The tale of Genji
Aoi’s father came to Genji’s apartments. He found it very hard to bear
up, and during the interview clung fast to his son-in-law’s sleeve
with an air of dependence which was pathetic to witness. After much
hesitation he began at last to say: ‘We old men are prone to tears
even when small matters are amiss; you must not wonder then that under
the weight of so terrible a sorrow I sometimes find myself breaking
into fits of weeping which I am at a loss to control. At such moments
of weakness and disarray I had rather be where none can see me, and
that is why I have not as yet ventured even to pay my respects to his
Majesty your good father. If opportunity offers, I beg you to explain
this to him. To be left thus desolate in the last years of life is a
sore trial, a very sore trial indeed....’ The effort which it cost him
to say these words was distressing for Genji to watch and he hastened
to assure the old Minister that he would make matters right at the
Court. ‘Though I do not doubt,’ he added, ‘that my father has already
guessed the reason of your absence.’ As it was still raining heavily
the Minister urged him to start before it grew quite dark. But Genji
would not leave the house till he had taken a last look at the inner
rooms. His father-in-law followed him. In the space beyond Aoi’s
curtained seat, packed away behind a screen, some thirty gentlewomen
all clad in dark grey weeds were huddled together, forlorn and tearful.
‘These hapless ladies,’ said the Minister, turning to Genji,
‘though they take some comfort in the thought that you are leaving
behind you one whose presence will sometimes draw you to this house,
well know that it will never again be your rightful home, and this
distresses them no less than the loss of their dear mistress. For
years they had hoped against hope that you and she would at last be
reconciled. Consider then how bitter for them must be the day of this,
your final departure.’ ‘Let them take heart’ said Genji; ‘for whereas
while my lady was alive I would often of set purpose absent myself
from her in the vain hope that upon my return I should find her less
harshly disposed towards me, now that she is dead I have no longer any
cause to shun this house, as soon you shall discover.’
When he had watched Genji drive away, Aoi’s father went to her
bedroom. All her things were just as she had left them. On a stand in
front of the bed writing materials lay scattered about. There were
some papers covered with Genji’s handwriting, and these the old man
clasped with an eagerness that made some of the gentlewomen who had
followed him smile even in the midst of their grief. The works that
Genji had written out were all masterpieces of the past, some Chinese,
some Japanese; some written in cursive, some in full script; they
constituted indeed an astonishing display of versatile penmanship. The
Minister gazed with an almost religious awe at these specimens of
Genji’s skill, and the thought that he must henceforth regard the
young man whom he adored as no longer a member of his household and
family must at that moment have been very painful to him.
Among these manuscripts was a copy of Po Chü-i’s “Everlasting
Wrong”[26] and beside the words ‘The old pillow, the old coverlet
with whom shall he now share?’ Genji had written the poem: ‘Mournful
her ghost that journeying now to unfamiliar realms must flee the couch
where we were wont to rest.’ While beside the words ‘The white petals
of the frost’ he had written: ‘The dust shall cover this bed; for no
longer can I bear to brush from it the nightly dew of my tears.’
Aoi’s ladies were gathered together in groups of two or three in each
of which some gentlewoman was pouring out her private griefs and
vexations. ‘No doubt, as his Excellency the Minister told us, Prince
Genji will come to us sometimes, if only to see the child. But for my
part I doubt whether he will find much comfort in such visits....’ So
one of them was saying to her friends. And soon there were many
affecting scenes of farewell between them, for it had been decided
that for the present they were all of them to go back to their homes.
Meanwhile Genji was with his father in the Palace. ‘You are very thin
in the face,’ said the ex-Emperor as soon as he saw him. ‘I am afraid
you have overtaxed your strength by too much prayer and fasting,’ and
in a state of the deepest concern he at once began pressing all kinds
of viands and cordials upon him, showing with regard to his health and
indeed his affairs in general a solicitude by which Genji could not
help feeling touched.
Late that night he at last arrived at the Nijō-in. Here he found
everything garnished and swept; his men-servants and maids were
waiting for him at the door. All the gentlewomen of the household at
once presented themselves in his apartments. They seemed to have vied
with one another which should look the gayest and smartest, and their
finery contrasted pleasantly with the sombre and dispiriting attire of
the unfortunate ladies whom he had left behind him at the Great Hall.
Having changed out of his court dress, he went at once to the western
wing. Not only was Murasaki’s winter costume most daintily designed,
but her pretty waiting-maids and little companions were so handsomely
equipped as to reflect the greatest credit on Shōnagon’s management;
and he saw with satisfaction that such matters might with perfect
safety be left in her hands. Murasaki herself was indeed exquisitely
dressed. ‘How tall you have grown since last I saw you!’ he said and
pulled up her little curtain-of-honour. He had been away so long that
she felt shy with him and turned her head aside. But he would not for
the world have had her look otherwise than she looked at that moment,
for as she sat in profile with the lamplight falling upon her face he
realized with delight that she was becoming the very image of her whom
from the beginning he had loved best. Coming closer to her side he
whispered to her: ‘Some time or other I want to tell you about all
that has been happening to me since I went away. But it has all been
very terrible and I am too tired to speak of it now, so I am going
away to rest for a little while in my own room. From to-morrow onwards
you will have me to yourself all day long; in fact, I expect you will
soon grow quite tired of me.’
‘So far, so good’ thought Shōnagon when she heard this speech. But she
was still very far from easy in her mind. She knew that there were
several ladies of very great influence with whom Genji was on terms of
friendship and she feared that when it came to choosing a second wife,
he would be far more likely to take one of these than to remember her
own little mistress; and she was not at all satisfied.
When Genji had retired to the eastern wing, he sent for a certain Lady
Chūjō to rub his limbs and then went to bed. Next morning he wrote to
the nurses of Aoi’s child and received from them in reply a touching
account of its beauty and progress; but the letter served only to
awaken in him useless memories and regrets. Towards the end of the day
he felt very restless and the time hung heavily on his hands, but he
was in no mood to resume his secret rovings and such an idea did not
even occur to him. In Murasaki none of his hopes had been
disappointed; she had indeed grown up into as handsome a girl as you
could wish to see, nor was she any longer at an age when it was
impossible for him to become her lover. He constantly hinted at this,
but she did not seem to understand what he meant.
He still had plenty of time on his hands, and the whole of it was now
spent in her society. All day long they played together at draughts or
word-picking, and even in the course of these trivial pursuits she
showed a quickness of mind and beauty of disposition which continually
delighted him; but she had been brought up in such rigid seclusion
from the world that it never once occurred to her to exploit her
charms in any more adult way.
Soon the situation became unendurable, and though he knew that she
would be very much upset he determined somehow or another to get his
own way.
There came a morning when the gentleman was already up and about, but
the young lady was still lying a-bed. Her attendants had no means of
knowing that anything out of the ordinary had happened, for it had
always been Genji’s habit to go in and out of her room just as he
chose. They naturally assumed that she was not feeling well and were
glancing at her with sympathy when Genji arrived carrying a
writing-box which he slipped behind the bed curtains. He at once
retired, and the ladies also left the room. Seeing that she was alone
Murasaki slowly raised her head. There by her pillow was the
writing-box and tied to it with ribbon, a slender note. Listlessly she
detached the note and unfolding it read the hastily scribbled poem:
‘Too long have we deferred this new emprise, who night by night
till now have lain but with a shift between.’
That _this_ was what Genji had so long been wanting came to her as a
complete surprise and she could not think why he should regard the
unpleasant thing that had happened last night as in some way the
beginning of a new and more intimate friendship between them. Later in
the morning he came again. ‘Is something the matter with you?’ he
asked. ‘I shall be very dull to-day if you cannot play draughts with
me.’ But when he came close to her she only buried herself more deeply
than ever under the bedclothes. He waited till the room was empty and
then bending over her he said ‘Why are you treating me in this surly
way? I little expected to find you in so bad a humour this morning.
The others will think it very strange if you lie here all day,’ and he
pulled aside the scarlet coverlet beneath which she had dived. To his
astonishment he found that she was bathed in sweat; even the hair that
hung across her cheeks was dripping wet. ‘No! This is too much,’ he
said; ‘what a state you have worked yourself up into!’ But try as he
would to coax her back to reason he could not get a word out of her,
for she was really feeling very vexed with him indeed. ‘Very well
then,’ he said at last, ‘if that is how you feel I will never come to
see you again,’ and he pretended to be very much mortified and
humiliated. Turning away, he opened the writing-box to see whether she
had written any answer to his poem, but of course found none. He
understood perfectly that her distress was due merely to extreme youth
and inexperience, and was not at all put out. All day long he sat near
her trying to win back her confidence, and though he had small success
he found even her rebuffs in a curious way very endearing.
At nightfall, it being the Day of the Wild Boar, the festival
cakes[27] were served. Owing to Genji’s bereavement no great display
was made, but a few were brought round to Murasaki’s quarters in an
elegant picnic-basket. Seeing that the different kinds were all mixed
up together Genji came out into the front part of the house and
calling for Koremitsu said to him: ‘I want you to take these cakes
away and bring me some more to-morrow evening; only not nearly so many
as this, and all of one kind.[28] This is not the right evening for
them.’ He smiled as he said these words and Koremitsu was quick-witted
enough at once to guess what had happened. He did not however think
that it would be discreet to congratulate his master in so many words,
and merely said: ‘It is true enough that if you want to make a good
beginning you must eat your cakes on the proper day. The day of the
Rat is certainly very much to the purpose.[29] Pray how many am I to
bring?’ When Genji answered ‘Divide by three[30] and you will get the
answer,’ Koremitsu was no longer in any doubt, and hastily retired,