CHAPTER XII

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.

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.

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.

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 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.

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.

Little Niou, who had not yet discovered that the Nijō-in and the New Palace[166] 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....’[167] ‘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.

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.

‘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....’

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.

The time of the Festival[168] 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 hollyhock[169] 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.’

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,’[170] 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?’

Come you in quest of her that is no more, O Cuckoo, Who through the drenching rain did hurry from your hill?

So Genji now sang, and Yūgiri answered him: ‘Search rather in your Dark Land,[171] O 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.

During the Gosechi dancing[172] 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,[173] 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.

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.

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.’[174] 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?

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 celebrated the Festival of Buddha’s Names[175] with unusual solemnity, for he knew that it was the last he would see in his palace. Never had been heard such jangling of shakujō[176] 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.

The leader had for years past been employed at the Imperial Palace; he had been well known to the Old Emperor,[177] and Genji noted with emotion how grey the old man’s head had grown in the service of 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.

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.

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.

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.[178]

[166] Genji’s old palace (where Murasaki died) and the New Palace in the Sixth Ward, where the child now was.

[167] ‘Would that my sleeve were wide enough to cover the spaces of the sky; then should the wind no longer at his pleasure scatter the flowers in Spring.’—Anon.

[168] The Kamo Festival in the fourth month.

[169] Worn by worshippers at the Kamo Festival. Its name also means ‘day of meeting,’ and there is a play on this in both poems.

[170] The cuckoo.

[171] The cuckoo is called Headman of the Hill of Death.

[172] In the eleventh month.

[173] Younger sons of Tō no Chūjō.

[174] _Ato_ means ‘tracks’ and also ‘handwriting.’

[175] On the 21st, 22nd and 23rd of the twelfth month.

[176] The long, priest’s begging-staff, with metal rings attached to the top.

[177] Genji’s father.

[178] The next chapter begins with the words: ‘After Prince Genji’s death....’

Transcriber’s Notes

1. Italicised words are indicated by _underscores_.

2. Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end of each chapter.

3. Misspelled and missing words have been corrected (see below). Archaic, inconsistent and alternative spellings have been left unchanged. Hyphenation has not been standardised.

4. Punctuation has been silently corrected.

5. Ellipsis placement has been modified in order to facilitate text reflow. In most cases ellipses between sentences have been merged with the closing punctuation of the preceding sentence. Ellipses between words within a sentence have had spaces added before and after.

6. “Edit Distance” in Corrections table below refers to the Levenshtein Distance.

Corrections:

Page Source Correction Edit distance

122 twelth month twelfth month 1 321 XII CHAPTER XII 8