THE WIND IN THE PINE-TREES
The new quarters which Genji had built to the east of his palace were
now ready and the lady from the Village of Falling Flowers was duly
installed there. The western wing and connecting galleries of the
Nijō-in had been arranged in offices for the clerks whom he employed
in his capacity as Grand Minister. In the eastern wing he intended to
establish the Lady of Akashi. The women’s quarters at the back of the
palace he enlarged considerably, making several sets of very agreeable
and comfortable apartments; these he destined for those ladies who
having in the past received some mark of favour which, though fleeting,
had generally been coupled with handsome promises, now looked to him
for recognition and support. He kept the Grand Bedchamber of the Palace
open, and though he lived chiefly in the new building, he continued to
use the other from time to time and none of the necessary furniture was
removed.
He wrote frequently to Akashi and many times begged her to come up
to the Capital. But she had heard so many stories of how others had
suffered at his hands,—how he had again and again toyed with the
affections not only of humble creatures such as herself, but of the
greatest ladies in the land, only to cast them aside a few months later
with the most callous indifference. Surely it would be foolish not
to take warning? If this was his conduct towards persons of rank and
influence, what sort of treatment could she, a friendless girl, expect?
What part could she hope to play save the humiliating one of a foil
to the young princess who was Genji’s lawful bride? Suppose she
accepted his offer, suppose she let him instal her in this new house,
how often would he come near her? Sometimes perhaps on his way to
Murasaki’s room he might look in casually for a moment; more she could
not expect. She saw herself the butt of every lewd wit in his palace.
No; she would never consent.
But there were other considerations. Should she continue to bring up
her baby daughter in this sequestered spot, how could the child ever
hope to take its place among the princes and princesses of the Blood?
Little as she trusted Genji, she must not cut off her child from all
possibility of an ultimate transference to the Capital. Her parents too
realized with dismay that her prospect at the City was none too bright;
but on the whole they inclined towards a move.
There was a certain estate near the Ōi River[1] which her mother
had inherited (it had belonged to Nakatsukasa no Miya, the mother’s
paternal grandfather). Successive heirs failed to claim it and for two
years the place had been falling into decay. A fresh plan had occurred
to the old recluse and his wife. They summoned the caretaker of the
place, a descendant of the man whom Nakatsukasa had originally left
in charge and said to him: ‘We had intended to quit the world forever
and end our earthly days in this inaccessible retreat. But certain
unexpected events in our family have made it necessary that we should
again seek a residence within easy reach of the Capital. After our long
absence from the Court we should feel utterly lost and bewildered were
we to plunge straight into the bustle of the town, and it occurred
to us that while we are looking for some quiet, old house to live in
permanently, it might be a good thing to use this place at Ōi which you
have been looking after for us!’ ‘I am afraid you will be very
disappointed when you see it,’ said the man. ‘For years past no one
has been in possession and everything is tumbling to pieces. I have
been making shift myself to live in a room which has indeed a kind of
ceiling, but no roof! And since the spring they have been building
this new hermitage for Prince Genji close by, and this has changed the
whole character of the district. The place is crowded with workmen;
for the hermitage, by what I can make out, is going to be a very grand
affair. If what you are looking for is a quiet, unfrequented spot you
will certainly be badly disappointed.’ His remarks had the opposite
effect to that which he had intended. To learn that at Ōi they would be
living as it were under Genji’s very wing was an astonishing piece of
news. He ordered the man to put the large repairs in hand at once; what
wanted setting to rights indoors they could see to at leisure later
on. This did not at all suit the caretaker. ‘If you want to know,’ he
said sulkily, ‘I reckon this place belongs to me as much as to anyone.
I have been living there quietly all these years and this is the first
I have heard of anybody putting in a claim to it. When I first took
things in hand the pastures and rice-fields were all running to waste,
and his lordship Mimbu no Tayū told me before he died that I could
have them for my very own and do what I could with them as payment of
certain sums which he then owed me.’ What he was really frightened of
was that, if the family came into residence, they would lay claim to
some of the live stock and grain that their land had produced. He had
suddenly grown very red in the face, his voice quivered with anger and
his whole aspect was so grim and even menacing that the old recluse
hastened to reassure him: ‘I am not in any way interested in the farm
or its produce,’ he said; ‘with regard to them please go on just as
before. As a matter of fact I _have_ got the title-deeds somewhere
here, but it is a long time since I attended to business matters
of any kind and it might take me a long while to find these papers. I
will remember to look into the question and see how it stands....’ The
steward soon cooled down. He noted that the old priest was evidently
on friendly terms with Genji. This decided him to be civil. And after
all, even if the presence of his masters might for the moment be rather
inconvenient, he would later on have plenty of opportunities for
reimbursing himself. Mollified by these reflections he set the repairs
in hand at once.
Genji meanwhile had no notion of what was afoot and could not
understand why, after all his entreaties, the Lady of Akashi still hung
back. He did not at all like the idea of their child being brought up
amid such uncivilized surroundings. Moreover, if the story afterwards
became known, it would certainly seem as though he had been reluctant
to acknowledge the child and had behaved with great heartlessness in
making no proper provision for it or for the mother.
But at last the house at Ōi was ready and a letter came from Akashi
describing how, with no idea that he was building in the district, they
had suddenly remembered the existence of the place and were making
plans for living there. He understood quite well the object of this
move. The Lady of Akashi was determined that if their intercourse was
to be resumed it must be in a place where she would not be subjected to
a humiliating contact with her rivals. To avoid this she was evidently
prepared to make every conceivable sacrifice. He was curious to know
more about her future plan of retreat and sent Koremitsu, who was
always employed in confidential missions of this kind, to investigate
the place a little and let him know if there was anything he could
do to assist the new-comers at Ōi. Koremitsu reported that the house
was in a very agreeable situation which somehow reminded one of the
seaside. ‘It sounds just the place for her,’ said Genji. The
hermitage which he was building was to the south of Daikakuji, which
temple, in the beauty of its groves and cascades, it even bid fair
to rival. The house where the family from Akashi was coming to live
was right on the river, among the most delightful pine-woods, and the
unpretentious way in which it was planned, in one long building without
galleries or side-wings, gave it rather the air of a farmhouse than of
a gentleman’s mansion. As regards furniture Koremitsu told him what was
most needed and he saw to it that these wants were supplied.
A member of Genji’s personal servants now arrived at Akashi to assist
the family in their removal. When she found herself actually faced
with the prospect of leaving these shores and inlets, near which so
great a part of her life had been spent, the Lady of Akashi was filled
with consternation. The present plan was that her father should stay
on at Akashi alone, and the idea of leaving him made her very unhappy.
Looking back over the whole affair, with all its consequences, she was
amazed to think that she had ever drifted into this miserable union,
which had brought nothing but trouble and confusion upon herself and
those for whom she cared. She found herself envying those whose fortune
it had been never to cross this prince’s path. Her father, seeing the
house full of the servants and retainers whom Genji had sent from the
Capital, could not deny to himself that here indeed was the fulfilment
of his every dream and prayer. He had secured his daughter’s future.
But what about his own? How would his life be endurable without her?
He brooded on this night and day, but never showed what was passing
in his mind, save for saying once or twice to his wife: ‘Do you think
even if I went with you I should see much of the little girl[2]?’ The
mother was also much distressed. For years past her husband had
slept in his little hermitage and had lived an entirely separate life,
engrossed in his meditations and devotions. There was little reason
to suppose that, even should she stay behind, he would give her very
much of his society, and virtually she would be living without any
companionship or support. But though he was a spectator of their lives
rather than a participator in them, his casual exits and entrances had
become the rock in which her whole existence was rooted; the prospect
of separation appalled her. He was a strange creature; but she had long
ago given up expecting him to play in any sense a husband’s part. His
odd appearance, his eccentric opinions, their lonely life,—all these
she had learnt to tolerate in the belief that this at any rate was the
last stage of her disillusionment, the final and unalterable ordeal
which death alone would end. Suddenly she found herself face to face
with this undreamed-of parting, and her heart shrank. The wet-nurse
and other young persons whom at the time of the child’s birth Genji
had sent from the Capital were beginning to become very restive and
the prospect of the coming journey delighted them. Yet even the most
frivolous among them could not leave these creeks and sandy bays
without a pang; and there were some who, knowing that it might never be
their lot to visit such scenes again, came near to adding the salt of
tears to sleeves already splashed by the breakers of the rising tide.
Autumn had begun and the country was at its loveliest. At dawn upon
the day fixed for their departure a chill wind was blowing and insects
filled the air with their interminable cry. The Lady of Akashi, already
awake, kept going to her window and looking out across the sea. Her
father had returned early from celebrating the night service in his
chapel; it was with trembling lips that he had performed the familiar
ceremonies. But now that the day of parting had come no words
of sorrow or ill-omen must be spoken. So each was determined, but it
was no easy matter to keep things going. The child was brought in,
its infant beauty shining like a jewel in the greyness of the dawn.
The grandfather never wearied of holding it in his arms and, young as
it was, an understanding seemed to have grown up between them. He was
indeed astonished by the readiness with which the child accepted a
companion whose appearance and manners, so different from those of its
regular attendants, might have been expected to have alarmed it in the
highest degree. Moreover there seemed something inappropriate, almost
sinister in their alliance. Yet for long he had scarcely let it be a
minute out of his sight. How should he live without it? He did not
want to spoil the journey by an outburst of unrestrained grief; yet
utterly silent he could not remain, and reciting the verse: ‘While for
good speed upon their road and happiness to come I pray, one thing the
travellers will not deny me, an old man’s right to shed a foolish tear
or two,’ he tried to hide his tears with his sleeve, exclaiming: ‘No, I
ought not to; I should not do it!’
His wife stood weeping at his side; there was one thing that she could
not disguise from herself: after long years both of his life and her
own that had been spent in an unceasing protest against the pleasures
and frivolities of the world, it was to those same frivolities and in
pursuit of the most worldly ambitions that her husband was sending
her away from him: ‘Together we left the city,’ she cried; ‘how all
alone shall I re-find the paths down which you led me over heath and
hill?’ The Lady of Akashi also recited a poem in which she said that
even to those who seem to have parted forever, life with its turns
and chances brings strange reunions to pass. She besought her father
to come at least part of the way with them; but he seemed to
regard it as utterly impossible that he should venture away from his
seaside retreat, and it was evident that he regarded the negotiation
even of the short road down to the sea as the most venturesome and
nerve-racking business.
‘When I first put worldly ambitions aside,’ said the old man, ‘and
contented myself with a mere provincial post, I made up my mind
that, come what might, you, my dear daughter, should not suffer from
my having sacrificed my own prospects; and how best, despite the
remoteness of our home, to fit you for the station of life to which you
properly belonged became my one thought and care. But my experience as
Governor taught me much; I realized my incapacity for public affairs,
and knew that if I returned to the City it would only be to play the
wretched part of ex-Governor. My resources were much diminished and
were I to set up house again at the Capital it would be on a very
different scale from before. I knew that I should be regarded as a
failure both in my private and public life, a disgrace to the memory of
my father who occupied the highest station in the State; moreover my
acceptance of a provincial governorship had everywhere been regarded
as the end of my career, and as for myself, I could not but think that
it was indeed best it should be so. But you were now growing up and
your future had to be thought of. How could I allow you to waste your
beauty in this far corner of the earth like a brocade that is never
taken from the drawer? But no better prospect seemed to present itself,
and in my despair I called upon Buddha and all the gods to help me.
That, living as we did, any fresh acquaintances should ever be formed
by us seemed out of the question. Yet all the time I believed that
some strange chance would one day befall us. And what indeed could
have been more utterly unforeseen than the circumstance which at last
brought so distinguished a guest to our home? In this I could
not but see the hand of Heaven, and my only anxiety was lest too great
an inequality of rank should divide you. But since the birth of this
child, that fear has not so much troubled me, for I feel that your
union is fated to be a lasting one. A child of Royal Blood cannot, we
must allow, pass all its days in a village by the sea, and though this
parting costs me dear I am determined never again to tamper with the
world that I have renounced. Princes are the lamps that light this
world, and though they may for a time be destined to cast confusion
upon the quiet of rusticity, soon they must perforce return to their
true firmament; while those whom they have left smile back, as I do
now, into the lowly Sphere[3] from whence they sprang. Should you hear
that I am dead, do not tease yourselves concerning the welfare of my
soul, and above all, while less than death divides us, do not worry
over what may be befalling me.’ Thus he poured out all that was passing
through his mind and at last he added in conclusion: ‘You may be sure
that each of the six times of Prayer, till the day when the smoke rises
from my pyre, I shall pray with all my heart for the happiness of the
little princess....’
Hitherto he had spoken with great self-possession; but now his face
began to pucker.
There was so much baggage to be transported that a vast quantity of
wagons would have been required had the whole party proceeded by road.
To send some of the stuff by road and the rest by sea was in many ways
inconvenient; moreover Genji’s retainers did not wish to be recognized
on the journey, and for all these reasons it seemed best that the
whole party should proceed by water. They set sail at the hour of the
Dragon, and soon their ship, like that of the old poet’s story,[4]
was lost amid the morning mists far out across the bay. The old
priest stood gazing after it lost in a bewildered trance of grief
from which it seemed as though he would never awake. The wind was
fresh and favourable, and they arrived at the City punctually at the
hour they had announced. Wishing to attract no notice they left their
large baggage on board and travelled inland as quickly as possible.
The house at Ōi at once took their fancy and was, as Koremitsu had
noticed, in some curious way very reminiscent of the seaside, so that
they soon felt quite at home. The mother had known this place as a
girl and moving recollections crowded to her mind at every turn. By
Genji’s orders a covered gallery had been added to the house, which was
a great improvement, and the course of the stream had also been very
successfully altered. Much still remained to be done, but for the most
part only such small jobs as could easily be finished off later on,
when they had got things straight and settled in. On their arrival they
found that entertainment had been prepared for them at Genji’s command
by one of his confidential servants. He intended to come himself at the
earliest opportunity, but many days passed before he could contrive
an excuse for slipping away. The Lady of Akashi had made sure that he
would be there to welcome her. She therefore spent the first days at Ōi
in the deepest depression, regretting her old home and quite at a loss
how to occupy her time. At last she took out the zithern which Genji
had given to her at Akashi. She was feeling at the moment particularly
desperate, and as she had the part of the house where she was sitting
entirely to herself she gave vent to her feelings in a somewhat wild
improvisation, which soon startled her mother from the couch where she
was lying and brought her to the player’s side. With the music of the
zithern was blended the sighing of the wind in the great pine-woods
that lay behind the house. ‘An altered and a lonely woman to
this my native village I return. But still unchanged the wind blows
music through the trees.’ So the mother sang, and the daughter: ‘Far
off is now the dear companion of my happier days, and none is here who
comprehends the broken language of my lute.’
While things were going thus dismally at Ōi, Genji was feeling very
uneasy. To have established the people from Akashi so close to the
Capital and then neglect them entirely was indeed a monstrous way to
behave; but circumstances made it very difficult for him to escape
unobserved. He had not said anything to Murasaki about the move to
Ōi, but such things have a way of getting round, and he decided that
it would be better not to explain his absence in a note. He therefore
wrote to her one morning as follows: ‘There are various matters at
Katsura[5] which I ought to have looked into a long while ago; but I
did not at all want the bother of going there and have kept on putting
it off. Some people whom I promised to visit have settled near by and I
am afraid I shall have to go and see them too. Then I ought to go over
to my hermitage at Saga and see the Buddha there before it is painted.
So I am afraid I shall have to be away for two or three days.’
Some faint echo of the business at Ōi had reached her, but in a very
garbled form. She heard that Genji was hurriedly building a large new
mansion on his estate at Katsura. This was of course quite untrue.
Murasaki at once concluded that the mansion at Katsura was intended
for the Lady of Akashi and depressed by this she wrote in answer:
‘Do you know the story of the woodman[6] who waited so long that
leaves sprouted from the handle of his axe? Do not imagine that
I shall be quite so patient as that....’ It was evident that she was
out of humour with him! ‘How crotchety you are!’ he said. ‘In the past
you did indeed have some excuse; but now I have entirely changed my
habits. Anyone who knows me would tell you as much.’ It took the whole
morning to coax her back into a reasonable frame of mind. At last
very secretly, with no outriders of any kind save for a few intimate
personal attendants, and taking every precaution lest he should be
spied on or followed, he set out for Ōi and arrived there just as it
was growing dark. Even when dressed in the plain hunting clothes that
he wore at Akashi he had seemed to the Lady of the Shore a figure of
unimaginable brilliance; and now when he appeared in full Court dress
(he had indeed made himself as splendid as possible for the occasion)
she was completely overwhelmed by his magnificence and soon, in
contemplating this dazzling spectacle, the whole household recovered
from the gloom into which they had been plunged. The little princess
had of course to be fetched and it was naturally with considerable
emotion that he now saw his child for the first time. It was indeed a
pity that he should make its acquaintance in this belated manner. What
nonsense people talk about children, he thought. Every one used to make
such a fuss about Yūgiri, Princess Aoi’s child, and pretend it was so
remarkably handsome. Such people were mere time-servers and flatterers.
If it had not been the Prime Minister’s grandchild no one would have
seen anything remarkable about it at all. But here was a very different
story. If this little creature did not grow up into a woman of quite
exceptional beauty, he was indeed very much mistaken. The child smiled
at him with such innocent surprise and had such a perfect little face
and air that he at once took an immense fancy to it. The nurse who when
he had first sent her to Akashi was already losing her looks,
had now grown quite middle-aged. He asked her many questions about
her experiences in these last months, to which she replied frankly
and without any shyness. He felt sorry that he had sent her to waste
the last hours of her vanishing youth in so dull a place and now said
sympathetically: ‘Here too you are a long way from everything and it
is not at all easy for me to come over. I wish you would persuade your
mistress to make use of the apartments I originally offered her....’
‘We must see how we get on,’ the Lady of Akashi interposed.
That night at least she had no reason to complain of neglect and day
came only too swiftly. During the morning he gave fresh instructions
to the retainers who were responsible for the redecoration of the
house, and presently a number of people who farmed on and around his
Katsura estate came to pay their respects, having heard beforehand that
he was about to visit his properties in this neighbourhood. As they
were there, he thought he had better make them useful and set them
to work repairing some places in the Lodge where the shrubs had been
trodden down. ‘I see,’ he said, ‘that some of the artificial rocks
have rolled over and almost disappeared under the grass. I must get my
people to hoist them up again into some position in which they will
not look quite so pointless. However this is not the kind of garden
that looks the better for too much trouble being taken with it; and you
may not be staying here very long. It will not do to make everything
here too nice or it will soon be as hard to go away from here as it
was to leave Akashi.’ Soon they fell to talking of those old days,
now laughing, now weeping, but all the time divinely happy. Once her
mother came and peeped at them as they sat talking and the sight of
their happiness made her forget that she herself was old, was wretched.
Wreathed in smiles she hobbled away from the room. A little later
she was watching him standing in his shirt-sleeves instructing the
workmen how to utilize the little spring of water that issued near the
gallery of the eastern wing. He had no idea that he was being watched,
till happening to come across a tray for flower-offerings and other
religious gear lying about the house, he suddenly thought of the pious
old lady and said to his companion: ‘By the way, did your mother come
with you? I had quite forgotten she might be here or I should not be
going about the house dressed in this fashion.’ He sent for his cloak
and going up to the curtain-of-state behind which he was told the old
lady would probably be sitting, he said in a gentle tone: ‘Madam, I
have come to thank you; for it is your doing that the little girl
thrives so well. Your prayers and devotions it is that have lightened
the load of her _karma_ and caused her to grow up so fine and healthy
a child. I know well enough what it must have cost you to leave the
house which had become your sanctuary and mingle once more with the
follies of this transitory world. I know too what anxiety you must be
in, concerning the husband whom you have left.... For this and much
else, Madam, I have come to thank you....’ ‘That you should guess how
dear it cost me to come back to the turmoil of the world, and that in
these kind words you should tell me my exertions have not been made in
vain, is in itself sufficient reward for all that I have endured, and
justifies a life drawn out beyond the allotted span.’ So the pious old
lady spoke and then continued, weeping: ‘I have been in great anxiety
concerning this ‘twin-leaved pine,’[7] and while we dwelt under the
shadow of those wild cliffs I scarce dared hope that it would at last
find room to spread and grow. But now I pray more confidently,—though
still afraid that from roots[8] so lowly no valiant stem can ever
spring....’
There was in her speech and bearing a courtly dignity which pleased
him, and he led her on to talk of the time when her grandfather, the
old Prince, was living at the house. While she spoke the sound of
running water reached them. It came from the buried spring near the
eastern wall of the house; the workmen had just finished clearing it.
It seemed like the voice of one suddenly aroused from lethargy by the
mention of old familiar names. ‘I, that was mistress here, scarce know
the way from room to room; only this crystal spring remembers still and
meditates the ancient secrets of the house.’ She murmured this poem
softly to herself and did not know that he had heard what she said. But
it had not escaped him; indeed, he thought it by no means lacking in
beauty and power of expression.
As he stood looking down at her, full of interest and compassion, the
aged lady thought him more beautiful than anything she could have ever
dreamed would exist in the world. He now drove over to his hermitage at
Saga and arranged for the Reading of the _Samantabhadra Sūtra_ and the
meditations on Amitābha and Shākyamuni to take place every month on the
fourteenth, fifteenth and last days respectively, together with other
rituals for which he now made the final arrangements. The decoration
of the Buddha Hall and the provision of the necessary altars and
furniture was then discussed and various duties assigned to those in
charge of the place. He returned to Ōi by moonlight. It was strangely
like those nights of old when he used to visit her at the house on the
hill. It seemed natural enough that, as in those days, she should bring
out a zithern (it was indeed his own, which he had given her), and
soon, stirred by his presence and the beauty of the night, she began
to finger the instrument. He noticed at once that true to her promise
she had not altered the tuning since that last night at Akashi, and it
seemed as though all that had happened since were obliterated and
he were still listening to that farewell tune.
He was conscious of no inequality between herself and him. Despite
her mixed descent and rustic upbringing there was about her an air of
personal distinction which made ample amends for her lack of breeding
and worldly experience. Her looks had indeed greatly improved since he
knew her, and as he gazed, now at her, now at the lovely child, he felt
that both of them were destined to occupy henceforward a very large
share of his attention. But what was he to do? It would indeed be a
great pity that the child should grow up in an obscure country-house.
Most people would no doubt think him perfectly justified in taking it
away with him to the Nijō-in and bringing it up in whatever way he
chose. But he knew that this would be a terrible blow to the mother and
could not bring himself to suggest it. He sat watching the two of them
with tears in his eyes. The little creature had at first been rather
shy with him. But now it was quite at its ease, prattled and laughed in
his face and in fact showed every sign of wanting to make friends with
him. The infant in this expansive mood seemed to him more entrancing
than ever. He took it up in his arms, and watching the tenderness with
which he held it the mother felt that its fortunes were indeed secure.
Next day he was to return to the Capital. He therefore returned to
rest for a while; but the news that he was shortly to leave this house
spread with disconcerting rapidity to his tenants at Katsura and the
anterooms were soon full of visitors waiting to escort him on his
journey. A number of courtiers had also discovered his whereabouts and
were waiting to pay their respects. While he was being dressed, Genji
said petulantly: ‘This is intolerable. If I am being tracked down even
to such a place as this, where can I ever hope to hide my head?’
And with a mob of visitors pressing round him he was swept away to
his carriage. At a window by which they had to pass, stationed there
as though by accident, was the child’s nurse with the infant in her
arms. Stroking its face tenderly as he passed, Genji said to her: ‘I
should have been sorry not to see this child. But it has all been so
hurried.... Better than nothing perhaps.... But “your village is so far
away”....’[9] ‘We shall expect rather more from your Highness than
we did in the old days when we really were a long way off,’ the nurse
replied. The little princess stretched out her hand as though trying to
hold him back. Pausing for a while he turned and said: ‘It is terrible
to have such a sentimental disposition as mine. I cannot bear to part
from those I am fond of even if it be only for a single day. But where
is your mistress? Why did not she too come to bid me good-bye? Tell her
that it is barbarous....’ The nurse smiled and withdrawing into the
house delivered the message. But so far from being unconcerned at his
departure, the Lady of Akashi was so much agitated that she had sunk
helpless upon her bed, and it was some while before she could muster
enough strength to rise. At last, after Genji, not knowing what was
amiss, had in his heart passed severe censure upon her coyness, she
arrived in the front-room supported by her ladies and sank into a seat
where, though she was partly hidden by a curtain, he got a fair view
of her face. Such delicacy of feature, such distinction, such grace
would not he thought have done discredit to an Emperor’s daughter.
He went up to the window, pulled aside the curtain and whispered a
few words of farewell. Then he hastened to rejoin his companions; but
looking back for an instant over his shoulder he saw that, though
all this time she had remained motionless and silent, she was
following him intently with her eyes. He had in old days been somewhat
too slender for his height; now he had filled out a little and she
found this slightly robuster air very becoming. He must indeed have
expended considerable thought upon his appearance, every detail down
to the elegantly adjusted billowing of his wide, puffy trousers being
calculated with the nicest eye for effect. Such at any rate was her
impression as he passed out of sight that morning,—a view perhaps
somewhat coloured by partiality.
Ukon, the brother of Ki no Kami, had relinquished his office of
Treasurer, and having been appointed Quiver-bearer to His Majesty had
this year been formally invested as an officer of the 5th rank. He
now came to relieve Genji of his sword, and looking in the direction
from which his master had come saw the Lady of Akashi’s form dimly
outlined at the window. He had himself formed some slight acquaintance
with her during the period of Genji’s exile and wished to discover
whether she still had a liking for him. He therefore drew one of her
maids-of-honour aside and said: ‘I have not forgotten those hours of
pleasant intercourse, but fear to give offence. Sometimes when, waking
before the dawn, I hear the rustling of the wind among the trees, I
think for a moment that I am back at Akashi, or listening again to
the waves that beat upon the shore. At such moments I long to break
the silence with some message or token; but till now no proper means
has come to hand....’ He purposely spoke in such a way that she might
not understand him unless she were already aware of his feelings
towards her mistress. ‘The clouds that hang eight-fold about this
lonely hillside screen us from the world no less securely than the
mist-wreaths of that sequestered bay. I for my part thought that of
my friends in those days “none save the ancient pine-tree”[10]
remembered me, and it is good news indeed to hear that by you at
least....’ She could not have been wider of the mark![11] He was
now very sorry that he had in old days so scrupulously avoided all
reference to this attachment. He would have explained himself further,
but Genji was waiting; and calling out with an assumed cheerfulness
‘Let us talk of this another time,’ he hastened to rejoin his master.
Already the outriders were clearing intruders from the road and amid
great clatter and bustle the procession started on its way. Two
officious gentlemen, the Captain of the Guard and a certain Hyoye no
Kami, rode at the back of Genji’s coach. ‘I object to being tracked
down like this,’ said Genji wearily, ‘when I go to pay a quiet visit
to private friends.’ ‘The moonlight was so exquisite last night,’ they
said in self-defence, ‘that we could not bear having been left behind,
and this morning we groped our way through the early mist to find you.
The maple-leaves in the Capital are not yet quite at their best; but
in the open country the colours are marvellous. We should have been
here sooner, had we not become involved in a hawking party that one of
the chamberlains has got up.’ ‘I must go back to Katsura first,’ said
Genji; and accordingly the party set out in that direction. It was no
easy matter on the spur of the moment to provide entertainment for
so large a number of persons. However, the cormorant-fishers who ply
their trade on the Katsura river were hastily sent for, and promised
to secure food enough for the whole party. Their strange, clipped talk
reminded Genji of the fishermen at Suma and greatly diverted him. The
falconers, who had decided to camp in the open country, sent a present
of small snipe, each bird tied to a bunch of sedge-leaves. They played
at the game[12] of floating wine-cups down the stream. So many
times were the cups set afloat and so steep were the banks of the
stream that the game proved somewhat dangerous. But the wine made them
reckless and they were still shouting out their couplets long after
it grew dark. At last the moon rose and it was time for the music to
begin. The most skilful performers on zithern, lute, _wagon_, and
various wind instruments were called upon and were soon playing such
tunes as were best suited to the place and hour. A gentle breeze blew
down the stream blending its whisperings with the music of pipe and
string. Higher and higher the moon rose above them; never had night
been so radiant and still. It was already very late when a band of four
or five courtiers made their appearance. They had come straight from
the Palace where the Emperor had been giving a concert. ‘This is the
first of the Six Fast Days,’ His Majesty had suddenly exclaimed. ‘I
expected that Genji would be here. What has become of him?’ Some one
then informed His Majesty of Genji’s present whereabouts and messengers
were at once despatched to Katsura bearing a letter in which the
Emperor declared himself envious of the pleasant excursion in which his
Minister had found time to indulge. With this letter was the poem: ‘How
pleasantly the shadow of the laurel-tree must fall upon the waters in
the village beyond the stream!’[13] Genji answered with due humility
and respect. The messengers found this moonlight concert even more
agreeable than the one which they had left and had soon settled down
to drink and listen for the second time that night. When at last they
rose it was proper that they should not be sent away empty-handed. As
there was nothing here to give to them Genji sent a note to Ōi: ‘Have
you anything that would do to give to some messengers from the Court?’
After looking round for a little they sent such objects as they
could lay hands on. There were two boxes full of clothes. For the chief
messenger, who was now anxious to return to the Palace, he selected a
lady’s dress of very handsome stuff.
The company now became extremely animated. Poem followed poem in a
swift exchange, and even Genji’s conversation, usually equable and
restrained, began to take so extravagant a turn that his hearers would
gladly have kept him talking thus till the end of the time. As for
things at home, he reflected,—the harm was already done. The rishi’s
axe must by now have blossomed, aye, and withered too. Why not one more
day? But no; that would never do; and the party broke up hastily.
They set out for the Capital, each wearing on his head the
bright-coloured scarf with which, according to his rank and station,
he had been presented the night before and with these gay patches that
bobbed up here and there in the morning mist blended the colours of the
flowers in the gardens through which they passed.
There was with them a certain member of the Night Watch famous for
his singing of ancient ballads, and to cheer the company he now sang
with great spirit the ballad ‘Ho, my pony’; whereupon his companions
doffed their scarves and wound them round the singer’s head. The
wind fluttered through the many-coloured ends that dangled about his
shoulders, weaving as gay a brocade as that with which the storms of
autumn carpet a forest floor.
The news of his swift return or at least some faint echo of it reached
the Lady of Akashi in her chamber, making her feel more than ever
desolate. To Genji it suddenly occurred that he had never written
the customary[14] letter. Other things had indeed been occupying his
attention; but he wished he had remembered.
On his return to the Nijō-in he rested for a little while and
then went to tell Murasaki about his country visit ‘I am very sorry
that I was away longer than I led you to expect,’ he said; ‘those
wretched fellows hounded me down and, try as I might, I could not get
rid of them. I am very tired this morning. I think, if you will excuse
me, I must get some more sleep,’ and so saying he retired to his own
room. When they met later he saw that things were not going well, but
for a time pretended not to notice. At last she became so tiresome that
he said somewhat sharply: ‘This is ridiculous. You know quite well
that there can never be any comparison between her position and yours.
Surely you had better drop this absurd affectation and make the best of
me now I am here.’
He had promised to be at the Palace before nightfall, and now rose
to go. But before he left the room she saw him go into a corner and
scribble a hasty note. She guessed at once to whom it was addressed.
What a long time it was taking! He seemed to have a great deal to
say. Her women saw him giving it to a messenger with many whispered
instructions and they were duly indignant.
He was supposed to be on duty all night at the Palace. But he was
impatient to put matters right, and though it was very late indeed
before he could get away he hurried back to Murasaki at the first
opportunity of escape. While he was with her, the messenger returned
from Ōi with an answer in his hand. Genji read it without any attempt
at concealment, and finding it to be of the most harmless description,
he handed it to her saying: ‘Please tear it up when you have read
it, and do not leave the pieces lying about; pieces make such a bad
impression! In my position one has to be so careful.’
He came and sat by her couch; but he was thinking all the time of the
Lady at Ōi and wishing he could be with her. For a long while he sat
gazing into the lamp and did not speak a word.
The letter which he had handed to Murasaki was spread open before her;
but she was not reading it. ‘I am sure you have been peeping,’ he said
at last. ‘That way of reading letters is very tiring,’ and he smiled
at her with such evident affection that the tears welled to her eyes.
‘There is something I want to talk to you about,’ he said, bending over
her; ‘I have seen the little girl and, as a matter of fact, taken a
great fancy to her. I naturally want to do as well for her as I can,
but under the circumstances that is far from easy, and I am rather
worried about it. I want you to think about the matter a little, and
see if you cannot help me. What can be done? For example, would you be
willing to have her here and bring her up as your own child? She is
almost three years old, and at that age they are so pretty and innocent
that it is very hard indeed to harden one’s heart against them. It is
getting to be time that she came out of her long clothes. Would you be
very much upset if I asked you to take charge of the ceremony?’[15] ‘I
was cross just now,’ she said; ‘but I knew you were thinking all the
while about other things, and there seemed to be no use in pretending
we were friends if we were not. I should love to look after the little
girl. She is just the age I like best.’ She laughed with joy at the
thought of having such a creature in her arms, for she was passionately
fond of children. Should he try to secure the child? Genji was still
very doubtful. Visits to Ōi were very difficult to arrange, and he
seldom contrived to get there except on the two days in each month when
he went over to hear the service at his chapel near Saga.
Thus though the Lady of Akashi fared considerably better than the
Weaving Lady[16] in the story and though her expectations were of the
most moderate description, it would have been strange had these hurried
visits contented her.
[1] Also called the Katsura River. Runs near Saga (to the east of
Kyōto) where Genji was building his hermitage.
[2] The Lady of Akashi’s child.
[3] The metaphor is of souls sinking back into lower incarnations.
[4] See Waley, _Japanese Poetry_ (Oxford, 1920), p. 56.
[5] Where Genji had an estate.
[6] A Chinese named Wang Chih. He watched a couple of hermits playing
chess in a cave. The game absorbed his attention so completely that it
seemed to him to last only a few minutes; but when it was over he found
that years had elapsed and leaves had actually sprouted from the wood
of his axe.
[7] Two-year-old child.
[8] Referring to the Lady of Akashi’s comparatively humble birth.
[9] Quoting the old song: ‘Your village is so far away that I must go
back almost as soon as I come. Yet short as our meetings are perhaps we
should be still unhappier without them.’
[10] Allusion to an old poem.
[11] The lady was unaware that he had been in love with her mistress
and imagined it was of his feelings for herself that Ukon was speaking.
[12] Each competitor had to improvise a verse before the cup reached
him.
[13] Many puns. _Katsura_ = ‘laurel.’ Also, a _katsura_-tres was
supposed to grow in the moon.
[14] The ‘next morning’ letter.
[15] The _mogi_ or ‘First Putting On of the Skirt.’
[16] The two stars, Weaving Lady and Plough Boy, meet only on the
seventh day of the seventh month.
Transcriber’s Notes.
1. Italicized text is indicated with leading and trailing underscores.
2. Footnotes have been renumbered and placed at the end of each
chapter.
3. The bastard-title page prior to the main title page and the
half-title page preceding the main text have both been omitted.
They contained the words “THE SACRED TREE”.
4. The original landscape orientation of the genealogical tables
has changed to a portrait orientation by the transcriber in
order to provide a better view for eReaders. Each table has
has been separated by two blank lines for clarity.
5. In order to facilitate word wrapping, ellipses in the middle of
a sentence have been replaced with a group of three periods. This
group has a leading and, unless a comma is present, trailing blank
space added. Ellipses at the end of a sentence do not have a
leading blank space, but closing punctuation has been added if
needed.
6. Missing periods and quotation marks silently added.
7. Except as mentioned above and in the Change List that follows,
every effort has been made to replicate this first-edition text
as faithfully as possible, including non-standard punctuation,
inconsistently hyphenated words, and other inconsistencies.
Change List:
Page 17
earliers writers lack changed to
earlier writers lack
Page 176
uncertainity changed to
uncertainty.
Page 203
Village of Falling Fowers changed to
Village of Falling Flowers.
Page 264
himslf changed to
himself.
Page 287
existance changed to
existence.