THE TALE OF GENJI
By
LADY MURASAKI
Translated from the Japanese by
ARTHUR WALEY
Boston and New York
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1925
To
BERYL DE ZOETE
PREFACE
Readers of the _Diaries of Court Ladies of Old Japan_, translated by
Madame Omori and Professor Doi, will remember that the second of the
three diaries is that of a certain Murasaki Shikibu. The little that
is known of this lady’s life has been set forth by Miss Amy Lowell
in her Introduction to that book. A few dates, most of them very
insecure, will be found in Appendix I of this volume. It is, however,
certain that Murasaki was born in the last quarter of the tenth
century, that she lost her husband in 1001, and that a few years later
she became lady-in-waiting to the Empress Akiko. We know that she was
chosen for this post on account of her proficiency in Chinese, a
subject which the young Empress was anxious to study. Akiko was then
about sixteen, so that Murasaki’s position in the house was what,
in our parlance, we should call that of ‘governess’ rather than of
lady-in-waiting. Akiko, though officially espoused to the Emperor,
was still living at home, and her father soon began to pay somewhat
embarrassing attentions to the new governess. From the Diary we know
that on one occasion at any rate his solicitations were refused. Was
the _Tale of Genji_ or any part of it already written when Murasaki
came to Court? We only know that in a passage of the Diary which
apparently refers to the year 1008 she speaks of her novel having
been read out loud to the Emperor. His majesty’s comment (‘This is
a learned lady; she must have been reading the Chronicle of Japan’)
shows that what was read to him must have been the opening chapter of
the tale. For in the whole work there is only one sentence which could
possibly remind any one of the _Nihongi_ (‘Chronicle of Japan’), and
that is the conclusion of Chapter I. So though we may be certain that
the first few books were already written in 1008, it is quite possible
that the whole fifty-four were not finished till long afterwards.
But from the _Sarashina Diary_, the first of the three contained in
the _Court Ladies of Old Japan_, we know that the _Tale of Genji_ in
its complete form was already a classic in the year 1022. The unknown
authoress of this diary spent her childhood in a remote province. Her
great pleasure was to read romances; but except at the Capital they
were hard to come by. She prays fervently to Buddha to bring her
quickly to Kyoto, and let her read ‘dozens and dozens of stories.’
In 1022 she at last arrives at Court and her wildest dreams are
fulfilled. Packed in a big box her aunt sends round ‘the fifty-odd
chapters of _Genji_’ and a whole library of shorter fairy-tales and
romances. ‘Are there really such people as this in the world? Were
Genji my lover, though he should come to me but once in the whole
year, how happy I should be! Or were I Lady Ukifune in her mountain
home, gazing as the months go by at flowers, red autumn leaves,
moonlight and snow; happy, despite loneliness and misfortune, in the
thought that at any moment the wonderful letter might come....’
Such were the _rêveries_ of one who read the _Tale of Genji_ more than
nine hundred years ago. I think that, could they but read it in the
original, few readers would feel that in all those centuries the charm
of the book had in any way evaporated. The task of translation in
such a case is bound to be arduous and discouraging; but I have all
the time been spurred by the belief that I am translating by far the
greatest novel of the East, and one which, even if compared with
the fiction of Europe, takes its place as one of the dozen greatest
masterpieces of the world.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 7
LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS 11
GENEALOGICAL TABLES 13
CHAPTER
I. KIRITSUBO 17
II. THE BROOM-TREE 39
III. UTSUSEMI 81
IV. YŪGAO 92
V. MURASAKI 135
VI. THE SAFFRON-FLOWER 180
VII. THE FESTIVAL OF RED LEAVES 211
VIII. THE FLOWER FEAST 239
IX. AOI 250
APPENDICES 297
LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS
(ALPHABETICAL)
Aoi, Princess Genji’s wife.
Asagao, Princess Daughter of Prince Momozono. Courted in
vain by Genji from his 17th year onward.
Emperor, The Genji’s father.
Fujitsubo The Emperor’s consort. Loved by Genji.
Sister of Prince Hyōbukyō; aunt of
Murasaki.
Genji, Prince Son of the Emperor and his concubine
Kiritsubo.
Hyōbukyō, Prince Brother of Fujitsubo; father of Murasaki.
Iyo no Suke Husband of Utsusemi.
Ki no Kami Son of Iyo no Kami, also called Iyo no
Suke.
Kiritsubo Concubine of the Emperor; Genji’s mother.
Kōkiden The Emperor’s original consort; later
supplanted by Kiritsubo and Fujitsubo
successively.
Koremitsu Genji’s retainer.
Left, Minister of the Father of Aoi.
Momozono, Prince Father of Princess Asagao.
Murasaki Child of Prince Hyōbukyō. Adopted by
Genji. Becomes his second wife.
Myōbu A young Court lady who introduces Genji
to Princess Suyetsumuhana.
Nokiba no Ogi Ki no Kami’s sister.
Oborozukiyo, Princess Sister of Kōkiden.
Ōmyōbu Fujitsubo’s maid.
Right, Minister of the Father of Kōkiden.
Rokujō, Princess Widow of the Emperor’s brother,
Prince Zembō. Genji’s mistress from his
17th year onward.
Shōnagon Murasaki’s nurse.
Suyetsumuhana, Princess Daughter of Prince Hitachi. A timid and
eccentric lady.
Tō no Chūjō Genji’s brother-in-law and great friend.
Ukon Yūgao’s maid.
Utsusemi Wife of the provincial governor, Iyo no
Suke. Courted by Genji.
Yūgao Mistress first of Tō no Chūjō then of
Genji. Dies bewitched.
GENEALOGICAL TABLES
┌ Prince Zembō, _m_. Lady Rokujō, and died young.
│ │
│ └ Vestal Virgin of Ise.
│
│
├ THE EMPEROR.
│ │
│ └ Heir Apparent (his mother was Kōkiden).
│ │
│ ├ San no Miya.
│ │ │
│ │ └ Kaoru Genji.
│ │
│ └ Genji (his mother was Kiritsubo).
│
│
├ Prince Momozono.
│ │
│ └ Princess Asagao.
│
└ Princess Ōmiya, _m_. the Minister of the Left.
│
├ Aoi.
│ │
│ └ Yūgiri.
│
└ Tō no Chūjō.
│
└ Kashiwagi.
MINISTER OF THE RIGHT.
│
├ Kōkiden (eldest daughter).
│
└ Oborozukiyo (sixth daughter).
A FORMER EMPEROR.
│
├ Prince Hyōbukyō.
│ │
│ └ Murasaki (Genji’s second wife).
│
└ Fujitsubo.
│
└ Child (supposed to be the Emperor’s, really Genji’s).
IYO NO KAMI (husband of Utsusemi).
│
├ Ki no Kami (by a former marriage).
│
└ Nokiba no Ogi (by a former marriage).
CHAPTER I
KIRITSUBO[1]
At the Court of an Emperor (he lived it matters not when) there was
among the many gentlewomen of the Wardrobe and Chamber one, who though
she was not of very high rank was favoured far beyond all the rest; so
that the great ladies of the Palace, each of whom had secretly hoped
that she herself would be chosen, looked with scorn and hatred upon
the upstart who had dispelled their dreams. Still less were her former
companions, the minor ladies of the Wardrobe, content to see her
raised so far above them. Thus her position at Court, preponderant
though it was, exposed her to constant jealousy and ill will; and
soon, worn out with petty vexations, she fell into a decline, growing
very melancholy and retiring frequently to her home. But the Emperor,
so far from wearying of her now that she was no longer well or gay,
grew every day more tender, and paid not the smallest heed to those
who reproved him, till his conduct became the talk of all the land;
and even his own barons and courtiers began to look askance at an
attachment so ill-advised. They whispered among themselves that in the
Land Beyond the Sea such happenings had led to riot and disaster.
The people of the country did indeed soon have many grievances to
show: and some likened her to Yang Kuei-fei, the mistress of Ming
Huang.[2] Yet, for all this discontent, so great was the sheltering
power of her master’s love that none dared openly molest her.
Her father, who had been a Councillor, was dead. Her mother, who never
forgot that the father was in his day a man of some consequence,
managed despite all difficulties to give her as good an upbringing as
generally falls to the lot of young ladies whose parents are alive and
at the height of fortune. It would have helped matters greatly if
there had been some influential guardian to busy himself on the
child’s behalf. Unfortunately, the mother was entirely alone in the
world and sometimes, when troubles came, she felt very bitterly the
lack of anyone to whom she could turn for comfort and advice. But to
return to the daughter. In due time she bore him a little Prince who,
perhaps because in some previous life a close bond had joined them,
turned out as fine and likely a man-child as well might be in all the
land. The Emperor could hardly contain himself during the days of
waiting.[3] But when, at the earliest possible moment, the child was
presented at Court, he saw that rumour had not exaggerated its beauty.
His eldest born prince was the son of Lady Kōkiden, the daughter of
the Minister of the Right, and this child was treated by all with the
respect due to an undoubted Heir Apparent. But he was not so fine a
child as the new prince; moreover the Emperor’s great affection for
the new child’s mother made him feel the boy to be in a peculiar sense
his own possession. Unfortunately she was not of the same rank as the
courtiers who waited upon him in the Upper Palace, so that despite
his love for her, and though she wore all the airs of a great lady, it
was not without considerable qualms that he now made it his practice
to have her by him not only when there was to be some entertainment,
but even when any business of importance was afoot. Sometimes indeed
he would keep her when he woke in the morning, not letting her go back
to her lodging, so that willy-nilly she acted the part of a
Lady-in-Perpetual-Attendance.
Seeing all this, Lady Kōkiden began to fear that the new prince, for
whom the Emperor seemed to have so marked a preference, would if she
did not take care soon be promoted to the Eastern Palace.[4] But she
had, after all, priority over her rival; the Emperor had loved her
devotedly and she had born him princes. It was even now chiefly the
fear of her reproaches that made him uneasy about his new way of life.
Thus, though his mistress could be sure of his protection, there were
many who sought to humiliate her, and she felt so weak in herself that
it seemed to her at last as though all the honours heaped upon her had
brought with them terror rather than joy.
Her lodging was in the wing called Kiritsubo. It was but natural that
the many ladies whose doors she had to pass on her repeated journeys
to the Emperor’s room should have grown exasperated; and sometimes,
when these comings and goings became frequent beyond measure, it would
happen that on bridges and in corridors, here or there along the way
that she must go, strange tricks were played to frighten her or
unpleasant things were left lying about which spoiled the dresses of
the ladies who accompanied her.[5] Once indeed some one locked the
door of a portico, so that the poor thing wandered this way and
that for a great while in sore distress. So many were the miseries
into which this state of affairs now daily brought her that the
Emperor could no longer endure to witness her vexations and moved her
to the Kōrōden. In order to make room for her he was obliged to shift
the Chief Lady of the Wardrobe to lodgings outside. So far from
improving matters he had merely procured her a new and most embittered
enemy!
The young prince was now three years old. The Putting on of the
Trousers was performed with as much ceremony as in the case of the
Heir Apparent. Marvellous gifts flowed from the Imperial Treasury and
Tribute House. This too incurred the censure of many, but brought no
enmity to the child himself; for his growing beauty and the charm of
his disposition were a wonder and delight to all who met him. Indeed
many persons of ripe experience confessed themselves astounded that
such a creature should actually have been born in these latter and
degenerate days.
In the summer of that year the lady became very downcast. She
repeatedly asked for leave to go to her home, but it was not granted.
For a year she continued in the same state. The Emperor to all her
entreaties answered only ‘Try for a little while longer.’ But she was
getting worse every day, and when for five or six days she had been
growing steadily weaker her mother sent to the Palace a tearful plea
for her release. Fearing even now that her enemies might contrive to
put some unimaginable shame upon her, the sick lady left her son
behind and prepared to quit the Palace in secret. The Emperor knew
that the time had come when, little as he liked it, he must let her
go. But that she should slip away without a word of farewell was more
than he could bear, and he hastened to her side. He found her
still charming and beautiful, but her face very thin and wan. She
looked at him tenderly, saying nothing. Was she alive? So faint was
the dwindling spark that she scarcely seemed so. Suddenly forgetting
all that had happened and all that was to come, he called her by a
hundred pretty names and weeping showered upon her a thousand
caresses; but she made no answer. For sounds and sights reached her
but faintly, and she seemed dazed, as one that scarcely remembered she
lay upon a bed. Seeing her thus he knew not what to do. In great
trouble and perplexity he sent for a hand litter. But when they would
have laid her in it, he forbad them, saying ‘There was an oath between
us that neither should go alone upon the road that all at last must
tread. How can I now let her go from me?’ The lady heard him and ‘At
last!’ she said; ‘Though that desired _at last_ be come, because I go
alone how gladly would I live!’
Thus with faint voice and failing breath she whispered. But though she
had found strength to speak, each word was uttered with great toil and
pain. Come what might, the Emperor would have watched by her till the
end, but that the priests who were to read the Intercession had
already been dispatched to her home. She must be brought there before
nightfall, and at last he forced himself to let the bearers carry her
away. He tried to sleep but felt stifled and could not close his eyes.
All night long messengers were coming and going between her home and
the Palace. From the first they brought no good news, and soon after
midnight announced that this time on arriving at the house they had
heard a noise of wailing and lamentation, and learned from those
within that the lady had just breathed her last. The Emperor lay
motionless as though he had not understood.
Though his father was so fond of his company, it was thought better
after this event that the Prince should go away from the Palace. He
did not understand what had happened, but seeing the servants all
wringing their hands and the Emperor himself continually weeping, he
felt that it must have been something very terrible. He knew that even
quite ordinary separations made people unhappy; but here was such a
dismal wailing and lamenting as he had never seen before, and he
concluded that this must be some very extraordinary kind of parting.
When the time came for the funeral to begin, the girl’s mother cried
out that the smoke of her own body would be seen rising beside the
smoke of her child’s bier. She rode in the same coach with the Court
ladies who had come to the funeral. The ceremony took place at Atago
and was celebrated with great splendour. So overpowering was the
mother’s affection that so long as she looked on the body she still
thought of her child as alive. It was only when they lighted the pyre
she suddenly realized that what lay upon it was a corpse. Then, though
she tried to speak sensibly, she reeled and almost fell from the
coach, and those with her turned to one another and said ‘At last she
knows.’
A herald came from the palace and read a proclamation which promoted
the dead lady to the Third Rank. The reading of this long proclamation
by the bier was a sad business. The Emperor repented bitterly that he
had not long ago made her a Lady-in-Waiting, and that was why he now
raised her rank by one degree. There were many who grudged her even
this honour; but some less stubborn began now to recall that she had
indeed been a lady of uncommon beauty; and others, that she had very
gentle and pleasing manners; while some went so far as to say it was a
shame that anybody should have disliked so sweet a lady, and that
if she had not been singled out unfairly from the rest, no one would
have said a word against her.
The seven weeks of mourning were, by the Emperor’s order, minutely
observed. Time passed, but he still lived in rigid seclusion from the
ladies of the Court. The servants who waited upon him had a sad life,
for he wept almost without ceasing both day and night.
Kōkiden and the other great ladies were still relentless, and went
about saying ‘it looked as though the Emperor would be no less
foolishly obsessed by her memory than he had been by her person.’ He
did indeed sometimes see Kōkiden’s son, the first-born prince. But
this only made him long the more to see the dead lady’s child, and he
was always sending trusted servants, such as his own old nurse, to
report to him upon the boy’s progress. The time of the autumn equinox
had come. Already the touch of the evening air was cold upon the skin.
So many memories crowded upon him that he sent a girl, the daughter of
his quiver-bearer, with a letter to the dead lady’s house. It was
beautiful moonlit weather, and after he had despatched the messenger
he lingered for a while gazing out into the night. It was at such
times as this that he had been wont to call for music. He remembered
how her words, lightly whispered, had blended with those strangely
fashioned harmonies, remembered how all was strange, her face, her
air, her form. He thought of the poem which says that ‘real things in
the darkness seem no realer than dreams’ and he longed for even so dim
a substance as the dream-life of those nights.
The messenger had reached the gates of the house. She pushed them back
and a strange sight met her eyes. The old lady had for long been a
widow and the whole charge of keeping the domain in repair had fallen
upon her daughter. But since her death the mother, sunk in age and
despair, had done nothing to the place, and everywhere the weeds
grew high; and to all this desolation was added the wildness of the
autumn gale. Great clumps of mugwort grew so thick that only the
moonlight could penetrate them. The messenger alighted at the entrance
of the house. At first the mother could find no words with which to
greet her, but soon she said: ‘Alas, I have lingered too long in the
world! I cannot bear to think that so fine a messenger as you have
pressed your way through the dewy thickets that bar the road to my
house,’ and she burst into uncontrollable weeping. Then the
quiver-bearer’s daughter said ‘One of the Palace maids who came here,
told his Majesty that her heart had been torn with pity at what she
saw. And I, Madam, am in like case.’ Then after a little hesitation
she repeated the Emperor’s message: “For a while I searched in the
darkness of my mind, groping for an exit from my dream; but after long
pondering I can find no way to wake. There is none here to counsel me.
Will you not come to me secretly? It is not well that the young prince
should spend his days in so desolate and sad a place. Let him come
too!” This he said and much else, but confusedly and with many sighs;
and I, seeing that the struggle to hide his grief from me was costing
him dear, hurried away from the Palace without hearing all. But here
is a letter that he sent.’
‘My sight is dim’ said the mother. ‘Let me hold His letter to the
light.’ The letter said:
‘I had thought that after a while there might be some blurring, some
slight effacement. But no. As days and months go by, the more
senseless, the more unendurable becomes my life. I am continually
thinking of the child, wondering how he fares. I had hoped that his
mother and I together would watch over his upbringing. Will you not
take her place in this, and bring him to me as a memory of the
past?’ Such was the letter, and many instructions were added to it
together with a poem which said ‘_At the sound of the wind that binds
the cold dew on Takagi moor, my heart goes out to the tender lilac
stems_.’
It was of the young prince that he spoke in symbol; but she did not
read the letter to the end. At last the mother said ‘Though I know
that long life means only bitterness, I have stayed so long in the
world that even before the Pine Tree of Takasago I should hide my head
in shame. How then should I find courage to go hither and thither in
the great Palace of a Hundred Towers? Though the august summons should
call me time and again, myself I could not obey. But the young prince
(whether he may have heard the august wish I know not) is impatient to
return, and, what is small wonder, seems very downcast in this place.
Tell his Majesty this, and whatever else of my thoughts you have here
learnt from me. For a little child this house is indeed a sorry
place....’ ‘They say that the child is asleep’ the quiver-bearer’s
daughter answered. ‘I should like to have seen him and told the
Emperor how he looks; but I am awaited at the Palace and it must be
late.’
She was hastening away, but the mother: ‘Since even those who wander
in the darkness of their own black thoughts can gain by converse a
momentary beam to guide their steps, I pray you sometimes to visit me
of your own accord and when you are at leisure. In years past it was
at times of joy and triumph that you came to this house, and now this
is the news you bring! Foolish are they indeed who trust to fortune!
From the time she was born until his death, her father, who knew his
own mind, would have it that she must go to Court and charged me again
and again not to disappoint his wishes if he were to die. And so,
though I thought that the lack of a guardian would bring her into
many difficulties, I was determined to carry out his desire. At Court
she found that favours only too great were to be hers, and all the
while must needs endure in secrecy the tokens of inhuman malice; till
hatred had heaped upon her so heavy a load of cares that she died as
it were murdered. Indeed, the love that in His wisdom He deigned to
show her (or so sometimes it seems to me in the uncomprehending
darkness of my heart) was crueller than indifference.’
So she spoke, till tears would let her speak no more; and now the
night had come.
‘All this’ the girl answered ‘He himself has said; and further: “That
thus against My will and judgment I yielded helplessly to a passion so
reckless that it caused men’s eyes to blink was perhaps decreed for
the very reason that our time was fated to be so short; it was the
wild and vehement passion of those who are marked down for instant
separation. And though I had vowed that none should suffer because of
my love, yet in the end she bore upon her shoulders the heavy hatred
of many who thought that for her sake they had been wronged.”
‘So again and again have I heard the Emperor speak with tears. But now
the night is far spent and I must carry my message to the Palace
before day comes.’
So she, weeping too, spoke as she hurried away. But the sinking moon
was shining in a cloudless sky, and in the grass-clumps that shivered
in the cold wind, bell-crickets tinkled their compelling cry. It was
hard to leave these grass-clumps, and the quiver-bearer’s daughter,
loth to ride away, recited the poem which says ‘Ceaseless as the
interminable voices of the bell-cricket, all night till dawn my tears
flow.’ The mother answered ‘Upon the thickets that teem with myriad
insect voices falls the dew of a Cloud Dweller’s tears’; for the
people of the Court are called _dwellers above the clouds_. Then
she gave the messenger a sash, a comb and other things that the dead
lady had left in her keeping,—gifts from the Emperor which now, since
their use was gone, she sent back to him as mementoes of the past. The
nurse-maids who had come with the boy were depressed not so much at
their mistress’s death as at being suddenly deprived of the daily
sights and sensations of the Palace. They begged to go back at once.
But the mother was determined not to go herself, knowing that she
would cut too forlorn a figure. On the other hand if she parted with
the boy, she would be daily in great anxiety about him. That was why
she did not immediately either go with him herself or send him to the
Palace.
The quiver-bearer’s daughter found the Emperor still awake. He was,
upon pretext of visiting the flower-pots in front of the Palace which
were then in full bloom, waiting for her out of doors, while four or
five trusted ladies conversed with him.
At this time it was his wont to examine morning and evening a picture
of The Everlasting Wrong,[6] the text written by Teiji no In,[7] with
poems by Ise[8] and Tsurayuki,[9] both in Yamato speech, and in that
of the men beyond the sea, and the story of this poem was the common
matter of his talk.
Now he turned to the messenger and asked eagerly for all her news. And
when she had given him a secret and faithful account of the sad place
whence she had come, she handed him the mother’s letter: ‘His
Majesty’s gracious commands I read with reverence deeper than I can
express, but their purport has brought great darkness and confusion
to my mind.’ All this, together with a poem in which she compared
her grandchild to a flower which has lost the tree that sheltered it
from the great winds, was so wild and so ill-writ as only to be
suffered from the hand of one whose sorrow was as yet unhealed.
Again the Emperor strove for self-possession in the presence of his
messenger. But as he pictured to himself the time when the dead lady
first came to him, a thousand memories pressed thick about him, and
recollection linked to recollection carried him onward, till he
shuddered to think how utterly unmarked, unheeded all these hours and
days had fled.
At last he said ‘I too thought much and with delight how with most
profit might be fulfilled the wish that her father the Councillor left
behind him; but of that no more. If the young Prince lives occasion
may yet be found.... It is for his long life that we must pray.’
He looked at the presents she had brought back and ‘Would that like
the wizard you had brought a kingfisher-hairpin as token of your visit
to the place where her spirit dwells’ he cried, and recited the poem:
_Oh for a master of magic who might go and seek her, and by a message
teach me where her spirit dwells_.
For the picture of Kuei-fei, skilful though the painter might be, was
but the work of a brush, and had no living fragrance. And though the
poet tells us that Kuei-fei’s grace was as that of ‘the hibiscus of
the Royal Lake or the willows of the Wei-yang Palace,’ the lady in the
picture was all paint and powder and had a simpering Chinesified air.
But when he thought of the lost lady’s voice and form, he could find
neither in the beauty of flowers nor in the song of birds any fit
comparison. Continually he pined that fate should not have allowed
them to fulfil the vow which morning and evening was ever talked of
between them,—the vow that their lives should be as the twin birds
that share a wing, the twin trees that share a bough. The rustling of
the wind, the chirping of an insect would cast him into the deepest
melancholy; and now Kōkiden, who for a long while had not been
admitted to his chamber, must needs sit in the moonlight making music
far on into the night! This evidently distressed him in the highest
degree and those ladies and courtiers who were with him were equally
shocked and distressed on his behalf. But the offending lady was one
who stood much upon her dignity and she was determined to behave as
though nothing of any consequence had taken place in the Palace.
And now the moon had set. The Emperor thought of the girl’s mother in
the house amid the thickets and wondered, making a poem of the
thought, with what feelings she had watched the sinking of the autumn
moon: ‘for even we Men above the Clouds were weeping when it sank.’
He raised the torches high in their sockets and still sat up. But at
last he heard voices coming from the Watch House of the Right and knew
that the hour of the Bull[10] had struck. Then, lest he should be
seen, he went into his chamber. He found he could not sleep and was up
before daybreak. But, as though he remembered the words ‘he knew not
the dawn was at his window’ of Ise’s poem,[11] he showed little
attention to the affairs of his Morning Audience, scarcely touched his
dried rice and seemed but dimly aware of the viands on the great
Table, so that the carvers and waiting-men groaned to see their
Master’s plight; and all his servants, both men and women kept on
whispering to one another ‘What a senseless occupation has ours
become!’ and supposed that he was obeying some extravagant vow.
Regardless of his subjects’ murmurings, he continually allowed his
mind to wander from their affairs to his own, so that the scandal of
his negligence was now as dangerous to the State as it had been
before, and again there began to be whispered references to a certain
Emperor of another land. Thus the months and days passed, and in the
end the young prince arrived at Court. He had grown up to be a child
of unrivalled beauty and the Emperor was delighted with him. In the
spring an heir to the Throne was to be proclaimed and the Emperor was
sorely tempted to pass over the first-born prince in favour of the
young child. But there was no one at Court to support such a choice
and it was unlikely that it would be tolerated by the people; it would
indeed bring danger rather than glory to the child. So he carefully
concealed from the world that he had any such design, and gained great
credit, men saying ‘Though he dotes on the boy, there is at least some
limit to his folly.’ And even the great ladies of the Palace became a
little easier in their minds.
The grandmother remained inconsolable, and impatient to set out upon
her search for the place where the dead lady’s spirit dwelt, she soon
expired. Again the Emperor was in great distress; and this time the
boy, being now six years old, understood what had happened and wept
bitterly. And often he spoke sadly of what he had seen when he was
brought to visit the poor dead lady who had for many years been so
kind to him. Henceforward he lived always at the Palace. When he
became seven he began to learn his letters, and his quickness was so
unusual that his father was amazed. Thinking that now no one would
have the heart to be unkind to the child, the Emperor began to take
him to the apartments of Kōkiden and the rest, saying to them ‘Now
that his mother is dead I know that you will be nice to him.’ Thus the
boy began to penetrate the Royal Curtain. The roughest soldier,
the bitterest foeman could not have looked on such a child without a
smile, and Kōkiden did not send him away. She had two daughters who
were indeed not such fine children as the little prince. He also
played with the Court Ladies, who, because he was now very pretty and
bashful in his ways, found endless amusement, as indeed did everyone
else, in sharing his games. As for his serious studies, he soon learnt
to send the sounds of zithern and flute flying gaily to the clouds.
But if I were to tell you of all his accomplishments, you would think
that he was soon going to become a bore.
At this time some Koreans came to Court and among them a
fortune-teller. Hearing this, the Emperor did not send for them to
come to the Palace, because of the law against the admission of
foreigners which was made by the Emperor Uda.[12] But in strict
secrecy he sent the Prince to the Strangers’ quarters. He went under
the escort of the Secretary of the Right, who was to introduce him as
his own son. The fortune teller was astonished by the boy’s lineaments
and expressed his surprise by continually nodding his head: ‘He has
the marks of one who might become a Father of the State, and if this
were his fate, he would not stop short at any lesser degree than that
of Mighty King and Emperor of all the land. But when I look again—I
see that confusion and sorrow would attend his reign. But should he
become a great Officer of State and Counsellor of the Realm I see no
happy issue, for he would be defying those kingly signs of which I
spoke before.’
The Secretary was a most talented, wise and learned scholar, and now
began to conduct an interesting conversation with the fortune teller.
They exchanged essays and poems, and the fortune-teller made a
little speech, saying ‘It has been a great pleasure to me on the eve
of my departure to meet with a man of capacities so unusual; and
though I regret my departure I shall now take away most agreeable
impressions of my visit.’ The little prince presented him with a very
nice verse of poetry, at which he expressed boundless admiration and
offered the boy a number of handsome presents. In return the Emperor
sent him a large reward from the Imperial Treasury. This was all kept
strictly secret. But somehow or other the Heir Apparent’s grandfather,
the Minister of the Right, and others of his party got wind of
it and became very suspicious. The Emperor then sent for native
fortune-tellers and made trial of them, explaining that because of
certain signs which he had himself observed he had hitherto refrained
from making the boy a prince. With one accord they agreed that he had
acted with great prudence and the Emperor determined not to set the
child adrift upon the world as a prince without royal standing or
influence upon the mother’s side. For he thought ‘My own power is very
insecure. I had best set him to watch on my behalf over the great
Officers of State.’ Thinking that he had thus agreeably settled the
child’s future, he set seriously to work upon his education, and saw
to it that he should be made perfect in every branch of art and
knowledge. He showed such aptitude in all his studies that it seemed a
pity he should remain a commoner and as it had been decided that it
would arouse suspicion if he were made a prince, the Emperor consulted
with certain doctors wise in the lore of the planets and phases of the
moon. And they with one accord recommended that he should be made a
Member of the Minamoto (or Gen) Clan. So this was done. As the years
went by the Emperor did not forget his lost lady; and though many
women were brought to the Palace in the hope that he might take
pleasure in them, he turned from them all, believing that there was
not in the world any one like her whom he had lost. There was at that
time a lady whose beauty was of great repute. She was the fourth
daughter of the previous Emperor, and it was said that her mother, the
Dowager Empress, had brought her up with unrivalled care. A certain
Dame of the Household, who had served the former Emperor, was
intimately acquainted with the young Princess, having known her since
childhood and still having occasion to observe her from without. ‘I
have served in three courts’ said the Dame ‘and in all that time have
seen none who could be likened to the departed lady, save the daughter
of the Empress Mother. She indeed is a lady of rare beauty.’ So she
spoke to the Emperor, and he, much wondering what truth there was in
it, listened with great attention. The Empress Mother heard of this
with great alarm, for she remembered with what open cruelty the
sinister Lady Kōkiden had treated her former rival, and though she did
not dare speak openly of her fears, she was managing to delay the
girl’s presentation, when suddenly she died.
The Emperor, hearing that the bereaved Princess was in a very desolate
condition, sent word gently telling her that he should henceforward
look upon her as though she were one of the Lady Princesses his
daughters. Her servants and guardians and her brother, Prince
Hyōbukyō, thought that life in the Palace might distract her and would
at least be better than the gloomy desolation of her home, and so they
sent her to the Court. She lived in apartments called Fujitsubo
(Wistaria Tub) and was known by this name. The Emperor could not deny
that she bore an astonishing resemblance to his beloved. She was
however of much higher rank, so that everyone was anxious to please
her, and, whatever happened, they were prepared to grant her the
utmost licence: whereas the dead lady had been imperilled by the
Emperor’s favour only because the Court was not willing to accept her.
His old love did not now grow dimmer, and though he sometimes found
solace and distraction in shifting his thoughts from the lady who had
died to the lady who was so much like her, yet life remained for him a
sad business.
Genji (‘he of the Minamoto clan’), as he was now called, was
constantly at the Emperor’s side. He was soon quite at his ease with
the common run of Ladies in Waiting and Ladies of the Wardrobe, so it
was not likely he would be shy with one who was daily summoned to the
Emperor’s apartments. It was but natural that all these ladies should
vie eagerly with one another for the first place in Genji’s
affections, and there were many whom in various ways he admired very
much. But most of them behaved in too grown-up a fashion; only one,
the new princess, was pretty and quite young as well, and though she
tried to hide from him, it was inevitable that they should often meet.
He could not remember his mother, but the Dame of the Household had
told him how very like to her the girl was, and this interested his
childish fancy, and he would like to have been her great friend and
lived with her always. One day the Emperor said to her ‘Do not be
unkind to him. He is interested because he has heard that you are so
like his mother. Do not think him impertinent, but behave nicely to
him. You are indeed so like him in look and features that you might
well be his mother.’
And so, young though he was, fleeting beauty took its hold upon his
thoughts; he felt his first clear predilection.
Kōkiden had never loved this lady too well, and now her old enmity to
Genji sprang up again; her own children were reckoned to be of quite
uncommon beauty, but in this they were no match for Genji, who was so
lovely a boy that people called him Hikaru Genji or Genji the
Shining One; and Princess Fujitsubo, who also had many admirers, was
called Princess Glittering Sunshine.
Though it seemed a shame to put so lovely a child into man’s dress, he
was now twelve years old and the time for his Initiation was come. The
Emperor directed the preparations with tireless zeal and insisted upon
a magnificence beyond what was prescribed. The Initiation of the Heir
Apparent, which had last year been celebrated in the Southern Hall,
was not a whit more splendid in its preparations. The ordering of the
banquets that were to be given in various quarters, and the work of
the Treasurer and Grain Intendant he supervised in person, fearing
lest the officials should be remiss; and in the end all was
perfection. The ceremony took place in the eastern wing of the
Emperor’s own apartments, and the Throne was placed facing towards the
east, with the seats of the Initiate to-be and his Sponsor (the
Minister of the Left) in front.
Genji arrived at the hour of the Monkey.[13] He looked very handsome
with his long childish locks, and the Sponsor, whose duty it had just
been to bind them with the purple filet, was sorry to think that all
this would soon be changed and even the Clerk of the Treasury seemed
loath to sever those lovely tresses with the ritual knife. The
Emperor, as he watched, remembered for a moment what pride the mother
would have taken in the ceremony, but soon drove the weak thought from
his mind.
Duly crowned, Genji went to his chamber and changing into man’s dress
went down into the courtyard and performed the Dance of Homage, which
he did with such grace that tears stood in every eye. And now the
Emperor, whose grief had of late grown somewhat less insistent, was
again overwhelmed by memories of the past.
It had been feared that his delicate features would show to less
advantage when he had put aside his childish dress; but on the
contrary he looked handsomer than ever.
His sponsor, the Minister of the Left, had an only daughter whose
beauty the Heir Apparent had noticed. But now the father began to
think he would not encourage that match, but would offer her to Genji.
He sounded the Emperor upon this, and found that he would be very glad
to obtain for the boy the advantage of so powerful a connection.
When the courtiers assembled to drink the Love Cup, Genji came and
took his place among the other princes. The Minister of the Left came
up and whispered something in his ear; but the boy blushed and could
think of no reply. A chamberlain now came over to the Minister and
brought him a summons to wait upon His Majesty immediately. When he
arrived before the Throne, a Lady of the Wardrobe handed to him the
Great White Inner Garment and the Maid’s Skirt,[14] which were his
ritual due as Sponsor to the Prince. Then, when he had made him drink
out of the Royal Cup, the Emperor recited a poem in which he prayed
that the binding of the purple filet might symbolize the union of
their two houses; and the Minister answered him that nothing should
sever this union save the fading of the purple band. Then he descended
the long stairs and from the courtyard performed the Grand
Obeisance.[15] Here too were shown the horses from the Royal Stables
and the hawks from the Royal Falconry, that had been decreed as
presents for Genji. At the foot of the stairs the Princes and
Courtiers were lined up to receive their bounties, and gifts of every
kind were showered upon them. That day the hampers and fruit baskets
were distributed in accordance with the Emperor’s directions by the
learned Secretary of the Right, and boxes of cake and presents lay
about so thick that one could scarcely move. Such profusion had not
been seen even at the Heir Apparent’s Initiation.
That night Genji went to the Minister’s house, where his betrothal was
celebrated with great splendour. It was thought that the little Prince
looked somewhat childish and delicate, but his beauty astonished
everyone. Only the bride, who was four years older, regarded him as a
mere baby and was rather ashamed of him.
The Emperor still demanded Genji’s attendance at the Palace, so he did
not set up a house of his own. In his inmost heart he was always
thinking how much nicer _she_[16] was than anyone else, and only
wanted to be with people who were like her, but alas no one was the
least like her. Everyone seemed to make a great deal of fuss about
Princess Aoi, his betrothed; but he could see nothing nice about her.
The girl at the Palace now filled all his childish thoughts and this
obsession became a misery to him.
Now that he was a ‘man’ he could no longer frequent the women’s
quarters as he had been wont to do. But sometimes when an
entertainment was a-foot he found comfort in hearing her voice dimly
blending with the sound of zithern or flute and felt his grown-up
existence to be unendurable. After an absence of five or six days he
would occasionally spend two or three at his betrothed’s house. His
father-in-law attributing this negligence to his extreme youth was not
at all perturbed and always received him warmly. Whenever he came the
most interesting and agreeable of the young people of the day were
asked to meet him and endless trouble was taken in arranging games to
amuse him.
The Shigeisa, one of the rooms which had belonged to his mother, was
allotted to him as his official quarters in the Palace, and the
servants who had waited on her were now gathered together again and
formed his suite. His grandmother’s house was falling into decay. The
Imperial Office of Works was ordered to repair it. The grouping of the
trees and disposition of the surrounding hills had always made the
place delightful. Now the basin of the lake was widened and many other
improvements were carried out. ‘If only I were going to live here with
someone whom I liked,’ thought Genji sadly.
Some say that the name of Hikaru the Shining One was given to him in
admiration by the Korean fortune-teller.[17]
[1] This chapter should be read with indulgence. In it Murasaki, still
under the influence of her somewhat childish predecessors, writes in a
manner which is a blend of the Court chronicle with the conventional
fairy-tale.
[2] Famous Emperor of the T‘ang dynasty in China; lived A.D. 685–762.
[3] The child of an Emperor could not be shown to him for several
weeks after its birth.
[4] I.e. be made Heir Apparent.
[5] She herself was of course carried in a litter.
[6] A poem by the Chinese writer Po Chü-i about the death of Yang
Kuei-fei, favourite of the Emperor Ming Huang. _See_ Giles, _Chinese
Literature_, p. 169.
[7] Name of the Emperor Uda after his retirement in A.D. 897.
[8] Poetess, 9th century.
[9] Famous poet, 883–946 A.D.
[10] 1 A.M.
[11] A poem by Lady Ise written on a picture illustrating Po Chü-i’s
_Everlasting Wrong_.
[12] Reigned 889–897. The law in question was made in 894.
[13] 3 P.M.
[14] These symbolized the unmanly life of childhood which Genji had
now put behind him.
[15] The _butō_, a form of kowtow so elaborate as to be practically a
dance.
[16] Fujitsubo.
[17] This touch is reminiscent of early chronicles such as the
_Nihongi_, which delight in alternative explanations. In the
subsequent chapters such archaisms entirely disappear.