The tale of Genji
world at large she had the reputation of being a great beauty
and this, combined with her exalted lineage, brought to the
Palace-in-the-Fields, so soon as it was known that she had repaired
thither with her daughter, a host of frivolous dandies from the Court,
who made it their business to force upon her their fashionable
attentions morning, noon and night. Genji heard of this and did
not blame them. He could only think it was a thousand pities that a
woman endowed with every talent and charm, should take it into her
head that she had done with the world and prepare to remove herself to
so remote a place. He could not help thinking that she would find Ise
extremely dull when she got there.
Though the masses for Aoi’s soul were now over, he remained in
retirement till the end of the seven weeks. He was not used to doing
nothing and the time hung heavy on his hands. Often he sent for Tō no
Chūjō to tell him all that was going on in the world, and among much
serious information Chūjō would often seek to distract him by
discussing the strange escapades in which they had sometimes shared.
On one of these occasions he indulged in some jokes at the expense of
the ancient lady-of-the-bedchamber with whom Genji had so indiscreetly
become involved. ‘Poor old lady!’ Genji protested; ‘it is too bad to
make fun of her in this way. Please do not do it.’ But all the same he
had to admit to himself that he could never think of her without
smiling. Then Chūjō told him the whole story of how he had followed
and watched him on that autumn night, the first after the full
moon,[21] and many other stories besides of his own adventures and
other people’s. But in the end they fell to talking of their common
loss, and agreeing that taken all in all life was but a sad business
they parted in tears.
Some weeks afterwards on a gloomy wet evening Chūjō strode into the
room looking somewhat self-conscious in the light grey winter cloak
and breeches which he was to-day wearing for the first time.[22] Genji
was leaning against the balustrade of the balcony above the main
western door. For a long while he had been gazing at the frost-clad
gardens which surrounded the house. A high wind was blowing and
swift showers dashed against the trees. Near to tears he murmured
to himself the line ‘Tell me whether her soul be in the rain or
whether in the clouds above!’[23] And as Chūjō watched him sitting
there, his chin resting upon his hand, he thought the soul of one who
had been wedded to so lovely a youth would not indeed have borne quite
to renounce the scene of her earthly life and must surely be hovering
very near him. Still gazing with eager admiration Chūjō came to
Genji’s side. He noticed now that though his friend had not in any
other way abated the plainness of his dress, he had to-day put on a
coloured sash. This streak of deep red showed up against his grey
cloak (which though still a summer one[24] was of darker colour than
that which he had lately been wearing) in so attractive a way that
though the effect was very different from that of the magnificent
attires which Genji had affected in happier days, yet Chūjō could not
for a long while take his eyes off him. At last he too gazed up at the
stormy sky, and remembering the Chinese verse which he had heard Genji
repeat he recited the poem: ‘Though to rain her soul be turned, yet
where in the clouded vault of heaven is that one mist-wreath which is
she?’ And Genji answered: ‘Since she whom once we knew beyond the
country of the clouds is fled, two months of storm and darkness now
have seared the wintry earth below.’
The depth of Genji’s feeling was evident. Sometimes Chūjō had
thought it was merely dread of the old Emperor’s rebukes—coupled with
a sense of obligation towards Aoi’s father whose kindness had always
been so marked and also towards the Princess her mother, who had
cherished him with an unfailing patience and fondness—that had made it
difficult for him to break off a relationship which was in fact
becoming very irksome. Often indeed Genji’s apparent indifference to
Aoi had been very painful to him. Now it was evident to him that she
had never ceased to hold an important place in his affections, and
this made him deplore more bitterly than ever the tragedy of her early
death. Whatever he did and wherever he went he felt that a light was
gone out of his life and he was very despondent.
Among the withered undergrowth in the garden Genji found to his
delight a few gentians still blossoming and after Chūjō was gone he
plucked some and bade the wet-nurse Saisō give them to the child’s
grandmother, together with the verse: ‘This gentian flower that
lingered amid the withered grasses of the hedge I send you in
remembrance of the autumn that is passed.’ ‘To you’ he added ‘it will
seem a poor thing in contrast to the flowers that are gone.’ The
Princess looked at her grandson’s innocent smiling face and thought
that in beauty he was not far behind the child she had lost. Already
her tears were pouring faster than a stormy wind shakes down the dry
leaves from a tree, and when she read Genji’s message they flowed
faster still. This was her answer: ‘New tears, but tears of joy it
brings,—this blossom from a meadow that is now laid waste.’
Still in need of some small employment to distract his thoughts,
though it was already getting dark he began a letter to Princess
Asagao who, he felt sure, must long ago have been told of his
bereavement. Although it was a long time since he had heard from her
he made no reference to their former friendship; his letter was indeed
so formal that he allowed the messenger to read it before he
started. It was written on Chinese paper tinted sky-blue. With it was
the poem ‘When I look back upon an autumn fraught with diverse sorrows
I find no dusk dimmed with such tears as I to-night have shed.’ He
took great pains with his handwriting and her ladies thought it a
shame that so elegant a note should remain unanswered. In the end she
reached the same conclusion. ‘Though my heart goes out towards you in
your affliction,’ she answered, ‘I see no cause to abandon my
distrust.’ And to this she added the poem ‘Since I heard that the
mists of autumn had vanished and left desolate winter in your house, I
have thought often of you as I watched the streaming sky.’ This was
all, and it was written hastily, but to Genji, who for so long had
received no news from her, it gave as much pleasure as the longest and
most ingenious epistle.
It is in general the unexplored that attracts us, and Genji tended to
fall most deeply in love with those who gave him least encouragement.
The ideal condition for the continuance of his affection was that the
beloved, much occupied elsewhere, should grant him no more than an
occasional favour. There was one[25] who admirably fulfilled these
conditions, but unfortunately her high rank and conspicuous position
in society brought with them too many material difficulties. But
little Murasaki was different. There was no need to bring her up on
this principle. He had not during the long days of his mourning ever
forgotten her and he knew that she must be feeling very dull without
him. But he regarded her merely as an orphan child whose care he had
undertaken and it was a comfort to him to think that here at least was
someone he could leave for a little while without anxiously wondering
all the time whether he would get into trouble.
It was now quite dark, and gathering the people of the house round the
great lamp he got them to tell him stories. There was among them a
gentlewoman named Chūnagon with whom he had for years been secretly in
love. He still felt drawn towards her, but at such a time there could
of course be no thought of any closer tie. Seeing now that he was
looking despondent she came over to him and when they had talked for a
while of various matters at large, Genji said to her: ‘During these
last weeks, when all has been quiet in the house, I have grown so used
to the company of you gentlewomen that if a time comes when we can no
longer meet so frequently, I shall miss you very much. That was why I
was feeling particularly depressed; though indeed whichever way I turn
my thoughts I find small matter for consolation!’ Here he paused and
some of the ladies shed a few tears. At last one of them said: ‘I
know, my Lord, how dark a cloud has fallen upon your life and would
not venture to compare our sorrow with yours. But I would have you
remember what it must mean to us that henceforward you will never....’
‘Do not say never’ answered Genji kindly. ‘I do not forget my friends
so easily as that. If there are any among you who, mindful of the
past, wish still to serve in this house, they may count upon it that
so long as I live I shall never desert them.’ And as he sat gazing
into the lamplight, with tears a-glitter in his eyes, they felt they
were fortunate indeed in having such a protector.
There was among these gentlewomen a little orphan girl who had been
Aoi’s favourite among all her maids. Well knowing how desolate the
child must now be feeling he said to her kindly: ‘Whose business is it
now but mine to look after little Miss Até?’ The girl burst into
tears. In her short tunic, darker than the dresses the others were
wearing, with black neckerchief and dark blue breeches she was a
charming figure. ‘I hope’ continued Genji ‘that there are some who
despite the dull times they are likely to have in this house will
choose, in memory of the past, to devote themselves to the care of the
little prince whom I am leaving behind. If all who knew his mother are
now to be dispersed his plight will be more wretched than before.’
Again he promised never to forget them, but they knew well enough that
his visits would be few and far between, and felt very despondent.
That night he distributed among these waiting-ladies and among all the
servants at the Great Hall according to their rank and condition
various keepsakes and trifles that had belonged to their young
mistress, giving to each whatever he thought most likely to keep her
memory alive, without regard to his own preferences and dislikes in
the household.
He had determined that he could not much longer continue this mode of
life and must soon return to his own palace. While his servants were
dragging out his coach and his gentlemen assembling in front of his
rooms, as though on purpose to delay him a violent rainstorm began,
with a wind that tore the last leaves from the trees and swept them
over the earth with wild rapidity. The gentlemen who had assembled in
front of the house were soon drenched to the skin. He had meant to go
to the Palace, then to the Nijō-in and return to sleep at the Great
Hall. But on such a night this was impossible, and he ordered his
gentlemen to proceed straight to the Nijō-in where he would join them
subsequently. As they trooped off each of them felt (though none of
them was likely to be seeing the Great Hall for by any means the last
time) that to-day a chapter in his life was closed. Both the Minister
and his wife, when they heard that Genji was not returning that night,
also felt that they had reached a new and bitter stage in the progress
of their affliction. To Aoi’s mother he sent this letter: ‘The
ex-Emperor has expressed a strong desire to see me and I feel bound to
go to the Palace. Though I shall not be absent for many days, yet it
is now so long a time since I left this house that I feel dazed at the
prospect of facing the great world once more. I could not go without
informing you of my departure, but am in no condition to pay you a
visit.’ The Princess was still lying with closed eyes, her thoughts
buried in the profoundest gloom. She did not send a reply. Presently