Kiritsubo¹

AT the Court of an Emperor (he lived it matters not when) there was among the many gentlewomen of the Wardrobe and Chamber one, who though she was not of very high rank was favoured far beyond all the rest; so that the great ladies of the Palace, each of whom had secretly hoped that she herself would be chosen, looked with scorn and hatred upon the upstart who had dispelled their dreams. Still less were her former companions, the minor ladies of the Wardrobe, content to see her raised so far above them. Thus her position at Court, preponderant though it was, exposed her to constant jealousy and ill will; and soon, worn out with petty vexations, she fell into a decline, growing very melancholy and retiring frequently to her home. But the Emperor, so far from wearying of her now that she was no longer well or gay, grew every day more tender, and paid not the smallest heed to those who reproved him, till his conduct became the talk of all the land; and even his own barons and courtiers began to look askance at an attachment so ill-advised. They whispered among themselves that in the Land Beyond the Sea such happenings had led to riot and disaster. The people of the country did indeed soon have many grievances to show: and some likened her to Yang Kuei-fei, the mistress of Ming Huang.² Yet, for all this discontent, so great was the sheltering power of her master’s love that none dared openly molest her.

At the court of an Emperor (it does not matter when he lived), there were many gentlewomen of the Wardrobe and Chamber. One of them was not of very high rank, yet the Emperor favored her far above all the others. The great ladies of the Palace had each secretly hoped to be chosen themselves. They looked with scorn and hatred on the upstart who had shattered their dreams. Her former companions, the lesser ladies of the Wardrobe, were even less pleased to see her raised so far above them. Though her position at court was so prominent, it exposed her to constant jealousy and ill will. Soon, worn down by petty troubles, she began to decline. She grew very melancholy and often withdrew to her home. But the Emperor did not tire of her now that she was no longer well or cheerful. Instead, he grew more tender toward her every day and paid no attention to those who reproached him. His conduct became the talk of the whole land. Even his own barons and courtiers began to look disapprovingly on such an ill-advised attachment. They whispered among themselves that such things had led to riots and disaster in the Land Beyond the Sea. Before long, the people of the country did indeed have many grievances. Some compared her to Yang Kuei-fei, the mistress of Ming Huang.² Yet despite all this discontent, her master's love protected her so powerfully that no one dared openly trouble her.

Her father, who had been a Councillor, was dead. Her mother, who never forgot that the father was in his day a man of some consequence, managed despite all difficulties to give her as good an upbringing as generally falls to the lot of young ladies whose parents are alive and at the height of fortune. It would have helped matters greatly if there had been some influential guardian to busy himself on the child’s behalf. Unfortunately, the mother was entirely alone in the world and sometimes, when troubles came, she felt very bitterly the lack of anyone to whom she could turn for comfort and advice. But to return to the daughter. In due time she bore him a little Prince who, perhaps because in some previous life a close bond had joined them, turned out as fine and likely a man-child as well might be in all the land. The Emperor could hardly contain himself during the days of waiting.³ But when, at the earliest possible moment, the child was presented at Court, he saw that rumour had not exaggerated its beauty. His eldest born prince was the son of Lady Kōkiden, the daughter of the Minister of the Right, and this child was treated by all with the respect due to an undoubted Heir Apparent. But he was not so fine a child as the new prince; moreover the Emperor’s great affection for the new child’s mother made him feel the boy to be in a peculiar sense his own possession. Unfortunately she was not of the same rank as the courtiers who waited upon him in the Upper Palace, so that despite his love for her, and though she wore all the airs of a great lady, it was not without considerable qualms that he now made it his practice to have her by him not only when there was to be some entertainment, but even when any business of importance was afoot. Sometimes indeed he would keep her when he woke in the morning, not letting her go back to her lodging, so that willy-nilly she acted the part of a Lady-in-Perpetual-Attendance.

Her father, who had been a Councillor, was dead. Her mother never forgot that he had been a man of some importance in his day. Despite all her difficulties, she gave her daughter an upbringing as good as that of young ladies with living, prosperous parents. An influential guardian who could look after the child’s interests would have helped greatly. Unfortunately, the mother was entirely alone in the world. When troubles came, she sometimes felt bitterly that she had no one to turn to for comfort and advice. But to return to the daughter. In time, she bore him a little Prince, as fine and promising a boy as any in the land. Perhaps a close bond had joined them in a previous life. The Emperor could hardly contain himself during the days of waiting.³ But when the child was presented at Court as soon as possible, he saw that the reports had not exaggerated his beauty. The Emperor’s eldest prince was the son of Lady Kōkiden, the daughter of the Minister of the Right. Everyone treated this child with the respect due to the unquestioned Heir Apparent. But he was not as fine a child as the new prince. Moreover, the Emperor’s great affection for the new child’s mother made him feel the boy was especially his own. Unfortunately, she was not of the same rank as the courtiers who attended him in the Upper Palace. He loved her, and she carried herself like a great lady. Even so, he felt considerable misgivings about his new practice of keeping her beside him. He did so not only during entertainments, but even when important business was underway. Sometimes he kept her with him when he woke in the morning, rather than letting her return to her lodging. Whether she wished it or not, she became a Lady-in-Perpetual-Attendance.

Seeing all this, Lady Kōkiden began to fear that the new prince, for whom the Emperor seemed to have so marked a preference, would if she did not take care soon be promoted to the Eastern Palace.⁴ But she had, after all, priority over her rival; the Emperor had loved her devotedly and she had born him princes. It was even now chiefly the fear of her reproaches that made him uneasy about his new way of life. Thus, though his mistress could be sure of his protection, there were many who sought to humiliate her, and she felt so weak in herself that it seemed to her at last as though all the honours heaped upon her had brought with them terror rather than joy.

Seeing all this, Lady Kōkiden began to worry about the new prince. The Emperor clearly favored him, and she feared that, unless she was careful, he would soon be promoted to the Eastern Palace.⁴ But she did, after all, have seniority over her rival. The Emperor had loved her deeply, and she had borne him princes. Even now, it was mainly his fear of her reproaches that made him uneasy about his new way of life. So, although his mistress could count on his protection, many people tried to humiliate her. She felt so weak that, in the end, all the honors heaped upon her seemed to bring terror rather than joy.

Her lodging was in the wing called Kiritsubo. It was but natural that the many ladies whose doors she had to pass on her repeated journeys to the Emperor’s room should have grown exasperated; and sometimes, when these comings and goings became frequent beyond measure, it would happen that on bridges and in corridors, here or there along the way that she must go, strange tricks were played to frighten her or unpleasant things were left lying about which spoiled the dresses of the ladies who accompanied her.⁵ Once indeed some one locked the door of a portico, so that the poor thing wandered this way and that for a great while in sore distress. So many were the miseries into which this state of affairs now daily brought her that the Emperor could no longer endure to witness her vexations and moved her to the Kōrōden. In order to make room for her he was obliged to shift the Chief Lady of the Wardrobe to lodgings outside. So far from improving matters he had merely procured her a new and most embittered enemy!

Her rooms were in the wing called Kiritsubo. On her frequent journeys to the Emperor’s room, she had to pass the doors of many other ladies. It was only natural that they grew angry. Sometimes her visits became so frequent that people played strange tricks along her route to frighten her. They also left unpleasant things on the bridges and in the corridors that stained her attendants’ dresses.⁵ Once, someone even locked a portico door. The poor woman wandered back and forth for a long time, deeply distressed. She suffered so much each day that the Emperor could no longer bear to watch. He moved her to the Kōrōden. To make room for her, he had to move the Chief Lady of the Wardrobe to rooms outside. Far from improving matters, he had only made her a new and deeply bitter enemy!

The young prince was now three years old. The Putting on of the Trousers was performed with as much ceremony as in the case of the Heir Apparent. Marvellous gifts flowed from the Imperial Treasury and Tribute House. This too incurred the censure of many, but brought no enmity to the child himself; for his growing beauty and the charm of his disposition were a wonder and delight to all who met him. Indeed many persons of ripe experience confessed themselves astounded that such a creature should actually have been born in these latter and degenerate days.

The young prince was now three years old. His Putting on of the Trousers was celebrated as grandly as the Heir Apparent’s. Wonderful gifts poured in from the Imperial Treasury and Tribute House. Many people criticized this too, but they felt no hostility toward the child himself. His growing beauty and charming nature amazed and delighted everyone who met him. Indeed, many experienced people admitted they were astonished that such a creature could have been born in these later, degenerate times.

In the summer of that year the lady became very downcast. She repeatedly asked for leave to go to her home, but it was not granted. For a year she continued in the same state. The Emperor to all her entreaties answered only ‘Try for a little while longer.’ But she was getting worse every day, and when for five or six days she had been growing steadily weaker her mother sent to the Palace a tearful plea for her release. Fearing even now that her enemies might contrive to put some unimaginable shame upon her, the sick lady left her son behind and prepared to quit the Palace in secret. The Emperor knew that the time had come when, little as he liked it, he must let her go. But that she should slip away without a word of farewell was more than he could bear, and he hastened to her side. He found her still charming and beautiful, but her face very thin and wan. She looked at him tenderly, saying nothing. Was she alive? So faint was the dwindling spark that she scarcely seemed so. Suddenly forgetting all that had happened and all that was to come, he called her by a hundred pretty names and weeping showered upon her a thousand caresses; but she made no answer. For sounds and sights reached her but faintly, and she seemed dazed, as one that scarcely remembered she lay upon a bed. Seeing her thus he knew not what to do. In great trouble and perplexity he sent for a hand litter. But when they would have laid her in it, he forbad them, saying ‘There was an oath between us that neither should go alone upon the road that all at last must tread. How can I now let her go from me?’ The lady heard him and ‘At last!’ she said; ‘Though that desired at last be come, because I go alone how gladly would I live!’

In the summer of that year, the lady became very depressed. She repeatedly asked permission to go home, but it was refused. She remained in the same state for a year. To all her pleas, the Emperor answered only, ‘Try for a little while longer.’ But she grew worse every day. After she had grown steadily weaker for five or six days, her mother sent a tearful plea to the Palace, begging for her release. The sick lady still feared that her enemies might find some unimaginable way to disgrace her. So she left her son behind and prepared to leave the Palace in secret. The Emperor knew the time had come when he had to let her go, however unwillingly. But he could not bear to have her slip away without a word of farewell, so he hurried to her side. He found her still charming and beautiful, but her face was very thin and pale. She looked at him tenderly and said nothing. Was she alive? Her life was fading so quickly that she scarcely seemed to be. Suddenly forgetting all that had happened and all that was to come, he called her a hundred endearing names. Weeping, he showered her with a thousand caresses. But she gave no answer. Sounds and sights barely reached her, and she seemed dazed, as if she scarcely remembered lying on a bed. Seeing her like this, he did not know what to do. Deeply troubled and confused, he sent for a hand litter. But when they tried to lay her in it, he stopped them. ‘We swore that neither of us would travel alone on the road everyone must take at last. How can I let her leave me now?’ The lady heard him. ‘At last!’ she said. ‘Though the longed-for at last has come, how gladly I would live, because I must go alone!’

Thus with faint voice and failing breath she whispered. But though she had found strength to speak, each word was uttered with great toil and pain. Come what might, the Emperor would have watched by her till the end, but that the priests who were to read the Intercession had already been dispatched to her home. She must be brought there before nightfall, and at last he forced himself to let the bearers carry her away. He tried to sleep but felt stifled and could not close his eyes. All night long messengers were coming and going between her home and the Palace. From the first they brought no good news, and soon after midnight announced that this time on arriving at the house they had heard a noise of wailing and lamentation, and learned from those within that the lady had just breathed her last. The Emperor lay motionless as though he had not understood.

She whispered in a faint voice, her breath failing. Though she had found the strength to speak, every word cost her great effort and pain. The Emperor would have stayed by her side until the end, no matter what happened. But the priests who were to read the Intercession had already been sent to her home. She had to be taken there before nightfall. At last, he forced himself to let the bearers carry her away. He tried to sleep, but he felt suffocated and could not close his eyes. All night, messengers came and went between her home and the Palace. From the first, they brought no good news. Soon after midnight, they reported that they had heard cries of grief when they arrived at the house. Those inside had told them that the lady had just died. The Emperor lay motionless, as though he had not understood.

Though his father was so fond of his company, it was thought better after this event that the Prince should go away from the Palace. He did not understand what had happened, but seeing the servants all wringing their hands and the Emperor himself continually weeping, he felt that it must have been something very terrible. He knew that even quite ordinary separations made people unhappy; but here was such a dismal wailing and lamenting as he had never seen before, and he concluded that this must be some very extraordinary kind of parting.

Although his father loved having him nearby, people thought the Prince should leave the Palace after this event. He did not understand what had happened. But he saw all the servants wringing their hands and the Emperor himself constantly weeping. He felt that something terrible must have happened. He knew that even ordinary partings made people unhappy. But he had never seen such sorrowful weeping and mourning before. He concluded that this must be a very extraordinary kind of parting.

When the time came for the funeral to begin, the girl’s mother cried out that the smoke of her own body would be seen rising beside the smoke of her child’s bier. She rode in the same coach with the Court ladies who had come to the funeral. The ceremony took place at Atago and was celebrated with great splendour. So overpowering was the mother’s affection that so long as she looked on the body she still thought of her child as alive. It was only when they lighted the pyre she suddenly realized that what lay upon it was a corpse. Then, though she tried to speak sensibly, she reeled and almost fell from the coach, and those with her turned to one another and said ‘At last she knows.’

When the funeral was about to begin, the girl’s mother cried out that smoke from her own body would rise beside the smoke from her child’s funeral pyre. She rode in the same carriage as the court ladies who had come to the funeral. The ceremony took place at Atago and was very grand. The mother’s love was so strong that, as long as she could see her child’s body, she still thought her alive. Only when they lit the pyre did she suddenly realize that the body lying on it was a corpse. Though she tried to speak sensibly, she staggered and almost fell from the carriage. Those with her turned to one another and said, ‘At last she knows.’

A herald came from the palace and read a proclamation which promoted the dead lady to the Third Rank. The reading of this long proclamation by the bier was a sad business. The Emperor repented bitterly that he had not long ago made her a Lady-in-Waiting, and that was why he now raised her rank by one degree. There were many who grudged her even this honour; but some less stubborn began now to recall that she had indeed been a lady of uncommon beauty; and others, that she had very gentle and pleasing manners; while some went so far as to say it was a shame that anybody should have disliked so sweet a lady, and that if she had not been singled out unfairly from the rest, no one would have said a word against her.

A messenger came from the palace and read a proclamation raising the dead lady to the Third Rank. It was sad to hear the long proclamation read beside her bier. The Emperor bitterly regretted not having made her a Lady-in-Waiting long ago. That was why he now raised her rank by one degree. Many people resented even this honor. But some who were less stubborn began to remember how unusually beautiful she had been. Others recalled her gentle and pleasing manners. Some even said it was a shame that anyone had disliked such a sweet lady. They said that if she had not been unfairly singled out from the others, no one would have spoken against her.

The seven weeks of mourning were, by the Emperor’s order, minutely observed. Time passed, but he still lived in rigid seclusion from the ladies of the Court. The servants who waited upon him had a sad life, for he wept almost without ceasing both day and night.

By the Emperor’s order, the seven weeks of mourning were observed with great care. Time passed, but he still kept strictly apart from the ladies of the court. His servants had a sad life because he wept almost constantly, day and night.

Kōkiden and the other great ladies were still relentless, and went about saying ‘it looked as though the Emperor would be no less foolishly obsessed by her memory than he had been by her person.’ He did indeed sometimes see Kōkiden’s son, the first-born prince. But this only made him long the more to see the dead lady’s child, and he was always sending trusted servants, such as his own old nurse, to report to him upon the boy’s progress. The time of the autumn equinox had come. Already the touch of the evening air was cold upon the skin. So many memories crowded upon him that he sent a girl, the daughter of his quiver-bearer, with a letter to the dead lady’s house. It was beautiful moonlit weather, and after he had despatched the messenger he lingered for a while gazing out into the night. It was at such times as this that he had been wont to call for music. He remembered how her words, lightly whispered, had blended with those strangely fashioned harmonies, remembered how all was strange, her face, her air, her form. He thought of the poem which says that ‘real things in the darkness seem no realer than dreams’ and he longed for even so dim a substance as the dream-life of those nights.

Kōkiden and the other great ladies were still relentless. They went around saying ‘it looked as though the Emperor would be just as foolishly obsessed with her memory as he had been with her in life.’ He did sometimes see Kōkiden’s son, the first-born prince. But seeing him only made the Emperor long even more to see the dead lady’s child. He was always sending trusted servants, such as his own old nurse, to report on the boy’s progress. The autumn equinox had come. The evening air already felt cold against his skin. So many memories crowded in on him that he sent a letter to the dead lady’s house. His messenger was a girl, the daughter of his quiver-bearer. The weather was beautiful, and the moon was shining. After sending the girl, he lingered for a while, gazing out into the night. At such times, he used to call for music. He remembered how her softly whispered words had blended with those strangely fashioned harmonies. He remembered how strange everything about her had been, her face, her manner, her form. He thought of the poem that says ‘real things in the darkness seem no more real than dreams.’ He longed for even something as insubstantial as the dream life of those nights.

The messenger had reached the gates of the house. She pushed them back and a strange sight met her eyes. The old lady had for long been a widow and the whole charge of keeping the domain in repair had fallen upon her daughter. But since her death the mother, sunk in age and despair, had done nothing to the place, and everywhere the weeds grew high; and to all this desolation was added the wildness of the autumn gale. Great clumps of mugwort grew so thick that only the moonlight could penetrate them. The messenger alighted at the entrance of the house. At first the mother could find no words with which to greet her, but soon she said: ‘Alas, I have lingered too long in the world! I cannot bear to think that so fine a messenger as you have pressed your way through the dewy thickets that bar the road to my house,’ and she burst into uncontrollable weeping. Then the quiver-bearer’s daughter said ‘One of the Palace maids who came here, told his Majesty that her heart had been torn with pity at what she saw. And I, Madam, am in like case.’ Then after a little hesitation she repeated the Emperor’s message: “For a while I searched in the darkness of my mind, groping for an exit from my dream; but after long pondering I can find no way to wake. There is none here to counsel me. Will you not come to me secretly? It is not well that the young prince should spend his days in so desolate and sad a place. Let him come too!” This he said and much else, but confusedly and with many sighs; and I, seeing that the struggle to hide his grief from me was costing him dear, hurried away from the Palace without hearing all. But here is a letter that he sent.’

The messenger reached the gates of the house and pushed them open. A strange sight met her eyes. The old lady had been a widow for many years. Her daughter had been responsible for keeping the estate in repair. But since her daughter’s death, the mother had done nothing to maintain it, overcome by age and despair. Weeds grew high everywhere, and a fierce autumn wind added to the desolation. Great clumps of mugwort grew so thick that only moonlight could penetrate them. The messenger got down at the entrance to the house. At first, the mother could find no words to greet her. But soon she said: ‘Alas, I have lived too long! I cannot bear to think that such a fine messenger as you had to push through the dewy thickets blocking the road to my house.’ Then she burst into uncontrollable tears. The quiver-bearer’s daughter said, ‘One of the Palace maids came here and told his Majesty that what she saw broke her heart with pity. And I feel the same, Madam.’ After a little hesitation, she repeated the Emperor’s message: “For a while I searched in the darkness of my mind, feeling my way toward an escape from my dream. But after thinking for a long time, I can find no way to wake. There is no one here to advise me. Will you not come to me in secret? The young prince should not spend his days in such a sad and desolate place. Let him come too!” He said this and much more, but his words were confused, and he sighed often. I could see how much it cost him to hide his grief from me, so I hurried away from the Palace without hearing everything. But here is a letter he sent.’

‘My sight is dim’ said the mother. ‘Let me hold His letter to the light.’ The letter said:

‘My eyesight is poor,’ said the mother. ‘Let me hold his letter up to the light.’ The letter said:

‘I had thought that after a while there might be some blurring, some slight effacement. But no. As days and months go by, the more senseless, the more unendurable becomes my life. I am continually thinking of the child, wondering how he fares. I had hoped that his mother and I together would watch over his upbringing. Will you not take her place in this, and bring him to me as a memory of the past?’ Such was the letter, and many instructions were added to it together with a poem which said ‘At the sound of the wind that binds the cold dew on Takagi moor, my heart goes out to the tender lilac stems.’

‘I thought that, after a while, the memories might blur and fade a little. But no. As the days and months pass, my life becomes more meaningless and unbearable. I am always thinking of the child, wondering how he is. I had hoped that his mother and I would raise him together. Will you take her place and bring him to me as a reminder of the past?’ The letter also included many instructions and a poem: ‘When I hear the wind that gathers cold dew on Takagi moor, my heart goes out to the tender lilac stems.’

It was of the young prince that he spoke in symbol; but she did not read the letter to the end. At last the mother said ‘Though I know that long life means only bitterness, I have stayed so long in the world that even before the Pine Tree of Takasago I should hide my head in shame. How then should I find courage to go hither and thither in the great Palace of a Hundred Towers? Though the august summons should call me time and again, myself I could not obey. But the young prince (whether he may have heard the august wish I know not) is impatient to return, and, what is small wonder, seems very downcast in this place. Tell his Majesty this, and whatever else of my thoughts you have here learnt from me. For a little child this house is indeed a sorry place....’ ‘They say that the child is asleep’ the quiver-bearer’s daughter answered. ‘I should like to have seen him and told the Emperor how he looks; but I am awaited at the Palace and it must be late.’

He was speaking of the young prince in symbolic terms, but she did not read the letter to the end. At last the mother said, ‘Though I know that a long life brings only bitterness, I have lived so long that I should hide my head in shame even before the Pine Tree of Takasago. How, then, could I find the courage to move about the great Palace of a Hundred Towers? Even if His Majesty summoned me again and again, I could not obey. But the young prince is eager to return. I do not know whether he has heard of His Majesty’s wish. He also seems very unhappy here, which is hardly surprising. Tell His Majesty this, and whatever else you have learned of my thoughts here. For a little child, this house is indeed a sad place....’ ‘They say that the child is asleep,’ the quiver-bearer’s daughter answered. ‘I would have liked to see him and tell the Emperor how he looks, but I am expected at the Palace, and it must be late.’

She was hastening away, but the mother: ‘Since even those who wander in the darkness of their own black thoughts can gain by converse a momentary beam to guide their steps, I pray you sometimes to visit me of your own accord and when you are at leisure. In years past it was at times of joy and triumph that you came to this house, and now this is the news you bring! Foolish are they indeed who trust to fortune! From the time she was born until his death, her father, who knew his own mind, would have it that she must go to Court and charged me again and again not to disappoint his wishes if he were to die. And so, though I thought that the lack of a guardian would bring her into many difficulties, I was determined to carry out his desire. At Court she found that favours only too great were to be hers, and all the while must needs endure in secrecy the tokens of inhuman malice; till hatred had heaped upon her so heavy a load of cares that she died as it were murdered. Indeed, the love that in His wisdom He deigned to show her (or so sometimes it seems to me in the uncomprehending darkness of my heart) was crueller than indifference.’

She was hurrying away, but the mother said: ‘Even those who wander in the darkness of their own thoughts can find a momentary ray of light in conversation. So please visit me sometimes of your own accord, when you have time. In years past, you came to this house in times of joy and triumph. And now you bring this news! How foolish people are to trust in fortune! From her birth until his death, her father was determined that she should go to Court. He knew his own mind, and he repeatedly urged me not to disappoint his wishes if he died. I thought that without a guardian she would face many difficulties, but I was determined to do as he wished. At Court, she received only too much favor. All the while, she had to endure cruel malice in secret. At last, hatred burdened her with so many troubles that she died as though she had been murdered. Sometimes, in the darkness of my heart, where I cannot understand, it seems to me that his love was crueler than indifference. Yet he, in his wisdom, chose to show her that love.’

So she spoke, till tears would let her speak no more; and now the night had come.

She spoke until tears stopped her. Night had now fallen.

‘All this’ the girl answered ‘He himself has said; and further: “That thus against My will and judgment I yielded helplessly to a passion so reckless that it caused men’s eyes to blink was perhaps decreed for the very reason that our time was fated to be so short; it was the wild and vehement passion of those who are marked down for instant separation. And though I had vowed that none should suffer because of my love, yet in the end she bore upon her shoulders the heavy hatred of many who thought that for her sake they had been wronged.”

‘He himself has said all this,’ the girl answered, ‘and he also said: “I gave in helplessly to a reckless passion, against my will and better judgment. It was so reckless that it made people blink. Perhaps this was destined because our time together was fated to be so short. It was the wild, fierce passion of those destined for immediate separation. And though I had vowed that no one would suffer because of my love, she ultimately bore a heavy burden. Many hated her because they thought they had been wronged for her sake.”’

‘So again and again have I heard the Emperor speak with tears. But now the night is far spent and I must carry my message to the Palace before day comes.’

‘So I have heard the Emperor speak through tears again and again. But the night is nearly over. I must take my message to the Palace before daybreak.’

So she, weeping too, spoke as she hurried away. But the sinking moon was shining in a cloudless sky, and in the grass-clumps that shivered in the cold wind, bell-crickets tinkled their compelling cry. It was hard to leave these grass-clumps, and the quiver-bearer’s daughter, loth to ride away, recited the poem which says ‘Ceaseless as the interminable voices of the bell-cricket, all night till dawn my tears flow.’ The mother answered ‘Upon the thickets that teem with myriad insect voices falls the dew of a Cloud Dweller’s tears’; for the people of the Court are called dwellers above the clouds. Then she gave the messenger a sash, a comb and other things that the dead lady had left in her keeping,—gifts from the Emperor which now, since their use was gone, she sent back to him as mementoes of the past. The nurse-maids who had come with the boy were depressed not so much at their mistress’s death as at being suddenly deprived of the daily sights and sensations of the Palace. They begged to go back at once. But the mother was determined not to go herself, knowing that she would cut too forlorn a figure. On the other hand if she parted with the boy, she would be daily in great anxiety about him. That was why she did not immediately either go with him herself or send him to the Palace.

Weeping too, she spoke as she hurried away. But the sinking moon shone in a cloudless sky. In the clumps of grass trembling in the cold wind, bell-crickets sang their compelling song. It was hard to leave the grass. The quiver-bearer’s daughter was reluctant to ride away, and she recited a poem: ‘As endlessly as the bell-crickets sing, my tears flow all night until dawn.’ The mother answered, ‘On the thickets filled with countless insect voices falls the dew of a Cloud Dweller’s tears.’ The people of the Court are called dwellers above the clouds. Then she gave the messenger a sash, a comb, and other things the dead lady had left in her care. These had been gifts from the Emperor. Now that they were no longer of use, she sent them back to him as reminders of the past. The nursemaids who had come with the boy were less upset by their mistress’s death than by suddenly losing the daily sights and sensations of the Palace. They begged to go back at once. But the mother was determined not to go herself, knowing how lonely and miserable she would look. On the other hand, if she parted with the boy, she would worry about him every day. That was why she did not immediately go with him or send him to the Palace.

The quiver-bearer’s daughter found the Emperor still awake. He was, upon pretext of visiting the flower-pots in front of the Palace which were then in full bloom, waiting for her out of doors, while four or five trusted ladies conversed with him.

The quiver-bearer’s daughter found the Emperor still awake. He was waiting for her outside, talking with four or five trusted ladies. He had made a pretense of going to see the flowerpots in front of the Palace, which were in full bloom.

At this time it was his wont to examine morning and evening a picture of The Everlasting Wrong,⁶ the text written by Teiji no In,⁷ with poems by Ise⁸ and Tsurayuki,⁹ both in Yamato speech, and in that of the men beyond the sea, and the story of this poem was the common matter of his talk.

At this time, he used to study a picture of The Everlasting Wrong⁶ every morning and evening. Its text was written by Teiji no In,⁷ with poems by Ise⁸ and Tsurayuki,⁹ in both Yamato speech and the language of the people beyond the sea. He often talked about the story of the poem.

Now he turned to the messenger and asked eagerly for all her news. And when she had given him a secret and faithful account of the sad place whence she had come, she handed him the mother’s letter: ‘His Majesty’s gracious commands I read with reverence deeper than I can express, but their purport has brought great darkness and confusion to my mind.’ All this, together with a poem in which she compared her grandchild to a flower which has lost the tree that sheltered it from the great winds, was so wild and so ill-writ as only to be suffered from the hand of one whose sorrow was as yet unhealed.

He turned to the messenger and eagerly asked for all her news. She gave him a private and faithful account of the sad place she had come from. Then she handed him the mother’s letter: ‘I read His Majesty’s gracious commands with more reverence than I can express. But their meaning has left me deeply troubled and confused.’ The letter also contained a poem. In it, she compared her grandchild to a flower that had lost the tree sheltering it from the strong winds. All of it was so wild and poorly written that it could be forgiven only because her grief had not yet healed.

Again the Emperor strove for self-possession in the presence of his messenger. But as he pictured to himself the time when the dead lady first came to him, a thousand memories pressed thick about him, and recollection linked to recollection carried him onward, till he shuddered to think how utterly unmarked, unheeded all these hours and days had fled.

Once again, the Emperor tried to compose himself in front of his messenger. But he pictured the time when the dead lady first came to him, and a thousand memories crowded in. One memory led to another, until he shuddered at how completely all those hours and days had passed unnoticed, unheeded.

At last he said ‘I too thought much and with delight how with most profit might be fulfilled the wish that her father the Councillor left behind him; but of that no more. If the young Prince lives occasion may yet be found.... It is for his long life that we must pray.’

At last he said, ‘I too thought often and with delight about how best to fulfill her father the Councillor’s dying wish. But let us say no more about that. If the young Prince lives, there may yet be a chance.... We must pray that he lives a long life.’

He looked at the presents she had brought back and ‘Would that like the wizard you had brought a kingfisher-hairpin as token of your visit to the place where her spirit dwells’ he cried, and recited the poem: Oh for a master of magic who might go and seek her, and by a message teach me where her spirit dwells.

He looked at the presents she had brought back. ‘I wish you had brought back a kingfisher hairpin, like the wizard, as a token of your visit to the place where her spirit dwells,’ he cried. Then he recited the poem: If only a master of magic could go and seek her, and send me word of where her spirit dwells.

For the picture of Kuei-fei, skilful though the painter might be, was but the work of a brush, and had no living fragrance. And though the poet tells us that Kuei-fei’s grace was as that of ‘the hibiscus of the Royal Lake or the willows of the Wei-yang Palace,’ the lady in the picture was all paint and powder and had a simpering Chinesified air.

No matter how skillful the painter, the picture of Kuei-fei was only the work of a brush. It had no living fragrance. The poet tells us that Kuei-fei’s grace was like ‘the hibiscus of the Royal Lake or the willows of the Wei-yang Palace.’ But the lady in the picture was all paint and powder and had a simpering Chinese air.

But when he thought of the lost lady’s voice and form, he could find neither in the beauty of flowers nor in the song of birds any fit comparison. Continually he pined that fate should not have allowed them to fulfil the vow which morning and evening was ever talked of between them,—the vow that their lives should be as the twin birds that share a wing, the twin trees that share a bough. The rustling of the wind, the chirping of an insect would cast him into the deepest melancholy; and now Kōkiden, who for a long while had not been admitted to his chamber, must needs sit in the moonlight making music far on into the night! This evidently distressed him in the highest degree and those ladies and courtiers who were with him were equally shocked and distressed on his behalf. But the offending lady was one who stood much upon her dignity and she was determined to behave as though nothing of any consequence had taken place in the Palace.

But when he thought of the lost lady’s voice and appearance, neither beautiful flowers nor birdsong seemed worthy of comparison. He constantly grieved that fate had not let them fulfill their vow. Morning and evening, they had spoken of living like twin birds sharing a wing, or twin trees sharing a branch. The rustle of the wind or the chirping of an insect would plunge him into deep sadness. And now Kōkiden, who had long been barred from his chamber, sat in the moonlight playing music late into the night! Her music plainly distressed him deeply. The ladies and courtiers with him were equally shocked and distressed on his behalf. But Kōkiden was very conscious of her dignity. She was determined to behave as though nothing important had happened in the Palace.

And now the moon had set. The Emperor thought of the girl’s mother in the house amid the thickets and wondered, making a poem of the thought, with what feelings she had watched the sinking of the autumn moon: ‘for even we Men above the Clouds were weeping when it sank.’

Now the moon had set. The Emperor thought of the girl’s mother in the house among the thickets. He wondered how she had felt as she watched the autumn moon set. He put the thought into a poem: ‘for even we Men above the Clouds wept when it set.’

He raised the torches high in their sockets and still sat up. But at last he heard voices coming from the Watch House of the Right and knew that the hour of the Bull¹⁰ had struck. Then, lest he should be seen, he went into his chamber. He found he could not sleep and was up before daybreak. But, as though he remembered the words ‘he knew not the dawn was at his window’ of Ise’s poem,¹¹ he showed little attention to the affairs of his Morning Audience, scarcely touched his dried rice and seemed but dimly aware of the viands on the great Table, so that the carvers and waiting-men groaned to see their Master’s plight; and all his servants, both men and women kept on whispering to one another ‘What a senseless occupation has ours become!’ and supposed that he was obeying some extravagant vow.

He raised the torches in their holders and stayed up. At last, he heard voices from the Watch House of the Right and knew the hour of the Bull¹⁰ had struck. Then he went into his chamber so that no one would see him. He found he could not sleep and was up before daybreak. But he seemed to remember the words ‘he knew not the dawn was at his window’ from Ise’s poem.¹¹ He paid little attention to the business of his Morning Audience and barely touched his dried rice. He seemed only dimly aware of the dishes on the great Table. The carvers and attendants groaned at the sight of their master’s condition. All his servants, both men and women, kept whispering to one another, ‘What a pointless job ours has become!’ They supposed he was keeping some extravagant vow.

Regardless of his subjects’ murmurings, he continually allowed his mind to wander from their affairs to his own, so that the scandal of his negligence was now as dangerous to the State as it had been before, and again there began to be whispered references to a certain Emperor of another land. Thus the months and days passed, and in the end the young prince arrived at Court. He had grown up to be a child of unrivalled beauty and the Emperor was delighted with him. In the spring an heir to the Throne was to be proclaimed and the Emperor was sorely tempted to pass over the first-born prince in favour of the young child. But there was no one at Court to support such a choice and it was unlikely that it would be tolerated by the people; it would indeed bring danger rather than glory to the child. So he carefully concealed from the world that he had any such design, and gained great credit, men saying ‘Though he dotes on the boy, there is at least some limit to his folly.’ And even the great ladies of the Palace became a little easier in their minds.

Despite his subjects’ complaints, the Emperor kept turning his attention from their affairs to his own. The scandal of his neglect was once again as dangerous to the State as it had been before. Again, people began to whisper about an Emperor of another land. The days and months passed, and at last the young prince came to Court. He had grown into a child of unmatched beauty, and the Emperor was delighted with him. An heir to the throne was to be named in the spring. The Emperor was greatly tempted to pass over his firstborn son in favor of the young prince. But no one at Court would support the choice, and the people were unlikely to accept it. It would bring the child danger rather than glory. So the Emperor carefully hid his intentions from the world. People praised him for it, saying, ‘Though he dotes on the boy, there is at least some limit to his folly.’ Even the great ladies of the Palace felt a little less anxious.

The grandmother remained inconsolable, and impatient to set out upon her search for the place where the dead lady’s spirit dwelt, she soon expired. Again the Emperor was in great distress; and this time the boy, being now six years old, understood what had happened and wept bitterly. And often he spoke sadly of what he had seen when he was brought to visit the poor dead lady who had for many years been so kind to him. Henceforward he lived always at the Palace. When he became seven he began to learn his letters, and his quickness was so unusual that his father was amazed. Thinking that now no one would have the heart to be unkind to the child, the Emperor began to take him to the apartments of Kōkiden and the rest, saying to them ‘Now that his mother is dead I know that you will be nice to him.’ Thus the boy began to penetrate the Royal Curtain. The roughest soldier, the bitterest foeman could not have looked on such a child without a smile, and Kōkiden did not send him away. She had two daughters who were indeed not such fine children as the little prince. He also played with the Court Ladies, who, because he was now very pretty and bashful in his ways, found endless amusement, as indeed did everyone else, in sharing his games. As for his serious studies, he soon learnt to send the sounds of zithern and flute flying gaily to the clouds. But if I were to tell you of all his accomplishments, you would think that he was soon going to become a bore.

The grandmother remained inconsolable. Eager to search for the place where the dead lady’s spirit lived, she soon died. Once again, the Emperor was deeply distressed. This time the boy was six years old. He understood what had happened and wept bitterly. He often spoke sadly of what he had seen when he was taken to visit the poor dead lady. She had been so kind to him for many years. From then on, he lived at the Palace. At seven, he began to learn to read and write. He learned so quickly that his father was amazed. The Emperor thought that no one would now have the heart to be unkind to him. So he began taking him to the apartments of Kōkiden and the others. He said to them, ‘Now that his mother is dead, I know you will be nice to him.’ In this way, the boy began to enter the Royal Curtain. Even the roughest soldier or bitterest enemy could not have looked at such a child without smiling. Kōkiden did not send him away. She had two daughters who were not such fine children as the little prince. He also played with the Court Ladies. He was now very pretty and shy, and they found endless amusement in joining his games. Everyone else did too. In his serious studies, he soon learned to send the sounds of the zither and flute flying joyfully to the clouds. But if I told you of all his accomplishments, you would think he was about to become a bore.

At this time some Koreans came to Court and among them a fortune-teller. Hearing this, the Emperor did not send for them to come to the Palace, because of the law against the admission of foreigners which was made by the Emperor Uda.¹² But in strict secrecy he sent the Prince to the Strangers’ quarters. He went under the escort of the Secretary of the Right, who was to introduce him as his own son. The fortune teller was astonished by the boy’s lineaments and expressed his surprise by continually nodding his head: ‘He has the marks of one who might become a Father of the State, and if this were his fate, he would not stop short at any lesser degree than that of Mighty King and Emperor of all the land. But when I look again—I see that confusion and sorrow would attend his reign. But should he become a great Officer of State and Counsellor of the Realm I see no happy issue, for he would be defying those kingly signs of which I spoke before.’

At this time, some Koreans came to Court, including a fortune-teller. The Emperor heard of their arrival but did not summon them to the Palace. Emperor Uda had made a law against admitting foreigners.¹² Instead, the Emperor secretly sent the Prince to the foreigners’ quarters. The Secretary of the Right escorted him and was to introduce him as his own son. The fortune-teller was astonished by the boy’s features and kept nodding his head in surprise. ‘He has the signs of someone who might become a Father of the State. If that were his fate, he would settle for nothing less than being Mighty King and Emperor of all the land. But when I look again, I see that his reign would bring confusion and sorrow. Yet if he became a great Officer of State and Counsellor of the Realm, I see no happy outcome. For he would be defying the royal signs I spoke of before.’

The Secretary was a most talented, wise and learned scholar, and now began to conduct an interesting conversation with the fortune teller. They exchanged essays and poems, and the fortune-teller made a little speech, saying ‘It has been a great pleasure to me on the eve of my departure to meet with a man of capacities so unusual; and though I regret my departure I shall now take away most agreeable impressions of my visit.’ The little prince presented him with a very nice verse of poetry, at which he expressed boundless admiration and offered the boy a number of handsome presents. In return the Emperor sent him a large reward from the Imperial Treasury. This was all kept strictly secret. But somehow or other the Heir Apparent’s grandfather, the Minister of the Right, and others of his party got wind of it and became very suspicious. The Emperor then sent for native fortune-tellers and made trial of them, explaining that because of certain signs which he had himself observed he had hitherto refrained from making the boy a prince. With one accord they agreed that he had acted with great prudence and the Emperor determined not to set the child adrift upon the world as a prince without royal standing or influence upon the mother’s side. For he thought ‘My own power is very insecure. I had best set him to watch on my behalf over the great Officers of State.’ Thinking that he had thus agreeably settled the child’s future, he set seriously to work upon his education, and saw to it that he should be made perfect in every branch of art and knowledge. He showed such aptitude in all his studies that it seemed a pity he should remain a commoner and as it had been decided that it would arouse suspicion if he were made a prince, the Emperor consulted with certain doctors wise in the lore of the planets and phases of the moon. And they with one accord recommended that he should be made a Member of the Minamoto (or Gen) Clan. So this was done. As the years went by the Emperor did not forget his lost lady; and though many women were brought to the Palace in the hope that he might take pleasure in them, he turned from them all, believing that there was not in the world any one like her whom he had lost. There was at that time a lady whose beauty was of great repute. She was the fourth daughter of the previous Emperor, and it was said that her mother, the Dowager Empress, had brought her up with unrivalled care. A certain Dame of the Household, who had served the former Emperor, was intimately acquainted with the young Princess, having known her since childhood and still having occasion to observe her from without. ‘I have served in three courts’ said the Dame ‘and in all that time have seen none who could be likened to the departed lady, save the daughter of the Empress Mother. She indeed is a lady of rare beauty.’ So she spoke to the Emperor, and he, much wondering what truth there was in it, listened with great attention. The Empress Mother heard of this with great alarm, for she remembered with what open cruelty the sinister Lady Kōkiden had treated her former rival, and though she did not dare speak openly of her fears, she was managing to delay the girl’s presentation, when suddenly she died.

The Secretary was a highly talented, wise, and learned scholar. He began an interesting conversation with the fortune-teller, and they exchanged essays and poems. The fortune-teller made a short speech. ‘It has been a great pleasure to meet a man of such unusual abilities on the eve of my departure. Though I regret having to leave, I shall take away very pleasant memories of my visit.’ The little prince presented him with a fine poem. The fortune-teller admired it immensely and gave the boy several handsome gifts. In return, the Emperor sent him a generous reward from the Imperial Treasury. All this was kept strictly secret. But somehow the Heir Apparent’s grandfather, the Minister of the Right, and others in his party heard about it. They became very suspicious. The Emperor then summoned local fortune-tellers and put them to the test. He explained that certain signs he had observed had so far kept him from making the boy a prince. They all agreed that he had acted very wisely. The Emperor resolved not to send the child into the world as a prince without royal standing or influence through his mother’s family. He thought, ‘My own power is very insecure. I had better set him to watch over the great Officers of State on my behalf.’ Thinking that he had settled the child’s future satisfactorily, the Emperor devoted himself seriously to his education. He made sure the boy was thoroughly trained in every branch of art and knowledge. The boy showed such talent in all his studies that it seemed a pity for him to remain a commoner. But it had been decided that making him a prince would arouse suspicion. So the Emperor consulted certain scholars who were experts in the lore of the planets and phases of the moon. They all recommended that the boy be made a member of the Minamoto (or Gen) Clan. And so he was. As the years passed, the Emperor did not forget the lady he had lost. Many women were brought to the Palace in the hope that he might take pleasure in them. But he turned away from them all, believing that no one in the world was like her. At that time, a lady was renowned for her beauty. She was the fourth daughter of the previous Emperor. Her mother, the Dowager Empress, was said to have raised her with unmatched care. A Dame of the Household who had served the former Emperor knew the young Princess well. She had known her since childhood and still had opportunities to observe her from outside. ‘I have served in three courts,’ said the Dame. ‘In all that time, I have seen no one who could be compared to the departed lady, except the Empress Mother’s daughter. She is indeed a lady of rare beauty.’ The Emperor listened closely, wondering how much truth there was in what the Dame said. The Empress Mother was alarmed when she heard about this. She remembered how openly cruel the sinister Lady Kōkiden had been to her former rival. She did not dare speak openly of her fears, but she was managing to delay the girl’s presentation when she suddenly died.

The Emperor, hearing that the bereaved Princess was in a very desolate condition, sent word gently telling her that he should henceforward look upon her as though she were one of the Lady Princesses his daughters. Her servants and guardians and her brother, Prince Hyōbukyō, thought that life in the Palace might distract her and would at least be better than the gloomy desolation of her home, and so they sent her to the Court. She lived in apartments called Fujitsubo (Wistaria Tub) and was known by this name. The Emperor could not deny that she bore an astonishing resemblance to his beloved. She was however of much higher rank, so that everyone was anxious to please her, and, whatever happened, they were prepared to grant her the utmost licence: whereas the dead lady had been imperilled by the Emperor’s favour only because the Court was not willing to accept her.

The Emperor heard that the grieving Princess was deeply desolate. He sent her a gentle message, saying that from then on he would treat her as one of his own daughters, the Lady Princesses. Her servants, guardians, and brother, Prince Hyōbukyō, thought life in the Palace might distract her. They also thought it would at least be better than the gloomy loneliness of her home. So they sent her to Court. She lived in rooms called Fujitsubo (Wistaria Tub) and became known by that name. The Emperor could not deny that she looked remarkably like his beloved. But the Princess was of much higher rank, so everyone was anxious to please her. Whatever happened, they were prepared to give her the greatest freedom. The dead lady, by contrast, had been endangered by the Emperor’s favor only because the Court was unwilling to accept her.

His old love did not now grow dimmer, and though he sometimes found solace and distraction in shifting his thoughts from the lady who had died to the lady who was so much like her, yet life remained for him a sad business.

His old love had not faded. Sometimes he found comfort and distraction in thinking of the woman who resembled the one who had died. But life remained a sad affair for him.

Genji (‘he of the Minamoto clan’), as he was now called, was constantly at the Emperor’s side. He was soon quite at his ease with the common run of Ladies in Waiting and Ladies of the Wardrobe, so it was not likely he would be shy with one who was daily summoned to the Emperor’s apartments. It was but natural that all these ladies should vie eagerly with one another for the first place in Genji’s affections, and there were many whom in various ways he admired very much. But most of them behaved in too grown-up a fashion; only one, the new princess, was pretty and quite young as well, and though she tried to hide from him, it was inevitable that they should often meet. He could not remember his mother, but the Dame of the Household had told him how very like to her the girl was, and this interested his childish fancy, and he would like to have been her great friend and lived with her always. One day the Emperor said to her ‘Do not be unkind to him. He is interested because he has heard that you are so like his mother. Do not think him impertinent, but behave nicely to him. You are indeed so like him in look and features that you might well be his mother.’

Genji (‘he of the Minamoto clan’), as he was now called, was always at the Emperor’s side. He soon felt quite at ease with the ordinary Ladies in Waiting and Ladies of the Wardrobe. So he was unlikely to be shy with someone summoned daily to the Emperor’s apartments. Naturally, all these ladies eagerly competed for first place in Genji’s affections. He greatly admired many of them for different reasons. But most of them behaved too much like grown-ups. Only the new princess was both pretty and quite young. Though she tried to hide from him, they were bound to meet often. He could not remember his mother. But the Dame of the Household had told him how much the girl looked like her. This stirred his childish imagination, and he wanted to be her great friend and live with her always. One day the Emperor said to her, ‘Do not be unkind to him. He is interested because he has heard that you look so much like his mother. Do not think him rude. Be nice to him. You look so much like him in your appearance and features that you could well be his mother.’

And so, young though he was, fleeting beauty took its hold upon his thoughts; he felt his first clear predilection.

And so, though he was young, fleeting beauty captured his thoughts. He felt his first clear preference.

Kōkiden had never loved this lady too well, and now her old enmity to Genji sprang up again; her own children were reckoned to be of quite uncommon beauty, but in this they were no match for Genji, who was so lovely a boy that people called him Hikaru Genji or Genji the Shining One; and Princess Fujitsubo, who also had many admirers, was called Princess Glittering Sunshine.

Kōkiden had never liked this lady much, and now her old hostility toward Genji returned. Her own children were considered unusually beautiful, but they were no match for Genji. He was such a beautiful boy that people called him Hikaru Genji, or Genji the Shining One. Princess Fujitsubo also had many admirers, and she was called Princess Glittering Sunshine.

Though it seemed a shame to put so lovely a child into man’s dress, he was now twelve years old and the time for his Initiation was come. The Emperor directed the preparations with tireless zeal and insisted upon a magnificence beyond what was prescribed. The Initiation of the Heir Apparent, which had last year been celebrated in the Southern Hall, was not a whit more splendid in its preparations. The ordering of the banquets that were to be given in various quarters, and the work of the Treasurer and Grain Intendant he supervised in person, fearing lest the officials should be remiss; and in the end all was perfection. The ceremony took place in the eastern wing of the Emperor’s own apartments, and the Throne was placed facing towards the east, with the seats of the Initiate to-be and his Sponsor (the Minister of the Left) in front.

Though it seemed a shame to dress such a lovely child as a man, he was now twelve. The time for his Initiation had come. The Emperor oversaw the preparations with tireless zeal and insisted on greater magnificence than required. The preparations were just as splendid as those for the Heir Apparent’s Initiation, held in the Southern Hall the previous year. Fearing that the officials might neglect their duties, he personally supervised the planning of banquets in various quarters. He also oversaw the work of the Treasurer and Grain Intendant. In the end, everything was perfect. The ceremony took place in the eastern wing of the Emperor’s own apartments. The throne faced east, with seats for the boy and his sponsor, the Minister of the Left, in front of it.

Genji arrived at the hour of the Monkey.¹³ He looked very handsome with his long childish locks, and the Sponsor, whose duty it had just been to bind them with the purple filet, was sorry to think that all this would soon be changed and even the Clerk of the Treasury seemed loath to sever those lovely tresses with the ritual knife. The Emperor, as he watched, remembered for a moment what pride the mother would have taken in the ceremony, but soon drove the weak thought from his mind.

Genji arrived at the hour of the Monkey.¹³ He looked very handsome with his long boyhood locks. The Sponsor had just tied them with a purple ribbon. He was sorry to think that all this would soon change. Even the Clerk of the Treasury seemed reluctant to cut those lovely locks with the ritual knife. As the Emperor watched, he briefly remembered how proud Genji’s mother would have been of the ceremony. But he soon pushed the weak thought from his mind.

Duly crowned, Genji went to his chamber and changing into man’s dress went down into the courtyard and performed the Dance of Homage, which he did with such grace that tears stood in every eye. And now the Emperor, whose grief had of late grown somewhat less insistent, was again overwhelmed by memories of the past.

After he was crowned, Genji went to his chamber and changed into a man's clothes. He went down to the courtyard and performed the Dance of Homage. He danced so gracefully that everyone had tears in their eyes. The Emperor's grief had lately grown less intense, but now memories of the past overwhelmed him again.

It had been feared that his delicate features would show to less advantage when he had put aside his childish dress; but on the contrary he looked handsomer than ever.

People had feared that his delicate features would look less attractive once he stopped wearing a child's clothes. But he looked more handsome than ever.

His sponsor, the Minister of the Left, had an only daughter whose beauty the Heir Apparent had noticed. But now the father began to think he would not encourage that match, but would offer her to Genji. He sounded the Emperor upon this, and found that he would be very glad to obtain for the boy the advantage of so powerful a connection.

Genji’s sponsor, the Minister of the Left, had an only daughter. The Heir Apparent had noticed her beauty. But her father now thought he would offer her to Genji instead of encouraging a match with the Heir Apparent. He asked the Emperor what he thought. The Emperor was very glad for the boy to gain such a powerful connection.

When the courtiers assembled to drink the Love Cup, Genji came and took his place among the other princes. The Minister of the Left came up and whispered something in his ear; but the boy blushed and could think of no reply. A chamberlain now came over to the Minister and brought him a summons to wait upon His Majesty immediately. When he arrived before the Throne, a Lady of the Wardrobe handed to him the Great White Inner Garment and the Maid’s Skirt,¹⁴ which were his ritual due as Sponsor to the Prince. Then, when he had made him drink out of the Royal Cup, the Emperor recited a poem in which he prayed that the binding of the purple filet might symbolize the union of their two houses; and the Minister answered him that nothing should sever this union save the fading of the purple band. Then he descended the long stairs and from the courtyard performed the Grand Obeisance.¹⁵ Here too were shown the horses from the Royal Stables and the hawks from the Royal Falconry, that had been decreed as presents for Genji. At the foot of the stairs the Princes and Courtiers were lined up to receive their bounties, and gifts of every kind were showered upon them. That day the hampers and fruit baskets were distributed in accordance with the Emperor’s directions by the learned Secretary of the Right, and boxes of cake and presents lay about so thick that one could scarcely move. Such profusion had not been seen even at the Heir Apparent’s Initiation.

When the courtiers gathered to drink the Love Cup, Genji came and sat among the other princes. The Minister of the Left came over and whispered something in his ear, but the boy blushed and could think of no reply. Then a chamberlain came over and told the Minister that His Majesty had summoned him at once. When the Minister reached the Throne, a Lady of the Wardrobe handed him the Great White Inner Garment and the Maid’s Skirt.¹⁴ These were his ceremonial gifts as the Prince’s Sponsor. Then the Emperor had the Minister drink from the Royal Cup. He recited a poem, praying that the tying of the purple ribbon would symbolize the union of their two houses. The Minister replied that nothing would break their union except the fading of the purple band. Then he went down the long stairs and performed the Grand Obeisance in the courtyard.¹⁵ The horses from the Royal Stables and the hawks from the Royal Falconry were also displayed there. They had been promised as gifts for Genji. At the foot of the stairs, the princes and courtiers lined up to receive their rewards. Gifts of every kind were showered on them. That day, the learned Secretary of the Right distributed the hampers and fruit baskets as the Emperor had directed. Boxes of cake and presents lay so thickly about that one could scarcely move. Such abundance had not been seen even at the Heir Apparent’s Initiation.

That night Genji went to the Minister’s house, where his betrothal was celebrated with great splendour. It was thought that the little Prince looked somewhat childish and delicate, but his beauty astonished everyone. Only the bride, who was four years older, regarded him as a mere baby and was rather ashamed of him.

That night Genji went to the Minister’s house, where his betrothal was celebrated with great splendor. People thought the young Prince looked somewhat childish and delicate, but his beauty amazed everyone. Only the bride, who was four years older, saw him as a mere baby and was rather ashamed of him.

The Emperor still demanded Genji’s attendance at the Palace, so he did not set up a house of his own. In his inmost heart he was always thinking how much nicer she¹⁶ was than anyone else, and only wanted to be with people who were like her, but alas no one was the least like her. Everyone seemed to make a great deal of fuss about Princess Aoi, his betrothed; but he could see nothing nice about her. The girl at the Palace now filled all his childish thoughts and this obsession became a misery to him.

The Emperor still required Genji to attend him at the Palace, so Genji did not set up a home of his own. Deep down, he was always thinking how much nicer she¹⁶ was than anyone else. He wanted to be only with people who were like her, but sadly, no one was even a little like her. Everyone seemed to make a great fuss over Princess Aoi, his betrothed, but he could see nothing nice about her. The girl at the Palace now filled all his childish thoughts, and his obsession made him miserable.

Now that he was a ‘man’ he could no longer frequent the women’s quarters as he had been wont to do. But sometimes when an entertainment was a-foot he found comfort in hearing her voice dimly blending with the sound of zithern or flute and felt his grown-up existence to be unendurable. After an absence of five or six days he would occasionally spend two or three at his betrothed’s house. His father-in-law attributing this negligence to his extreme youth was not at all perturbed and always received him warmly. Whenever he came the most interesting and agreeable of the young people of the day were asked to meet him and endless trouble was taken in arranging games to amuse him.

Now that he was a ‘man’, he could no longer visit the women’s quarters as he used to. But sometimes, during an entertainment, he found comfort in hearing her voice faintly mingling with a zither or flute. At such times, he felt his grown-up life was unbearable. After an absence of five or six days, he would sometimes spend two or three days at his betrothed’s house. His father-in-law put this neglect down to his youth. He was not at all concerned and always welcomed him warmly. Whenever he came, the most interesting and agreeable young people of the day were invited to meet him. Great care was taken to arrange games for his amusement.

The Shigeisa, one of the rooms which had belonged to his mother, was allotted to him as his official quarters in the Palace, and the servants who had waited on her were now gathered together again and formed his suite. His grandmother’s house was falling into decay. The Imperial Office of Works was ordered to repair it. The grouping of the trees and disposition of the surrounding hills had always made the place delightful. Now the basin of the lake was widened and many other improvements were carried out. ‘If only I were going to live here with someone whom I liked,’ thought Genji sadly.

The Shigeisa, one of the rooms that had belonged to his mother, was assigned to Genji as his official quarters in the Palace. The servants who had attended her were brought together again to serve him. His grandmother’s house was falling into disrepair. The Imperial Office of Works was ordered to repair it. The arrangement of the trees and surrounding hills had always made the place delightful. Now the lake basin was widened, and many other improvements were made. ‘If only I were going to live here with someone I liked,’ Genji thought sadly.

Some say that the name of Hikaru the Shining One was given to him in admiration by the Korean fortune-teller.¹⁷

Some say the Korean fortune-teller admired him and gave him the name Hikaru the Shining One.¹⁷