Aoi

THE accession of the new Emperor was in many ways unfavourable to Genji’s position. His recent promotion¹¹⁹ 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 Apparent¹²⁰ 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.

The new Emperor’s accession was in many ways unfavorable to Genji’s position. His recent promotion¹¹⁹ also brought heavy responsibilities, which sadly disrupted his secret friendships. Soon, more than one person was complaining that he had deserted or neglected them. Yet, as if Fate wished to turn the tables on him, the one person whose love he longed for in vain had now abandoned him completely. Now that the former Emperor was free to live as he chose, she was at his side more often than ever. Nor was her peace disturbed by a rival any longer. Kōkiden resented the old Emperor’s neglect and now seldom left her son’s Palace. A constant succession of banquets and entertainments enlivened the former Emperor’s retirement. Their splendor became the talk of the whole country. On the whole, he was very content with his new life. His only regret concerned the Heir Apparent¹²⁰. He considered the boy’s position extremely insecure, since no powerful influence outside the Palace supported him. He often discussed the matter with Genji and begged him to enlist the Minamoto clan’s support. These conversations tended to be somewhat embarrassing, but they pleased Genji because they let him take steps 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.¹²¹ 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.

An unexpected event now occurred. Lady Rokujō’s daughter by her late husband, Prince Zembō, was chosen as the new Vestal Virgin at Ise.¹²¹ When the appointment was announced, Lady Rokujō happened to be especially hurt by Genji’s treatment of her. She immediately decided to use her daughter’s extreme youth as an excuse to leave the Capital and settle permanently at Ise. As I have said, she was very upset at the time. She spoke openly about her plans and made no secret of her real reasons for wanting to leave the City. The story soon reached the ex-Emperor. He sent for Genji and said, ‘My late brother the Prince was held in the greatest affection and esteem, as you probably know. I am deeply grieved to hear that your reckless and thoughtless behavior has brought disgrace upon his family. I feel as responsible for his daughter as if she were one of my own children. I must ask you to do everything in your power to protect the reputations of these unfortunate ladies in the future. If you do not learn to exercise better control over your frivolous desires, you will soon find yourself extremely unpopular.’ Why should his father be so upset about the matter? Stung by the rebuke, Genji was about to defend himself. But then he realized that the warning was well deserved, and he remained respectfully silent.

‘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.

‘Affairs like these,’ the ex-Emperor continued, ‘must be handled carefully. Whoever the woman is, she must not feel humiliated or treated cynically or carelessly. Forget this rule, and she will soon make you feel the unpleasant consequences of her resentment.’ ‘As wicked as he already thinks I am,’ Genji thought during the lecture, ‘there is a far worse crime he knows nothing about yet.’ He was stunned with horror at the thought of what would happen if his father ever discovered 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,¹²² 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.

What the ex-Emperor had said about ruining other people’s reputations hurt him deeply. He knew that Rokujō’s rank and her position as a widow entitled her to the greatest consideration. But he had not made their affair public. On the contrary, he had done everything he could to keep it secret. She had always treated him somewhat condescendingly, perhaps because of the difference in their ages.¹²² He had grown distant from her only because she had received him coldly for so long. Now their private affairs were known not only to the ex-Emperor but presumably to the whole Court. He thought it deplorable that someone had been so indiscreet.

Among others who heard of the business was Princess Asagao.¹²³ 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 Asagao¹²³ was among those who heard about the matter. Determined not to submit to such treatment herself, she stopped answering his letters. She no longer sent even the short, guarded replies she had once given him. Still, he found it hard to believe that someone so gentle could think unkindly of him. He 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.

When Princess Aoi heard the story, she was naturally distressed by this new example of his fickleness. But his unfaithfulness was now open and unashamed. She felt it was useless to protest against this particular betrayal. To his surprise, she seemed to take it rather lightly. Her condition was causing her much discomfort, and her spirits were very low. Her parents were delighted and surprised to hear that she was expecting a child. But their pleasure, and that of all her friends, was clouded by serious fears. They arranged for prayers for her health and special services on her behalf to be held in all the temples. At such a time, Genji could not leave her. Many felt neglected, although his feelings for them had not really cooled.

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 Vestal Virgin of Kamo still had to be chosen. The choice fell on Kōkiden’s daughter, San no Miya. She was a great favorite of both her brother, the new Emperor, and the Empress Mother. Her withdrawal from the world was a bitter blow to them. But nothing could be done, because she was the only royal princess who met the required 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.

The investiture ceremony itself could not be changed, but the Emperor made sure it was conducted with the greatest pomp and splendor. He also added so many touches to the customary Kamo Festival ritual that it became a spectacle of unmatched magnificence. All this was because he favored 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.

On the day of her purification, the Virgin is attended by a set number of noblemen and princes. For this retinue, the Emperor took care to choose the best built and most handsome young men at Court. He decided what colors their gowns should be, what patterns should be on their breeches, and even what saddles they should ride. By special decree, he ordered Prince Genji to join the retinue. Everyone was so eager to see the procession that people prepared special carriages long beforehand to line the route. The scene along the highroad of the First Ward was indescribably exciting. Dense crowds surged through the narrow space set aside for them. Stands had been built all along the procession route with great imagination and ingenuity. Bright cloaks and shawls hung over their railings, making the stands 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.

Aoi never attended occasions like this. Given her health, she would not have dreamed of going now. But her gentlewomen gathered around her and urged her to go. ‘Come, Madam! It will be no fun for us to go alone and be hidden away in some corner. All these people have come today to see Prince Genji. Why, there are all sorts of strange, wild men from the mountains here. People have brought their wives and children from provinces ever so far away. If all these people who have nothing to do with him have come so far, how can you, his own lady, not be there!’ Aoi’s mother overheard them and 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. By then, it was too late to put on formal clothes. The enclosure set aside for the occasion was already lined with carriages. They were packed so tightly that there was no room for Aoi’s many large carriages. Several grand ladies began to make room for her, backing their carriages away from a suitable space in the reserved enclosure. Among them, two wicker carriages stood out. Their design was rather old-fashioned, but their curtains were those used by people of rank. Draperies showed discreetly beneath the curtains, whether sleeve favours, skirts or scarves. All were in the most beautiful colours. The carriages seemed to belong to someone of high rank who did not wish to be recognized. When it was their turn to move, the drivers would not lift a finger. ‘It is not for people like us to make way,’ they said stiffly, and did not stir. Among the attendants on both sides were several young grooms who had already had too much to drink. They were eager for a fight, and no one could control them. The sober, elderly outriders tried to call them back, but they paid no attention.

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.

The two carriages belonged to Princess Rokujō. She had come secretly to the festival, hoping to forget her troubles for a while. Despite her efforts to conceal her identity, some of Aoi’s gentlemen immediately suspected who she was. They called out to the grooms that they must not treat her carriage so roughly. Otherwise, people would say their lady was abusing her position as the Lord Commander’s wife. But just then, several of Genji’s servants joined the fight. They recognized Rokujō’s men and were embarrassed for a moment. Then they decided not to help the enemy by revealing her 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.

With this reinforcement, Aoi’s side won. At last, her carriage and those of all her ladies were lined up in the front row. Rokujō’s carriage was pushed back among a jumble of carts and gigs, where she could see nothing. She was furious, not only because she had missed what she came to see. Despite all her precautions, she had been recognized and, she was sure, deliberately insulted. The shaft-rest and other parts of her carriage were damaged. She had to prop it against the wheels of a common person’s carriage. Why, she asked herself in vain, had she come among these hateful crowds? She would go home at once. What was the point of waiting for the procession? But when she tried to leave, she found it impossible to force her way through the dense crowds. She was still struggling to get out when someone cried that the procession was in sight. Her resolve weakened. She would wait until Genji had passed. He did not see her. How could he? The crowds flashed past him like the fleeting images a stream catches and breaks apart. She knew this, but she was no less disappointed.

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 carriages lining the route were decorated with garlands for the great day. They were packed with excited ladies who had refused to stay behind, even though there was no room for them. Peering out from under the blinds, they smiled at the important people passing by. They smiled whether or not anyone acknowledged them. But now and then, someone rewarded a smile with a quick glance or a turn of the head. Aoi’s party was large and easy to see. As he passed, he turned around and greeted its members with great attention. As the procession went by, rider after rider stopped before Aoi’s carriage to greet her with the deepest respect. Watching all this from an unnoticed corner was more humiliation than Rokujō could bear. She murmured the lines, ‘Though I saw him only as a shadow falling on rushing water, I knew that my moment of deepest misery had finally come.’ Then she burst into tears. It was terrible to have her servants see her like this. Yet even as she struggled to hold back her tears, she could not regret seeing 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 Treasurer¹²⁴ 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.

The riders in the procession were all magnificently dressed, each according to his rank. The young noblemen chosen by the Emperor looked especially brilliant. Only the radiance of Genji’s beauty could have outshone them. The Commander of the Bodyguard was not usually given a Palace-Officer as his special attendant. But the occasion was so important that the Imperial Treasurer¹²⁴ rode beside Genji. To those who saw so many public honors bestowed on him, it seemed that no flower of fortune could resist the favorable wind blowing his way. Among the crowd were women of quite good birth who had put on walking skirts and come a long way on foot. There were nuns and other women who lived in seclusion. To see any of the procession, they had to endure being pushed off their feet again and again. They usually viewed such spectacles with contempt and disgust. Yet today they declared that they would not have missed it for anything. Old men grinned through toothless gums, and strange-looking girls had tucked their hair under ragged hoods. Stolid peasant boys stood with their hands raised as if in prayer. As the procession came into view, their rough faces suddenly lit up with wonder and joy. Even the daughters of magistrates and governors from remote provinces had dressed themselves and decorated their coaches with great care. Though they knew no one at all in the City, they had prepared as if a lover were about to admire them. Their coaches made a bright and varied display. If even these strangers were so excited, one can imagine how the women with whom Genji secretly communicated watched the procession. Scattered here and there among the crowd, they must have been full of excitement, their breasts heaving with hidden sighs.

Prince Momozono¹²⁵ 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 itself¹²⁶ 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.

Prince Momozono¹²⁵ sat in one of the stands. He was amazed that his nephew had grown into such an extraordinarily handsome young man. He feared that the gods would soon look on him with envy. Princess Asagao could not help being touched by Genji’s rare persistence in courting her year after year. Even if he had been downright ugly, she would have found it hard to resist such persistent attention. So it was no wonder that, seeing him ride by in all his splendor, she wondered how she had held out so long. But she was determined to know him much better before committing herself. The young waiting-women with her made sure to praise him extravagantly. Aoi did not attend the festival itself¹²⁶. Genji soon heard of the clash between her servants and Rokujō’s. He was deeply upset that such a thing had happened. He did not believe for a moment that the exquisitely well-bred Aoi could have been responsible for such insolent behavior. It must have been the work of rough lower servants. Though they had no actual orders, they had picked up the idea that all was not well between the two houses. They imagined they would win favor by taking their mistress’s side. Genji knew well how unusually vain and sensitive Rokujō was. Distressed at the pain the incident must have caused her, he hurried to her house. But her daughter, the Virgin Elect of Ise, was still there. Rokujō used this as an excuse to turn him away after exchanging a few formal words. He had the greatest sympathy for her, but he was growing rather tired of dealing with hurt feelings.

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 bad¹²⁷ 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.’

He could not bear the thought of going straight back to the Great Hall. It was the day of the Kamo festival. He went to his own palace and ordered Koremitsu to prepare his carriage. Murasaki appeared in all her finery, surrounded by the little children he had given her as playmates. ‘Look at her!’ he cried, smiling fondly. ‘She has to bring her ladies to wait on her!’ He stroked her lovely hair, which Shōnagon had dressed with extra care that day. ‘It is getting rather long,’ he said. ‘Today would be a good¹²⁷ time to cut it.’ He sent for his astrologer and told him to consult his books. ‘The maids of honour first!’ he cried, nodding at the pretty group of children. Their delicate locks were trimmed to hang neatly over their patterned holiday gowns. ‘I am going to cut yours myself,’ he told Murasaki. ‘There is so much of it! I wonder how much longer it would have grown.’ It really was hard work. ‘People with very long hair should wear it rather short at the temples,’ he said at last. ‘But I cannot bear to cut yours any shorter.’ And he laid down the knife. Shōnagon was overjoyed when she heard him recite the prayer that was meant to conclude the haircutting ceremony. A seaweed called miru is used in dressing ladies’ hair. Playing on the word, which also means ‘to see’, he recited a poem. In it, he said that the miru used to wash her hair was a sign that he would forever watch it grow with love. She answered that, like the sea tides visiting the miru in its cleft, he came and went away. Often, her hair would grow unwatched by him, like the hidden seaweed. She wrote this very prettily on a slip of paper. The verse had no merit beyond the charm of a child’s mind, but it delighted him. The crowds were as thick as ever that day. With great difficulty, he managed to squeeze his carriage in near the Royal Stables. But there they were surrounded by rather unruly young noblemen. He was looking for a quieter place when a fine carriage full of ladies pulled up nearby. Someone inside beckoned to Genji’s servants with a fan. ‘Won’t you come over where we are?’ one of the ladies said. ‘We will gladly make room for you.’ The offer was perhaps a little forward. But the place she pointed out was so good that Genji accepted at once. ‘I am afraid it is very unfair of us to take your place like this ...’ Genji began politely. Then one of the ladies handed him a fan with its corner folded down. On it he found this poem: ‘On this flower-decked day of meeting, when the great god reveals his signs, I have waited in vain. Alas, another is at your side.’ Surely the handwriting was familiar. Yes, it belonged to the elderly lady of the bedchamber. He thought it was time she gave up such tricks, and his answer was discouraging: ‘This day of meeting is not ours, when the Eighty Tribes gather, garlanded and full of passion.’ The lady was embarrassed and replied: ‘Now I bitterly regret wearing flowers for this deceptive day. It is a day of meeting in name only.’

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.

Their carriages remained side by side, but Genji did not even raise the side curtains. More than one person was disappointed. Everyone contrasted his splendid public appearance a few days earlier with the way he now quietly mingled with the crowd. They agreed that his companion, whoever she was, must certainly be a very important lady. Genji feared that his neighbor would cause trouble. But fortunately, some of her companions were more discreet than their mistress. Out of consideration for the unknown woman sharing Genji’s carriage, they persuaded the talkative lady to hold back.

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.’¹²⁸ She felt herself indeed swirled this way and that by paroxysms that sickened her but were utterly beyond her control.

Lady Rokujō was suffering far more than in previous years. She could no longer bear the way Genji treated her. Yet the thought of leaving him altogether and going so far away distressed her so much that she kept postponing her journey. She also feared becoming a laughingstock if people thought Genji’s scorn had driven her away. But if she changed her plans at the last moment and stayed, everyone would think her behavior wildly unstable and inexplicable. So she spent her days and nights in an agony of indecision. She often repeated to herself the lines ‘My heart, like the fishers’ float on Ise shore, is tossed from wave to wave.’¹²⁸ She did indeed feel tossed this way and that by fits of emotion that sickened her but were entirely 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,¹²⁹ and she brooded more and more upon this wrong till there was room for no other thought in all her heart.

Genji was hurt that she felt she had to go so far away, but he did not try to stop her. ‘It is only natural,’ he wrote, ‘that you should want to put me completely out of your mind. I know how tiresome I am. I only beg you to let me see you once more before you go, even if you see no point in it. If we met, you would soon realize that I care about your happiness far more than you think.’ But she could not forget what had happened at the River of cleansing. There, she had sought relief from the torment of her own doubt and indecision, only to be dashed against the rocks by rough waves.¹²⁹ She brooded more and more over this wrong, until there was room for no other thought in 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 conscious¹³⁰ 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.

Meanwhile, Princess Aoi became strangely distressed. At times, it seemed that a hostile spirit had entered her. The whole household was so anxious and gloomy that Genji could not bear to leave for more than a few hours. Only very occasionally did he make it as far as his own palace. After all, she was his wife. Despite all the difficulties between them, he cared for her very much. He could no longer hide from himself that something was wrong beyond the discomfort naturally accompanying her condition. He was deeply distressed. Under his direction, rituals of exorcism and divination were performed constantly. Everyone agreed that all the signs pointed to possession by the spirit of a living person. Many names were tried, but the spirit responded to none of them. It seemed impossible to drive it out. Aoi herself felt that something foreign had entered her. She felt no particular pain or fear, but the sense that it was there never left her. The greatest healers of the day could not drive it out. Clearly, this was no ordinary case of ‘possession’. A tremendous accumulation of malice was being directed at her. Naturally, her friends thought over the names of those Genji had most favored. People whispered that only Lady Rokujō and the girl at the Nijō-in were close enough to him for their jealousy to be likely to have a fatal effect. But when the doctors used their names to try to summon the spirit, there was no visible response. Aoi had no enemy in all the world who might be practicing conscious¹³⁰ witchcraft against her. Such illnesses were sometimes blamed on possession by the spirit of a dead retainer or an old family nurse. Or perhaps someone offended by the Minister, Aoi’s father, had directed malice at her instead of him because of her delicate condition. One theory after another was accepted and then proved false. Meanwhile, she lay weeping all the time. Often she broke into fits of sobbing so violent that she could not breathe. Those around her were terribly afraid for her safety. They 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.¹³¹ 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....’

The former Emperor asked about her constantly. He even ordered special religious services for her. His attention reminded her parents how highly she was regarded at Court. News of her illness caused great distress, not only among her friends but throughout the country. Rokujō heard of her suffering with deep concern. For years, they had been open rivals for Genji’s affection. Even after the miserable incident with the coaches, she had never wished the Princess harm. Still, that incident had made her very angry. Rokujō herself was very unwell. She began to feel that the intense, troubling emotions that constantly overwhelmed her had somehow disturbed her mind. She decided to seek spiritual help at a place some miles from her home. Genji heard about this and, deeply worried about her, immediately set out for the house where she was said to be staying. It was outside the City, and he had to travel in the greatest secrecy.¹³¹ He begged her to forgive him for staying away so long. ‘I have not been having a very cheerful time,’ he said, and told her something about Aoi’s condition. He wanted her to understand that he had stayed away out of a sad necessity, not because he had found more entertaining company elsewhere. ‘It is not so much my own anxiety that upsets me. It is seeing how helpless and miserable her poor parents have become because of her illness. I came to see you today hoping to forget all these horrors of the sickroom for a little while. If only, just 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.’

His pleading had no effect. She was more hostile than before. He was not angry with her, or even surprised. Day was already breaking when he set out for home, without comfort. But as she watched him leave, his beauty suddenly undid all her resolve. Once again, she felt it was madness to leave him. Yet what did she have to stay for? Aoi was pregnant, which could only mean that he had made peace with her. From now on, he could lead a blameless life. And if he occasionally came to explain himself, as he had today, what good would it do? It would only keep the torment of her desires alive. His letter arrived the next day, leaving her more distraught than ever: ‘The sick woman had been improving for the past few days, but she is suffering badly again. For now, I cannot leave her.’ Certain that this was only an excuse, she sent a poem in reply: ‘The fault and the regret are mine, if I was careless. Like the peasant girl who bends too low among the sprouting rice, I soiled my sleeve on love’s dark road.’ At the end of her letter, she reminded him of the old song: ‘Now I bitterly regret bringing my pitcher to the mountain well, where the water was only deep enough to soil my sleeve.’ He looked at her delicate handwriting. Even among women of her high birth and upbringing, who could match the indescribable grace and elegance of this little note? Her mind and her beauty drew him so strongly. It was bitter to think that, through his own actions, he must now lose her forever. Though it was almost dark, he sat down and wrote to her: ‘Do not say the water has only wet your sleeve. Your comparison is shallow, but my feelings are not!’ He added a poem: ‘You alone have lingered among the shallow pools. I have fought through the thickets of love’s dark path until my whole body was drenched.’ He ended with these words: ‘If there had been even a ray of comfort amid the troubles in this house, I would have brought this note myself.’

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.

Meanwhile, Aoi’s possession had returned in full force, and she was suffering terribly. Lady Rokujō heard that some people blamed the illness on her ‘living spirit.’ Others, she was told, believed that her father’s ghost was avenging the betrayal of his daughter. She thought constantly about her own feelings toward Aoi, but found nothing in herself except deep unhappiness. She could find no trace of hostility toward Aoi. Yet she could not be sure that no spark of malice had lurked deep within her anguished soul. During all the long years she had loved and suffered, she had often thought no greater torment could exist anywhere. Yet her whole being had never been so completely bruised and shattered as it had been in these last days. It had begun with that hateful incident involving the coaches. She had been scorned and treated as though she had no right to exist. Yes, since the Festival of Purification, her mind had been tossed about by a storm of conflicting decisions. At times, she had seemed to lose all control over her own thoughts. She remembered one night when, in the midst of agonizing doubts and indecision, she suddenly realized she had been dreaming. In the dream, she had been in a large, magnificent room where a girl lay. She knew the girl was the Princess Aoi. She had seized Aoi by the arm, dragged her and attacked her as she lay there. Her outburst of brutal fury was utterly unlike anything she would have felt while awake. Since then, she had had the same dream several times. How terrible! It seemed possible, then, for a person’s spirit to leave the body and give way to emotions the waking mind would not allow. She reflected that even when someone’s actions are nearly beyond reproach, people take malicious pleasure in ignoring all the good he has done and telling everyone about the evil. How eagerly they would seize on a story like this! A man’s ghost seemed to pursue his enemies after death all the time. Yet even that was taken as a sign that he had been fiendishly spiteful and malicious, and his reputation was completely destroyed. ‘What will become of me, then, if people think I have committed such a terrible crime while still alive?’ She had to face her fate. She had lost Genji forever. If she was to keep any control over her own thoughts, she first had to find a way to stop thinking of him altogether. She kept reminding herself not to think of him, but this very effort only made her think of him 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-Fields¹³² 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 Hokkekyo¹³³ 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.¹³⁴ 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.¹³⁵ The fact that the child was a boy made the celebrations connected with his birth all the more sumptuous and elaborate.

The Virgin of Ise should have begun her duties before the end of the year. But various difficulties arose, and she could not be received until the following autumn. She was to enter the Palace in-the-Fields¹³² in the ninth month. The decision came so late, however, that her second Purification had to be arranged in great haste. At this critical moment, her mother was unable to oversee the preparations. Instead, she lay on her bed for hours, dazed and helpless. At last the priests arrived to take the girl away. They considered her mother’s condition serious and offered many prayers and incantations for her. But week after week she remained the same. She showed no symptoms that seemed immediately dangerous, yet she was plainly very ill in some vague, indefinable way. Genji sent frequent inquiries about her, but she could see that his attention was occupied by quite other matters. Aoi’s delivery was not yet due, and no preparations had been made for it. Then suddenly there were signs that the birth was near. She was in great distress. The healers recited prayer after prayer, but all their efforts could not weaken the spiteful power possessing her in the slightest. All the greatest miracle-workers in the land were there, and the complete failure of their efforts irritated and puzzled them. At last, overwhelmed by the power of their incantations, the spirit possessing her found its voice. Weeping bitterly, she was heard to say: ‘Give me a little rest. There is something Prince Genji and I must discuss.’ The healers nodded to one another, as if to say, ‘Now we shall learn something worth knowing.’ They were convinced that the possessing spirit was speaking through Aoi, and they hurried Genji to her bedside. Her parents thought she was near death and wanted to give Genji some final private instructions. So they withdrew to the back of the room. The priests also stopped their incantations and began reciting the Hokkekyo¹³³ in low, solemn tones. Genji raised the bed curtain. She looked as lovely as ever as she lay there, heavily pregnant. Any man who saw her, even now, would have found himself strangely troubled by her beauty. How much more troubled, then, was Prince Genji, whose heart was already overflowing with tenderness and remorse! Her long braided hair stood out sharply against her white jacket.¹³⁴ Her natural grace made even this loose sickroom clothing look like a fashionable gown. He took her hand. ‘It is terrible,’ he began, ‘to see you looking so unhappy ...’ He could say no more. She continued to gaze at him. Through his tears, he saw that her eyes no longer held the wounded scorn he had come to know so well. Instead, they showed patience and tender concern. As she watched him weep, her own eyes filled with tears. He could not go on crying like this. Her father and mother would be alarmed, and it was upsetting Aoi herself. Hoping to cheer her, he said: ‘Come, things are not so bad! You will soon be much better. But even if anything should happen, we are certain to meet again in worlds to come. Your father and mother love you dearly, and so do many others. There must be a bond between your fate and theirs that will bring you back to them in many, many lives to come.’ Suddenly she interrupted him: ‘No, no. That is not it. But stop these prayers for a while. They do me great harm.’ Drawing him closer, she went on, ‘I did not think you would come. I have waited for you until my whole soul burns with longing.’ She spoke wistfully and tenderly. Still in the same tone, she recited the verse: ‘Bind this shred, torn from my soul by despair and loneliness, as the seam of a skirt is braided.’ The voice that spoke these words was not Aoi’s, nor was the manner of speaking hers. He knew someone whose voice was very like it. Who was it? Why, yes, surely it could only be the Lady Rokujō. Once or twice he had heard people suggest that something like this might be happening. But he had always rejected the idea as hideous and unthinkable. He had believed it was the malicious invention of some unscrupulous gossip. He had even denied that such ‘possession’ ever happened. Now he had seen one with his own eyes. Ghastly and unbelievable as they were, such things did happen in real life. At last he controlled himself and 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 correctly. To his horror, her parents now returned to the bed. But she had stopped speaking and lay quietly, so her mother thought the attack was over. She was approaching the bed with a basin of hot water when Aoi suddenly sat up and gave birth. For the moment everyone was joyful and celebrating. But it seemed only too likely that the spirit possessing her had been driven away only temporarily. Soon she was gripped by a fierce fit of terror. It was as though the thing, whatever it was, resented being forced to move. There was still grave anxiety about what would happen next. The Abbot of Tendai and the other great ecclesiastics gathered in the room credited her easy delivery to their persistent prayers and incantations. As they hurried away to seek refreshment and rest, they wiped the sweat from their brows, looking very pleased with themselves. Her friends, who had spent days in the deepest gloom, now began to take a little heart. Although there was still no apparent improvement, they believed she was bound to recover now that the child had been safely born. The prayers and incantations began again, but a new confidence spread through the house. At least the pleasure of caring for the baby gave everyone some relief from the strain of the past many days. The ex-Emperor, the Royal Princes and all the Court sent handsome presents. The display grew more dazzling each night.¹³⁵ Because the child was a boy, the celebrations of his birth were even more lavish 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.

The news of this event took Lady Rokujō by surprise. The last report she had heard from the Great Hall was that the childbirth was bound to be very dangerous. Now they said there had been no difficulty at all. She thought this very strange. For a long time, she herself had been experiencing deeply unsettling sensations. She often felt as though her whole personality had suddenly changed. It was as though she were a stranger to herself. Recently, she had noticed a smell of mustard-seed incense in her clothes and hair, though she could not explain it. She took a hot bath and changed her clothes, but the smell of incense still followed her. It was bad enough to feel estranged from herself, even in private. But now her body was playing tricks on her that her attendants must have noticed. No doubt they were discussing them behind her back. Yet she could not bring herself to discuss such things with anyone around her. All this pent-up misery seemed only to make her mind come apart even more.

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 Evening¹³⁶ 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.

Now that Genji was somewhat less anxious about Aoi’s condition, he kept recalling their extraordinary conversation during her attack. The memory was so painful that he felt he could never be intimate with Rokujō again. He knew she must be deeply offended, since he had not contacted her for a long time. Yet pity finally prevailed, and he sent her a letter. It would have been heartless to leave Aoi now, after her days of terrible suffering. It would also have been heartless to leave her friends, who were still gravely anxious. So he gave up all his secret outings. Aoi’s condition was still so serious that Genji was not allowed to see her. The child was as handsome a baby as anyone could wish to see. Genji took great interest in the child and enthusiastically helped with all the arrangements for its care. This delighted Aoi’s father, who saw it as a sign of better understanding between his daughter and Genji. Her slow recovery caused him great anxiety. But he knew that an illness like hers must inevitably leave considerable effects behind. He persuaded himself that her condition was less dangerous than it might have seemed. The child reminded Genji of the Heir Apparent and made him long to see Fujitsubo’s little son again. His longing became so strong that he finally sent Aoi a message: ‘I haven’t been to the Palace in a very long time. In fact, I haven’t paid any visits at all. I’m beginning to feel the need for a little distraction. So I’m going out for a short while today, and I’d like to see you before I go. I don’t want to feel that we’re completely cut off from one another.’ He pleaded with her, and her ladies supported him. They told her that Prince Genji was her own dear Lord and that she should not be so proud and stiff with him. She feared that her illness had affected her looks and wanted to speak to him from behind a curtain. But her ladies would not allow that either. He brought a stool close to where she lay and began talking to her about various things. She occasionally said a word or two, but she was clearly still very weak. Even so, it was hard to believe that she had seemed so near death so recently. They talked quietly about the worst days of her illness and how they now seemed like a bad dream. Then he suddenly remembered their extraordinary conversation when she had seemed to be drawing her last breath. Filled with sudden bitterness, he said, ‘There are many other things I must talk to you about one day. But you seem very tired, and perhaps I had better leave you.’ He arranged her pillows and brought her warm water to wash in. He played the nurse so well that the people around her wondered where he had learned the art. She was still beautiful beyond compare, but weak and listless. As she lay motionless on the bed, she sometimes seemed almost to fade out of existence. He looked at her with loving concern. Her hair lay spread over the pillow, every ringlet still in place. Her wonderful beauty had never struck him so strangely before. Could he really have allowed such a woman to remain estranged from him year after year? He stood looking at her. At last he said, ‘I must leave for the Palace, but I won’t be away long. Now that you’re better, you must try to ease your mother’s anxiety when she comes in a little while. She tries hard not to show it, but she’s still terribly distressed about you. You must start making an effort now and sit up for a little while each day. I think you’re taking so long to recover partly because she spoils you so much.’ As he left the room in all the splendor of his court clothes, she watched him more intently than ever before. The officers taking part in the autumn session were required to attend. Aoi’s father accompanied Genji to the Palace, as did her brother, who needed the Minister’s help with arrangements for the coming political year. Many of their servants went too, leaving the Great Hall deserted and sad. Suddenly Aoi suffered the same choking fit as before and was soon in a desperate condition. The news reached Genji at the Palace, and he broke off his Audience and hurried home. The others followed as fast as they could. Although it was Appointment Evening¹³⁶, they gave up all thought of attending the proceedings. They knew the tragic turn of events at the Great Hall would be accepted as sufficient excuse. It was too late to find the abbot from Mount Tendai or any of the dignitaries who had helped before. It was appalling that Aoi should be so suddenly near death again, just when she had seemed to improve. The people at the Great Hall felt utterly helpless and bewildered. Soon the house was full of servants arriving from every direction with messages of sympathy and inquiries. But they could get no information from the people in the stricken house. The inhabitants seemed to do nothing but rush from room to room in a frenzy that was terrifying to see.

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.

They remembered that her ‘possession’ had already left her in a trance-like state several times. So, for some time, they did not try to prepare her body for burial or even touch her pillows. They left her lying just as she was. After two or three days, however, it became clear that she was dead.

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.

As everyone mourned, Genji sank into the numbness of utter despair. One sorrow had followed another too quickly. Life now seemed to him nothing but a series of pointless miseries. Messages of sympathy poured in from the highest circles of the Court and City, but they only tired and irritated 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 old ex-Emperor’s warm messages and his obvious personal distress at Aoi’s death were deeply flattering. They gave her father some satisfaction amid his constant weeping. At a friend’s suggestion, they tried various drastic measures, hoping they might still bring her body back to life. But soon, even they had to admit that it was too late. With heavy hearts, they took her body to Toribeno. There, in the great open cremation ground beyond the city, the horrors they had dreaded began all too quickly. Even in this vast space, there was barely room for the crowds of mourners who had come from the city’s great palaces to follow the bier. Groups of priests also streamed in from nearby temples, chanting their prayers. The ex-Emperor, Princess Kōkiden, and the Heir Apparent all sent representatives. Many other important people came in person and joined the crowd. Never had a funeral inspired such widespread interest and sympathy. Her father was not there. ‘Now, in my declining years, to have lost someone so young and strong is too staggering a blow ...’ he said. He could no longer hold back the tears he was trying to hide. His grief was heartbreaking. The mournful ceremonies continued all night. At last, only a few pitiful ashes remained on the pyre, and the mourners returned home in the morning. Apart from its grandeur, it was much like any other funeral. But Genji had encountered death only once before, and the scenes of that day haunted him terribly for a long time afterward.

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.’

The ceremony took place in the last week of the eighth month. Genji saw that despair had hidden all the soft brightness of the autumn morning from Aoi’s father. He knew what thoughts must be passing through the man’s mind. So Genji went to him, pointed to the sky, and whispered this verse: ‘Mists fill the autumn sky, and I cannot tell which rose from my lady’s funeral bier. From now on, I gaze with love at the whole realm of clouds, from pole to pole.’

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.¹³⁷ 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.¹³⁸ 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.

At last he was back in his room. He lay down but could not sleep. His thoughts went back over the years he had known her. Why had he lazily assumed that everything would turn out well? Why had he amused himself in the meantime, regardless of her resentment? Why had he let year after year pass without ever establishing real intimacy or sympathy between them, even at the end? His heart was now filled with bitter remorse, but what use was it? His servants brought him his light gray mourning clothes. A strange thought came to him: ‘What if I had died instead of her? She would be putting on the deep-dyed robe a woman wears in mourning.’ He recited a poem: ‘Though custom bids me wear light colors in mourning, my sorrow is as black as the gown you would have worn.’ Dressed in mourning, he counted his rosary beads. Those around him noticed that even the dull colors could not make him look pale or drab. He quietly read many sūtras, including the liturgy to Samantabhadra as Dispenser of the Dharmadhātu Samādhi. His earnest recitation was, in its own way, more impressive than the skillful chanting of a professional cleric. Next he visited the newborn child. It comforted him somewhat to think that she had at least left this memorial of their love. Genji did not even try to visit the Nijō-in for a day. He remained buried in memories and regrets, occupied only with ordering masses for her soul. He did, however, manage to write a few letters, including one to Rokujō. The Virgin Elect was already in the care of the Guardsmen of the Gate. They would soon pass her on to the Palace-in-the-Fields. Rokujō therefore used her daughter’s situation as an excuse not to reply.¹³⁷ Genji was now so weary of life and its sorrows that he seriously considered taking priestly vows. He might perhaps have done so, but a new bond seemed to tie him irrevocably to the world. And there was also the girl Murasaki, waiting for him in the wing of his palace. How unhappy she must have been all this long time! That night he lay alone within his royal curtains. Though watchmen were making their rounds nearby, he felt very lonely. Remembering that ‘autumn is no time to lie alone,’ he sent for the palace chaplain with the sweetest voice. The chaplain’s chanting mingled with the sounds of early dawn. It was almost unbearably beautiful. But soon the sadness of late autumn and the murmur of the rising wind took hold of Genji. Unused to lonely nights, he found it hard to stay in bed until morning. Looking out, he saw a heavy mist over the garden beds. Despite the mist, he could see that something was tied to the stem of a fine chrysanthemum nearby. It was a letter on dark blue paper.¹³⁸ The messenger had left it there and gone away. ‘What a charming idea!’ he thought. Then he suddenly recognized the handwriting. It was from Rokujō. She began by saying that, given her daughter’s situation, she did not think he would be surprised at her long delay in answering his previous note. She added an acrostic poem, playing on the word for chrysanthemum (kiku) as she told him of her distress at hearing (kiku) of his loss. ‘The beauty of the morning,’ she ended, ‘turned my thoughts more than ever toward you and your sorrow. That is why I had to answer you.’ The letter was even more elegantly written than usual, but he tossed it aside. Her condolences hurt him. After what he had seen, he knew they could not be sincere. Still, he felt it would be too harsh to break off all communication with her. In fact, breaking it off would tend to incriminate her, and that was the last thing he wanted. After all, it was probably not that which had caused the disaster. Perhaps Aoi’s fate had been sealed in any case. If only he had never happened to see or hear her spirit at its deadly work! As things stood, however much he argued with himself, he doubted he could ever erase the impression of what that dreadful scene had revealed to him.

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.’

He had an excuse. He was still in deep mourning, and a letter from him would inconvenience her during her daughter’s Purification. But after thinking it over for a long time, he decided it would be unkind not to answer. Her letter had clearly been written solely to give him pleasure. On lightly brown-tinted paper, he wrote: ‘Though I have let so many days pass, please believe that you have been in my thoughts. I hesitated to answer because, as a mourner, I did not want to intrude on the sacredness surrounding your home. I trusted that you would understand. Do not dwell too much on what has happened. For “whether we die late or soon, our lives are more fragile than dewdrops hanging in the morning light.” For now, think no more about it. I say this now because we cannot 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.

She received the letter where her daughter was getting ready, but she did not read it until she returned home. At a glance, she knew what he was hinting at. So he accused her too! At last, she was forced to accept the terrible truth of her own guilt. Her misery grew 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.

If even Genji had reason to believe her guilty, the ex-Emperor, her brother-in-law, must already have heard. What did he think of her? Her late husband, Prince Zembō, had been his favorite brother. He had accepted guardianship of her little daughter, who was about to be consecrated. At his brother’s earnest request, he had promised to educate her and treat her as his own child. The old Emperor had often invited the widow and her daughter to live with him in the Palace. But she was reluctant to accept, and the arrangement would have been somewhat impractical. Meanwhile, she let herself listen to Genji’s youthful courtship. Soon she was constantly tormented and anxious that her indiscretion would be discovered. Throughout the affair, excitement and fear so overwhelmed her that she hardly knew what she was doing. She was widely known as a great beauty, and she came from a distinguished family. As soon as word spread that she had gone to the Palace-in-the-Fields with her daughter, fashionable young men flocked there from Court. These frivolous dandies forced their attentions on her morning, noon and night. Genji heard about them and could not blame them. He thought it a great pity that a woman with every talent and charm should decide she was finished with the world and prepare to leave for such a remote place. He could not help thinking 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.

Though the masses for Aoi’s soul were over, he stayed in seclusion until the seven weeks were complete. He was not used to doing nothing, and the time passed slowly. He often sent for Tō no Chūjō to tell him everything that was happening in the world. Along with much serious news, Chūjō often tried to distract him by recalling their strange adventures together.

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,¹³⁹ 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.

On one of these occasions, Chūjō joked about the elderly lady of the bedchamber with whom Genji had been so indiscreetly involved. ‘Poor old lady!’ Genji protested. ‘It’s too bad to make fun of her like that. Please don’t do it.’ But he had to admit to himself that he could never think of her without smiling. Then Chūjō told him how he had followed and watched him that autumn night, the first after the full moon.¹³⁹ He also told many other stories about his own adventures and those of others. But in the end, they spoke of their shared loss. They agreed that, all things considered, life was a sad business, and 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.¹⁴⁰ 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!’¹⁴¹ 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 one¹⁴² 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.’

Some weeks later, on a gloomy, rainy evening, Chūjō strode into the room. He looked a little self-conscious. That day he was wearing his light gray winter cloak and breeches for the first time.¹⁴⁰ Genji was leaning against the balcony railing above the main western door. For a long time, he had been gazing at the frost-covered gardens around the house. A strong wind was blowing, and quick showers beat against the trees. Near tears, he murmured to himself the line, ‘Tell me whether her soul is in the rain or in the clouds above!’¹⁴¹ Chūjō watched him sitting there, his chin resting on his hand. He thought that the soul of a woman married to so beautiful a young man could not have entirely abandoned her earthly life. She must surely be hovering close to him. Still gazing at him with eager admiration, Chūjō came to Genji’s side. He now noticed that his friend had put on a colored sash that day. In every other way, his dress remained plain. The deep red stood out beautifully against his gray cloak. It was still a summer cloak,¹⁴² though darker than the one he had recently worn. The effect was very different from Genji’s magnificent clothes in happier days. Yet Chūjō could not take his eyes off him for a long time. At last Chūjō also looked up at the stormy sky. Remembering the Chinese verse he had heard Genji repeat, he recited the poem: ‘Though her soul has turned to rain, where in the cloudy sky is the wisp of mist that is her?’ And Genji answered: ‘Since she whom we once knew fled beyond the land of clouds, two months of storms and darkness have scorched 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.

The depth of Genji’s feeling was clear. At times, Chūjō had thought Genji stayed with Aoi only because he feared the old Emperor’s reproaches. He had also thought Genji felt a duty to Aoi’s father, who had always been so kind to him. Genji also felt a duty to her mother, the Princess, who had always treated him with patience and affection. Chūjō had thought these ties made it hard for Genji to end a relationship that was becoming very burdensome. Genji’s apparent indifference to Aoi had often caused Chūjō great pain. Now Chūjō could see that Aoi had never ceased to hold an important place in Genji’s affections. This made him grieve more bitterly than ever over her tragic early death. Whatever he did and wherever he went, Chūjō felt that a light had gone out of his life, and he was deeply 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.’

Among the withered plants in the garden, Genji was delighted to find a few gentians still blooming. After Chūjō left, he picked some and asked the wet nurse Saisō to give them to the child’s grandmother. He sent them with a verse: ‘I send you this gentian flower, which lingered among the withered grass by the hedge, in memory of the autumn that has passed.’ He added, ‘To you, it will seem a poor thing compared with the flowers that are gone.’ The Princess looked at her grandson’s innocent, smiling face. She thought that he was almost as beautiful as the child she had lost. Her tears were already falling faster than a storm wind could shake dry leaves from a tree. When she read Genji’s message, they flowed faster still. She replied: ‘This flower from a meadow now laid waste brings new tears, but tears of joy.’

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.

He still needed something to distract him from his thoughts. Though it was already getting dark, he began a letter to Princess Asagao. He felt sure she must have heard of his bereavement long ago. Although he had not heard from her in a long time, he made no mention of their former friendship. The letter was so formal that he let the messenger read it before setting out. He wrote it on sky-blue Chinese paper and included a poem: ‘When I look back on an autumn filled with many sorrows, I find no evening darkened by such tears as I have shed tonight.’ He took great care with his handwriting, and her ladies thought it a shame to leave such an elegant note unanswered. In the end, she agreed. ‘Though my heart goes out to you in your sorrow,’ she replied, ‘I see no reason to give up my distrust.’ She added a poem: ‘Since I heard that the autumn mists had vanished, leaving a desolate winter in your house, I have often thought of you as I watched the rain pour from the sky.’ That was all, and she had written it hastily. But Genji had heard nothing from her for so long that it gave him as much pleasure as the longest and most ingenious letter.

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 one¹⁴³ 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.

Generally, we are drawn to what we have not explored. Genji tended to fall most deeply in love with those who gave him the least encouragement. His affection lasted best when the woman he loved was busy elsewhere and granted him only an occasional favor. There was one¹⁴³ who fit these conditions perfectly. Unfortunately, her high rank and prominent place in society created too many practical difficulties. But little Murasaki was different. There was no need to raise her according to this principle. During the long days of his mourning, he had never forgotten her. He knew she must be very bored without him. But he regarded her simply as an orphan child he had taken into his care. It comforted him to think that here, at least, was someone he could leave for a little while. He did not have to worry constantly about 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.

It was now quite dark. Genji gathered the people of the house around the great lamp and asked them to tell him stories. Among them was a lady named Chūnagon, whom he had secretly loved for years. He was still drawn to her, but at such a time, a closer relationship was out of the question. Seeing that he looked downcast, she came over to him. They talked for a while about various things, and then Genji said to her: ‘During these past weeks, the house has been quiet. I have grown so used to your company that I shall miss you ladies very much if we can no longer meet so often. That was why I was feeling especially sad. Though, wherever my thoughts turn, I find little to comfort me!’ He paused, and some of the ladies shed a few tears. At last one of them said: ‘I know, my Lord, what a dark cloud has fallen over your life. I would not dare compare our sorrow with yours. But please remember what it must mean to us that from now on you will never....’ ‘Do not say never,’ Genji answered kindly. ‘I do not forget my friends so easily. If any of you remember the past and still wish to serve in this house, you can count on me. As long as I live, I will never desert you.’ He sat gazing into the lamplight, with tears glistening in his eyes. The ladies felt fortunate indeed to have 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.

Among the women was a young orphan girl who had been Aoi’s favorite maid. Genji knew how lonely the child must now feel, so he said kindly, ‘Who else should look after little Miss Até now but me?’ The girl burst into tears. She looked charming in her short tunic, which was darker than the other women’s dresses. She wore a black neckerchief and dark blue breeches. ‘I hope,’ Genji continued, ‘that some of you will choose to care for the little prince I am leaving behind. I hope you will do so in memory of the past, despite the dull times you will likely have in this house. If everyone who knew his mother is now sent away, his situation will be even more wretched.’ Again he promised never to forget them. But they knew his visits would be few and far between, and they felt very discouraged.

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.

That night he gave keepsakes and small objects that had belonged to their young mistress to the waiting ladies and all the servants at the Great Hall. He gave them out according to each person’s rank and position. For each, he chose what he thought most likely to keep her memory alive. He did this regardless of whom he liked or disliked 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.’

He had decided that he could not go on living this way much longer. Soon he would have to return to his own palace. His servants were bringing out his carriage, and his gentlemen were gathering outside his rooms. Then, as if to delay him, a violent rainstorm began. The wind tore the last leaves from the trees and swept them wildly across the ground. The gentlemen gathered outside the house were soon soaked to the skin. He had planned to go to the Palace, then to the Nijō-in, and return to sleep at the Great Hall. But that was impossible on such a night. He ordered his gentlemen to go straight to the Nijō-in, where he would join them later. As they filed away, each felt that a chapter in his life had closed that day. Yet none of them was likely to be seeing the Great Hall for the last time. When the Minister and his wife heard that Genji would not return that night, they felt it too. They had reached a new and bitter stage in their grief. Genji sent Aoi’s mother this letter: ‘The ex-Emperor has expressed a strong wish to see me, and I feel I must go to the Palace. I shall not be away for many days. Yet I have not left this house for so long that I feel dazed at the thought of facing the world again. I could not leave without telling you, but I am in no condition to visit you.’ The Princess still lay with her eyes closed, lost in the deepest gloom. She sent no reply. Soon Aoi’s father came to Genji’s rooms. He found it very hard to hold himself together. During their conversation, he clung to his son-in-law’s sleeve. His dependence was painful to see. After much hesitation, he finally said: ‘We old men are quick to cry even when small things go wrong. So you must not be surprised that, under the weight of such terrible sorrow, I sometimes burst into tears. At such times I cannot control my weeping. When I am so weak and upset, I would rather be where no one can see me. That is why I have not yet ventured to pay my respects to his Majesty, your father. If you have the chance, please explain this to him. To be left so desolate in the last years of life is a hard trial, a very hard trial indeed....’ It distressed Genji to see how much effort these words cost him. He quickly assured the old Minister that he would make things right at Court. ‘Though I do not doubt,’ he added, ‘that my father has already guessed why you have been absent.’ As the rain was still heavy, the Minister urged him to leave before it grew completely dark. But Genji would not leave the house until he had taken a last look at the inner rooms. His father-in-law followed him. Beyond Aoi’s curtained seat, some thirty gentlewomen were crowded together behind a screen. All wore dark gray mourning clothes. They were miserable and in tears. ‘These poor ladies,’ the Minister said, turning to Genji, ‘take some comfort in knowing you are leaving someone behind. His presence will sometimes draw you back to this house. But they know it will never again be your rightful home. This distresses them as much as the loss of their dear mistress. For years they hoped against hope that you and she would finally be reconciled. Think, then, how bitter this day of your final departure must be for them.’ ‘Let them take heart,’ said Genji. ‘While my lady was alive, I often stayed away from her on purpose. I hoped in vain that when I returned, I would find her less harsh toward me. But now that she is dead, I have no reason to avoid this house. You will soon see that for yourself.’

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.

After watching Genji drive away, Aoi’s father went to her bedroom. All her things were just as she had left them. Writing materials lay scattered on a stand in front of the bed. Some papers were covered with Genji’s handwriting. The old man seized them eagerly, and some of the women who had followed him smiled, even in their grief. The works Genji had copied were all masterpieces of the past, some Chinese and some Japanese. Some were written in cursive, others in full script. Together, they were an astonishing display of his skill in different styles of handwriting. The Minister gazed at these examples of Genji’s skill with almost religious awe. He must have felt great pain at the thought that the young man he adored was no longer part of his household and family.

Among these manuscripts was a copy of Po Chü-i’s “Everlasting Wrong”¹⁴⁴ 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.’

Among these manuscripts was a copy of Po Chü-i’s “Everlasting Wrong.”¹⁴⁴ Beside the words ‘The old pillow, the old coverlet, who will he share them with now?’ Genji had written a poem: ‘Her ghost is sad as she travels to unfamiliar realms, leaving the bed where we used to rest.’ Beside the words ‘The white petals of the frost’ he had written: ‘Dust will cover this bed, for I can no longer bear to brush away 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.

Aoi’s ladies gathered in groups of two or three. In each group, one woman shared her personal sorrows and frustrations. ‘As his Excellency the Minister told us, Prince Genji will surely visit us sometimes, if only to see the child. But I doubt he will find much comfort in such visits....’ One of them was saying this to her friends. Soon they were saying many touching goodbyes to one another. For it had been decided that they would all return to their homes for the time being.

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.

Meanwhile, Genji was with his father at the Palace. ‘Your face is very thin,’ the ex-Emperor said as soon as he saw him. ‘I’m afraid too much prayer and fasting have worn you out.’ Deeply concerned, he immediately offered Genji all kinds of food and restorative drinks. His concern for Genji’s health and his affairs in general touched Genji deeply.

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.

Late that night, he finally arrived at the Nijō-in. He found everything cleaned and decorated, and his servants were waiting for him at the door. All the gentlewomen of the household came to his rooms at once. They seemed to have competed to look the most cheerful and elegant. Their finery contrasted pleasantly with the somber, dispiriting clothes of the unfortunate ladies he had left 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.’

After changing out of his court clothes, he went straight to the western wing. Murasaki’s winter outfit was delicately designed. Her pretty attendants and young companions were also beautifully dressed, a credit to Shōnagon’s care. He was pleased to see that he could safely leave such matters in her hands. Murasaki herself was exquisitely dressed. ‘How tall you’ve grown since I last saw you!’ he said, lifting her little curtain of honor. He had been away so long that she felt shy and turned her head away. But he would not have wanted her to look any different. As she sat in profile, with lamplight falling on her face, he saw with delight that she was becoming the image of the woman he had loved best from the beginning. Moving closer, he whispered, ‘I want to tell you sometime about everything that has happened to me since I left. But it has all been terrible, and I’m too tired to talk about it now. So I’m going to rest for a little while in my own room. From tomorrow on, you’ll have me to yourself all day. In fact, I expect you’ll 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.

‘So far, so good,’ thought Shōnagon when she heard this. But she was still far from reassured. She knew that Genji was friends with several very influential ladies. She feared he would be much more likely to choose one of them as his second wife than to remember her own young mistress. So 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.

After Genji withdrew to the eastern wing, he sent for Lady Chūjō to rub his limbs. Then he went to bed. The next morning, he wrote to the nurses caring for Aoi’s child. They sent him a touching account of the child’s beauty and progress, but their letter only stirred useless memories and regrets. By the end of the day, he felt restless, and time dragged. But he was in no mood to go wandering secretly again, and the idea did not even occur to him. Murasaki had not disappointed any of his hopes. She had grown into as beautiful a girl as anyone could wish to see. She was also old enough now for him to become her lover. He often 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.

He still had plenty of free time, and he now spent all of it with her. All day long they played checkers or word games. Even in these simple games, her quick mind and lovely nature continually delighted him. But she had been raised so strictly apart from the world that she never thought to use her charms in a 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.

Soon the situation became unbearable. Although he knew she would be very upset, he was determined to get his way somehow.

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.’

One morning, the gentleman was already up and about, but the young lady was still in bed. Her attendants had no way of knowing that anything unusual had happened. Genji had always gone in and out of her room whenever he pleased. They naturally assumed she was unwell and were looking at her with sympathy when Genji arrived. He carried a writing box and slipped it behind the bed curtains. He left at once, and the ladies left the room too. When Murasaki saw that she was alone, she slowly raised her head. The writing box was beside her pillow, with a slender note tied to it with a ribbon. Listlessly, she untied the note and unfolded it. She read the hastily scribbled poem: ‘Too long have we put off this new venture, we who until now have lain together night after night with only a shift between us.’

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.

She was completely surprised that this was what Genji had wanted for so long. She could not understand why he saw the unpleasant event of last night as the beginning of a closer friendship. Later that morning he came again. ‘Is something wrong?’ he asked. ‘I’ll be very bored today if you can’t play draughts with me.’ But when he came close, she only burrowed deeper under the bedclothes. He waited until the room was empty, then bent over her. ‘Why are you being so unfriendly to me? I never expected to find you in such a bad mood this morning. The others will think it very strange if you lie here all day.’ He pulled aside the scarlet coverlet she had hidden under. To his astonishment, she was covered in sweat. Even the hair hanging across her cheeks was dripping wet. ‘No! This is too much,’ he said. ‘What a state you’ve worked yourself into!’ But however he tried to coax her back to reason, he could not get a word out of her. She really was very upset with him. ‘Very well, then,’ he said at last. ‘If that’s how you feel, I’ll never come to see you again.’ He pretended to be deeply hurt and humiliated. Turning away, he opened the writing-box to see whether she had written an answer to his poem. Of course, he found none. He understood perfectly that her distress was simply due to her extreme youth and inexperience, and he was not at all upset. He sat near her all day, trying to win back her trust. Though he had little success, he found even her rejections oddly endearing.

At nightfall, it being the Day of the Wild Boar, the festival cakes¹⁴⁵ 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.¹⁴⁶ 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.¹⁴⁷ Pray how many am I to bring?’ When Genji answered ‘Divide by three¹⁴⁸ 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.

At nightfall, on the Day of the Wild Boar, the festival cakes¹⁴⁵ were served. Because Genji was in mourning, there was no great display. But a few cakes were brought to Murasaki’s quarters in an elegant picnic basket. Seeing that the different kinds were all mixed together, Genji went to the front of the house and called for Koremitsu. He said to him: ‘I want you to take these cakes away and bring me some more tomorrow evening. But bring far fewer than these, and all of one kind.¹⁴⁶ This is not the right evening for them.’ He smiled as he spoke, and Koremitsu was quick enough to guess at once what had happened. However, Koremitsu did not think it would be discreet to congratulate his master directly. He merely said: ‘It is true that you must eat your cakes on the proper day if you want to make a good beginning. The Day of the Rat is certainly very suitable.¹⁴⁷ How many shall I bring?’ When Genji answered, ‘Divide by three¹⁴⁸ and you will get the answer,’ Koremitsu was no longer in any doubt. He hurried away, leaving Genji amused by the practiced manner in which he always handled matters of this kind. Koremitsu said nothing to anyone. Instead, he returned to his own house and 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.

Genji was beginning to despair of ever restoring her confidence and good spirits. Even now, she seemed as shy of him as on the night he first stole her from her home. But her beauty fascinated him. He knew his love for her before yesterday was only a fraction of what he had felt since then.

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....

How strange the human heart is! Now it would have seemed a disaster to him to be away from Murasaki’s side for even one night. 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.’

Koremitsu brought the cakes Genji had ordered very late the following night. He was careful not to give them to Shōnagon. He thought such an errand might embarrass a grown woman. Instead, he sent for her daughter, Miss Ben. He put all the cakes in one large perfume box and told her to take them secretly to her mistress. ‘Be sure to put them close to her pillow. They are lucky cakes and must not be left lying around the house. Promise me you won't do anything silly with them.’ Miss Ben thought all this very odd, but she tossed her head and answered, ‘When have you ever known me to be silly?’ Then she walked off with the box. She was quite young and completely innocent about such matters. She went straight to her mistress’s bed and, remembering Koremitsu’s instructions, pushed the box through the curtains. She placed it safely by the pillow. It seemed to her that someone else was there with Murasaki. ‘No doubt,’ she thought, ‘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.

So far, no one in the household except Koremitsu knew about the betrothal. But the next day, a box was found by the bed and brought to the servants’ quarters. Some servants who knew their master’s affairs well immediately guessed the secret. Where had these little dishes come from, each on its own carved stand? Who had taken such care to make these delicate, inventive cakes? Shōnagon was shocked that they had entered into marriage so casually. But she was overjoyed to learn that Genji’s strange interest in her young mistress had finally led to a definite betrothal. Her eyes filled with tears of gratitude and delight. Even so, she thought he might at least have taken the trouble to tell her, the girl’s old nurse. There was also much grumbling throughout the household. People resented that an outside retainer like Koremitsu had learned 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.

In the days that followed, he resented even the short hours he had to spend at the Palace and in his father’s rooms. To his own surprise, he found that he could no longer enjoy a moment’s peace except in her presence. The friends he used to visit were surprised and offended that he had neglected them without explanation. He did not want to fall out with them, but even the distant prospect of spending a single night away from his palace upset him. Whenever he was away, his spirits sank to their lowest point, and he looked as if he were coming down with some strange illness. He always answered invitations or greetings by saying that he was in no mood for company. People naturally took this as a reference to his recent loss. Or he would say that he had to leave because someone he had business with was already waiting for him.

The Minister of the Right was aware that his youngest daughter¹⁴⁹ 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,¹⁵⁰ 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.

The Minister of the Right knew that his youngest daughter¹⁴⁹ still longed for Prince Genji. One day he said to Princess Kōkiden: ‘While his wife was alive, we naturally had to discourage her friendship with him however we could. But things have changed now. As matters stand, I think there is much to be said for such a match.’ But Kōkiden had always hated Genji. She had arranged for her sister to enter the Palace,¹⁵⁰ and saw no reason to abandon that plan now. Indeed, from that moment on, she was determined that the girl should be given to the Emperor and no one else. Genji still had some affection for her. But though he was sorry to hear that he had made her unhappy, he had no affection to spare her just now. He had decided that life was too short for diversions and experiments. From now on, he would concentrate. He had also received a terrible warning about the dangers of the jealousies and resentments his former life had stirred up. He thought with great tenderness and concern of Lady Rokujō’s distress. But he knew he must be careful never again to let her see him as her true refuge. If she would renew their friendship on entirely new terms, however, he saw no reason why they should not sometimes meet. She would have to let him enjoy her company and conversation when it suited him.

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.

People generally knew that someone was living with Genji, but no one knew who she was. That did not matter. But Genji felt that sooner or later he should tell her father, Prince Hyōbukyō, what had become of her. He decided it would be best to celebrate her Initiation first. The ceremony was private, but he made sure every detail was suitably splendid and solemn. Though no outsiders were invited, it was as magnificent an occasion as possible. Ever since their betrothal, however, Murasaki had been somewhat shy and hesitant around him. For years they had been close friends and had lived together so happily. She could not help regretting that he had suddenly taken this strange idea into his head. Whenever their eyes met, she quickly looked away. He tried to joke about it, but she took it very seriously, and it weighed heavily on her mind. Her changed attitude toward him was somewhat comical, but it was also very upsetting. One day he said: ‘Sometimes it seems as though you have forgotten all our long years of friendship. It is as if I had suddenly become a stranger to you again.’ And while he scolded her in this way, the year drew to a close. On New Year’s Day, he paid the customary visits to his father, the Emperor and the Heir Apparent. Next he visited the Great Hall. The old Minister said nothing about the new year, but immediately began to speak of the past. In his loneliness and sorrow, he was deeply moved even by this brief, long-delayed visit. Though he tried hard to remain composed, he could not. Looking fondly at his son-in-law, he thought that each passing year only added to the beauty of his face. They went together into the inner rooms, where his arrival surprised and delighted the grieving ladies who had remained there. Next they visited the little prince, who was growing into a fine child. His cheerful face was a pleasure to see. His resemblance to the Heir Apparent was certainly striking, and Genji wondered whether anyone had noticed it.

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 second¹⁵¹ 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 her¹⁵² 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.

Aoi’s things were still as she had left them. As in previous years, his New Year clothes had been hung on the clothes-frame. Aoi’s clothes-frame stood empty beside it and looked strangely desolate. A letter from her mother, the Princess, was brought to him. ‘Today,’ she wrote, ‘I have felt our loss more than ever. I was touched to hear that you had come, but I fear seeing you would only bring back unhappy memories.’ ‘You will remember,’ she continued, ‘that I used to give you a suit of clothes every New Year’s Day. But in recent months my eyes have been so clouded with tears that I fear you will find the colours badly matched. Still, I beg you to let yourself be seen in these unfashionable clothes, even if only for today ...’ A servant then held out a second¹⁵¹ suit, clearly the one he was expected to wear today. The fabric underneath had a very unusual pattern and combination of colours, and he did not like it at all. But he could not let her feel that she had worked in vain, so he put the suit on at once. It was 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 wrote: ‘I came hoping that you would be the first friend I greeted this new spring. But now that I am here, too many bitter memories trouble me. I think it would be wiser for us not to meet.’ He added an acrostic poem. In it, he said that when he had put aside his mourning clothes, he had also cast aside so many years of friendship. If he came to her¹⁵², he could only weep. She answered with an acrostic poem of her own. In this new season, she wrote, everything else on earth was changing colour. Only one thing remained as it had been in the past months: 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.

But though her grief may have been greater, both of them felt very deep emotion at that moment.