THE FLOOD GAUGE
Since the night of his so vivid and disquieting dream, the late Emperor
had been constantly in Genji’s thoughts. He longed to succour his
father’s soul, weighed down as it was (if the words of that nightly
apparition were indeed to be trusted) by a load of earthly sin. Now
that he was back in the City he was anxious to lose no time, and the
great ceremony of the Eight Readings, for which he had begun to make
arrangements soon after his return, was duly carried out in the Godless
Month.[1] The manner in which this function was attended showed that
Genji had fully regained his former ascendancy.
Ill though she was, Kōkiden still had sufficient interest in what went
on about her to be furious at this recrudescence of a force which she
confidently supposed herself to have annihilated. But the Emperor, much
as he stood in awe of her, was now obsessed by the idea that if he
again disobeyed the late Emperor’s injunction some terrible calamity
would overtake him. The feeling that he had successfully insisted
upon Genji’s recall quite braced him, and the pain in his eyes, which
had till recently been very troublesome, now began to show signs of
improvement. But he did not somehow feel that he was likely to be very
much longer on the Throne. There were many matters which he desired
to see satisfactorily settled while he was still capable of
attending to them, and he constantly summoned Genji to the Palace to
consult him upon the most confidential affairs of policy and state. In
doing so he was but following his real inclination; this was very well
understood in the country and the public at large was delighted to see
the Emperor once more asserting himself.
As the time drew near when he intended to renounce the Throne, the
Emperor became increasingly concerned with regard to the effect
that this step would have upon Lady Oborozuki’s career. ‘My poor
grand-father, the late Chief Minister, is gone,’ he said to her one
day; ‘and it does not look as though my mother[2] would be with us
much longer. I myself have no intention of remaining on the Throne. I
am afraid you will be left in a most tiresome position. I know that
there is some one whom you have always liked better than me. But I do
not think anyone could possibly be more attached to you than I am, and
it distresses me continually to think what will become of you when
I am gone. Even if your former friend is willing to look after you
again, however kind he is to you, I am quite certain he will take far
less trouble about you than I do.’ The colour rushed to her cheeks and
her eyes filled with tears. He saw that he had wounded her and, moved
to sudden pity by the spectacle of her humiliation and remorse, he
forgot all her misdeeds and continued in a gentler tone: ‘What a pity
that we have never had any children! I am sure you and he will have
some later on, and it will be a pity that they are his and not mine,
because they will only be commoners, you know.’ He went on for some
while discussing what would happen after he was dead, her distress and
remorse increasing at every word. Her charm was such that, despite his
jealousy, the Emperor had grown steadily more attached to her in
the years that had passed. But though his partiality had raised her to
a position of undisputed pre-eminence at Court, she had not at any time
been happy. At first she brooded incessantly upon Genji’s comparative
indifference towards her, but later, as her sense of responsibility
increased, she marvelled more and more at the childish recklessness
which had led her into that miserable adventure and, besides destroying
her own good name, had reacted so disastrously upon her seducer.
In the second month of the new year the Initiation Ceremony of the
Crown Prince was performed. He was only eleven years old but was big
for his age, and it was already apparent that he was developing an
extraordinary resemblance to his guardian, Prince Genji. In this the
world saw nothing to complain of; their future monarch could not, they
felt, have chosen a better model. But the Lady Abbess, his mother,
watched the growing resemblance with very different feelings and could
not but imagine that it was arousing the blackest suspicions.
The Emperor himself was greatly relieved to see that the boy was
shaping so well, and he now began to prepare Lady Kōkiden for the
news that he intended to vacate the Throne. His actual resignation
came suddenly, indeed before the end of the second month, and Kōkiden
was very much upset. To put matters right he assured her that his
abdication had but one motive: namely, that he might be free to devote
his poor abilities to looking after her. At this she was naturally
somewhat mollified.
Fujitsubo’s son accordingly became Emperor under the title Ryōzen, and
Lady Jōkyōden’s little son became Crown Prince. The new regime bore
somewhat the character of a Restoration and was marked by a return
to all the gaieties and festivities of the old Emperor’s reign. From
being President of Council, Genji became Palace Counsellor; it
was intended that he should fulfil the functions of Chief Minister, and
it was only because the two ministerial posts were already filled that
this less imposing title was given him. Genji however professed himself
quite unable to cope with the duties of so arduous a function, and
proposed that Aoi’s father, the Minister of the Left, should be asked
to assume control. But the old man pointed out that illness had long
ago obliged him to forgo the executive part of his duties. Since then
he had not grown any younger, and feared that his head was no longer
clear enough to deal with complicated affairs. Genji replied that in
the Other Land,[3] at times of change and uncertainty, even those who
had retreated far away among the hills had sometimes been prevailed
upon to return and lend their aid to a government that showed itself
to be well-disposed. Nor had such men ever considered that their white
hairs constituted a bar, but had come forward gladly to take office
under the new regime. And indeed for doing so they had always been
deemed true paladins of wisdom. ‘It is my desire,’ Genji concluded,
‘and that of the Council that you should resume the position which you
held before your health obliged you to withdraw, and we feel that in
doing so you may be sure of incurring no hostile criticism from any
quarter.’ It was quite true that retired Ministers had sometimes been
known to resume their functions. The old man withdrew his opposition
and allowed them to make him Grand Minister with Plenary Powers. He was
now sixty-three. Since the decline of his public influence, his whole
family had lived very much under a cloud. But now that he was again
in the ascendant they began to resume their old place in society. His
sons were soon once more entrusted with positions of great importance;
in particular, Tō no Chūjō became Privy Counsellor of the Second
Class. Chūjō’s daughter, who was now twelve years old, was being
trained for the Court, whither she was to be sent as soon as she was
old enough. The boy who had sung the Ballad of Takasago so prettily
some years ago, was already installed as one of the Emperor’s pages and
was thought to be doing very well. Besides these he had a number of
other children, all of them very promising, and Genji, whose exiguous
progeny was of small comfort to him, quite envied Chūjō the size and
prosperity of his young family.
Yūgiri, Genji’s son by Aoi, was a fine little fellow. He was already
attached to the suite of the new Crown Prince. The princess, Aoi’s
mother, remained entirely unmoved by the renewed good fortunes of her
husband and family. Indeed, this return to happier days only served
to awaken fresh memories of the daughter whose loss had marked the
beginning of all their troubles. Her one consolation had been that
by her death Aoi had been spared the torture which Genji’s disgrace
and banishment would have inflicted upon her proud and fastidious
nature. Now that he was restored to his former glories not even this
consideration remained valid. Genji continued to show her the same
attentions as before his exile and lost no opportunity of going over to
the Great Hall. Yūgiri’s old nurse and other members of the household
had during all these years remained faithfully at their posts, and
Genji contrived, in one way and another, to show each of them how much
he appreciated her patience and fidelity. The recipients of these small
favours were in a state of rapturous gratitude and delight.
He was also deeply touched by the conduct of the gentlewomen at
the Nijō-in, in whom he had formerly shown so little interest. He
determined henceforward to take more pains about them. He soon found
himself so much occupied in paying small attentions to Miss
Chūjō, Madam Nakatsukasa and other good ladies of his household, that
he scarcely ever had time to leave the house. He was also much taken up
with the rebuilding of a lodge which stood to the east of his palace,
on an estate which had belonged to his father. He took great trouble
over the work and had the place put in splendid order, for it was his
intention to lend it to unfortunate or unprotected persons, such as the
lady at ‘the village of falling flowers,’ whom he could best assist if
he had them near at hand.
Meanwhile he often wondered how the Lady of Akashi was faring, but
he was at this time so much occupied both with private and national
affairs that he could not get news of her as often as he would have
liked to do. He reckoned that her delivery was likely to take place
early in the third month, and about that time he contrived to send a
secret courier to Akashi and learnt that the event had already taken
place sixteen days ago. It was a girl, and everything had gone well.
This was Genji’s first daughter, and he felt quite excited. But how
callous he had been to let her go through all this alone! Why had he
not brought her with him to the City and looked after her while this
was happening? He felt, indeed, a sudden outburst of tenderness towards
her and of remorse at his own hardness of heart.
Astronomers had once told him that he would have three children, of
whom the eldest and youngest would eventually ascend the Throne, while
the middle one would rise to be Chief Minister. They had further
said it would be the lowest-born of the three mothers who would give
birth to the future Empress. All that had happened so far fitted in
very well with their prognostications. The prophecy that his children
would attain Imperial rank and lead the Government of the country had
been repeatedly made by sign-readers of all kinds; but during
the difficult times from which Genji had just emerged it appeared to
be wildly improbable that any of these hopes would be fulfilled. But
now the safe accession of Ryōzen to the Throne made him feel that
everything would happen as the soothsayers had foretold. That he
himself was not destined to achieve such honours had been generally
recognized and he had long ago given up regarding such a thing as
within the bounds of possibility. So well had this been recognized by
his father, the old Emperor, that although Genji was his favourite son
he had given special instructions that he was to remain a commoner.
As regards Ryōzen, it was not of course recognized in the world that
His Majesty was Genji’s son; but that, after all, did not in any way
invalidate the truth of the sign-readers’ prognostications.
But if this new child were really going to be empress it seemed almost
disrespectful to have allowed her to be born at so strange a place. He
must make amends to this future sovereign, and that he might soon be
able to lodge both mother and child in proper comfort, he ordered his
bailiffs to push through the rebuilding of the eastern lodge as rapidly
as possible.
It occurred to him that it would be very difficult for her to secure
a suitable wet-nurse at Akashi. He chanced to hear of a young woman,
a child of the old Emperor’s Lady-in-Attendance, who had recently,
under distressing circumstances, been left with an infant on her hands.
Both the Lady-in-Attendance and her husband, who had been one of the
Royal Chamberlains, were dead, and the girl had been left entirely to
her own devices; with the result which I have mentioned above. His
informant undertook to interview the girl and, if possible, persuade
her to take service at Akashi. She did not in point of fact need very
much persuasion. She was young and thoughtless and thoroughly
tired of sitting all day in a large tumble-down house with nothing to
do but stare in front of her. She could not imagine any service which
she would better like to enter than his, and at once agreed to go.
Genji was of course delighted; though he felt somewhat uncomfortable
at sending away a young girl to a place where she would enjoy so few
distractions. There were certain matters which it was necessary to
talk over with her, and in complete secrecy, with many precautions
against his absence being noticed at home, he contrived to visit the
young woman’s house. She did not actually withdraw her consent; but
she was now feeling very nervous about the whole business. Genji,
however, took so much trouble in explaining to her what she had to do
and in removing all her doubts and apprehensions that in the end she
put herself entirely at his disposal. It happened to be a lucky day,
and with many apologies for giving her so little time he asked her to
get ready for the journey. ‘It seems very hard,’ Genji said, ‘that you
should be packed off to the country like this to look after some one
else’s child. But I am particularly anxious that some one should be
there. I know by experience that it will be rather dull; but you must
make up your mind to put up with it for a time, just as I did.’ Having
thus encouraged her, he gave a detailed description of the place and
all that belonged to it.
She had sometimes done service at the Palace and this was not the first
time Genji had seen her. But her misfortunes had brought her very low
and she looked years older than when he saw her last. The house was
in a hopeless state of disrepair and its vast size, together with the
carefully planned copses and avenues which surrounded it, made the
place only the more depressing. How had she contrived to hold out
there so long? His sympathy was aroused. The charm of youth had
not after all entirely deserted her, and she was intelligent. He felt
inclined to prolong the interview and said laughing: ‘Now that it is
all arranged I feel quite sorry that you have agreed to go. What do
you feel about it?’ She felt indeed that if she were destined to enter
Genji’s service at all, it would have been agreeable to find herself
consigned to a rather less remote part of his household. He now recited
the verse: ‘Can this one moment of farewell indeed have been the sum
of all our friendship, whose separation seems now like the parting of
familiar friends?’ Smiling she answered him: ‘Your chagrin, I suspect,
is not that I must leave you, but springs from envy that _I_ not _you_
should go whither your heart is set.’ Her quickness delighted him
and, whatever truth there may have been in her ironic exposure of his
feelings, he was really sorry that she was going.
He sent her as far as the boundary of the City in a wheeled
carriage,[4] under the care of his most trusted personal servants, upon
whom he had enjoined absolute silence concerning this affair. Among the
baggage was a vast number of presents, from the Guardian Sword[5] down
to the most trifling articles such as might possibly be useful to the
Lady of Akashi at this crisis; upon the young nurse too he lavished
every small attention which his ingenuity could devise, determined to
mitigate so far as was possible the discomfort of her long journey.
It amused him to picture to himself the extravagant fuss which the
old priest, at all times so comically preoccupied with his daughter’s
fortunes, must be making in this latest crisis. Not but what he was
himself filled with the tenderest concern for the Lady’s welfare. Above
all, he must not let her feel at such a minute that there was now
or ever could be any obstacle to his fulfilling the promises concerning
which she herself had always been so sceptical, and in the letter which
he now sent he spoke in the most definite manner of his intentions
towards the child and his plans for her future life at the Capital.
The travellers proceeded as far as the borders of Settsu by boat, and
thence on horseback to Akashi with all possible speed, where their
arrival was welcomed by the old recluse with boundless gratitude and
delight. With raised hands he solemnly made obeisance in the direction
of the Capital, and the mother and child, marked henceforward with this
new and unhoped-for sign of princely favour, became invested in his
eyes with an almost alarming degree of sanctity. The child was indeed a
most exquisite creature, and the young nurse felt, from the moment it
was presented to her, that Genji’s care and anxiety on its behalf were
by no means ill-bestowed. In an instant the discomforts and perils of
her long journey seemed like an evil dream, from which she had suddenly
awaked to find this pretty and enticing infant lying in her arms.
Henceforward she had no thought but how best to tend and succour it.
The mother, it seemed, had for many months past been in very low
spirits. Her confinement had left her in a condition of extreme
weakness, and she was herself convinced that she would not recover.
These fresh tokens of Genji’s affection and concern could not fail
somewhat to revive her. For the first time she raised her head from
the pillows and received the messengers with every sign of interest
and delight. They informed her that they had been ordered to return
to the Capital without a moment’s delay. She contrived to write a few
hasty lines, in which little indeed could appear of all that at that
moment she was thinking and feeling. Yet these few words made an
impression upon their recipient the violence of which surprised and
disquieted him.
He had not himself told Murasaki about the birth of his child at
Akashi, nor was it likely that anyone else would in so many words have
done so. But he feared that some inkling of the matter might reach
her, and he finally made up his mind that it would be better for her
to know all about it. ‘I had far rather that this had not happened. It
is all the more irritating because I have for so long been hoping that
you would have a child; and that, now the child has come, it should be
some one else’s instead is very provoking. It is only a girl, you know,
which really makes it rather a different matter. It would perhaps have
been better from every point of view if I had left things as they were,
but this new complication makes that quite impossible. I think, indeed,
of sending for the child. I hope that when it arrives you will not feel
ill-disposed towards it.’ She flushed: ‘That is just the sort of thing
you always used to say,’ she answered. ‘It seems to me to show a very
strange state of mind. Of course I ought to put up with it, but there
are certain things which I do not see how I can be expected to get
used to....’ ‘Softly, softly,’ he answered, laughing at her unwonted
asperity, ‘who is asking you to get used to anything? I will tell you
what you are doing. You are inventing all sorts of feelings for me such
as I have never really had at all, and then getting cross with me for
having them. That is not a very amiable proceeding, is it?’ And having
gone on in this strain for some while, he became quite cheerful.
She thought of how they had longed for one another during the years of
his exile, of his constant letters and messages. This whole affair at
Akashi—what had it been but a pastime, a momentary distraction in the
midst of his disappointments and troubles? ‘You will understand
then,’ Genji continued, ‘that I was anxious to hear how things were
going on. I sent to enquire and have just heard that everything is
still as well as one can hope for. But if I start telling you about it
now I know we shall soon be at cross purposes again....’ ‘She is of
course very charming,’ he added presently, ‘but I think my feeling for
her had a good deal to do with the place and the circumstances....’ He
began to describe how exquisitely the smoke from the salt-kilns had
tapered across the evening sky; he spoke of the poems which they had
exchanged, of his first glimpse of her by night, of her delightful
playing on the zithern. Upon all these themes he enlarged with evident
satisfaction. Murasaki while she listened could not but remember how
particularly unhappy she had been just at the very time when the
episodes which Genji was now recalling with such relish were taking
place at Akashi. Even if this affair were, as he represented it to be,
a mere pastime of the moment, it was clear that he had been singularly
successful in his search for distraction. ‘Come,’ he said at last,
‘I am doing my best to show you that I am fond of you. You had best
be quick, if you are ever going to forgive me at all; life does not
last forever. Here am I trying so hard just now not to give you the
slightest cause for one speck of jealousy or suspicion. And now just
because of this unfortunate affair....’ So saying he sent for his large
zithern and tried to persuade her to play it with him as they were used
to do. But Murasaki could not help remembering his enthusiasm for the
playing of the Lady at Akashi. With such virtuosity she did not care to
compete, and say what he would he could not persuade her to play a note.
It sometimes happened that her usual good temper and gentleness would
thus all at once desert her, giving place to a fit of wild
jealousy and resentment. To Genji these outbursts were by no means
unattractive.
It occurred to him that the fifth day of the fifth month would be the
fiftieth day of the child’s life, and he knew that his absence from
the Prayers which would be held on that day would be extremely painful
to the mother. If only he had them with him in the Capital, what a
delightful affair he could make of this Fiftieth Day Ceremony! It was
really too bad that a daughter of his should have come into existence
in such an outlandish place as this. He ought never to have allowed
it. And this was his first daughter. If it had been a boy he did not
think he would have minded nearly so much. But this girl seemed very
important, for he felt that in a sense all his misfortunes had come to
him as a preliminary to her birth, and had, if one could put it so, no
other goal or object. He lost no time in sending a messenger to Akashi
with strict injunctions to arrive there on the fifth day without fail.
The messenger duly arrived, bearing with him the most touching and
gratifying tokens of Genji’s anxiety for the welfare of his friends. To
the Lady of Akashi he sent an acrostic poem, lamenting that he should
have left her to dwell, like the pine-tree that grows beneath the
northern cliff, in a place of shadows, to which not even the rejoicings
of the Fiftieth Day would bring an altering gleam. ‘My anxiety for you
both,’ his letter continued, ‘is becoming too great a torment for me to
bear. Things cannot go on like this and I have quite decided to bring
you to the Capital. Do not however think that my care for you will end
merely with that....’ She told her father of Genji’s decision, and this
time at any rate the old man had good cause for that mixture of joy and
weeping to which he was at all times prone. Looking round at Genji’s
Fiftieth Day presents which lay about in astonishing profusion
she realized how dark a day this would have been for her but for the
coming of this messenger from the City. As a second consolation she had
for the first time, in the nurse whom Genji had sent to her, some one
to whom she could confide the affairs of her heart, and this changed
her whole life. Her father had gathered about her, picking them up one
by one as opportunity offered, a collection of dames who, as regards
birth and upbringing, were quite the equals of the new nurse. But the
mountain solitudes of Akashi did not offer much scope for choice and
the poor ladies were one and all the most tottering and antiquated
relics of bygone Courts. Among them the new arrival felt incredibly
brisk and smart and in this gloomy company her opinion of herself went
up by leaps and bounds. She had endless stories about life at the
Capital; and when these failed, she had only to describe some occasion
at which Genji had figured or some incident showing the affection in
which he was held or the extent of the power which he now wielded
(subjects to which she continually returned with remarkable zest):
at once the Lady of Akashi’s cheeks would glow with pride. She ought
indeed to be happy that such a Prince as this should deign even to undo
and abandon her, leaving nothing to show for their love save the child
that had been begotten of it. The nurse was allowed to read Genji’s
letters, and though she did so with passionate interest, she could not
but feel somewhat jealous of her mistress’s strange and unforeseen good
fortune. At such times it would seem to the nurse that to her alone of
all mankind nothing good ever happened, till suddenly in Genji’s letter
she would come across some reference to herself: ‘What about the nurse?
How is she turning out?’ and so forth, or sometimes even more personal
enquiry about her health and spirits. Then for a long while the girl,
usually so despondent, would feel perfectly happy and contented.
To Genji’s Fiftieth Day letter the Lady of Akashi sent the following
reply: ‘Alas that to the little crane who calls to you from among the
numberless islands of the deep, you do not come, though the Fiftieth
Day[6] be come.’ ‘I am for a thousand reasons,’ she continued, ‘in
great despondency concerning our future; and for that very reason
occasional kindnesses such as you have to-day shown to me are all the
more precious. As for myself I do not rightly know what will become of
me. But I earnestly hope that our daughter at any rate may live to be a
consolation to you rather than an embarrassment and anxiety.’
Genji carried this letter about with him and constantly re-read it half
aloud to himself, pausing over every sentence with fond deliberation;
Murasaki could not fail to notice his preoccupation and once, hearing
him thus employed, she murmured the song: ‘Far from me have you drifted
as those boats that, starting from Mikuma shore, now row far out at
sea.’ She had not meant him to hear. But he looked up and said sharply:
‘Do you really think that it is so bad as that! I should have thought
you would understand exactly what such a letter as this must mean
to me. It is perfectly natural that I should be interested, deeply
interested in an occasional budget of news from a place where I spent
so long a time, and if in reading it I come across references which
remind me suddenly of some interesting event or experience of those
days, I think it is quite natural that I should occasionally break out
into an exclamation, or something of that sort. It would be much better
if you simply pretended not to hear. But here is the letter.’ He held
it out to her, but in such a way that she could only see the outer fold
upon which the address was written. Examining the writing she saw at
once that it was a flawless hand, such as the greatest lady in
the land would have had no cause to disown. From that moment she knew
what was in store for her; this would assuredly prove no fleeting fancy.
In spite of these preoccupations his thoughts sometimes turned towards
the Lady in the Village of Falling Flowers and he realized with dismay
that he had not once been near her since his return to the Capital. For
one thing, his new position in the Government had given him so much
business to look after and was attended by formalities and restrictions
which made it more than ever difficult for him to go about as he chose.
Part of the fault however was certainly hers; for, inured to a life
that offered few novelties or distractions, she was willing to accept
without ill-temper or complaint such treatment as others would have
found insufferable. But the fifth month at last brought him a little
leisure. Once more he thought of his obligation, and this time he
actually managed to slip away and make the long-deferred visit. It was
a comfort that here at least he was certain of not being treated to any
exhibition of fashionable tantrums, coquettishly withering glances or
well-calculated resentment; for he knew that, seldom as she saw him,
his interest in her was by far the most important fact in her life,
and a visit from him was not lightly to be sacrificed to some useless
outburst of jealousy or irritation.
The house had in these last years grown rapidly more and more
dilapidated and had indeed become a most melancholy-looking place.
After paying his respects to the elder sister he hastened to the main
entrance of the western wing and stood in the porch. It was near
midnight; the moon had sunk behind a bank of light clouds. It was with
feelings of inexpressible joy and agitation that she suddenly saw his
figure dimly outlined in the darkness. She had been sitting at
the lattice and, in her shyness, did not rise when she saw him. They
continued to converse thus, he in the porch and she at her window, but
there was in her manner no hint of unfriendliness or reprobation. What
a relief to encounter at last a disposition so grateful and unexacting!
Some water-fowl were clamouring quite close to the house. She recited
the verse: ‘Dare I admit you to a house so desolate that even the
shy water-birds regard it as their home?’ Her voice died away to a
whisper as she reached the last words in a way which he found strangely
alluring. What a lot of nice people there seemed to be in the world,
thought Genji. And the odd part of it was that it was just this very
fact which made life so difficult and fatiguing. He answered with the
verse: ‘If the cry of the water-fowl brings you always so promptly to
your door, _some_ visitor there must be whom it is your pleasure to
admit.’ This was of course mere word-play. He did not for a moment
suppose that any such agreeable adventures ever fell to her lot; nor
indeed that she would welcome them. For though she had had to wait
years for this visit, he felt confident that her fidelity had never
once wavered. She reminded him of his poem: ‘Gaze not into the sky....’
and of all that had befallen at that farewell scene on the eve of
his departure for Suma. ‘It seems strange,’ she said at last, ‘that I
of all people should so much have minded your being away, considering
how seldom I see you when you are here!’ But even this was said with
perfect gentleness and good humour. His reply to this charge was, you
may be sure, both prompt and conciliatory, and it was not long before
he had managed, by kindness of one sort or another, to make her, for
the moment at any rate, as happy as it is possible for any woman to be.
He often thought during these days of Lady Gosechi, and would
very much have liked to see her again; but the difficulties seemed too
great and he did not attempt it. Her parents saw plainly enough that
she had not got over her unfortunate attachment and did their best to
settle her future in some other way. But she for her part declared she
had given up all thought of lovers or marriage. ‘If only I had some
large convenient building,’ thought Genji, ‘where I could house these
friends of mine and be able to keep an eye not only on them, but on
any babies that might chance to get born, how much simpler life would
be!’ The new eastern wing was indeed promising to prove a very handsome
affair and thoroughly in the style of the moment. He was impatient to
get it finished, and now appointed special foremen to superintend the
different branches of the work and get it put through as quickly as
possible.
Not infrequently something would happen to remind him of the Lady
Oborozuki and despite all that had happened a fresh wave of longing
would beset him. She for her part had not only suffered but learnt
her lesson and utterly refused to have any dealings with him, which
made him feel very irritated and depressed. Now that the ex-Emperor
Suzaku was relieved of the cares of Government, he became somewhat more
animated and showed a certain amount of interest in music and other
Court diversions. It was curious that among all his Ladies-in-Waiting
and Ladies-of-the-Wardrobe it was to Lady Jōkyōden, the mother of the
Crown Prince, that he paid the least attention. Not even the singular
chance which made her mother of the Heir Apparent seemed able to
restore to her any particle of the ascendancy which she had lost when
Lady Oborozuki was taken into favour. She had indeed left the Emperor’s
Palace and now lived in apartments attached to those of the Crown
Prince, her son. Genji’s rooms at Court were in the old Shigeisa; the
Crown Prince was occupying the Nashitsubo, which was not far
away. Thus Genji, as a near neighbour, was constantly consulted by the
Prince’s staff and was often able to be of considerable assistance to
them.
As Fujitsubo had become a nun, her full rank could not be restored; but
she received a Royal Grant equivalent to that of an Empress Mother,[7]
together with the services of such State officers as usually wait
upon an ex-Empress. The whole of these additional resources went in
the celebration of those religious functions which had now become her
whole employment in life. For many years she had felt that it was
impossible for her to appear at Court and to her great distress her
son, the present Emperor, had grown up a stranger to her. Now that he
was safely on the Throne she could come and go as she pleased; and
indeed her constant presence at Court now became the greatest grievance
of her old rival Kōkiden, who saw in it the frustration of all the
schemes to which her whole life had been devoted. Genji bore Kōkiden
no malice and, without thrusting his services upon her, did what he
could to help her. The fact that these magnanimous overtures were met
with unrelenting hostility was observed by all at Court and made a most
painful impression.
Prince Hyōbukyō had treated Genji with marked coldness in the period
before his exile. Now that Genji’s fortunes were again on the ascendant
he appeared anxious to renew their former friendship; but Genji felt
little inclined to do so. That at a time when so many animosities were
in abeyance and so many broken friendships had been renewed Genji and
her brother should be on these very indifferent terms was to Fujitsubo
a source of great disappointment and anxiety.
Power was now pretty equally divided between Genji himself
and his father-in-law, the old Minister at the Great Hall. In the
eighth month of this year Tō no Chūjō’s daughter came to Court.
Her grandfather, the old Minister, was a conspicuous figure at the
Presentation and saw to it that the ceremony should lack no jot of its
traditional grandeur. It was well known that Prince Hyōbukyō would very
much have liked to see his second daughter in a similar position. But
Genji did not feel sufficiently friendly towards him to second this
design, particularly as there were many other young ladies who were
quite as well qualified to fill the post. Prince Hyōbukyō saw nothing
for it but to submit.
In the autumn Genji made his pilgrimage to the Shrine of Sumiyoshi,
where, as will be remembered, he had various vows to fulfil. The
occasion was made one of public importance and the splendour of his
cortège, in which all the greatest noblemen and courtiers of the day
vied with one another to take part, made a deep impression throughout
the kingdom. The Lady of Akashi had been unable to pay her accustomed
visit to the Shrine either last autumn or during the spring of this
year. She determined to renew the practice, and it so happened that she
arrived by boat at Sumiyoshi just as Genji’s magnificent procession
was passing along the shore. She saw throngs of servitors, laden with
costly offerings; she saw the Eastern Dancers,[8] in companies of ten,
riding by on horseback, men of picked stature, conspicuous in their
strange blue-striped dress. Not a word concerning Genji’s visit to
Sumiyoshi had reached her, and turning to some one who was standing
near she asked what procession this might be. ‘What procession?’ the
man exclaimed in astonishment. ‘Why, the Chief Minister’s!’ and a
shout of laughter went up at the notion that there could possibly exist
anybody in the world who had not heard of this all-important event,
laughter in which a number of rough scallawags who were standing by
joined as heartily as the rest.
She was confounded. That after all these long months of waiting it
should be thus she met him showed indeed to what a different world
he really belonged! Yet after all they were not quite strangers, he
and she. She was at least of more account in his eyes than these
wretches who had scoffed at her ignorance, than all this rabble who
cared nothing for him and had come here only that they might boast
of having shared in his triumph. How cruel an irony that she who
thought of him and him only, who painfully gathered together every
scrap of intelligence concerning his health and movements, should all
unwittingly have chosen this disastrous day for her journey, while all
the rest of the world resounded with the news of his coming; she hid
her face and wept. The procession moved on its way—innumerable green
cloaks, with here and there a scarlet one among them, bright as an
autumn maple-tree amid a grove of pines. In cavalcade after cavalcade
the varying colours flashed by, now dark, now light.[9] Among the
officers of the Sixth Grade there was one whose sheriff’s coat of
gold and green made him conspicuous; this was Ukon, the gentleman who
upon the occasion of Genji’s visit to the Imperial Tombs had recited
the verse: ‘Little, alas, they heed their worshippers....’[10] He had
become captain of the Quiver Bearers, and as such was attended by
more numerous officers than any other of the sheriffs. Among these
attendants was Yoshikiyo, who in a resplendent crimson cloak,
worn with an air of the utmost nonchalance, was perhaps the handsomest
figure in all the throng.
Here, prosperous and happy, were all the knights and gentlemen whom she
had seen at Akashi; then a pitiable band, now scattered amongst a vast
cohort of partisans and retainers. The young princes and courtiers who
rode with the procession had vied with one another in the magnificence
of their accoutrement. Such gorgeous saddles and trappings had rarely
been seen; and it may be imagined how they dazzled the eye of a country
girl, fresh from her hillside retreat. At last came Genji’s coach.
She could catch but a momentary glimpse of it; and of the face for
which she yearned with so ardent a longing she could see nothing at
all. Imitating the example of the great Tōru[11] he was attended by
boy outriders. They were charmingly dressed, their hair looped at the
sides and tied with purple ribbons. The ten of them were arranged
according to their height, and a very pretty sight they were as they
filed past in their dainty costumes. A boy rode by, clad in the dress
of a Court page, a person of some consequence evidently, for he was
obsequiously watched over and assisted, while a posse of boy grooms,
each differently dressed, yet forming between them a carefully designed
pattern, rode in his train. She was told that this was Prince Yūgiri,
Genji’s son by Lady Aoi. She thought of her own daughter for whom so
different a fate seemed to be reserved, and in sad submission bowed her
head towards the Shrine. The Governor of the Province had now appeared,
his arrival being attended by greater pomp than had ever before marked
his intercourse with a Minister on pilgrimage. The Lady of Akashi saw
clearly that even should she succeed in forcing her way through the
crowd, there was little chance that in the midst of all these
excitements the God would pay any attention to her insignificant
offering. She was on the point of going home again, since there seemed
to be no object in staying any longer, when it occurred to her that
she might at any rate row over to Naniwa and perform the ceremony of
Purification. This she did, while Genji, still unaware that she had
been so near him, spent the rest of the evening preforming his vows
within the Shrine. At last, thinking that by now the God ought to be
thoroughly content, Genji determined to enjoy himself a little into
the bargain; and the rest of the night was spent by the whole company
in the most lively fashion imaginable. Koremitsu and the rest made a
mental note that for certain kinds of religious observance there was
much to be said. It happened that Genji went outside for a little while
and Koremitsu, who was with him, recited an acrostic verse in which he
hinted that beneath the pine-trees of Sumiyoshi a less solemn stillness
now prevailed than when the Gods first ruled on earth. This could not
be denied, and indeed to Genji too a joyful time had succeeded to an
age of sadness. He therefore answered with the verse: ‘That from wild
waves whose onslaught drove me from my course this God delivered me,
I shall not soon forget.’ Koremitsu then went on to tell him how the
boat from Akashi, dismayed by the crowds that flocked the Shrine, had
put out again to sea. He hated to think that she had been there without
his knowing it; besides, he felt now that it was this very God of
Sumiyoshi who had given her to him for a bride. He could not let her go
back without a word from him to cheer her. To think that she had come
and gone without his even hearing that she was at hand would certainly
grieve her worst of all. But for the moment she had gone further up the
coast and there was nothing to be done.
After leaving Sumiyoshi he visited several places in the neighbourhood.
At Naniwa he too underwent the ceremony of Purification, together with
other ceremonies, particularly the Ablution of the Seven Streams.
As he passed the estuary of Horiye he murmured ‘Like the Tide-gauge
at Naniwa...,’[12] hardly knowing why the lines had come into his
head. Koremitsu, who was near his coach, overheard these words, and
regarding them as a command to him to produce writing materials (a
duty for which he was often in request) he whipped out a short-handled
pen from the folds of his dress and as soon as Genji’s coach came to a
standstill handed it in to him. Genji was amused by his promptness and
on a folded paper wrote the lines: ‘That once again our love to its
flood-mark shall rise, what better presage than this chance meeting
by the tide-gauge of the shore?’ This he sent across to Naniwa by the
hand of an underling who, from conversation with her servants, knew at
what address she was to be found. Much as she had suffered at seeing
him pass her by, it needed only this trifling message to allay all her
agitation. In a flutter of gratitude and pride she indited the answer:
‘How comes it[13] that to the least of those who bide as pilgrims in
this town you bear a love that mounts so high upon the flood-gauge
of your heart?’ She had that day been bathing in the Holy Waters at
the Shrine of Rain-coat Island, and she sent him her poem tied to a
prayer-strip which she had brought from the Shrine. When the message
reached Genji it was already growing dark; the tide was full, and the
cranes along the river-mouth had with one accord set up their strange
and moving cry. Touched by the beauty of the place and hour, he
suddenly lost all patience with the crowds that surged around him.
Could he but banish them all from his sight and find himself with only
the writer of this diffident poem at his side!
The journey back to the City was enlivened by many excursions and
entertainments, but all the while his thoughts continually returned
to the strange coincidence of that unhappy meeting. Quantities of
dancing-girls had attached themselves to his retinue. Despite their
total lack of sense or breeding, their company appeared to afford a
vast deal of satisfaction to the hot-blood young gentlemen who formed
Genji’s escort. This seemed to him very strange. One cannot enjoy
beautiful scenery or works of art in the company of any but the right
person; and surely if, in such matters as that, one is so easily put
off by commonness or stupidity, it must make some difference _whom_ one
chooses as partner in these far more intimate associations? He could
not indeed contrive to take the slightest interest in these creatures.
They on their side quickly perceived that they were not being a
success, and at once redoubled their efforts; with the consequence that
he found them only the more repulsive.
Next day was marked a ‘good day’ in the calendar, and Genji’s party
being safely on its way back to the Capital, the Lady of Akashi was
able to return to Sumiyoshi and pursue her devotions in peace, now at
last finding occasion to fulfil the many vows that had accumulated
since her last visit to the Shrine. Her recent glimpse of Genji in
all his glory had but increased the misgivings which day and night
beset her: amid such surroundings as that it was impossible that
so insignificant a person as herself should not rapidly sink into
obscurity and contempt. She did not expect to hear from him again till
he was back at Court. She was counting the days, when to her
surprise a messenger appeared. In a letter, which had evidently been
written during the journey, he named the actual date at which he should
send for her to the City. Once more he sought to dispel all her doubts
and anxieties; she could rely upon him implicitly; her position in his
household would, he besought her to believe, be neither equivocal nor
insecure. Nevertheless, she felt that she was embarking upon a perilous
voyage under skies which, however promising an aspect they might now
be wearing, might at any moment change to the threat of a hideous
disaster. Her father too, when it came to the prospect of actually
releasing her from his care, was exceedingly perturbed; indeed he
dreaded her departure for the Capital even more than he had feared the
prospect of her remaining forever buried in her rustic home. Her answer
to Genji was full of reservations and misgivings concerning her fitness
for the position which he promised her.
The retirement of the Emperor Suzaku had necessitated the appointment
of a new Vestal at Ise, and Lady Rokujō had brought her daughter back
again to the City. Genji had written the usual congratulations and
this had given her immense pleasure; but she had no desire to give
him the opportunity of once more distracting her as he had done in
those old days, and she had answered only in the most formal terms.
Consequently he had not, since her return, made any attempt to visit
her. He did indeed make some vague suggestion of a meeting; but these
hints were very half-hearted and it was a relief to him that they
were not taken. He had recently decided not to complicate his life by
outside relationships even of the most harmless kind: he simply had
not time. And particularly in a case of this sort he saw no object in
forcing his society upon some one who did not desire it. He was however
extremely curious to see how the Vestal Virgin, now known as Lady
Akikonomu, had grown up. Rokujō’s old palace in the Sixth Ward had been
admirably repaired and redecorated, and life there was in these days
by no means intolerable. Rokujō herself had gifts of character and
intelligence which the passage of years had not obliterated. Her own
personality and the unusual beauty of many of her gentlewomen combined
to make her house a meeting place for men of fashion, and though she
was herself at times very lonely, she was leading a life with which
she was on the whole by no means ill-contented, when her health gave
way. She felt at once that there was no hope for her, and oppressed
by the thought that she had for so long been living in a sinful
place,[14] she resolved to become a nun. This news was a great blow
to Genji. That he would ever again meet her as a lover, he had long
felt to be impossible. But he thought of her as a friend whose company
and conversation would always be among his greatest pleasures. That
she should have felt it necessary to take this solemn and irrevocable
step was a terrible shock, and on hearing what had happened he at once
hastened to her palace. It proved to be a most harrowing visit. He
found her in a state of complete collapse. Screens surrounded her bed;
his chair was placed outside them, as near as possible to her pillow,
and in this manner they conversed. It was evident that her strength was
rapidly failing. How bitterly he now repented that he had not come to
her sooner; had not proved, while yet there was time, that his passion
for her had never expired! He wept bitterly, and Rokujō on her side,
amazed to realize from the very intensity of his grief that during all
the years when she had imagined herself to be forgotten, she had never
been wholly absent from his thoughts, in a moment discarded all
her bitterness, and seeing that his distress was unendurable began with
the utmost tenderness to lead his thoughts to other matters. She spoke
after a while about her daughter, Lady Akikonomu, the former Virgin
of Ise, begging him to help her on in the world in any way he could.
‘I had hoped,’ she said, ‘having cast the cares of the world aside,
to live on quietly at any rate until this child of mine should have
reached an age when she could take her life into her own hands....’ Her
voice died away. ‘Even if you had not mentioned it, I should always
have done what I could to help her,’ answered Genji, ‘but now that you
have made this formal request to me, you may be sure that I shall make
it my business to look after her and protect her in every way that
lies in my power. You need have no further anxiety on that score....’
‘It will not be so easy,’ she answered. ‘Even a girl whose welfare
has been the sole object of devoted parents often finds herself in a
very difficult position if her mother dies and she has only her father
to rely upon. But your task will, I fear, be far harder than that of
a widowed father. Any kindness that you show the girl will at once
be misinterpreted; she will be mixed up in all sorts of unpleasant
bickerings and all your own friends will be set against her. And this
brings me to a matter which is really very difficult to speak about.
I wish I were so sure in my own mind that you would _not_ make love
to her. Had she my experience, I should have no fear for her. But
unfortunately she is utterly ignorant and indeed is just the sort of
person who might easily suffer unspeakable torment through finding
herself in such a position. I cannot help wishing that I could provide
for her future in some way that was not fraught with this particular
danger....’ What an extraordinary notion, thought Genji. How could she
have got such a thing into her head? ‘You are thinking of me as I
was years ago,’ he answered quickly. ‘I have changed a great deal since
then, as you would soon discover if you knew more about me....’
Out of doors it was now quite dark. The room where he was sitting
was lit only by the dim glow that, interrupted by many partitions,
filtered through from the great lamp in the hall. Some one had entered
the room. He peeped cautiously through a tear in one of the screens
which surrounded the bed. In the very uncertain light he could just
distinguish Rokujō’s form. Her hair was cropped, as is customary with
novices before the final tonsure; but elegantly and with taste, so that
her head, outlined against the pillows, made a delicate and charming
picture. On the far side of the bed he could distinguish a second
figure. This surely must be Lady Akikonomu. There was a point at which
the screens had been carelessly joined, and looking through this gap he
saw a young girl sitting in an attitude of deep dejection with her chin
resting on her hand. So far as he could judge from this very imperfect
view she was exceedingly good-looking. Her hair that hung loose to the
ground, the carriage of her head, her movements and expression,—all
had a singular dignity and grace; yet despite this proud air there was
something about her affectionate, almost appealing. But was he not
already beginning to take just that interest in her person against
which her mother had a few moments ago been warning him? He hastily
corrected his thoughts. Lady Rokujō now spoke again: ‘I am in great
pain,’ she said, ‘and fear that at any moment my end may come. I would
not have you witness my last agonies. Pray leave me at once.’ This she
said with great difficulty, her women supporting her on either side.
‘How glad I should have been,’ said Genji, ‘if my visit had made you
better. I am afraid it has only made you worse. I cannot bear to
leave you in such pain. Tell me what it is that hurts so much?’ And
so saying he made as though to come to her side. ‘Do not come to me!’
she cried out in terror, ‘I am grown hideous; you would not know me.
Does what I say seem to you very strange and disjointed? It may be that
my thoughts wander a little, for I am dying. Thank you for bearing
patiently with me at such a time. I am much easier in my mind now that
I have had this talk with you. I had meant to for a long time....’ ‘I
am touched,’ replied Genji, ‘that you should have thought of me as
a person to whom you could confide these requests. As you know, my
father the late Emperor had a very large number of sons and daughters;
for my part, I am not very intimate with any of them. But, when his
brother died, he also regarded Lady Akikonomu here as though she were
his own child and for that reason I have every right to regard her as
my sister and help her in just those ways which a brother might. It is
true that I am a great deal older than she is; but my own family is
sadly small,[15] and I could well afford to have some one else to look
after....’
After his return he sent incessantly to enquire after her progress and
constantly wrote to her. She died some eight days later. He was deeply
distressed, for a long while took no interest in anything that happened
and had not the heart to go even so far as the Emperor’s Palace. The
arrangements concerning her funeral and many other matters about which
she had left behind instructions fell entirely upon him, for there was
no one else to whom her people could apply. Fortunately the officers
who had been attached to Lady Akikonomu’s suite while she was at Ise
still remained in her service and they were able to give her a certain
amount of assistance. Before the funeral Genji called in person
and sent in a note to the bereaved lady of the house. A housekeeper
(one of the people from Ise) brought back word that her mistress was
completely overwhelmed by her loss and could not reply to him. He
sent in a second message reminding Lady Akikonomu that her mother had
solemnly committed her to his care and begging her not to regard him
as an alien intruder into her affairs. He then sent for the various
members of the household and gave them their instructions. He did so
with an air of confidence and authority which surprised those who
remembered for how long he had absented himself from that house. The
funeral was carried out with the utmost pomp, the bier being attended
not only by her servants, but by all Genji’s servants and retainers.
For a long while afterwards he was immersed in prayers and penances
and but seldom emerged from the seclusion of a thickly curtained
recess. To Lady Akikonomu he sent many messages of enquiry, to which
she now answered in her own hand. She had at first been too shy to do
so; much to the dismay of her old nurse, who explained to her that
not to answer letters is considered very uncivil. One day as he sat
watching the wild storms of sleet and snow that were sweeping in a
confused blizzard across the land, he could not help wondering how
Lady Akikonomu was faring in this rough weather and sent a messenger
to her palace. ‘I wonder how you like this storm,’ he wrote, and added
the poem: ‘I see a house of mourning; dark tempests threaten it, and
high amid the clouds hovers a ghost with anxious wing.’ It was written
on light blue paper tinged with grey; the penmanship and make-up of
the note were indeed purposely intended to be such as would impress a
young girl. So much did this elegant missive dazzle her inexperienced
eye that she again felt utterly unable to reply, and it was only
when one member of her household after another reproached her for such
rudeness and ingratitude that she at last took up a sheet of heavily
scented dark-grey paper and in brush-strokes so faint as to be scarcely
distinguishable wrote the poem: ‘Would that like the snow-flakes when
they are weary of falling I might sink down upon the earth and end my
days.’ There was nothing very remarkable about the writing, but it
was an agreeable hand and one which bore unmistakable traces of the
writer’s lineage. He had formed a high opinion of her at the time when
she first went to Ise and had very much regretted her withdrawal from
the world. Now she was an ordinary person again, and, if he wished to
cultivate her acquaintance, entirely at his disposal; but this very
fact (as was usual with him) caused a revulsion of feeling. To go
forward in the direction where fewest obstacles existed seemed to him
to be taking a mean advantage. Although he was, in his attentions to
Lady Akikonomu, merely fulfilling her mother’s request, he knew quite
well how every one at Court was expecting the story to end. Well, for
once in a way their expectations would be disappointed. He was fully
determined to bring her up with the utmost propriety and, so soon as
the Emperor reached years of discretion, to present her at Court; in
fact, to adopt her as his daughter,—a thing which, considering the
smallness of his family, it was natural for him to do. He constantly
wrote her letters full of kindness and encouragement, and occasionally
called at her palace. ‘What I should really like,’ he said one day,
‘would be for you to look upon me, if you will forgive my putting it in
that way, as a substitute for your dear mother. Can you not sometimes
treat me as though I were an old friend? Can you not trust me with
some of the secrets you used to confide to her?’ Such appeals merely
embarrassed her. She had lived so secluded a life that to open
her mouth at all in a stranger’s presence seemed to her a terrible
ordeal, and her gentlewomen were in the end obliged to make such
amends as they could. It was a comfort that many of her officers and
gentlewomen were closely connected with the Imperial Family and would,
if his project for installing her in the Palace did not come to naught,
be able to help her to assert herself. He would have been glad to know
more about her appearance, but she always received him from behind
her curtains, and he neither felt justified in taking the liberties
that are accorded to a parent nor did he feel quite sure enough of
himself to wish to put his parental feelings to the test. He was
indeed very uncertain with regard to his own intentions, and for the
present mentioned his plans about her to nobody. He saw to it that the
Memorial Service was carried out with great splendour, devoting to the
arrangement of it a care that deeply gratified the bereaved household.
Life there was becoming more and more featureless and depressing as the
weeks went by. One by one Lady Akikonomu’s servants and retainers were
finding other employment. The Palace stood at the extreme outer edge
of the Sixth Ward, in a district which was very little frequented, and
the melancholy bells which went on tolling and tolling in innumerable
adjacent temples reduced her every evening to a state of abject
misery. She had always been used to spend a great deal of time in her
mother’s company, and even when she was sent to Ise, though no parent
had ever before accompanied the Vestal Virgin, they still remained
unseparated. It can be imagined then that her mother’s loss left her
peculiarly helpless and desolate; and the thought that Rokujō, who
had travelled so far for her sake, should now set out upon this last
journey all alone, caused her unspeakable pain. Many suitors both high
and low, under cover of paying attentions to one or other of her
gentlewomen, now began to frequent the house. Genji however had in his
best fatherly style exacted a promise from the lady’s old nurse that
she would allow no matchmaking to go on in the house. Above all he
feared that some of her women might wish for their own ends to keep
these gentlemen hanging about the premises. It soon however became
apparent that there was no danger of this. The ladies concerned knew
that their doings would probably reach Genji’s ears, and they were far
too anxious to stand well with him to dream of abusing their position.
The suitors soon found that their advances were not met with the
slightest encouragement.
It will be remembered that at the time of Lady Akikonomu’s departure
for Ise the retired Emperor Suzaku had, when presiding at the
magnificent farewell ceremony in the Daigoku Hall, been greatly struck
with her beauty. This impression had remained with him, and on her
return to the Capital he begged Rokujō to let her daughter come to him,
promising that she should take her place as the equal of his sister,
the former Vestal of Kamo, and the other princesses, his sisters and
kinswomen whom he sheltered under his roof. This proposal did not
please her. She feared that where so many exalted personages were
gathered together her daughter would be likely to receive but scant
attention. Moreover Suzaku was at the time in very bad health, and if
he should fail to recover, his dependants might be left in a precarious
position. Now that her mother was dead it was all the more desirable
to establish her in a manner which offered some prospect of security.
When therefore Suzaku repeated his invitation, this time in somewhat
insistent terms, Lady Akikonomu’s friends were placed in an awkward
position. Genji’s private plan of affiancing her to the boy-Emperor
would, now that Suzaku had displayed so marked an inclination towards
her, be difficult to pursue without too deeply offending his
brother. Another consideration weighed with him: he was becoming more
and more fascinated by the girl’s beauty and he was in no hurry to
commit her to other hands. Under the circumstances he thought the best
thing he could do was to talk the matter over with Lady Fujitsubo.
‘I am in great difficulties over this business,’ he said. ‘As you
know, the girl’s mother was a woman of singularly proud and sensitive
temperament. I am ashamed to say that, following my own wanton and
selfish inclinations, I behaved in such a way as to do great injury to
her reputation, with the consequence that henceforward she on her side
harboured against me a passionate resentment, while I on mine found
myself branded not only by her but also by the world at large as a
profligate and scamp. Till the very last I was never able to recover
her confidence; but on her death-bed she spoke to me of Akikonomu’s
future in a way which she would never have done had she not wholly
regained her good opinion of me. This was a great weight off my mind.
Even had these peculiar relations not existed between us, her request
was one which even to a stranger I could hardly have refused. And as it
was, you may imagine how gladly I welcomed this chance of repairing,
even at this late hour, the grievous wrong which my light-mindedness
had inflicted upon her during her lifetime. His Majesty is of course
many years younger than Akikonomu;[16] but I do not think it would be
a bad thing if he had some older and more experienced person in his
entourage. However, it is for you to decide....’ ‘I am of the same
opinion,’ Fujitsubo replied. ‘It would of course be very imprudent
to offend the retired Emperor. But surely the mother’s wishes are a
sufficient excuse. If I were you I should pretend you know nothing
about the retired Emperor’s inclination towards her and present
her at the Palace without more ado. As a matter of fact, Suzaku now
cares very little about such matters. What energy he still possesses
is spent on prayers and meditation. I do not think you will find that
he minds very much one way or the other....’ ‘All the same, I think it
will be best under the circumstances if the request for Akikonomu’s
Presentation came from you,’ said Genji. ‘I could then seem merely to
be adding my solicitations to yours. You will think that in weighing
the pros and cons of the matter with such care I am over-scrupulous;
and indeed I fear that you have found me rather tedious. It is simply
that I am extremely anxious people should not think me lacking in
respect towards my brother....’ It soon became apparent that, in
accordance with Fujitsubo’s advice, he had decided to disregard the
retired Emperor’s wishes. But it was in Genji’s own palace and not, for
the moment at any rate, in the Emperor’s household that Lady Akikonomu
was to be installed. He explained the circumstances to Murasaki.
‘She is just about your age,’ he said, ‘and you will find her a very
agreeable companion. I think you will get on famously together....’
Murasaki at once took to the idea and was soon busy with preparations
for the reception of the visitor.
Fujitsubo was all this while extremely exercised in mind concerning
the future of her niece, the youngest daughter of Prince Hyōbukyō, for
Genji’s estrangement from the father seemed to block every avenue of
advancement. Tō no Chūjō’s daughter, as the grandchild of the Senior
Minister, was treated on all sides with the utmost deference and
consideration, and she had now become the Emperor’s favourite playmate.
‘My brother’s little girl is just the same age as the Emperor,’ said
Fujitsubo one day; ‘he would enjoy having her to play at dolls with
him sometimes, and it would be a help to the older people who
are looking after him.’ But quite apart from affairs of state, Genji
had (as Fujitsubo knew) such a multiplicity of private matters to
attend to and was plagued from morning till night by such a variety of
irritating applications and requests that she had not the heart to keep
on bothering him. It was something that a person like Lady Akikonomu
would soon be at the Emperor’s side; for Fujitsubo herself was in very
poor health and, though she sometimes visited the Palace, she could
not look after her son’s education as she would have liked to do. It
was necessary that there should be some one grown up to keep an eye on
him, and though she would dearly like to have seen her niece installed
as his playmate, she was extremely glad of the arrangement whereby a
sensible creature like Lady Akikonomu was to have him in her constant
care.
[1] Tenth month. The Shintō gods become inaccessible during this month;
but the Buddhas are, apparently, still available.
[2] Lady Kōkiden.
[3] China.
[4] As opposed to a Sedan-chair. A carriage drawn by oxen is meant;
this was a great luxury.
[5] Used at the birth-ceremonies of a Princess.
[6] _Ika_—Fiftieth Day; but also ‘Why do you not come?’
[7] The taxes paid by 2,000 households.
[8] These men accompanied a Minister of State on pilgrimages to the
great Shintō shrines, danced in front of the shrine and afterwards took
part in horse-races round it.
[9] The higher officers wore cloaks of deeper hue, i.e. dipped more
often in the dye and therefore more costly.
[10] See above, p. 114.
[11] For the extravagances of this statesman, see _Nō Plays of Japan_,
p. 293.
[12] ‘As to the tide-gauge at Naniwa that now lies bare, so to our love
the flood tide shall at last return.’
[13] Pun on Naniwa, name of town and _nani wa_ ‘How comes it?’ Here
and in the preceding poem there is also a play on _miozukushi_ =
tide-gauge, and _mi wo tsukushi_ = with all one’s heart and soul.’
[14] A Shintō shrine, offensive to Buddha.
[15] Aoi’s son Yūgiri was his only acknowledged child.
[16] Akikonomu was now nineteen; the boy-Emperor Ryōzen, seven.