Mirage

SPRING shone once more upon the world; and as in other years his doors were thronged by visitors. But he pleaded illness, and remained behind the screens-of-state. It was only when his half-brother, Prince Sochi, came that he felt inclined for a less formal salutation, and calling him into the screened recess, Genji recited the verse: ‘Seek not in this domain the gladness of the year; for gone is she with whom ’twas joy to praise the shining boughs of Spring.’ Prince Sochi answered: ‘Think not that I have come in quest of common flowers; but rather to bemoan the loss of one whose scent has vanished from the air.’ And when later on Genji watched his brother walking away beneath boughs of red plum-blossom, he felt that if any one could this year incite him to take pleasure in the beauty of the garden, it would be this Prince Sochi, to whom his heart always warmed. The flowers were not yet fully open; but that is just the time when their scent is sweetest. But this year there were no concerts or picnics; indeed, all was changed.

Spring shone on the world once more, and as in other years, visitors crowded Genji’s doors. But he said he was ill and stayed behind the ceremonial screens. Only when his half-brother, Prince Sochi, came did Genji feel like offering a less formal greeting. He called the prince into the screened recess and recited a verse: ‘Do not look for the joy of the new year here. She is gone, the one with whom I loved to praise the shining branches of spring.’ Prince Sochi replied: ‘Do not think I have come looking for ordinary flowers. I have come to mourn the loss of one whose fragrance has vanished from the air.’ Later, Genji watched his brother walk away beneath branches of red plum blossom. He felt that if anyone could make him enjoy the garden’s beauty this year, it would be Prince Sochi. Genji’s heart always warmed to him. The flowers were not yet fully open, but that is when their fragrance is sweetest. This year, though, there were no concerts or picnics. Everything had changed.

Those of Murasaki’s ladies who had been long in her service were still dressed in deep mourning and were inconsolable as ever for her loss. Their only comfort was that Genji had quite ceased to pay any visits, and they were thus able to distract themselves by continually waiting upon him. It was long since he had had any serious dealings with people such as this. But there were some of them to whom he had at one time or another taken a fancy. If any of these now hoped to profit by the situation, they were sadly mistaken. He slept alone; and those ladies who were retained for night service went on duty several at a time and were posted at a considerable distance from where he lay. Sometimes he would talk to them about old days. It seemed that, despite the increasing earnestness of her convictions, small matters (likely to have no lasting effect upon their relations) had at the time very much disturbed her; and it was intolerable to him that, trivial or ridiculous though the occasion might have been, he should ever have caused her to suffer. And much more when he came to think of the few more serious occasions.... How often, while perfectly understanding all that was going on in his mind, had she refrained from any reproach or complaint! But there must all the same have been times when, at any rate for the moment, it was quite impossible for her to foresee how this affair or that would turn out in the end; and he bitterly regretted that he should ever have caused her to watch him with anxiety and misgiving. He sometimes talked this over with those who had known her best in those days. There was the time when Nyosan first came to live with them. Murasaki had never been openly hostile; but she had certainly suffered very much. He remembered that snowy morning, when coming back to their room at dawn he found that she had been weeping. How gentle, how forbearing she had been, how she struggled to hide from him what she was enduring! And now he lay all night long, hoping against hope that he might so much as see her for an instant in his dreams. ‘There’s been quite a heavy fall of snow.’ He woke up to hear some one saying this—no doubt one of the ladies, going back to her own quarters. More vividly than ever did he remember that other snowbound morning, and his loneliness became unendurable. To distract himself he dressed hastily and was soon absorbed in his devotions. Presently the dead ashes were swept from his fire-stand, the buried flame shot up again and burned brightly in his room. Chūnagon and Chūjō, two of Murasaki’s ladies, were with him. ‘You may well imagine,’ he said, ‘that last night was no very good one for sleeping all alone. Why, when every circumstance seems aimed to wean me from the world, I should still cling to this sort of life, is more than I can explain.’ But he was really thinking that to these ladies of hers the task of waiting upon him did afford some small comfort, and he wondered what would become of them when he was gone.

Murasaki’s longtime attendants still wore deep mourning and were as inconsolable as ever over her death. Their only comfort was that Genji had stopped going out on visits. They could distract themselves by constantly attending to him. It had been a long time since he had been seriously involved with women like them. But he had been attracted to some of them at one time or another. If any of them now hoped to take advantage of the situation, they were sadly mistaken. He slept alone. The ladies assigned to night duty served several at a time, at a considerable distance from where he lay. Sometimes he talked to them about the old days. Despite Murasaki’s increasingly firm convictions, small things had greatly troubled her at the time. These were matters unlikely to have any lasting effect on their relationship. Yet Genji could not bear to think that he had caused her pain, however trivial or ridiculous the occasion. And how much worse it was when he thought of the few more serious occasions.... How often had she held back from reproach or complaint, though she understood perfectly what was on his mind! Even so, there must have been times when she could not immediately foresee how an affair would end. He bitterly regretted ever having made her watch him with anxiety and doubt. He sometimes talked about this with those who had known her best in those days. There was the time when Nyosan first came to live with them. Murasaki had never been openly hostile, but she had certainly suffered greatly. He remembered that snowy morning when he returned to their room at dawn and found that she had been weeping. How gentle and patient she had been, and how hard she had tried to hide her suffering from him! Now he lay awake all night, hoping against hope to see her, even for an instant, in his dreams. ‘There’s been quite a heavy snowfall.’ He woke to hear someone saying this, no doubt one of the ladies returning to her own quarters. He remembered that other snowy morning more vividly than ever, and his loneliness became unbearable. To distract himself, he dressed quickly and was soon absorbed in his devotions. Before long, the dead ashes were swept from his fire-stand. The hidden flame rose again and burned brightly in his room. Chūnagon and Chūjō, two of Murasaki’s ladies, were with him. ‘You can imagine,’ he said, ‘that last night was not a good one to sleep alone. Everything seems meant to draw me away from the world. Why I still cling to this kind of life is more than I can explain.’ But he was really thinking that attending to him gave Murasaki’s ladies some small comfort. He wondered what would become of them when he was gone.

He had known Chūjō since she was a child, and there had at one time been an intimacy between them. This, while Murasaki was alive, made Chūjō very shy in Genji’s presence. But since her death, they had (on quite different terms) again become friends. For the girl had been a great favourite of Murasaki’s, and this reason alone sufficed to make her dear to him; he grafted her on to his life, like the pine-tree that grows on the green barrow of a tomb.

Genji had known Chūjō since she was a child, and they had once been intimate. Because of this, Chūjō was very shy around Genji while Murasaki was alive. But after Murasaki’s death, they became friends again, on quite different terms. Chūjō had been a great favorite of Murasaki’s, and that alone was enough to make her dear to Genji. He grafted her onto his life, like a pine tree growing on the grassy mound of a grave.

The princes with whom he had been most intimate, his brothers and cousins, called constantly; but he would see none of them. For despite all the efforts he made to get himself into a fit state for company, months of despondency had, he felt, worked such havoc with him, that if he were again to receive his friends, they would remember him as he now was, and not as they had once known him. But merely to hide would defeat his end; for if it got about that he was ashamed to be seen, or was so broken by sorrow that he could not maintain a rational conversation, an even worse impression might get abroad than was warranted by the truth. And lest it should be said that he had ended his days in decrepitude and imbecility, he began again to admit Yūgiri and a few others to his presence. But he spoke to them always from behind his curtains-of-state. About one thing he was determined: he must recover himself sufficiently to meet people and show a good face to the world before he took the final step that he was contemplating. He attempted several times to visit the various ladies of his household; but he found himself unable to control his grief, and hastening home determined in future not to make any further effort to keep in touch with the world.

The princes closest to him, his brothers and cousins, visited constantly, but he would see none of them. He tried hard to make himself fit for company. But he felt that months of despair had changed him too much. If he received his friends again, they would remember him as he was now, not as they had once known him. But simply hiding would defeat his purpose. Word might spread that he was ashamed to be seen, or too broken by grief to hold a sensible conversation. That might give people an even worse impression than the truth justified. He did not want people to say that he had ended his days feeble in body and mind. So he began to receive Yūgiri and a few others again. But he always spoke to them from behind his ceremonial curtains. He was determined about one thing. Before taking the final step he was contemplating, he had to recover enough to meet people and present himself well. Several times he tried to visit the various ladies of his household. But he could not control his grief. He hurried home, determined to make no further effort to keep in touch with the world.

The Akashi Princess was now back at the Imperial Palace; but Genji persuaded her to let Prince Niou stay with him for a while. The child showed a great interest in the red plum-tree in front of his room, constantly trotting out to see that no harm came to it. His granny, he said, had told him to. It was only the second month, and though the flowering trees were all in bloom, they were not fully out, so that the shimmer of the blossoms hung like a delicate mist along the boughs; and when a nightingale began to sing in full voice upon a branch of Niou’s tree, Genji could not refrain from coming out to listen. ‘Knows he that she who built his shining bower hears him no more—the nightingale upon the red plum-tree?’ So he murmured as he walked.

The Akashi Princess had returned to the Imperial Palace, but Genji persuaded her to let Prince Niou stay with him for a while. The child was fascinated by the red plum tree in front of his room. He kept trotting outside to make sure no harm came to it. His granny, he said, had told him to. It was only the second month, and though all the flowering trees were in bloom, their blossoms were not yet fully open. They shimmered like a delicate mist along the branches. When a nightingale began to sing at full voice on a branch of Niou’s tree, Genji could not resist going out to listen. As he walked, he murmured, ‘Does the nightingale on the red plum tree know that the woman who made his shining bower can no longer hear him?’

Spring advanced, and Murasaki’s gardens took on their wonted splendour; but the sight of them gave him no pleasure, and indeed he longed to be in some place far off among the mountains, so bare and desolate that neither sight of flower nor song of bird would sharpen his sorrow. First the globe-flower reached its glory in a tangle of dewy blossom. Then when the single cherry had fallen and the eight-fold giant cherry was almost over, the birch-cherry began to open, while the wistaria was still but faintly colouring, and held all its treats in store. How skilfully she had contrived her planting, so that wherever one turned there were later flowers to follow those that were early over, and others and ever more to take their place.

As spring went on, Murasaki’s gardens grew as splendid as ever. But the sight gave him no pleasure. He longed to be far away in the mountains, somewhere so bare and desolate that no flowers or birdsong would deepen his sorrow. First, the globe-flower came into full bloom, a tangle of dewy blossoms. Then the single cherry blossoms fell, and the eight-fold giant cherry was almost past its bloom. The birch-cherry began to open, while the wistaria was only beginning to show color, with all its delights still to come. How skillfully she had planned the garden! Wherever one looked, later flowers followed the early ones, and still others came to take their place.

Little Niou, who had not yet discovered that the Nijō-in and the New Palace⁶⁹¹ were separate places, cried out in delight: ‘Look, my cherry-tree is in bloom. I know what we’ll do to prevent its losing the flowers. We’ll put screens-of-state all round it, and then if no one opens the flaps, the wind cannot possibly get in.’ This was certainly a good idea, and Genji smiling asked him if he knew the poem: ‘Would that my sleeve were wide enough to cover....’⁶⁹² ‘But yours is a much more sensible plan,’ he added. This little prince was the only person in whose company he now took pleasure. ‘I am afraid we shall not be able to play together much longer,’ he now said to the child. ‘I do not mean that I am going to die; but I shall be living at a place where we cannot meet.’ ‘At a place where we cannot meet? That is what my granny said too ...’ and Niou lowered his eyes.

Little Niou had not yet realized that the Nijō-in and the New Palace⁶⁹¹ were separate places. He cried out in delight: ‘Look, my cherry tree is in bloom. I know how we can keep it from losing its flowers. We’ll put screens of state all around it. Then, if no one opens the flaps, the wind can’t possibly get in.’ It was certainly a good idea. Smiling, Genji asked him if he knew the poem: ‘If only my sleeve were wide enough to cover....’⁶⁹² ‘But your plan makes much more sense,’ he added. The little prince was now the only person whose company gave Genji pleasure. ‘I’m afraid we won’t be able to play together much longer,’ he said to the child. ‘I don’t mean that I’m going to die. But I’ll be living somewhere we can’t meet.’ ‘Somewhere we can’t meet? That’s what my granny said too ...’ Niou lowered his eyes.

One evening when a faint haze mingled with the fading light, Genji at last set out to visit the Lady of Akashi. His visit took her completely by surprise; for it was a very long while since he had been near her. But she managed all the same to receive him in good style, and to make so agreeable an impression that he found himself wondering whether she were not after all the most charming person in the world. But then there came into his face an expression, the meaning of which she was perfectly well able to decipher: he was thinking how little she had ever interested him compared with Murasaki, and how useless it was to seek consolation in this or any other quarter.

One evening, as a faint haze mingled with the fading light, Genji finally set out to visit the Lady of Akashi. His visit took her completely by surprise, because he had not visited her in a very long time. Even so, she managed to receive him graciously. She made such a pleasant impression that he wondered whether she might be the most charming person in the world after all. But then an expression crossed his face that she understood perfectly. He was thinking how little she had ever interested him compared with Murasaki. It was useless to seek comfort from her or anyone else.

‘Even during my exile at Suma,’ he said, when they had talked quietly for a while, ‘I was already thinking of entering some monastic retreat far away from all human habitation, and there ending my days. And at the time there was not much reason why I should not do so. But in my latter years a thousand ties and duties have made such a prisoner of me that I could no longer dream of escape. But I feel ashamed that, while it was still possible, I had not firmness enough to take this step.’ ‘I do not think any one is likely to reproach you,’ she answered. ‘Even those whom no one would miss are often prevented from leaving the world by ties and affections that exist only on their side. And how much the less can you, upon whom so many persons depend, be expected to take such a step without misgiving? I think you are much more likely to be blamed for taking Orders in a rash and inconsiderate manner than for continuing your present life too long. I remember many cases of people leaving the world because they were upset about something; but I have always considered that a very foolish course. I feel sure you had better wait until the little princes are older and things have been settled in a manner that will rid you of all agitation and anxiety.’ How wise such advice sounded! ‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that such extreme circumspection as you recommend seems to me more culpable than any rashness.’ He talked for a while about their own long friendship, and then said: ‘Do you remember the Spring when Lady Fujitsubo died? Then I did indeed feel that “if the cherry-tree had any heart, it would flower with black blossom.” I admired her for her taste and elegance; besides, we had been brought up together as children, so that it was natural I should feel her loss. But this is a very different business. It is not only as a wife that I miss her. She came to me so young, and it seemed as though we had so many years before us.... When I consider her charm, her talents, her wit, I am overwhelmed at the thought of what has befallen me....’

‘Even during my exile at Suma,’ he said, after they had talked quietly for a while, ‘I was thinking of entering a monastery far from human habitation and spending the rest of my days there. At the time, there was little reason not to do so. But in recent years, countless ties and duties have made me such a prisoner that I could no longer dream of escape. I am ashamed that I lacked the resolve to take that step when I still could.’ ‘I do not think anyone is likely to blame you,’ she answered. ‘Even those whom no one would miss are often kept from leaving the world by ties and affections that are not returned. How much less can you be expected to take such a step without misgivings, when so many people depend on you? I think you are far more likely to be blamed for taking religious vows rashly and without thought than for continuing your present life too long. I remember many people who left the world because they were upset about something. But I have always thought that was very foolish. I am sure you had better wait until the little princes are older and things are settled in a way that frees you from all worry and anxiety.’ How wise her advice sounded! ‘I fear,’ he said, ‘that the extreme caution you recommend seems to me more blameworthy than any rashness.’ He talked for a while about their long friendship, then said: ‘Do you remember the spring when Lady Fujitsubo died? I truly felt then that “if the cherry tree had a heart, it would bloom with black blossoms.” I admired her taste and elegance. We had also grown up together as children, so it was natural that I should feel her loss. But this is very different. I do not miss her only as a wife. She came to me so young, and it seemed we had so many years ahead of us.... When I think of her charm, her talents, and her wit, I am overwhelmed by what has happened to me....’

They sat talking of old times till late that night. He would indeed have, in a way, been happy to stay there till morning. But none the less, he went home, though he knew that this would disappoint her. ‘What a change from the Genji of old days!’ he thought, as he left her rooms. Going straight to his day quarters he resumed his devotions, taking no more repose than a few minutes’ rest upon his couch.

They sat talking about old times until late that night. In a way, he would have been happy to stay until morning. But he went home, though he knew this would disappoint her. ‘How different I am from the Genji of old!’ he thought as he left her rooms. He went straight to his daytime quarters and resumed his prayers. He rested for only a few minutes on his couch.

The time of the Festival⁶⁹³ came round, and Genji, thinking of the lively throngs that would soon be gathering at the Shrine, sent all Murasaki’s people back to their families. ‘They will be disappointed if they miss the sights,’ he said. ‘Let them go quietly home and attend the Festival from there.’ It so happened that as Genji came along towards the Eastern Wing he found Chūjō no Kimi taking a hurried sleep. She rose quickly when she heard his step, and in the moment that elapsed before she hid her face in the wide sleeve of her gown he had time to note the liveliness of her features, the fine poise of her head. Her hair, ruffled during her nap, spread down in a wide tangle, as she now stood with bent head. Her trousers were red, with faint markings in yellow. Her robe, of sombre purple, with patterns in very dark colours, was folded all awry, and her Chinese cloak had slipped from her shoulders. While setting herself to rights she laid down the hollyhock⁶⁹⁴ she had been carrying in her hand, and picking it up Genji said: ‘What is this thing? I have positively forgotten what they are called.’ ‘On this day of all days, when the water-plant is set in the pot to which the God descends, can you forget the garland’s name?’ Such was the acrostic poem with which she answered him, and he: ‘Nothing, I thought, in the wide world could tempt me. But lo, the hollyhock has shown that in my fancy lurk treacheries unsubdued.’

The time of the Festival⁶⁹³ came around. Genji thought of the lively crowds that would soon gather at the Shrine. So he sent all Murasaki’s people back to their families. ‘They will be disappointed if they miss the sights,’ he said. ‘Let them go quietly home and attend the Festival from there.’ As Genji approached the Eastern Wing, he found Chūjō no Kimi taking a quick nap. She got up quickly when she heard his footsteps. Before she hid her face in her gown’s wide sleeve, he noticed her lively features and graceful bearing. As she stood with her head bowed, her hair hung down in a wide tangle, tousled from her nap. Her trousers were red, with faint yellow markings. Her dark purple robe, patterned in very dark colors, was wrapped untidily around her. Her Chinese cloak had slipped from her shoulders. As she straightened her clothes, she put down the hollyhock⁶⁹⁴ she had been holding. Genji picked it up and said: ‘What is this? I’ve completely forgotten what they call it.’ She answered him with an acrostic poem: ‘On this day of all days, when the water plant is placed in the pot to which the God descends, can you forget the garland’s name?’ He replied: ‘I thought nothing in the whole world could tempt me. But look, the hollyhock has shown that unfaithful desires still lurk in my heart.’

During the heavy rains of the fifth month he grew weary of sitting day after day with nothing to distract him, and towards the middle of the month, one night when the rain had stopped and the moon appeared in marvellous splendour between the clouds, he called Yūgiri to him. The orange-blossom glowed in the moonlight, and an exquisite fragrance was wafted towards them where they sat. They were hoping every moment to hear ‘the voice that eternally revisits those changeless haunts,’⁶⁹⁵ when huge clouds came rolling up, rain began to pelt, and a sudden gust of wind almost blew out the lamp. ‘I am getting used to solitude,’ he said to Yūgiri; ‘but to-night for some reason I was feeling very lonely. My life here is certainly such that I shall be in very good practice when I arrive at my mountain temple!’ He remembered that Yūgiri had not been offered anything. ‘One of the ladies can bring the fruit,’ he said. ‘We shall not require any gentlemen in attendance to-night. They would only be a worry to us.’ Yūgiri meanwhile, watching his father’s face, wondered whether he were really so well prepared for the cloister as he imagined. It was clear that his thoughts were still at every moment centred on the one subject of his loss, and this was hardly a state of mind that promised him much success in his devotions. But Yūgiri, who was still haunted by the glimpse of her he had caught on that unforgettable morning, felt that he could understand his father’s condition. ‘The anniversary will soon be here,’ he reminded Genji. ‘Have you any instructions to give?’ ‘I do not know,’ replied Genji, ‘that there is much point in doing anything out of the ordinary. But I think this would be the right time to dedicate that picture of Amitabha’s Paradise which she ordered before she died. I know that she gave one of her chaplains full instructions about the dedication, and if there is anything else that requires doing, you had better go to him for advice.’ ‘I am sure we shall have no difficulty about anything of that kind,’ answered Yūgiri, ‘for she went into all these matters with the minutest care; indeed, if any soul ever deserved salvation, I am sure it is hers. But what a pity it is that, dying so young, she left behind her no real heir to her beauty and talents! It is a thing I have always regretted....’ ‘The fault,’ said Genji, ‘lay perhaps not so much in her destiny as in mine. Look how few children I have had altogether! You are the one whom Fate has endowed with a fine brood of heirs! There is no fear of your house shrinking into oblivion.’ He knew that if the conversation turned upon the past, he might at any moment display his weakness in a manner that he wished above all things to avoid. Suddenly the long expected voice of the Cuckoo came to his rescue, and with singular appropriateness he quoted the poem, ‘How can the Cuckoo have known?’

During the heavy rains of the fifth month, he grew tired of sitting day after day with nothing to distract him. Around the middle of the month, the rain stopped one night. The moon appeared in marvelous splendor between the clouds, and he called Yūgiri to him. Orange blossoms glowed in the moonlight, and their exquisite fragrance drifted toward them. They hoped at any moment to hear ‘the voice that eternally revisits those changeless haunts,’⁶⁹⁵ but huge clouds rolled in. Rain began to pound down, and a sudden gust of wind nearly blew out the lamp. ‘I am getting used to solitude,’ he said to Yūgiri, ‘but tonight, for some reason, I felt very lonely. My life here will certainly prepare me well for my mountain temple!’ He remembered that Yūgiri had not been offered anything. ‘One of the ladies can bring the fruit,’ he said. ‘We will not need any gentlemen to attend us tonight. They would only worry us.’ Meanwhile, Yūgiri watched his father’s face and wondered whether he was really as ready for the cloister as he imagined. Clearly, his thoughts were still centered at every moment on his loss. This was hardly a state of mind that promised much success in his devotions. But Yūgiri was still haunted by the glimpse he had caught of her on that unforgettable morning. He felt that he could understand his father’s condition. ‘The anniversary will soon be here,’ he reminded Genji. ‘Do you have any instructions?’ ‘I do not know that there is much point in doing anything out of the ordinary,’ Genji replied. ‘But I think this would be the right time to dedicate the picture of Amitabha’s Paradise she ordered before she died. I know she gave one of her chaplains full instructions about the dedication. If anything else needs doing, you had better ask him for advice.’ ‘I am sure we will have no difficulty with anything of that kind,’ Yūgiri answered, ‘for she attended to all these matters with the greatest care. Indeed, if any soul ever deserved salvation, I am sure it is hers. But what a pity that she died so young, leaving no true heir to her beauty and talents! I have always regretted that....’ ‘Perhaps the fault lay not so much in her destiny as in mine,’ said Genji. ‘Look how few children I have had altogether! You are the one Fate has blessed with a fine brood of heirs! There is no fear that your house will fade into oblivion.’ Genji knew that if the conversation turned to the past, he might at any moment reveal his weakness. That was what he most wished to avoid. Suddenly, the long-awaited voice of the Cuckoo came to his rescue. With particular aptness, he quoted the poem, ‘How can the Cuckoo have known?’

So Genji now sang, and Yūgiri answered him: ‘Search rather in your Dark Land,⁶⁹⁶ O Cuckoo, and tell her that the tree she planted is in bloom.’

So Genji sang, and Yūgiri answered him: ‘Search instead in your Dark Land,⁶⁹⁶ Cuckoo, and tell her that the tree she planted is in bloom.’

Yūgiri remained at his father’s disposition all night; and it gave him a strange sensation to move without restraint in these quarters which, during Murasaki’s lifetime, had been surrounded by so much mystery.

Yūgiri stayed at his father’s service all night. It felt strange to move freely through these rooms, which had been so mysterious during Murasaki’s lifetime.

During the Gosechi dancing⁶⁹⁷ that year Yūgiri’s two older boys acted as pages at the Court. They were about the same height, and looked very pretty together. Kurōdo and his brothers,⁶⁹⁸ who had been chosen to act as heralds at the Tasting of the New Rice and were wearing the magnificent blue-printed robes of their office, took charge of the boys and introduced them into the Presence. What, Genji asked himself as he watched the boys, lay behind that wondering and innocent expression? And once more he vividly recalled the little Gosechi dancer who had caught his own fancy years ago.

During the Gosechi dancing⁶⁹⁷ that year, Yūgiri’s two older boys served as pages at court. They were about the same height and looked very pretty together. Kurōdo and his brothers⁶⁹⁸ had been chosen as heralds at the Tasting of the New Rice. Wearing the magnificent blue-printed robes of their office, they took charge of the boys and presented them at court. As Genji watched the boys, he wondered what lay behind their innocent, wondering expressions. Once again, he vividly remembered the little Gosechi dancer who had caught his fancy years ago.

As the day drew near when his present life of seclusion in the midst of the Court was to reach its close, he spent his time chiefly in going through his possessions and deciding what was to become of them after his departure. Much of his property he now dispersed in a succession of small gifts, avoiding any such considerable transference as would excite attention; for up till now his retainers knew nothing of the disaster that awaited them. But it was known that his heart was set upon retirement, and they awaited the turn of the year with great apprehension.

The day was drawing near when his secluded life at Court would end. He spent most of his time sorting through his possessions and deciding what would become of them after he left. He gave away much of his property in a series of small gifts. He avoided giving away large amounts at once, which would have attracted attention. His retainers still knew nothing of the disaster awaiting them. But they knew he was determined to retire, and they awaited the new year with great anxiety.

One task that now devolved upon him was the destruction of letters such as it would be embarrassing to leave behind. Many he had torn up long ago; but often he had put a letter aside meaning to destroy it, and then had never brought himself to do so. Now, as opportunity offered, he took them out a few at a time, and went through them carefully. Among those that he had received at Suma, most of which he now tore up or threw away, there were a lot of Murasaki’s letters carefully tied up in a bundle. It must indeed have been he himself who did up the packet, though so long a time had passed that he had no recollection of doing so. The ink was as fresh as on the day when they were written, and looked as if it would remain so for hundreds of years. But what was the use of such a keepsake? He could not take it with him.... He sent for two or three of the ladies with whom she had been most intimate and began handing them the letters, one after another, to tear up. But soon, while he held the letters, his tears flowed so fast upon each page that fresh tracks were added to those the pen had made, and at last, unwilling to display his weakness, he pushed the bundle of letters away from him, reciting as he did so the verse: ‘So longs my heart for her that past the Hill of Death is gone, not even upon the tracks she left can I endure to gaze.’⁶⁹⁹ The ladies did not, of course, unfold the pages that were handed to them; but they caught sight of a phrase here and there—sufficient to tell them what the letters were; and it was with a pang that they now destroyed them. They remembered several of those letters being written. And if then, when she and Genji were separated only by a few miles and there was every prospect of their soon meeting again, Murasaki’s misery had been such as they well remembered, could they wonder that now the sight of them was more than he could bear?

One task he now faced was destroying letters that would be embarrassing to leave behind. He had torn up many long ago. But he had often put a letter aside, intending to destroy it, and never managed to do so. Now, whenever he had a chance, he took out a few and carefully went through them. He tore up or threw away most of the letters he had received at Suma. Among them was a bundle of Murasaki’s letters, carefully tied together. He must have tied the bundle himself, though so much time had passed that he could not remember doing it. The ink was as fresh as the day the letters were written. It looked as if it would stay that way for hundreds of years. But what use was such a keepsake? He could not take it with him.... He sent for two or three of the ladies who had been closest to her. He began handing them the letters, one by one, to tear up. But soon his tears fell so fast on each page he held that they left fresh tracks beside the pen’s. At last, unwilling to show his weakness, he pushed the bundle away and recited: ‘My heart longs so deeply for her who has gone beyond the Hill of Death that I cannot even bear to look at the tracks she left.’⁶⁹⁹ The ladies did not, of course, unfold the pages handed to them. But they glimpsed a phrase here and there, enough to tell them what the letters were. They felt a pang as they destroyed them. They remembered her writing several of those letters. Then, she and Genji had been separated by only a few miles, and they had every hope of meeting again soon. Even so, Murasaki’s misery had been something the ladies remembered well. Could they wonder, then, that he now could not bear to look at the letters?

He took one from the bundle, and without stopping to read it, he wrote in the margin: ‘Go, useless leaves, well steeped in brine, to join the smoke that through the pathways of the sky trailed from her smouldering pyre’; and forthwith he had the whole lot burnt.

He took one from the bundle and, without reading it, wrote in the margin: ‘Go, useless leaves, soaked in salt water. Join the smoke that trailed across the sky from her smoldering funeral pyre.’ Then he had the whole bundle burned at once.

He celebrated the Festival of Buddha’s Names⁷⁰⁰ with unusual solemnity, for he knew that it was the last he would see in his palace. Never had been heard such jangling of shakujō⁷⁰¹ as on those nights. It was strange to hear the priests repeating the usual prayer that he ‘might long enjoy his present high estate,’ and he hoped that the Lord Buddha would know how far this prayer was removed from his real desires. Snow lay deep on the ground and was still falling. When the services were over, he sent for the leader of the procession, and having gone through the usual forms of handing him the wine-cup and so on, made handsome presents to all who had taken part in the ceremony.

He celebrated the Festival of Buddha’s Names⁷⁰⁰ with unusual solemnity. He knew it would be the last he would celebrate in his palace. Never before had the shakujō⁷⁰¹ been heard jangling so loudly as on those nights. It was strange to hear the priests repeat their usual prayer that he ‘might long enjoy his present high position.’ He hoped that the Lord Buddha would know how different this prayer was from his true wishes. Snow lay deep on the ground, and it was still falling. After the services, he sent for the leader of the procession. He followed the usual customs, including handing him the wine cup. Then he gave generous gifts to everyone who had taken part in the ceremony.

The leader had for years past been employed at the Imperial Palace; he had been well known to the Old Emperor,⁷⁰² and Genji noted with emotion how grey the old man’s head had grown in the service of his family.

The leader had worked at the Imperial Palace for years. The Old Emperor⁷⁰² had known him well, and Genji was moved to see how grey the old man’s hair had grown while serving his family.

There was the usual levée of princes and courtiers. On a few plum-trees there was already a faint hint of blossom, all the lovelier for the snow that lay heaped upon their boughs. There should have been feasting and music in the palace; but even this year his grief still stifled in him all desire for song, and he arranged that only a few Chinese verses, appropriate to the season, should be recited at his levée.

The princes and courtiers gathered for the usual formal reception. A few plum trees were already beginning to blossom. The flowers were all the more beautiful for the snow piled on their branches. There should have been feasting and music in the palace. But even this year, his grief left him with no desire for song. So he arranged for only a few Chinese verses suited to the season to be recited at the reception.

But I had forgotten to mention the poem he made when he handed the wine-cup to the head priest. It was as follows: ‘Who knows in winter if the spring time he shall see? Wait not for blossom, but take the budding spray and wear it at your brow.’ ‘For nought else have I prayed, save that a thousand spring-tides you might see; till silver snow has blossomed on my brow.’ So the priest replied, and many other poems were made, which need not be here recorded.

But I forgot to mention the poem he recited when he handed the wine cup to the head priest: ‘Who knows in winter whether he will see spring? Do not wait for blossoms. Take a budding branch and wear it on your brow.’ The priest replied: ‘I have prayed for nothing else but that you might see a thousand springs, until silver snow has blossomed on my brow.’ Many other poems were recited, but they need not be recorded here.

This was the first occasion since Murasaki’s death upon which Genji had mingled with his guests. They thought him more beautiful than ever, and the aged priest could not refrain from tears of joy.

This was the first time Genji had joined his guests since Murasaki’s death. They thought he was more beautiful than ever, and the elderly priest could not hold back tears of joy.

Remembering that this was the end of the year, little Niou went scampering about saying every one must do something to scare away the demons, and asking what noise he might make. In a few days Genji would see the child no more; and sadly he recited the verse: ‘Whilst I in heedless grief have let the days go by, together now the year and my own life are ebbing to their close.’ He gave orders that the New Year ceremonies should be performed with more than usual splendour, and saw to it that the princes and Court officers who came to the palace should receive such presents and bounties as never before.⁷⁰³

Remembering that the year was ending, little Niou scampered about, saying everyone must do something to scare away the demons. He asked what noise he could make. In a few days, Genji would see the child no more. Sadly, he recited the verse: ‘While I have let the days pass in thoughtless grief, both the year and my own life are now drawing to a close.’ He ordered that the New Year ceremonies be more splendid than usual. He also made sure that the princes and court officers who came to the palace received gifts and rewards greater than ever before.⁷⁰³