CHAPTER IX

AOI

The accession of the new Emperor was in many ways unfavourable to

Genji’s position. His recent promotion[1] too brought with it heavy

responsibilities which sadly interrupted the course of his hidden

friendships, so that complaints of desertion or neglect were soon

heaped upon him from more than one quarter; while, as though Fate

wished to turn the tables upon him, the one being on earth for whose

love he longed in vain had now utterly abandoned him. Now that the

Emperor was free to live as he chose she was more constantly than ever

at his side, nor was her peace any longer disturbed by the presence of

a rival, for Kōkiden resenting the old Emperor’s neglect now seldom

left her son’s Palace. A constant succession of banquets and

entertainments, the magnificence of which became the talk of the whole

country, helped to enliven the ex-Emperor’s retirement and he was on

the whole very well content with his new condition. His only regret

concerned the Heir Apparent[2] whose position, unsupported by any

powerful influence outside the Palace, he regarded as extremely

insecure. He constantly discussed the matter with Genji, begging him

to enlist the support of the Minamoto clan. Such conversations tended

to be somewhat embarrassing, but they gave Genji pleasure in so

far as they enabled him to take measures for the boy’s welfare.

An unexpected event now occurred. Lady Rokujō’s daughter by her late

husband Prince Zembō was chosen to be the new Vestal Virgin at Ise.[3]

Her mother, who at the time when the appointment was first announced

happened to be particularly aggrieved at Genji’s treatment of her, at

once determined to make her daughter’s extreme youth a pretext for

leaving the Capital and settling permanently at Ise. Being at the

moment, as I have said, very much out of humour, she discussed the

matter openly, making no secret of her real reasons for wishing to

leave the City. The story soon reached the ex-Emperor’s ears, and

sending for Genji he said to him ‘The late Prince my brother was, as

you probably know, regarded with the utmost affection and esteem and I

am profoundly grieved to hear that your reckless and inconsiderate

conduct has cast a slur upon his family. For his daughter indeed I

feel as much responsible as if she were of my own children. I must

trouble you in future to safeguard to the utmost of your power the

reputation of these unfortunate ladies. If you do not learn to keep

better control over your frivolous inclinations you will soon find

yourself becoming extremely unpopular.’ Why should his father be so

much upset over the matter? And Genji, smarting under the rebuke, was

about to defend himself when it occurred to him that the warning was

not at all ill-merited and he maintained a respectful silence.

‘Affairs of this kind,’ the ex-Emperor continued, ‘must be managed so

that the woman, no matter who she is, need not feel that she has been

brought into a humiliating position or treated in a cynical and

off-hand way. Forget this rule, and she will soon make you feel the

unpleasant consequences of her resentment.’ ‘Wicked as he thinks

me already,’ said Genji to himself while this lecture was going on,

‘there is a much worse enormity of which he as yet knows nothing.’ And

stupefied with horror at the thought of what would ensue should his

father ever discover this hideous secret, he bowed and left the room.

What the ex-Emperor had said about ruining other people’s reputations

cut him to the quick. He realized that Rokujō’s rank and widowed

position entitled her to the utmost consideration. But after all it

was not he who had made public property of the affair; on the contrary

he had done everything in his power to prevent its becoming known.

There had always been a certain condescension in her treatment of him,

arising perhaps from the inequality of their ages,[4] and his

estrangement from her was solely due to the coldness with which she

had for a long time received him. That their private affairs were now

known not only to the ex-Emperor but also presumably to the whole

Court showed a lack of reticence which seemed to him deplorable.

Among others who heard of the business was Princess Asagao.[5]

Determined that she at least would not submit herself to such

treatment she ceased to answer his letters even with the short and

guarded replies that she had been in the habit of sending to him.

Nevertheless he found it hard to believe that so gentle-mannered a

creature was thinking unkindly of him and continued to regard her with

devoted admiration.

Princess Aoi when the story reached her ears was of course distressed

by this new instance of his fickleness; but she felt that it was

useless, now that his infidelity was open and unabashed, to protest

against one particular injury, and to his surprise she seemed to

take the matter rather lightly. She was suffering much inconvenience

from her condition and her spirits were very low. Her parents were

delighted and at the same time surprised to hear of what was to come.

But their pleasure and that of all her friends was marred by grave

forebodings, and it was arranged that prayers for her health and

special services of intercession should be recited in all the temples.

At such a time it was impossible for Genji to leave her and there were

many who though his feelings had not in reality cooled towards them

felt that they were being neglected.

The Vestal Virgin of Kamo still remained to be selected. The choice

fell upon Kōkiden’s daughter, San no Miya. She was a great favourite

both with her brother the new Emperor and with the Empress Mother. Her

retirement from the world was a bitter blow to them; but there was no

help for it since she alone of all the royal princesses fulfilled the

prescribed conditions.

The actual ritual of investiture could not be altered, but the Emperor

saw to it that the proceedings should be attended with the utmost Pomp

and splendour; while to the customary ritual of the Kamo Festival he

added so many touches that it became a spectacle of unparalleled

magnificence. All this was due to his partiality for the Virgin Elect.

On the day of her purification the Virgin is attended by a fixed

number of noblemen and princes. For this retinue the Emperor was at

pains to choose the best built and handsomest of the young men at

Court; he settled what coloured gowns they were to wear, what pattern

was to be on their breeches, and even on what saddles they should

ride. By a special decree he ordered that Prince Genji should join

this retinue, and so great was everyone’s desire to get a good view of

the procession that long beforehand people were getting ready

special carriages with which to line the route. The scene along the

highroad of the First Ward was one of indescribable excitement. Dense

crowds surged along the narrow space allotted to them, while the

stands which with a wealth of ingenious fancy had been constructed all

along the route of the procession, with gay cloaks and shawls hung

over the balustrades, were in themselves a spectacle of astonishing

beauty.

It had never been Aoi’s practice to be present at such occasions as

this and in her present state of health she would not have dreamt of

doing so had not her gentlewomen pressed round her saying ‘Come Madam!

It will be no fun for us to go by ourselves and be hidden away in some

corner. It is to see Prince Genji that all these people have come

to-day. Why, all sorts of queer wild men from the mountains are here,

and people have brought their wives and children from provinces ever

so far away. If all these people who are nothing to do with him have

taken the trouble to come so far, it will be too bad if you, his own

lady, are not there!’ Overhearing this Aoi’s mother joined in. ‘You

are feeling much better just now,’ she said; ‘I think you ought to

make the effort. It will be so disappointing for your gentlewomen....’

At the last minute Aoi changed her mind and announced that she was

going. It was now so late that there was no time to put on gala

clothes. The whole of the enclosure allotted for this purpose was

already lined with coaches which were packed so close that it was

quite impossible to find space for the large and numerous carriages of

Aoi and her train. A number of grand ladies began to make room for

her, backing their coaches away from a suitable space in the reserved

enclosure. Conspicuous among the rest were two basket-work carriages

of a rather old-fashioned pattern but with curtains such as are used

by persons of quality, very discreetly decked with draperies that

barely showed beneath the curtains, yet these draperies (whether

sleeve-favour, skirt or scarf) all of the handsomest colours. They

seemed to belong to some exalted personage who did not wish to be

recognized. When it was their turn to move, the coachmen in charge of

them would not lift a finger. ‘It is not for such as we to make way’

they said stiffly and did not stir. Among the attendants on both sides

there was a number of young grooms who were already the worse for

liquor. They were longing for a scuffle and it was impossible to keep

them in hand. The staid and elderly outriders tried to call them back,

but they took no notice.

The two carriages belonged to Princess Rokujō who had come secretly to

the festival hoping for a while to find distraction from her troubles.

Despite the steps which she had taken to conceal her identity, it was

at once suspected by some of Aoi’s gentlemen and they cried to the

grooms that this was not an equipage which could be dealt with so

high-handedly or it would be said that their lady was abusing her

position as wife of the Lord Commander. But at this moment a number of

Genji’s servants mingled in the fray. They knew Rokujō’s men by sight,

but after a moment’s embarrassment they decided not to give assistance

to the enemy by betraying his identity.

Thus reinforced Aoi’s side won the day and at length her coach and

those of all her ladies were drawn up along the front row, while

Rokujō’s was pushed back among a miscellaneous collection of carts and

gigs where she could see nothing at all. She was vexed beyond measure

not only at missing what she had come to see but also that despite all

her precautions she had been recognized and (as she was convinced)

deliberately insulted. Her shaft-rest and other parts of her coach as

well were damaged and she was obliged to prop it up against some

common person’s carriage wheels. Why, she vainly asked herself, had

she come among these hateful crowds? She would go home at once. What

sense was there in waiting for the procession to come? But when she

tried to go, she found that it was impossible to force a way through

the dense crowds. She was still struggling to escape when the cry went

up that the procession was in sight. Her resolution weakened. She

would wait till Genji had passed by. He did not see her. How should

he, for the crowds flashed by him like the hurrying images that a

stream catches and breaks. She realized this, yet her disappointment

was none the less.

The carriages that lined the route, decked and garlanded for this

great day, were crammed to overflowing with excited ladies who though

there was no room for them would not consent to be left behind.

Peeping out under the blinds of their coaches they smiled at the great

personages who were passing quite regardless of whether their

greetings were acknowledged. But every now and then a smile would be

rewarded by a quick glance or the backward turn of a head. Aoi’s party

was large and conspicuous. He wheeled round as he passed and saluted

its members attentively. Rider after rider again as the procession

went by would pause in front of Aoi’s coach and salute her with the

deepest respect. The humiliation of witnessing all this from an

obscure corner was more than Rokujō could bear, and murmuring the

lines ‘Though I saw him but as a shadow that falls on hurrying waters

yet knew I that at last my hour of utmost misery was come’ she burst

into tears. It was hideous that her servants should see her in this

state. Yet even while she struggled with her tears she could not find

it in her heart to regret that she had seen him in all his glory.

The riders in the procession were indeed all magnificently

apparelled, each according to his own rank; in particular the young

noblemen chosen by the Emperor cut so brilliant a figure that only the

lustre of Genji’s beauty could have eclipsed their splendour. The

Commander of this Bodyguard is not generally allotted a Palace-Officer

as his special attendant, but as the occasion was of such importance

the Imperial Treasurer[6] rode at Genji’s side. It seemed to those who

saw so many public honours showered upon him that no flower of fortune

could resist the favouring gale which blew towards his side. There

were among the crowd women of quite good birth who had dressed in

walking-skirts and come a long way on foot. There were nuns and other

female recluses who, though in order to see anything of the procession

they were obliged to endure being constantly pushed off their feet,

and though they commonly regarded all such spectacles with contempt

and aversion, were to-day declaring that they would not have missed it

for anything. There were old men grinning through toothless gums,

strange-looking girls with their hair poked away under ragged hoods

and stolid peasant boys standing with hands raised as though in

prayer, whose uncouth faces were suddenly transfigured with wonder and

joy as the procession burst into sight. Even the daughters of remote

provincial magistrates and governors who had no acquaintances whatever

in the City had expended as much coquetry upon the decoration of their

persons and coaches as if they were about to submit themselves to a

lover’s inspection, and their equipages made a bright and varied show.

If even these strangers were in such a taking, it may be imagined with

what excitement, scattered here and there among the crowd, those with

whom Genji was in secret communication watched the procession go by

and with how many hidden sighs their bosoms heaved.

Prince Momozono[7] had a seat in one of the stands. He was amazed to

see his nephew grown up into such a prodigiously handsome young man

and was alarmed lest soon the gods should cast an envious eye upon

him. Princess Asagao could not but be touched by the rare persistency

with which year after year Genji had pressed his suit. Even had he

been positively ugly she would have found it hard to resist such

importunity; so small wonder if seeing him ride by in all his

splendour she marvelled that she had held out so long. But she was

determined to know him much better before she committed herself. The

young waiting-women who were with her were careful to belaud him in

extravagant terms. To the festival itself[8] Aoi did not go. The

affray between her servants and those of Rokujō was soon reported to

Genji. It vexed him beyond measure that such a thing should have

occurred. That the exquisitely well-bred Aoi should have been in any

way responsible for this outburst of insolent ruffianism he did not

for a moment believe; it must be the work of rough under-servants who,

though they had no actual instructions, had imbibed the notion that

all was not well between the two houses and imagined that they would

get credit for espousing their mistress’s cause. He knew well enough

the unusual vanity and susceptibility of the affronted lady.

Distressed to think of the pain which this incident must have caused

her he hastened to her house. But her daughter, the Virgin Elect of

Ise, was still in the house, and she made this a plea for turning him

away after the exchange of a few formal words. He had the greatest

possible sympathy for her; but he was feeling rather tired of coping

with injured susceptibilities.

He could not face the idea of going straight back to the Great Hall.

It was the day of the Kamo festival and going to his own palace he

ordered Koremitsu to get his coach ready. ‘Look at her!’ he cried

smiling fondly at Murasaki when she appeared in all her finery

surrounded by the little children whom he had given her for playmates,

‘She must needs bring her dames to wait upon her!’ and stroking her

lovely hair which to-day Shōnagon had dressed with more than usual

care. ‘It is getting rather long’ he said; ‘to-day would not be a

bad[9] time to have it cut’ and sending for his astrologer he bade him

consult his books. ‘The maids-of-honour first!’ he cried, nodding at

the pretty troupe of babes, and their dainty tresses were trimmed so

as to hang neatly over their diapered holiday gowns. ‘I am going to

cut yours myself’ he said to Murasaki. ‘What a lot of it there is! I

wonder how much longer it would have grown.’ Really it was quite hard

work. ‘People with very long hair ought to wear it cut rather short

over the temples’ he said at last; ‘but I have not the heart to crop

you any closer’ and he laid the knife down. Shōnagon’s gratification

knew no bounds when she heard him reciting the prayer with which the

ceremony of hair-cutting should conclude. There is a sea-weed called

_miru_ which is used in the dressing of ladies’ hair and playing upon

this word (which also means ‘to see’) he recited a poem in which he

said that the miru-weed which had been used in the washing of her hair

was a token that he would forever fondly watch it grow. She answered

that like the sea-tides which visit the _miru_ in its cleft he came

but went away, and often her tresses unwatched by him would like the

hidden sea-weed grow. This she wrote very prettily on a slip of paper

and though the verse had no merit in it but the charm of a childish

mind it gave him great delight. To-day the crowds were as thick

as ever. With great difficulty he managed to wedge in his carriage

close to the Royal Stables. But here they were surrounded by somewhat

turbulent young noblemen and he was looking for a quieter place when a

smart carriage crammed full of ladies drew up near by and some one in

it beckoned with a fan to Genji’s servants. ‘Will you not come over

where we are?’ said one of the ladies. ‘We will gladly make room for

you.’ Such an offer was perhaps somewhat forward, but the place she

had indicated was such a good one that Genji at once accepted the

invitation. ‘I am afraid it is very unfair that we should take your

place like this ...’ Genji was beginning to say politely, when one of

the ladies handed him a fan with the corner bent down. Here he found

the poem: ‘This flower-decked day of meeting when the great god

unfolds his portents in vain have I waited, for alas another is at thy

side.’ Surely the handwriting was familiar. Yes, it was that of the

ancient lady-of-the-bedchamber. He felt that it was time she should

give up such pranks as this and answered discouragingly: ‘Not ours

this day of tryst when garlanded and passionate the Eighty Tribes

converge.’ This put the lady out of countenance and she replied: ‘Now

bitterly do I repent that for this cheating day my head is decked with

flowers; for in name only is it a day of meeting.’

Their carriages remained side by side, but Genji did not even draw up

the side-curtains, which was a disappointment to more persons than

one. The magnificence of his public appearance a few days ago was

contrasted by everyone with the unobtrusive manner in which he now

mingled with the crowd. It was agreed that his companion, whoever she

might be, must certainly be some very great lady. Genji was afraid

that his neighbour was going to prove troublesome. But fortunately

some of her companions had more discretion than their mistress,

and out of consideration for the unknown sharer of Genji’s coach

persuaded the voluble lady to restrain herself.

Lady Rokujō’s sufferings were now far worse than in previous years.

Though she could no longer endure to be treated as Genji was treating

her, yet the thought of separating from him altogether and going so

far away agitated her so much that she constantly deferred her

journey. She felt too that she would become a laughingstock if it was

thought that she had been spurred to flight by Genji’s scorn; yet if

at the last moment she changed her plans and stayed behind everyone

would think her conduct extremely ill-balanced and unaccountable. Thus

her days and nights were spent in an agony of indecision and often she

repeated to herself the lines ‘My heart like the fishers’ float on Ise

shore is danced from wave to wave.’[10] She felt herself indeed

swirled this way and that by paroxysms that sickened her but were

utterly beyond her control.

Genji, though it pained him that she should feel it necessary to go so

far away did not attempt to dissuade her from the journey. ‘It is

quite natural’ he wrote, ‘that tiresome creature as I am you should

want to put me altogether out of your head. I only beg that even

though you see no use in it, you will let me see you once more before

you go. Were we to meet, you would soon realize that I care for your

happiness far more than you suppose.’ But she could not forget how

when at the River of cleansing she sought a respite from the torture

of her own doubt and indecision, rough waves had dashed her against

the rocks,[11] and she brooded more and more upon this wrong till

there was room for no other thought in all her heart.

Meanwhile Princess Aoi became strangely distraught, and it seemed at

times as though some hostile spirit had entered into her. The whole

household was plunged into such a state of anxiety and gloom that

Genji had not the heart to absent himself for more than a few hours.

It was only very occasionally that he got even as far as his own

palace. After all, she was his wife; moreover, despite all the

difficulties that had risen between them he cared for her very much

indeed. He could no longer disguise from himself that there was

something wrong with her in addition to the discomfort which naturally

accompanied her condition, and he was in a state of great distress.

Constant rituals of exorcism and divination were performed under his

direction, and it was generally agreed that all the signs indicated

possession by the spirit of some living person. Many names were tried

but to none of them did the spirit respond, and it seemed as though it

would be impossible to shift it. Aoi herself felt that some alien

thing had entered into her, and though she was not conscious of any

one definite pain or dread the sense that the thing was there never

for a moment left her. The greatest healers of the day were powerless

to eject it and it became apparent that this was no ordinary case of

‘possession’: some tremendous accumulation of malice was discharging

itself upon her. It was natural that her friends should turn over in

their minds the names of those whom Genji had most favoured. It was

whispered that only with Lady Rokujō and the girl at the Nijō-in was

he on terms of such intimacy that their jealousy would be at all

likely to produce a fatal effect. But when the doctors attempted to

conjure the spirit by the use of these names, there was no visible

response. She had not in all the world any enemy who might be

practising conscious[12] witchcraft against her. Such indispositions

were sometimes attributed to possession by the spirit of some

dead retainer or old family-nurse; or again the malice of someone whom

the Minister, Aoi’s father, had offended might, owing to her delicate

condition, have fastened upon her instead of him. Conjecture after

conjecture was accepted and then falsified. Meanwhile she lay

perpetually weeping. Constantly, indeed, she would break out into fits

of sobbing so violent that her breath was stopped, while those about

her, in great alarm for her safety, stood by in misery not knowing

what to do.

The ex-Emperor enquired after her continually. He even ordered special

services to be said on her behalf, and these attentions served to

remind her parents in what high estimation she was held at the Court.

Not among her friends only but throughout the whole country the news

of her illness caused great distress. Rokujō heard of her sufferings

with deep concern. For years they had been in open rivalry for Genji’s

favours, but even after that wretched affair of the coaches (though it

must be admitted that this had greatly incensed her) she had never

gone so far as to wish evil against the Princess. She herself was very

unwell. She began to feel that the violent and distracting emotions

which continually assailed her had in some subtle way unhinged her

mind and she determined to seek spiritual assistance at a place some

miles distant from her home. Genji heard of this and in great anxiety

concerning her at once set out for the house where she was reported to

be staying. It lay beyond the City precincts and he was obliged to go

with the greatest secrecy.[13] He begged her to forgive him for not

having come to see her for so long. ‘I have not been having a very

cheerful time’ he said and gave her some account of Aoi’s condition.

He wanted to make her feel that if he had stayed away it had been

from a melancholy necessity and not because he had found more amusing

company elsewhere. ‘It is not so much my own anxiety that unnerves me

as the spectacle of the appalling helplessness and misery into which

her illness has plunged her wretched parents, and it was in the hope

of forgetting for a little while all these sickroom horrors that I

came to see you here to-day. If only just for this once you could

overlook all my offences and be kind to me....’

His pleading had no effect. Her attitude was more hostile than before.

He was not angry with her, nor indeed was he surprised. Day was

already breaking when, unsolaced, he set out for home. But as she

watched him go his beauty suddenly made havoc of all her resolutions

and again she felt that it was madness to leave him. Yet what had she

to stay for? Aoi was with child and this could only be a sign that he

had made his peace with her. Henceforward he could lead a life of

irreproachable rectitude and if once in a way he came to make his

excuse as he had come to-day, what purpose would that serve, save to

keep ever fresh the torment of her desires? Thus when his letter came

next day it found her more distraught than before: ‘The sick woman who

for a few days past had shown some improvement is again suffering

acutely and it is at present impossible for me to leave her.’ Certain

that this was a mere excuse she sent in reply the poem ‘The fault is

mine and the regret, if careless as the peasant girl who stoops too

low amid the sprouting rice I soiled my sleeve in love’s dark road.’

At the end of her letter she reminded him of the old song: ‘Now

bitterly do I repent that ever I brought my pitcher to the mountain

well where waters were but deep enough to soil my sleeve.’ He looked

at the delicate handwriting. Who was there, even among women of her

high lineage and breeding, that could rival the ineffable grace

and elegance with which this small note was penned? That one whose

mind and person alike so strongly attracted him must now by his own

act be lost to him forever, was a bitter thought. Though it was almost

dark, he sat down and wrote to her: ‘Do not say that the waters have

but wetted your sleeve. For the shallowness is in your comparison

only; not in my affections!’ And to this he added the poem: ‘’Tis you,

you only who have loitered among the shallow pools: while I till all

my limbs were drenched have battled through the thickets of love’s

dark track.’ And he ended with the words: ‘Had but a ray of comfort

lighted the troubles of this house, I should myself have been the

bearer of this note.’

Meanwhile Aoi’s possession had returned in full force; she was in a

state of pitiable torment. It reached Lady Rokujō’s ears that the

illness had been attributed by some to the operation of her ‘living

spirit.’ Others, she was told, believed that her father’s ghost was

avenging the betrayal of his daughter. She brooded constantly upon the

nature of her own feelings towards Aoi, but could discover in herself

nothing but intense unhappiness. Of hostility towards Aoi she could

find no trace at all. Yet she could not be sure whether somewhere in

the depths of a soul consumed by anguish some spark of malice had not

lurked. Through all the long years during which she had loved and

suffered, though it had often seemed to her that greater torment could

not anywhere in the world exist, her whole being had never once been

so utterly bruised and shattered as in these last days. It had begun

with that hateful episode of the coaches. She had been scorned,

treated as though she had no right to exist. Yes, it was true that

since the Festival of Purification her mind had been buffeted by such

a tempest of conflicting resolutions that sometimes it seemed as

though she had lost all control over her own thoughts. She

remembered how one night she had suddenly, in the midst of agonizing

doubts and indecisions, found that she had been dreaming. It seemed to

her that she had been in a large magnificent room, where lay a girl

whom she knew to be the Princess Aoi. Snatching her by the arm she had

dragged and mauled the prostrate figure, with an outburst of brutal

fury such as in her waking life would have been utterly foreign to

her. Since then she had had the same dream several times. How

terrible! It seemed then that it was really possible for one’s spirit

to leave the body and break out into emotions which the waking mind

would not countenance. Even where someone’s actions are all but

irreproachable (she reflected) people take a malicious delight in

saying nothing about the good he has done and everything about the

evil. With what joy would they seize upon such a story as this! That

after his death a man’s ghost should pursue his enemies is a thing

which seems to be of constant occurrence, yet even this is taken as a

sign that the dead man was of a fiendishly venomous and malignant

character and his reputation is utterly destroyed. ‘What then will

become of me if it is thought that while still alive I have been

guilty of so hideous a crime?’ She must face her fate. She had lost

Genji for ever. If she were to keep any control at all over her own

thoughts she must first of all find some way of putting him wholly out

of mind. She kept on reminding herself not to think of him, so that

this very resolve led her in the end to think of him but the more.

The Virgin of Ise should by rights have entered upon her duties before

the end of the year, but difficulties of various kinds arose and it

was not till the autumn of the next year that she could at last be

received. She was to enter the Palace in-the-Fields[14] in the ninth

month, but this was decided so late that the arrangements for

her second Purification had to be made in great haste. It was

very inconvenient that at this crisis her mother, so far from

superintending the preparations, spent hour after hour lying dazed and

helpless upon her bed. At last the priests arrived to fetch the girl

away. They took a grave view of the mother’s condition and gave her

the benefit of their presence by offering up many prayers and

incantations. But week after week she remained in the same condition,

showing no symptom which seemed actually dangerous, yet all the time

(in some vague and indefinite way) obviously very ill. Genji sent

constantly to enquire after her, but she saw clearly that his

attention was occupied by quite other matters. Aoi’s delivery was not

yet due and no preparations for it had been made, when suddenly there

were signs that it was close at hand. She was in great distress, but

though the healers recited prayer upon prayer their utmost efforts

could not shift by one jot the spiteful power which possessed her. All

the greatest miracle-workers of the land were there; the utter failure

of their ministrations irritated and perplexed them. At last, daunted

by the potency of their incantations, the spirit that possessed her

found voice and, weeping bitterly, she was heard to say: ‘Give me a

little respite; there is a matter of which Prince Genji and I must

speak.’ The healers nodded at one another as though to say ‘Now we

shall learn something worth knowing,’ for they were convinced that the

‘possession’ was speaking through the mouth of the possessed, and they

hurried Genji to her bedside. Her parents thinking that, her end being

near, she desired to give some last secret injunction to Genji,

retired to the back of the room. The priests too ceased their

incantations and began to recite the _Hokkekyo_[15] in low impressive

tones. He raised the bed-curtain. She looked lovely as ever as

she lay there, very big with child, and any man who saw her even

now would have found himself strangely troubled by her beauty. How

much the more then Prince Genji, whose heart was already overflowing

with tenderness and remorse! The plaited tresses of her long hair

stood out in sharp contrast to her white jacket.[16] Even to this

loose, sick-room garb her natural grace imparted the air of a

fashionable gown! He took her hand. ‘It is terrible’ he began, ‘to see

you looking so unhappy ...’ he could say no more. Still she gazed at

him, but through his tears he saw that there was no longer in her eyes

the wounded scorn that he had come to know so well, but a look of

forbearance and tender concern; and while she watched him weep her own

eyes brimmed with tears. It would not do for him to go on crying like

this. Her father and mother would be alarmed; besides, it was

upsetting Aoi herself, and meaning to cheer her he said: ‘Come, things

are not so bad as that! You will soon be much better. But even if

anything should happen, it is certain that we shall meet again in

worlds to come. Your father and mother too, and many others, love you

so dearly that between your fate and theirs must be some sure bond

that will bring you back to them in many, many lives that are to be.’

Suddenly she interrupted him: ‘No, no. That is not it. But stop these

prayers awhile. They do me great harm,’ and drawing him nearer to her

she went on ‘I did not think that you would come. I have waited for

you till all my soul is burnt with longing.’ She spoke wistfully,

tenderly; and still in the same tone recited the verse ‘Bind thou, as

the seam of a skirt is braided, this shred, that from my soul despair

and loneliness have sundered.’ The voice in which these words were

said was not Aoi’s; nor was the manner hers. He knew someone

whose voice was very like that. Who was it? Why, yes; surely only

she,—the Lady Rokujō. Once or twice he had heard people suggest that

something of this kind might be happening; but he had always rejected

the idea as hideous and unthinkable, believing it to be the malicious

invention of some unprincipled scandalmonger, and had even denied that

such ‘possession’ ever took place. Now he had seen one with his own

eyes. Ghastly, unbelievable as they were, such things did happen in

real life. Controlling himself at last he said in a low voice: ‘I am

not sure who is speaking to me. Do not leave me in doubt....’ Her

answer proved only too conclusively that he had guessed aright. To his

horror her parents now came back to the bed, but she had ceased to

speak, and seeing her now lying quietly her mother thought the attack

was over, and was coming towards the bed carrying a basin of hot water

when Aoi suddenly started up and bore a child. For the moment all was

gladness and rejoicing; but it seemed only too likely that the spirit

which possessed her had but been temporarily dislodged; for a fierce

fit of terror was soon upon her, as though the thing (whatever it was)

were angry at having been put to the trouble of shifting, so that

there was still grave anxiety about the future. The Abbot of Tendai

and the other great ecclesiastics who were gathered together in the

room attributed her easy delivery to the persistency of their own

incantations and prayers, and as they hastily withdrew to seek

refreshment and repose they wiped the sweat from their brows with an

expression of considerable self-satisfaction. Her friends who had for

days been plunged in the deepest gloom now began to take heart a

little, believing that although there was no apparent improvement yet

now that the child was safely born she could not fail to mend. The

prayers and incantations began once more, but throughout the

house there was a new feeling of confidence; for the amusement of

looking after the baby at least gave them some relief from the strain

under which they had been living for so many days. Handsome presents

were sent by the ex-Emperor, the Royal Princes and all the Court,

forming an array which grew more dazzling each night.[17] The fact

that the child was a boy made the celebrations connected with his

birth all the more sumptuous and elaborate.

The news of this event took Lady Rokujō somewhat aback. The last

report she had heard from the Great Hall was that the confinement was

bound to be very dangerous. And now they said that there had not been

the slightest difficulty. She thought this very peculiar. She had

herself for a long while been suffering from the most disconcerting

sensations. Often she felt as though her whole personality had in some

way suddenly altered. It was as though she were a stranger to herself.

Recently she had noticed that a smell of mustard-seed incense for

which she was at a loss to account was pervading her clothes and hair.

She took a hot bath and put on other clothes; but still the same odour

of incense pursued her. It was bad enough even in private to have this

sensation of being as it were estranged from oneself. But now her body

was playing tricks upon her which her attendants must have noticed and

were no doubt discussing behind her back. Yet there was not one person

among those about her with whom she could bring herself to discuss

such things and all this pent-up misery seemed only to increase the

strange process of dissolution which had begun to attack her mind.

Now that Genji was somewhat less anxious about Aoi’s condition the

recollection of his extraordinary conversation with her at the

crisis of her attack kept on recurring in his mind, and it made so

painful an impression upon him that though it was now a long time

since he had communicated with Rokujō and he knew that she must be

deeply offended, he felt that no kind of intimacy with her would ever

again be possible. Yet in the end pity prevailed and he sent her a

letter. It seemed indeed that it would at present be heartless to

absent himself at all from one who had just passed through days of

such terrible suffering and from her friends who were still in a state

of the gravest anxiety, and all his secret excursions were abandoned.

Aoi still remained in a condition so serious that he was not allowed

to see her. The child was as handsome an infant as you could wish to

see. The great interest which Genji took in it and the zest with which

he entered into all the arrangements which were made for its welfare

delighted Aoi’s father, inasmuch as they seemed signs of a better

understanding between his daughter and Genji; and though her slow

recovery caused him great anxiety, he realized that an illness such as

that through which she had just passed must inevitably leave

considerable traces behind it and he persuaded himself that her

condition was less dangerous than one might have supposed. The child

reminded Genji of the Heir Apparent and made him long to see

Fujitsubo’s little son again. The desire took such strong hold upon

him that at last he sent Aoi a message in which he said: ‘It is a very

long time since I have been to the Palace or indeed have paid any

visits at all. I am beginning to feel the need of a little

distraction, so to-day I am going out for a short while and should

like to see you before I go. I do not want to feel that we are

completely cut off from one another.’ So he pleaded, and he was

supported by her ladies who told her that Prince Genji was her own

dear Lord and that she ought not to be so proud and stiff with him.

She feared that her illness had told upon her looks and was for

speaking to him with a curtain between, but this too her gentlewomen

would not allow. He brought a stool close to where she was lying and

began speaking to her of one thing or another. Occasionally she put in

a word or two, but it was evident that she was still very weak.

Nevertheless it was difficult to believe that she had so recently

seemed almost at the point of death. They were talking quietly

together about those worst days of her illness and how they now seemed

like an evil dream when suddenly he recollected the extraordinary

conversation he had had with her when she was lying apparently at her

last gasp and filled with a sudden bitterness, he said to her: ‘There

are many other things that I must one day talk to you about. But you

seem very tired and perhaps I had better leave you.’ So saying he

arranged her pillows, brought her warm water to wash in and in fact

played the sick-nurse so well that those about her wondered where he

had acquired the art. Still peerlessly beautiful but weak and listless

she seemed as she lay motionless on the bed at times almost to fade

out of existence. He gazed at her with fond concern. Her hair, every

ringlet still in its right place, was spread out over the pillow.

Never before had her marvellous beauty so strangely impressed him. Was

it conceivable that year after year he should have allowed such a

woman to continue in estrangement from him? Still he stood gazing at

her. ‘I must start for the Palace,’ he said at last; ‘but I shall not

be away long. Now that you are better you must try to make your mother

feel less anxious about you when she comes presently; for though she

tries hard not to show it, she is still terribly distressed about you.

You must begin now to make an effort and sit up for a little while

each day. I think it is partly because she spoils you so much that you

are taking so long to get well.’ As he left the room, robed in

all the magnificence of his court attire she followed him with her

eyes more fixedly than ever in her life before. The attendance of the

officers who took part in the autumn session was required, and Aoi’s

father accompanied Genji to the Palace, as did also her brother who

needed the Minister’s assistance in making their arrangements for the

coming political year. Many of their servants went too and the Great

Hall wore a deserted and melancholy aspect. Suddenly Aoi was seized

with the same choking-fit as before and was soon in a desperate

condition. This news was brought to Genji in the Palace and breaking

off his Audience he at once made for home. The rest followed in hot

haste and though it was Appointment Evening[18] they gave up all

thought of attending the proceedings, knowing that the tragic turn of

affairs at the Great Hall would be considered a sufficient excuse. It

was too late to get hold of the abbot from Mount Tendai or any of the

dignitaries who had given their assistance before. It was appalling

that just when she seemed to have taken a turn for the better she

should so suddenly again be at the point of death, and the people at

the Great Hall felt utterly helpless and bewildered. Soon the house

was full of lackeys who were arriving from every side with messages of

sympathy and enquiry; but from the inhabitants of that stricken house

they could obtain no information, for they seemed to do nothing but

rush about from one room to another in a state of frenzy which it was

terrifying to behold.

Remembering that several times already her ‘possession’ had reduced

her to a trance-like state, they did not for some time attempt to lay

out the body or even touch her pillows, but left her lying just as she

was. After two or three days however it became clear that life was

extinct.

Amid the general lamentations which ensued Genji’s spirit sank

with the apathy of utter despair. Sorrow had followed too fast upon

sorrow; life as he saw it now was but a succession of futile miseries.

The messages of condolence which poured in from all the most exalted

quarters in the Court and City merely fatigued and exasperated him.

The warmth of the old ex-Emperor’s messages and his evident personal

distress at Aoi’s death were indeed very flattering and mingled a

certain feeling of gratification with her father’s perpetual weeping.

At the suggestion of a friend various drastic means were resorted to

in the hope that it might yet be possible to kindle some spark of life

in the body. But it soon became evident, even to their reluctant eyes,

that all this was too late, and heavy at heart they took the body to

Toribeno. Here, in the great flat cremation-ground beyond the town,

the horrors that they had dreaded were only too swiftly begun. Even in

this huge open space there was scarcely room for the crowds of

mourners who had come from all the great palaces of the City to follow

behind the bier and for the concourses of priests who, chanting their

liturgies, flocked from the neighbouring temples. The ex-Emperor was

of course represented; so were the Princess Kōkiden and the Heir

Apparent; while many other important people came in person and mingled

with the crowd. Never had any funeral aroused so universal a

demonstration of interest and sympathy. Her father was not present:

‘Now in my declining years to have lost one who was so young and

strong is a blow too staggering ...’ he said and he could no longer

check the tears which he was striving to conceal. His grief was

heart-rending. All night long the mournful ceremonies proceeded, but

at last only a few pitiful ashes remained upon the pyre and in the

morning the mourners returned to their homes. It was in fact, save for

its grandeurs, much like any other funeral; but it so happened that

save in one case only death had not yet come Genji’s way and the

scenes of that day haunted him long afterwards with hideous persistency.

The ceremony took place in the last week of the eighth month. Seeing

that from Aoi’s father all the soft brightness of this autumn morning

was hid in the twilight of despair and well knowing what thoughts must

be passing through his mind, Genji came to him and pointing to the sky

whispered the following verse: ‘Because of all the mists that wreathe

the autumn sky I know not which ascended from my lady’s bier,

henceforth upon the country of the clouds from pole to pole I gaze

with love.’

At last he was back in his room. He lay down, but could not sleep. His

thoughts went back over the years that he had known her. Why had he

been content lazily to assume that in the end all would go right and

meanwhile amused himself regardless of her resentment? Why had he let

year after year go by without managing even at the very end to

establish any real intimacy, any sympathy between them? The bitterest

remorse now filled his heart; but what use was it? His servants

brought him his light grey mourner’s dress and the strange thought

floated into his mind ‘What if I had died instead and not she? She

would be getting into the woman-mourner’s deep-dyed robe,’ and he

recited the poem: ‘Though light in hue the dress which in bereavement

custom bids me wear, yet black my sorrow as the gown thou wouldst have

worn;’ and as thus clad he told his rosary those about him noted that

even the dull hues of mourning could not make him look peaked or drab.

He read many sūtras in a low voice, among them the liturgy to

Samantabhadra as Dispenser of the Dharmadhātu Samādhi, which he

recited with an earnestness more impressive in its way than the

dexterous intonation of the professional cleric. Next he visited the

new-born child and took some comfort in the reflection that she

had at least left behind her this memorial of their love. Genji did

not attempt to go even for the day to the Nijō-in, but remained buried

in recollections and regrets with no other occupation save the

ordering of masses for her soul. He did however bring himself to write

a few letters, among them one to Rokujō. The Virgin Elect was already

in charge of the Guardsmen of the Gate and would soon be passed on by

them to the Palace-in-the-Fields. Rokujō accordingly made her

daughter’s situation an excuse for sending no reply.[19] He was now so

weary of life and its miseries that he seriously contemplated the

taking of priestly vows, and might perhaps have done so, had there not

been a new bond which seemed to tie him irrevocably to the world. But

stay, there was the girl Murasaki too, waiting for him in the wing of

his palace. How unhappy she must have been during all this long time!

That night lying all alone within his royal curtains, though watchmen

were going their rounds not far away, he felt very lonely and

remembering that ‘autumn is no time to lie alone,’ he sent for the

sweetest voiced among the chaplains of the palace. His chanting

mingled with the sounds of early dawn was indeed of almost unendurable

beauty. But soon the melancholy of late autumn, the murmur of the

rising wind took possession of him, and little used to lonely nights

he found it hard to keep his bed till morning. Looking out he saw that

a heavy mist lay over the garden beds; yet despite the mist it was

clear that something was tied to the stem of a fine chrysanthemum not

far away. It was a letter written on dark blue paper.[20] The

messenger had left it there and gone away. ‘What a charming idea!’ he

was thinking when he suddenly recognized the hand. It was from

Rokujō. She began by saying she did not think, having regard to her

daughter’s situation, that he would be surprised at her long delay in

answering his previous note. She added an acrostic poem in which,

playing upon the word chrysanthemum (_kiku_) she told him of her

distress at hearing (_kiku_) of his bereavement. ‘The beauty of the

morning’ she ended, ‘turned my thoughts more than ever towards you and

your sorrow; that is why I could not choose but answer you.’ It was

written even more elegantly than usual; but he tossed it aside. Her

condolences wounded him, for after what he had seen he knew that they

could not be sincere. Nevertheless he felt that it would be too harsh

to break off all communication with her; that he should do so would in

fact tend to incriminate her, and this was the last thing he desired.

After all, it was probably not _that_ at all which had brought about

the disaster; maybe Aoi’s fate was sealed in any case. If only he had

chanced never to see or hear the fatal operation of her spirit! As it

was, argue with himself as he might, he doubted whether he would ever

be able to efface the impression of what had been revealed to him at

that hideous scene.

He had the excuse that he was still in deep mourning and that to

receive a letter from him would inconvenience her at this stage of her

daughter’s Purification. But after turning the matter over in his mind

for a long while, he decided that it would be unfeeling not to answer

a letter which had evidently been written with the sole object of

giving him pleasure and on a paper lightly tinted with brown he wrote:

‘Though I have let so many days slip by, believe me that you have not

been absent from my thoughts. If I was reluctant to answer your

letter, it was because, as a mourner, I was loath to trespass upon the

sanctity which now surrounds your home, and this I trusted that

you would understand. Do not brood overmuch upon what has happened;

for “go we late or soon, more frail our lives than dew-drops hanging

in the morning light.” For the present, think of it no more. I say

this now, because it is not possible for us to meet.’

She received the letter at her daughter’s place of preparation, but

did not read it till she was back in her own house. At a glance she

knew at what he was hinting. So he too accused her! And at last the

hideous conviction of her own guilt forced itself upon her acceptance.

Her misery increased tenfold.

If even Genji had reason to believe in her guilt, her brother-in-law,

the ex-Emperor, must already have been informed. What was he thinking

of her? Her dead husband, Prince Zembō, had been the brother whom he

had loved best. He had accepted the guardianship of the little girl

who was now about to be consecrated and at his brother’s earnest

entreaty had promised to undertake her education and indeed treat her

as though she were his own child. The old Emperor had constantly

invited the widowed lady and her daughter to live with him in the

Palace, but she was reluctant to accept this offer, which indeed was

somewhat impracticable. Meanwhile she allowed herself to listen to

Genji’s youthful addresses and was soon living in constant torment and

agitation lest her indiscretion should be discovered. During the whole

period of this escapade she was in such a state of mingled excitement

and apprehension that she scarcely knew what she was doing. In the

world at large she had the reputation of being a great beauty

and this, combined with her exalted lineage, brought to the

Palace-in-the-Fields, so soon as it was known that she had repaired

thither with her daughter, a host of frivolous dandies from the Court,

who made it their business to force upon her their fashionable

attentions morning, noon and night. Genji heard of this and did

not blame them. He could only think it was a thousand pities that a

woman endowed with every talent and charm, should take it into her

head that she had done with the world and prepare to remove herself to

so remote a place. He could not help thinking that she would find Ise

extremely dull when she got there.

Though the masses for Aoi’s soul were now over, he remained in

retirement till the end of the seven weeks. He was not used to doing

nothing and the time hung heavy on his hands. Often he sent for Tō no

Chūjō to tell him all that was going on in the world, and among much

serious information Chūjō would often seek to distract him by

discussing the strange escapades in which they had sometimes shared.

On one of these occasions he indulged in some jokes at the expense of

the ancient lady-of-the-bedchamber with whom Genji had so indiscreetly

become involved. ‘Poor old lady!’ Genji protested; ‘it is too bad to

make fun of her in this way. Please do not do it.’ But all the same he

had to admit to himself that he could never think of her without

smiling. Then Chūjō told him the whole story of how he had followed

and watched him on that autumn night, the first after the full

moon,[21] and many other stories besides of his own adventures and

other people’s. But in the end they fell to talking of their common

loss, and agreeing that taken all in all life was but a sad business

they parted in tears.

Some weeks afterwards on a gloomy wet evening Chūjō strode into the

room looking somewhat self-conscious in the light grey winter cloak

and breeches which he was to-day wearing for the first time.[22] Genji

was leaning against the balustrade of the balcony above the main

western door. For a long while he had been gazing at the frost-clad

gardens which surrounded the house. A high wind was blowing and

swift showers dashed against the trees. Near to tears he murmured

to himself the line ‘Tell me whether her soul be in the rain or

whether in the clouds above!’[23] And as Chūjō watched him sitting

there, his chin resting upon his hand, he thought the soul of one who

had been wedded to so lovely a youth would not indeed have borne quite

to renounce the scene of her earthly life and must surely be hovering

very near him. Still gazing with eager admiration Chūjō came to

Genji’s side. He noticed now that though his friend had not in any

other way abated the plainness of his dress, he had to-day put on a

coloured sash. This streak of deep red showed up against his grey

cloak (which though still a summer one[24] was of darker colour than

that which he had lately been wearing) in so attractive a way that

though the effect was very different from that of the magnificent

attires which Genji had affected in happier days, yet Chūjō could not

for a long while take his eyes off him. At last he too gazed up at the

stormy sky, and remembering the Chinese verse which he had heard Genji

repeat he recited the poem: ‘Though to rain her soul be turned, yet

where in the clouded vault of heaven is that one mist-wreath which is

she?’ And Genji answered: ‘Since she whom once we knew beyond the

country of the clouds is fled, two months of storm and darkness now

have seared the wintry earth below.’

The depth of Genji’s feeling was evident. Sometimes Chūjō had

thought it was merely dread of the old Emperor’s rebukes—coupled with

a sense of obligation towards Aoi’s father whose kindness had always

been so marked and also towards the Princess her mother, who had

cherished him with an unfailing patience and fondness—that had made it

difficult for him to break off a relationship which was in fact

becoming very irksome. Often indeed Genji’s apparent indifference to

Aoi had been very painful to him. Now it was evident to him that she

had never ceased to hold an important place in his affections, and

this made him deplore more bitterly than ever the tragedy of her early

death. Whatever he did and wherever he went he felt that a light was

gone out of his life and he was very despondent.

Among the withered undergrowth in the garden Genji found to his

delight a few gentians still blossoming and after Chūjō was gone he

plucked some and bade the wet-nurse Saisō give them to the child’s

grandmother, together with the verse: ‘This gentian flower that

lingered amid the withered grasses of the hedge I send you in

remembrance of the autumn that is passed.’ ‘To you’ he added ‘it will

seem a poor thing in contrast to the flowers that are gone.’ The

Princess looked at her grandson’s innocent smiling face and thought

that in beauty he was not far behind the child she had lost. Already

her tears were pouring faster than a stormy wind shakes down the dry

leaves from a tree, and when she read Genji’s message they flowed

faster still. This was her answer: ‘New tears, but tears of joy it

brings,—this blossom from a meadow that is now laid waste.’

Still in need of some small employment to distract his thoughts,

though it was already getting dark he began a letter to Princess

Asagao who, he felt sure, must long ago have been told of his

bereavement. Although it was a long time since he had heard from her

he made no reference to their former friendship; his letter was indeed

so formal that he allowed the messenger to read it before he

started. It was written on Chinese paper tinted sky-blue. With it was

the poem ‘When I look back upon an autumn fraught with diverse sorrows

I find no dusk dimmed with such tears as I to-night have shed.’ He

took great pains with his handwriting and her ladies thought it a

shame that so elegant a note should remain unanswered. In the end she

reached the same conclusion. ‘Though my heart goes out towards you in

your affliction,’ she answered, ‘I see no cause to abandon my

distrust.’ And to this she added the poem ‘Since I heard that the

mists of autumn had vanished and left desolate winter in your house, I

have thought often of you as I watched the streaming sky.’ This was

all, and it was written hastily, but to Genji, who for so long had

received no news from her, it gave as much pleasure as the longest and

most ingenious epistle.

It is in general the unexplored that attracts us, and Genji tended to

fall most deeply in love with those who gave him least encouragement.

The ideal condition for the continuance of his affection was that the

beloved, much occupied elsewhere, should grant him no more than an

occasional favour. There was one[25] who admirably fulfilled these

conditions, but unfortunately her high rank and conspicuous position

in society brought with them too many material difficulties. But

little Murasaki was different. There was no need to bring her up on

this principle. He had not during the long days of his mourning ever

forgotten her and he knew that she must be feeling very dull without

him. But he regarded her merely as an orphan child whose care he had

undertaken and it was a comfort to him to think that here at least was

someone he could leave for a little while without anxiously wondering

all the time whether he would get into trouble.

It was now quite dark, and gathering the people of the house round the

great lamp he got them to tell him stories. There was among them a

gentlewoman named Chūnagon with whom he had for years been secretly in

love. He still felt drawn towards her, but at such a time there could

of course be no thought of any closer tie. Seeing now that he was

looking despondent she came over to him and when they had talked for a

while of various matters at large, Genji said to her: ‘During these

last weeks, when all has been quiet in the house, I have grown so used

to the company of you gentlewomen that if a time comes when we can no

longer meet so frequently, I shall miss you very much. That was why I

was feeling particularly depressed; though indeed whichever way I turn

my thoughts I find small matter for consolation!’ Here he paused and

some of the ladies shed a few tears. At last one of them said: ‘I

know, my Lord, how dark a cloud has fallen upon your life and would

not venture to compare our sorrow with yours. But I would have you

remember what it must mean to us that henceforward you will never....’

‘Do not say never’ answered Genji kindly. ‘I do not forget my friends

so easily as that. If there are any among you who, mindful of the

past, wish still to serve in this house, they may count upon it that

so long as I live I shall never desert them.’ And as he sat gazing

into the lamplight, with tears a-glitter in his eyes, they felt they

were fortunate indeed in having such a protector.

There was among these gentlewomen a little orphan girl who had been

Aoi’s favourite among all her maids. Well knowing how desolate the

child must now be feeling he said to her kindly: ‘Whose business is it

now but mine to look after little Miss Até?’ The girl burst into

tears. In her short tunic, darker than the dresses the others were

wearing, with black neckerchief and dark blue breeches she was a

charming figure. ‘I hope’ continued Genji ‘that there are some who

despite the dull times they are likely to have in this house will

choose, in memory of the past, to devote themselves to the care of the

little prince whom I am leaving behind. If all who knew his mother are

now to be dispersed his plight will be more wretched than before.’

Again he promised never to forget them, but they knew well enough that

his visits would be few and far between, and felt very despondent.

That night he distributed among these waiting-ladies and among all the

servants at the Great Hall according to their rank and condition

various keepsakes and trifles that had belonged to their young

mistress, giving to each whatever he thought most likely to keep her

memory alive, without regard to his own preferences and dislikes in

the household.

He had determined that he could not much longer continue this mode of

life and must soon return to his own palace. While his servants were

dragging out his coach and his gentlemen assembling in front of his

rooms, as though on purpose to delay him a violent rainstorm began,

with a wind that tore the last leaves from the trees and swept them

over the earth with wild rapidity. The gentlemen who had assembled in

front of the house were soon drenched to the skin. He had meant to go

to the Palace, then to the Nijō-in and return to sleep at the Great

Hall. But on such a night this was impossible, and he ordered his

gentlemen to proceed straight to the Nijō-in where he would join them

subsequently. As they trooped off each of them felt (though none of

them was likely to be seeing the Great Hall for by any means the last

time) that to-day a chapter in his life was closed. Both the Minister

and his wife, when they heard that Genji was not returning that night,

also felt that they had reached a new and bitter stage in the progress

of their affliction. To Aoi’s mother he sent this letter: ‘The

ex-Emperor has expressed a strong desire to see me and I feel bound to

go to the Palace. Though I shall not be absent for many days, yet it

is now so long a time since I left this house that I feel dazed at the

prospect of facing the great world once more. I could not go without

informing you of my departure, but am in no condition to pay you a

visit.’ The Princess was still lying with closed eyes, her thoughts

buried in the profoundest gloom. She did not send a reply. Presently

Aoi’s father came to Genji’s apartments. He found it very hard to bear

up, and during the interview clung fast to his son-in-law’s sleeve

with an air of dependence which was pathetic to witness. After much

hesitation he began at last to say: ‘We old men are prone to tears

even when small matters are amiss; you must not wonder then that under

the weight of so terrible a sorrow I sometimes find myself breaking

into fits of weeping which I am at a loss to control. At such moments

of weakness and disarray I had rather be where none can see me, and

that is why I have not as yet ventured even to pay my respects to his

Majesty your good father. If opportunity offers, I beg you to explain

this to him. To be left thus desolate in the last years of life is a

sore trial, a very sore trial indeed....’ The effort which it cost him

to say these words was distressing for Genji to watch and he hastened

to assure the old Minister that he would make matters right at the

Court. ‘Though I do not doubt,’ he added, ‘that my father has already

guessed the reason of your absence.’ As it was still raining heavily

the Minister urged him to start before it grew quite dark. But Genji

would not leave the house till he had taken a last look at the inner

rooms. His father-in-law followed him. In the space beyond Aoi’s

curtained seat, packed away behind a screen, some thirty gentlewomen

all clad in dark grey weeds were huddled together, forlorn and tearful.

‘These hapless ladies,’ said the Minister, turning to Genji,

‘though they take some comfort in the thought that you are leaving

behind you one whose presence will sometimes draw you to this house,

well know that it will never again be your rightful home, and this

distresses them no less than the loss of their dear mistress. For

years they had hoped against hope that you and she would at last be

reconciled. Consider then how bitter for them must be the day of this,

your final departure.’ ‘Let them take heart’ said Genji; ‘for whereas

while my lady was alive I would often of set purpose absent myself

from her in the vain hope that upon my return I should find her less

harshly disposed towards me, now that she is dead I have no longer any

cause to shun this house, as soon you shall discover.’

When he had watched Genji drive away, Aoi’s father went to her

bedroom. All her things were just as she had left them. On a stand in

front of the bed writing materials lay scattered about. There were

some papers covered with Genji’s handwriting, and these the old man

clasped with an eagerness that made some of the gentlewomen who had

followed him smile even in the midst of their grief. The works that

Genji had written out were all masterpieces of the past, some Chinese,

some Japanese; some written in cursive, some in full script; they

constituted indeed an astonishing display of versatile penmanship. The

Minister gazed with an almost religious awe at these specimens of

Genji’s skill, and the thought that he must henceforth regard the

young man whom he adored as no longer a member of his household and

family must at that moment have been very painful to him.

Among these manuscripts was a copy of Po Chü-i’s “Everlasting

Wrong”[26] and beside the words ‘The old pillow, the old coverlet

with whom shall he now share?’ Genji had written the poem: ‘Mournful

her ghost that journeying now to unfamiliar realms must flee the couch

where we were wont to rest.’ While beside the words ‘The white petals

of the frost’ he had written: ‘The dust shall cover this bed; for no

longer can I bear to brush from it the nightly dew of my tears.’

Aoi’s ladies were gathered together in groups of two or three in each

of which some gentlewoman was pouring out her private griefs and

vexations. ‘No doubt, as his Excellency the Minister told us, Prince

Genji will come to us sometimes, if only to see the child. But for my

part I doubt whether he will find much comfort in such visits....’ So

one of them was saying to her friends. And soon there were many

affecting scenes of farewell between them, for it had been decided

that for the present they were all of them to go back to their homes.

Meanwhile Genji was with his father in the Palace. ‘You are very thin

in the face,’ said the ex-Emperor as soon as he saw him. ‘I am afraid

you have overtaxed your strength by too much prayer and fasting,’ and

in a state of the deepest concern he at once began pressing all kinds

of viands and cordials upon him, showing with regard to his health and

indeed his affairs in general a solicitude by which Genji could not

help feeling touched.

Late that night he at last arrived at the Nijō-in. Here he found

everything garnished and swept; his men-servants and maids were

waiting for him at the door. All the gentlewomen of the household at

once presented themselves in his apartments. They seemed to have vied

with one another which should look the gayest and smartest, and their

finery contrasted pleasantly with the sombre and dispiriting attire of

the unfortunate ladies whom he had left behind him at the Great Hall.

Having changed out of his court dress, he went at once to the western

wing. Not only was Murasaki’s winter costume most daintily designed,

but her pretty waiting-maids and little companions were so handsomely

equipped as to reflect the greatest credit on Shōnagon’s management;

and he saw with satisfaction that such matters might with perfect

safety be left in her hands. Murasaki herself was indeed exquisitely

dressed. ‘How tall you have grown since last I saw you!’ he said and

pulled up her little curtain-of-honour. He had been away so long that

she felt shy with him and turned her head aside. But he would not for

the world have had her look otherwise than she looked at that moment,

for as she sat in profile with the lamplight falling upon her face he

realized with delight that she was becoming the very image of her whom

from the beginning he had loved best. Coming closer to her side he

whispered to her: ‘Some time or other I want to tell you about all

that has been happening to me since I went away. But it has all been

very terrible and I am too tired to speak of it now, so I am going

away to rest for a little while in my own room. From to-morrow onwards

you will have me to yourself all day long; in fact, I expect you will

soon grow quite tired of me.’

‘So far, so good’ thought Shōnagon when she heard this speech. But she

was still very far from easy in her mind. She knew that there were

several ladies of very great influence with whom Genji was on terms of

friendship and she feared that when it came to choosing a second wife,

he would be far more likely to take one of these than to remember her

own little mistress; and she was not at all satisfied.

When Genji had retired to the eastern wing, he sent for a certain Lady

Chūjō to rub his limbs and then went to bed. Next morning he wrote to

the nurses of Aoi’s child and received from them in reply a touching

account of its beauty and progress; but the letter served only to

awaken in him useless memories and regrets. Towards the end of the day

he felt very restless and the time hung heavily on his hands, but he

was in no mood to resume his secret rovings and such an idea did not

even occur to him. In Murasaki none of his hopes had been

disappointed; she had indeed grown up into as handsome a girl as you

could wish to see, nor was she any longer at an age when it was

impossible for him to become her lover. He constantly hinted at this,

but she did not seem to understand what he meant.

He still had plenty of time on his hands, and the whole of it was now

spent in her society. All day long they played together at draughts or

word-picking, and even in the course of these trivial pursuits she

showed a quickness of mind and beauty of disposition which continually

delighted him; but she had been brought up in such rigid seclusion

from the world that it never once occurred to her to exploit her

charms in any more adult way.

Soon the situation became unendurable, and though he knew that she

would be very much upset he determined somehow or another to get his

own way.

There came a morning when the gentleman was already up and about, but

the young lady was still lying a-bed. Her attendants had no means of

knowing that anything out of the ordinary had happened, for it had

always been Genji’s habit to go in and out of her room just as he

chose. They naturally assumed that she was not feeling well and were

glancing at her with sympathy when Genji arrived carrying a

writing-box which he slipped behind the bed curtains. He at once

retired, and the ladies also left the room. Seeing that she was alone

Murasaki slowly raised her head. There by her pillow was the

writing-box and tied to it with ribbon, a slender note. Listlessly she

detached the note and unfolding it read the hastily scribbled poem:

‘Too long have we deferred this new emprise, who night by night

till now have lain but with a shift between.’

That _this_ was what Genji had so long been wanting came to her as a

complete surprise and she could not think why he should regard the

unpleasant thing that had happened last night as in some way the

beginning of a new and more intimate friendship between them. Later in

the morning he came again. ‘Is something the matter with you?’ he

asked. ‘I shall be very dull to-day if you cannot play draughts with

me.’ But when he came close to her she only buried herself more deeply

than ever under the bedclothes. He waited till the room was empty and

then bending over her he said ‘Why are you treating me in this surly

way? I little expected to find you in so bad a humour this morning.

The others will think it very strange if you lie here all day,’ and he

pulled aside the scarlet coverlet beneath which she had dived. To his

astonishment he found that she was bathed in sweat; even the hair that

hung across her cheeks was dripping wet. ‘No! This is too much,’ he

said; ‘what a state you have worked yourself up into!’ But try as he

would to coax her back to reason he could not get a word out of her,

for she was really feeling very vexed with him indeed. ‘Very well

then,’ he said at last, ‘if that is how you feel I will never come to

see you again,’ and he pretended to be very much mortified and

humiliated. Turning away, he opened the writing-box to see whether she

had written any answer to his poem, but of course found none. He

understood perfectly that her distress was due merely to extreme youth

and inexperience, and was not at all put out. All day long he sat near

her trying to win back her confidence, and though he had small success

he found even her rebuffs in a curious way very endearing.

At nightfall, it being the Day of the Wild Boar, the festival

cakes[27] were served. Owing to Genji’s bereavement no great display

was made, but a few were brought round to Murasaki’s quarters in an

elegant picnic-basket. Seeing that the different kinds were all mixed

up together Genji came out into the front part of the house and

calling for Koremitsu said to him: ‘I want you to take these cakes

away and bring me some more to-morrow evening; only not nearly so many

as this, and all of one kind.[28] This is not the right evening for

them.’ He smiled as he said these words and Koremitsu was quick-witted

enough at once to guess what had happened. He did not however think

that it would be discreet to congratulate his master in so many words,

and merely said: ‘It is true enough that if you want to make a good

beginning you must eat your cakes on the proper day. The day of the

Rat is certainly very much to the purpose.[29] Pray how many am I to

bring?’ When Genji answered ‘Divide by three[30] and you will get the

answer,’ Koremitsu was no longer in any doubt, and hastily retired,

leaving Genji amused at the practised air with which he invariably

handled matters of this kind. He said nothing to anyone, but returning

to his private house made the cakes there with his own hands.

Genji was beginning to despair of ever restoring her confidence and

good humour. But even now, when she seemed as shy of him as on

the night when he first stole her from her home, her beauty fascinated

him and he knew that his love for her in past days had been but a

particle compared with what he had felt since yesterday.

How strange a thing is the heart of man! For now it would have seemed

to him a calamity if even for a single night he had been taken from

Murasaki’s side; and only a little while ago....

Koremitsu brought the cakes which Genji had ordered very late on the

following night. He was careful not to entrust them to Shōnagon, for

he thought that such a commission might embarrass a grown woman.

Instead, he sent for her daughter Miss Ben and putting all the cakes

into one large perfume-box he bade her take them secretly to her

mistress. ‘Be sure to put them close by her pillow, for they are lucky

cakes and must not be left about the house. Promise me not to do

anything silly with them.’ Miss Ben thought all this very odd, but

tossing her head she answered ‘When, pray, did you ever know me to be

silly,’ and she walked off with the box. Being quite a young girl and

completely innocent as regards matters of this kind she marched

straight up to her mistress’s bed and, remembering Koremitsu’s

instructions, pushed the box through the curtains and lodged it safely

by the pillow. It seemed to her that there was someone else there as

well as Murasaki. ‘No doubt,’ thought she ‘Prince Genji has come as

usual to hear her repeat her lessons.’

As yet no one in the household save Koremitsu had any knowledge of the

betrothal. But when next day the box was found by the bed and brought

into the servant’s quarters some of those who were in closest touch

with their master’s affairs at once guessed the secret. Where did

these little dishes come from, each set on its own little carved

stand? and who had been at such pains to make these dainty and

ingenious cakes? Shōnagon, though she was shocked at this casual way

of slipping into matrimony, was overjoyed to learn that Genji’s

strange patronage of her young mistress had at last culminated in a

definite act of betrothal, and her eyes brimmed with tears of

thankfulness and delight. All the same, she thought he might at least

have taken the trouble to inform her old nurse, and there was a good

deal of grumbling in the household generally at an outside retainer

such as Koremitsu having got wind of the matter first.

During the days that followed he grudged even the short hours of

attendance which he was obliged to put in at the Palace and in his

father’s rooms, discovering (much to his own surprise) that save in

her presence he could no longer enjoy a moment’s peace. The friends

whom he had been wont to visit showed themselves both surprised and

offended by this unexplained neglect, but though he had no wish to

stand ill with them he now found that even a remote prospect of having

to absent himself from his palace for a single night was enough to

throw him quite out of gear; and all the time he was away his spirits

were at the very lowest ebb and he looked for all the world as though

he were sickening from some strange illness. To all invitations or

greetings he invariably replied that he was at present in no fit mood

for company (which was naturally taken as an allusion to his recent

loss) or that he must now be gone, for someone with whom he had

business was already awaiting him.

The Minister of the Right was aware that his youngest daughter[31] was

still pining for Prince Genji and he said one day to Princess Kōkiden:

‘While his wife was alive we were bound of course to discourage her

friendship with him in every way we could. But the position is now

quite changed and I feel that as things are there would be much

to be said for such a match.’ But Kōkiden had always hated Genji and

having herself arranged that her sister should enter the Palace,[32]

she saw no reason why this plan should suddenly be abandoned. Indeed

from this moment onwards she became obstinately determined that the

girl should be given to the Emperor and to no one else. Genji indeed

still retained a certain partiality towards her; but though it grieved

him to hear that he had made her unhappy he had not at present any

spare affection to offer her. Life, he had come to the conclusion, was

not long enough for diversions and experiments; henceforward he would

concentrate. He had moreover received a terrible warning of the

dangers which might accrue from such jealousies and resentments as his

former way of life had involved. He thought with great tenderness and

concern of Lady Rokujō’s distress; but it was clear to him that he

must beware of ever again allowing her to regard him as her true haven

of refuge. If however she would renew their friendship in quite new

terms, permitting him to enjoy her company and conversation at such

times as he could conveniently arrange to do so, he saw no reason why

they should not sometimes meet.

Society at large knew that someone was living with him, but her

identity was quite unknown. This was of no consequence; but Genji felt

that sooner or later he ought to let her father Prince Hyōbukyō know

what had become of her and decided that before he did so it would be

best to celebrate her Initiation. This was done privately, but he was

at pains that every detail of the ceremony should be performed with

due splendour and solemnity, and though the outside world was not

invited it was as magnificent an affair as it well could be. But ever

since their betrothal Murasaki had shown a certain shyness and

diffidence in his presence. She could not help feeling sorry that

after all the years during which they had got on so well together and

been such close friends he should suddenly take this strange idea into

his head, and whenever her eyes met his she hastily averted them. He

tried to make a joke of the matter, but to her it was very serious

indeed and weighed heavily upon her mind. Her changed attitude towards

him was indeed somewhat comic; but it was also very distressing, and

one day he said: ‘Sometimes it seems as though you had forgotten all

the long years of our friendship and I had suddenly become as new to

you as at the start’; and while thus he scolded her the year drew to a

close. On New Year’s Day he paid the usual visits of ceremony to his

father, to the Emperor and to the Heir Apparent. Next he visited the

Great Hall. The old Minister made no reference to the new year, but at

once began to speak of the past. In the midst of his loneliness and

sorrow he was so deeply moved even by this hasty and long deferred

visit that though he strove hard to keep his composure it was more

than he could compass to do. Looking fondly at his son-in-law he

thought that the passage of each fresh year did but add new beauty to

this fair face. They went together into the inner rooms, where his

entry surprised and delighted beyond measure the disconsolate ladies

who had remained behind. Next they visited the little prince who was

growing into a fine child; his merry face was indeed a pleasure to

see. His resemblance to the Heir Apparent was certainly very striking

and Genji wondered whether it had been noticed.

Aoi’s things were still as she had left them. His New Year clothes had

as in former years been hung out for him on the clothes-frame. Aoi’s

clothes-frame which stood empty beside it wore a strangely desolate

air. A letter from the Princess her mother was now brought to him:

‘To-day,’ she said, ‘our bereavement was more than ever present

to my mind, and though touched at the news of your visit, I fear that

to see you would but awaken unhappy recollections.’ ‘You will

remember,’ she continued, ‘that it was my custom to present you with a

suit of clothes on each New Year’s Day. But in these last months my

sight has been so dimmed with tears that I fear you will think I have

matched the colours very ill. Nevertheless I beg that though it be for

to-day only you will suffer yourself to be disfigured by this

unfashionable garb ...’ and a servant held out before him a second[33]

suit, which was evidently the one he was expected to wear to-day. The

under-stuff was of a most unusual pattern and mixture of colours and

did not at all please him; but he could not allow her to feel that she

had laboured in vain, and at once put the suit on. It was indeed

fortunate that he had come to the Great Hall that day, for he could

see that she had counted on it. In his reply he said: ‘Though I came

with the hope that you would be the first friend I should greet at

this new springtide, yet now that I am here too many bitter memories

assail me and I think it wiser that we should not meet.’ To this he

added an acrostic poem in which he said that with the mourning dress

which he had just discarded so many years of friendship were cast

aside that were he to come to her[34] he could but weep. To this she

sent in answer an acrostic poem in which she said that in this new

season when all things else on earth put on altered hue, one thing

alone remained as in the months gone by—her longing for the child who

like the passing year had vanished from their sight.

But though hers may have been the greater grief we must not think that

there was not at that moment very deep emotion on both sides.

[1] We learn in Chapter XXXIV that he was made Commander of the

Bodyguard at the age of twenty-one. He is now twenty-two.

[2] Genji’s son by Fujitsubo (supposed by the world to be the

Emperor’s child) had been made Heir Apparent.

[3] An Emperor upon his succession was obliged to send one unmarried

daughter or grand-daughter to the Shintō Temple at Ise, another to the

Shintō Temple at Kamo. See Appendix II.

[4] She was seven years older than Genji.

[5] a Daughter of Prince Momozono. See above, p. 68.

[6] We learn later that he was a son of Iyo no Kami.

[7] Father of Princess Asagao; brother of the ex-Emperor and therefore

Genji’s paternal uncle.

[8] The clash of coaches took place at the Purification. The actual

_matsuri_ (Festival) takes place some days later.

[9] I.e. astrologically.

[10] _Kokinshū_ 509.

[11] The clash of the chariots at the Festival of Purification.

Probably a quotation.

[12] The jealous person is unconscious of the fatal effects which his

jealousy is producing.

[13] Members of the Imperial family were not allowed to leave the

Capital without the consent of the Emperor.

[14] A temporary building erected afresh for each new Virgin a few

miles outside Kyoto. She spent several years there before proceeding

to Ise.

[15] The Chinese version of the Sanskrit _Saddharma Pundarika Sutra_;

see _Sacred Books of the East_, Vol. 21.

[16] The lying-in jacket.

[17] These presents (_ubuyashinai_) were given on the third, fifth and

ninth nights.

[18] The ceremony of investing the newly elected officials.

[19] Had she corresponded with someone who was in mourning, she would

herself have become unclean and been disqualified from attending upon

her daughter the Vestal Virgin.

[20] Used in writing to people who were in mourning.

[21] See p. 182.

[22] Winter clothes are begun on the first day of the tenth month.

[23] From a poem to a dead lady, by Liu Yü-hsi (A.D. 772–842).

_I saw you first standing at the window of Yü Liang’s tower;_

_Your waist was slender as the willow-trees that grow at

Wu-ch‘ang._

_My finding you and losing you were both like a dream;_

_Oh tell me if your soul dwells in the rain, or whether in the

clouds above!_

[24] A husband in mourning may not wear winter clothes. The mourning

lasts for three months.

[25] Fujitsubo.

[26] Murasaki quotes the line in the form in which it occurs in

Japanese MSS. of Po Chü-i’s poem. The Chinese editions have a slightly

different text. Cf. Giles’s translation, _History of Chinese

Literature_, p. 172.

[27] On the Day of the Boar in the tenth month it was the custom to

serve little cakes of seven different kinds, to wit: Large bean,

mungo, dolicho, sesamun, chestnut, persimmon, sugar-starch.

[28] On the third night after the first cohabitation it was the custom

to offer up small cakes (all of one kind and colour) to the god

Izanagi and his sister Izanami.

[29] First, because the Rat comes at the beginning of the series of

twelve animal signs; secondly, because ‘Rat’ is written with a

character that also means ‘baby.’

[30]The phrase which I have translated ‘Divide by three’ also means

‘One of three’ i.e. of the Three Mysteries (Birth, _Marriage_, Death).

That is why Koremitsu was ‘no longer in any doubt.’ But many other

explanations of the passage have been given. It is indeed one of the

three major difficulties enumerated by the old-fashioned Genji teachers.

[31] Oborozukiyo. See above, p. 242.

[32] I.e. become a concubine of the Emperor.

[33] In addition to the one hanging on the frame.

[34] _Kiteba_, ‘were he to come,’ also means ‘should he wear it.’

APPENDIX I

A.D. 978 (?) Murasaki born.

A.D. 994 (?) Marries Fujiwara no Nobutaka.

A.D. 1001 Nobutaka dies.

A.D. 1005 (?) She becomes lady-in-waiting to the Empress Akiko,

then a girl of sixteen.

A.D. 1007–1010 Keeps a diary, which survives.

A.D. 1008 Book I of the _Tale of Genji_ read to the Emperor.

A.D. 1025 Murasaki still at Court.

A.D. 1031 Murasaki no longer at Court and perhaps dead.

APPENDIX II

The Vestal Virgins of Ise and Kamo.

So important a part do these ladies play in the Tale of Genji that the

reader may perhaps wish to know exactly what they were. I may say at

the outset that I have used the term ‘vestal’ merely for convenience.

These Virgins were not guardians of a sacred fire.

_Ise_.—Upon the accession of a new Emperor, a princess of the Imperial

House (preferably a daughter of the Emperor) was sent to be priestess

of the great Shintō shrines at Ise. According to the _Nihongi_ (Bk. V;

Emperor Sūjin 6th year[1]) ‘The gods Amaterasu and Ōkunidama were

formerly both worshipped in the Emperor’s Palace Hall. But the Emperor

Sūjin was frightened of having so much divine power concentrated in

one place. Accordingly he entrusted the worship of Amaterasu to the

Princess Toyosuku-iri, bidding her carry it out in the village of

Kasanui in Yamato.’ Subsequently Amaterasu expressed a desire to be

moved to Ise.

The Virgin was usually about twelve years old at the time of her

appointment. Cases however are recorded in which she was an infant of

one year old; or again, a woman of twenty-eight. Her office lasted till

(1) The Emperor died or resigned

(2) She herself died or became disabled

(3) Either of her parents died

(4) She misconducted herself.

Thus in A.D. 541 the Vestal, a certain Princess Iwane, misconducted

herself with Prince Mubaragi and was replaced. The process of

preparing the Virgin for her office lasted three years. She was first

of all, after a preliminary purification in running water handed

over to the City guards. Meanwhile, just outside the Capital,

a special place of purification was built for her, called the

Palace-in-the-Fields. After a second River Purification she took up

her residence in this temporary Palace and stayed there till the time

came for her to settle at Ise. Before the journey to Ise she was again

purified in the River, and she appeared at the Imperial Palace to

receive at the Emperor’s hands the ‘Comb of Parting.’ No Virgin of Ise

was appointed after 1342.

_Kamo_.—The Virgin of Kamo, first instituted in A.D. 818 was a replica

of the Ise Virgin. She too had her Palace-in-the-Fields, three years

of purification, etc. The practice of sending a Virgin to Kamo was

discontinued in 1204.

Upon both Virgins curious speech-taboos were imposed. Thus they called

death, ‘recovery’

illness, ‘taking a rest’

weeping, ‘dropping salt water’

blood, ‘sweat’

to strike, ‘to fondle’

a tomb, ‘an earth heap’

meat, ‘vegetables’

All words connected with Buddhism were taboo. Thus Buddha himself was

called ‘The Centre’; Buddhist scriptures were called ‘stained paper’;

a pagoda, ‘araragi’ (meaning unknown); a temple, ‘a tile-covered

place’; a priest (ironically), ‘hair-long’; a nun, ‘female hair-long’;

fasting, ‘partial victuals.’

To both Virgins was attached an important retinue of male

officials. These were appointed by the Emperor and no doubt acted as

his agents and informers in the districts of Ise and Kamo.

Probably the Ise Virgin was a very ancient institution which later

proved useful for political ends. The Virgin of Kamo, who does not

appear on the scene till the ninth century, was presumably instituted

simply as a means of spreading Court influence.

[1] 92 B.C. according to the usual chronology, which is however purely

fictitious.

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 TALE OF GENJI”.

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. 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 7

of ‘governess changed to

of ‘governess’

Page 9

PREFACE 9 changed to

PREFACE 7

Page 69

lack of influence... changed to

lack of influence....’

Page 95

reason’ said Gengi. changed to

reason’ said Genji.

Page 102

joins Mount Katsuragi and Mount Kombu changed to

joins Mount Katsuragi and Mount Kombu.

Page 114

steward’s son, and tell changed to

steward’s son, ‘and tell

Page 130

There could be on harm in this interchange changed to

There could be no harm in this interchange

Page 137

and that blurr of shimmering changed to

and that blur of shimmering

Page 179

it was very diasppointing to lose changed to

it was very disappointing to lose

Page 228

off the scent. And this opinion changed to

off the scent.’ And this opinion

Page 232

modern Wu-ch’ang in Hupeh. changed to

modern Wu-ch‘ang in Hupeh.

Page 242

‘Oh, how you frightened me? she cried. changed to

‘Oh, how you frightened me,’ she cried.

Page 263

consent of the Emperor changed to

consent of the Emperor.

Page 275

deep-dyed robe, and he recited the poem: changed to

deep-dyed robe,’ and he recited the poem:

Page 293

sickening for some strange illness. changed to

sickening from some strange illness.

Page 294

her father Prince Hyōbukyo changed to

her father Prince Hyōbukyō