Nothing entertaining has happened here,’ he said at last. ‘I used to

like it when you played to me; but of course it is a long time since

you did that....’ Genji answered with the poem: ‘For as many years as

the leech-baby[20] could not stand upon its feet have I been set adrift

upon the wide plains of the sea.’ The Emperor, who felt the sting of

this allusion, skilfully parried the thrust with the verse:

‘Round the Palace Pillar[21] long enough have we played hide-and-seek;

let us forget the rancour of wasted springtimes that we in amity might

better have employed.’

After this visit Genji’s first care was to perform the ceremonial Eight

Readings of the Lotus Sūtra in memory of his father the late Emperor.

He next visited the Crown Prince and found him grown almost beyond

recognition. The child was surprised and delighted to recover his old

playmate, whom he perfectly well remembered. Genji was relieved to

discover that the boy was unusually quick at his studies and promised,

so far as could at present be judged, to make a very satisfactory

successor to the Throne.

His agitation upon being admitted to Fujitsubo was not indeed such as

it would have been some years ago; but the meeting was an affecting one

and they had much to discuss together. One thing I had almost forgot:

by one of the priest’s servants who had come with them all the way

to the Capital he sent a number of letters to Akashi; among them a

long one to the priest’s daughter, in which, as he was able to convey

it to her secretly, he did his best, by dint of tender messages and

allusions, to comfort and console her. In it was the poem: ‘At Akashi

is all night spent[22] in weeping? And do the mists of morning hide the

long-looked-for light of day?’

At last Lady Gosechi,[23] who silently and unknown to all the world

had been grieving bitterly at Genji’s exile, was able to relieve her

feelings by taking action. It was natural and proper that she should

write to congratulate him upon his recall. She did so, but left

him to guess from whom the letter came. With it was the poem: ‘A

seafarer that with reluctant heart floated past Suma’s shore would

fain you saw her sleeve that since that day has never once grown dry.’

Her fine handwriting at once betrayed her and he replied: ‘With better

cause might I make tearful plaint, to whom you steered so close, yet

would not stay your course.’ Brief as their meeting had been, he still

preserved the happiest recollections of it and this sudden reminder of

her made him for a moment hope that their friendship might one day be

renewed. But what was he thinking of! Now and henceforward there were

to be no more frivolities of that kind. Thus he cautioned himself, and

the result was that even the Lady at the Village of Falling Flowers

received only a formal intimation of his return. To know that he was

to be seen and not to see him was worse than his being utterly out of

reach, and the poor lady was unhappier than ever now that he was again

at the Nijō-in.

[1] Instituted in China in the 6th century. It centred round the

reading of the _Jēn Wang Ching_ (Nanjio No. 17) in which Buddha

instructs the great kings of the earth how to preserve their countries

from calamity.

[2] A Court title. Yoshikiyo was son of the Governor of Harima and

had courted the Lady of Akashi. See vol. i, p. 138, where, following

another text, I have called him Yoshizane.

[3] It would be said that he was running after the Lady of Akashi, the

old recluse’s daughter.

[4] Lao Tzŭ, say the commentators; but this saying does not occur in

the _Tao Tē Ching_.

[5] The mirror-poem, p. 108.

[6] Evidently a Chinese tune. Attempts to identify it have hitherto

been very unconvincing.

[7] Priests who collected money for their community by going round

playing the _biwa_ at street-corners.

[8] Which he had taught to Murasaki.

[9] 898–930. Sixtieth Emperor of Japan.

[10] 810–823. Fifty-second Emperor of Japan.

[11] Po Chü-i. The reference is to his poem _The Lute Girl’s Song._

[12] A service performed at dawn, sunrise, midday, sunset, dusk and

nightfall.

[13] A double paper; light blue on a white ground.

[14] Rokujō.

[15] Buddha.

[16] There is some doubt about the punctuation of this and the

following sentence.

[17] See vol. i, pp. 137 seq. Some texts call Yoshikiyo ‘Yoshizane,’ as

I have done in vol. i. See above, p. 113.

[18] Which remained unaltered whatever tuning was adopted.

[19] ‘It is not for myself I mind; but since the Gods are just, for him

who is forsworn I am indeed afraid.’ No. 38 of the _Hundred Poems_; it

is by Lady Ukon, 10th century.

[20] The Royal Gods Izanagi and Isanami bore a leech-child; as at the

age of three it could not stand they cast it adrift in a boat.

[21] After a sort of game of hide-and-seek round the Pillar of the

Palace of Heaven these Gods met face to face and Izanagi exclaimed: ‘I

have met a lovely maiden’; whereupon they became husband and wife and

bore the leech-child.

[22] _Akashi_ means ‘spending the whole night.’

[23] See p. 129.