Chapter XI: Part II (1)

So time[106] went by, bringing with it remarkably few changes either at home or in the world at large. Even so important an event as the abdication of the Emperor Ryōzen seemed to make very little difference, for though he had no heir of his own, his nephew the Crown Prince had now reached manhood, and would, it was confidently expected, merely carry on his predecessor’s policy. The actual resignation came very suddenly, ill-health being given as a pretext. But during the eighteen years of his reign Ryōzen had never ceased ardently to long for an opportunity of escaping from a position that entailed at every turn the most dangerous concealments and deceptions.[107] He had many friends with whom it would be possible for him as a private person to associate in a far freer and more interesting way; moreover his childlessness (decreed, as he thought, by Heaven as a punishment for his unwilling impiety), would not weigh upon him so heavily when the future of the Throne was no longer involved.

As sister to the new Emperor, Nyosan naturally became more prominent than ever both at Court and in the estimation of the populace. But she was still very far from occupying a position anything like that of Murasaki, upon whom, as the years went by, Genji seemed to become more and more dependent. Yet it was from time to time clear that, despite his unchanging tenderness and confidence, Murasaki was not wholly contented with her present position. ‘There are too many people in this house,’ she would sometimes say; ‘I wish I lived in some quieter place, where I could pursue my devotions undisturbed. I have reached an age when one cannot expect much more pleasure in this world, and had better spend the time in preparing oneself for the next.’ But Genji always assured her that he too intended quite soon to quit the Court, and indeed would long ago have done so, had he not feared to leave her in solitude. ‘Life here would be intolerable without you,’ he said. ‘Will you not wait till I have arranged to take my vows?’

One night, on going to Murasaki’s apartments, Genji found she was not there. It was already long past midnight when she returned. There had been music, it appeared, in Princess Nyosan’s rooms, and afterwards Murasaki had stayed talking to her. ‘What did you think of Nyosan’s playing?’ Genji asked. ‘It seems to me that she has really improved very much lately.’ ‘When she first came to live with us,’ Murasaki answered, ‘and I used to hear her playing in the distance, I confess I was rather surprised by her incompetence. But it is quite true that she now plays very nicely. This no doubt is all due to your frequent lessons.’ ‘Very likely,’ he replied. ‘The truth of the matter is, hardly any one gets properly taught nowadays. Giving music lessons, if one really does it properly, correcting every mistake and continually guiding the pupil’s hands, is a troublesome, exhausting business. Moreover it takes up an immense amount of time. But both Suzaku and her brother the present Emperor evidently counted upon me to take charge at any rate of her zithern lessons, and I had not the heart to disappoint them. Well, I am glad you think that, if in other ways she has got no great advantage through coming to live here, she has at least made progress in her music. When you were at a learner’s stage I was unfortunately far busier than at present, and was never able to give you such long and thorough lessons, and lately one thing after another seems to have prevented our practising together. I was delighted, therefore, to hear from Yūgiri, the other day, the most enthusiastic accounts of your progress.’

It seemed to him strange indeed that Murasaki, whom he was still apt to regard as his ‘little pupil,’ should now in her turn be giving lessons to his grandchildren. But such was the case, at any rate as regards music. Nor for the matter of that was there any side of their education of which she would not have been well qualified to take charge. For she had always mastered fresh subjects with astounding ease and quickness, showing a versatility which often disquieted him, in view of the common opinion that such brilliance and rapidity of attainment often presage an early death. His only consolation was that her knowledge, however quickly garnered, was always solid and complete; whereas in the cases of precocity that he heard quoted a merely superficial variety of talents seemed to be the rule. She had recently celebrated her thirty-seventh birthday, and after talking for a while of their life together during all those years, Genji said: ‘You must be very careful this year. You have reached a dangerous age[108] and ought to have special prayers said on your behalf. I will help you so far as I can; but probably there are all sorts of contingencies that it would never occur to me to provide against. Just think things over, and if there is any particular form of intercession that you would like to be used, let me know, and I will arrange it for you. What a pity that your uncle[109] is no longer alive. For the ordinary, every-day prayers he would have done excellently....’ For a while he was silent; but presently he said: ‘What a strange life mine has been! I suppose few careers have ever appeared outwardly more brilliant; but I have never been happy. Person after person that I cared for has in one way or another been taken from me. It is long since I lost all zest for life, and if I have been condemned to continue my existence, it is (I sometimes think) only as a punishment for certain misdeeds[110] that at all times still lie heavily on my mind. You alone have always been here to console me, and I am glad to think that, apart from the time when I was away at Akashi, I have never behaved in such a way as to cause you a moment’s real unhappiness. You know quite well that I do not care for grand society. Women with whom one has to behave according to set forms and rules are in my opinion simply a nuisance. It is only with people such as you, whom I have known all their lives, that I am really happy. But you know all this quite well, and there is no use in my repeating it. About Princess Nyosan—of course it was tiresome for you that I was obliged to have her here, but since she came, I have grown even fonder of you than before; a change you would have noticed quickly enough, if it had been my affection towards some one else that was on the increase! However, you are very observant, and I cannot believe you are not perfectly well aware....’ ‘I cannot explain it,’ she said. ‘I know that to any outside person I must appear the happiest of women—fortunate indeed far above my deserts. But inwardly I am wretched.... Every day....’ She felt it would take a long time to explain, and had not the courage. ‘As a matter of fact,’ she said at last, ‘I do not feel as though I should live much longer. You yourself have told me that this is a dangerous year. Let me meet the danger by doing what I have long been wanting to do. Then you will have less need for anxiety about me.’ As usual, he declared that such a thing was out of the question; the mere thought of separation was unendurable; their daily meetings, the only semblance of happiness that remained to him. ‘Surely, you would rather that I did not want you to go?’ he asked, seeing her disappointment. She was now weeping bitterly, and he knew that the only way of putting a stop to this was to go on steadily for some while talking of indifferent topics. He began telling her about various people whom he had known years ago. It was natural that he should mention, among other acquaintances of old days, Lady Rokujō, the Empress Akikonomu’s mother. ‘Despite all that happened,’ he said, ‘I always think of her as the most brilliant creature that was ever at Court. Never have I encountered a sensibility so vivid and profound, and this, as you can imagine, made her at first a most fascinating companion. But there can never have been any one with whom it was more impossible to have relations of a permanent kind. It is natural that people should sometimes feel out of temper or aggrieved, and equally natural that, after a time, the feeling should wear off. But in her mind the smallest sense of injury grew deeper from day to day, till it had presently become coloured with emotions, the violence of which I cannot describe. The circumstances were such that it was, as she well knew, impossible for me to go to her whenever I wanted to, and equally impossible for her to receive me. But her pride demanded that every absence should be treated as a delinquency on my part, requiring prolonged coldness on her side, and on mine an abject apology. In the end, all dealings with her became impossible. Unfortunately the secret of my relations with her was not well kept. Considering her temperament, nothing could have been more disastrous. The idea that her name was being bandied about the Court was torture to her, and though all the difficulties had arisen through her inordinate jealousy, and not through any fault of mine, I was extremely sorry for her, and in the end felt quite as wretched as though I had in fact been to blame. That is why I have taken so much trouble over Akikonomu’s career, incurring thereby, as I well know, a great deal of unpopularity. But what does it matter if I am accused of favouritism and I know not what, so long as I feel that, in the grave, her mother can no longer doubt my good will? But I own that far too often in my life I have yielded to the impulse of the moment—have sought pleasures of which I afterwards bitterly repented.’ He went on to discuss the characters of various other women whom he had known, and said after a while: ‘I used to think that the Lady of Akashi, always conscious of her humble origins, was content with very little; and indeed the difficulty seemed to consist in persuading her to put herself forward at all. But I found out one cannot judge her by what appears on the surface. Modest, docile, self-effacing though she may seem to be, somewhere in the hidden depths of her nature there is more than a suspicion of self-will and pride.’

‘Most of the people about whom you have talked,’ answered Murasaki, now calm and composed, ‘I never saw, and therefore do not know whether you are right about them or no. But with the Lady of Akashi I am now fairly well acquainted, and I confess that her extreme sensitiveness and pride, so far from being hidden away in some secret corner of her being, have always seemed to me extremely conspicuous. Indeed, when with her I feel myself to be, in comparison, singularly lacking in reserve and sensibility. But though her shyness has often baffled me, I have persevered in the knowledge that the child understands me, and would put things right.’ Here was a wonderful change! Genji could remember the time when it was impossible for him so much as to mention the Lady of Akashi’s name; and here was Murasaki singing her praises. He knew that this had come about through her affection for the little Princess, and he felt thankful for the existence of the child. ‘I do not think that you have any reason to feel over-sensitive or too easygoing in whatever company you may find yourself,’ he replied. ‘My experience has at least had the effect of teaching me how rare it is to find any one who so successfully steers the middle course. You are indeed a prodigy.... But I must go to Nyosan and congratulate her on the progress she has made with her music.’

To Nyosan it never occurred that any other woman could be inconvenienced by her presence in the house. She flung herself with childish absorption into the distractions of the moment. Just now it was her zithern that occupied her thoughts, and nothing else seemed of any importance. ‘You have earned a holiday,’ Genji said. ‘I hope your teacher will always be as pleased with you as he is to-day. We have had some arduous times together, haven’t we, and it is a comfort that something has come of it all at last. For the first time I really feel quite confident about you;’ and so saying he pushed the zithern from him and fell fast asleep.

On the nights when Genji was away, Murasaki used to make her women read to her. She thus became acquainted with many of the old-fashioned romances, and she noticed that the heroes of these stories, however light-minded, faithless or even vicious they might be, were invariably represented as in the end settling down to one steady and undivided attachment. If this were true to life, then Genji was, as he himself so often said, very differently constituted indeed from the generality of mankind. Never, she was convinced, never as long as he lived would his affections cease to wander in whatever direction his insatiable curiosity dictated. Say what he might, wish what he might, the future would be just what the past had been. With such thoughts going round and round in her head she fell asleep very late one night, only to wake a few hours later, long before it was light, with a violent pain in her chest. Her people did what they could for her, but with little effect. They were anxious to summon Genji; but she would not allow it, saying she did not wish him to be disturbed. She bore her pain as best she could till daylight came. She was now in a high fever and very restless. Again her maids begged her to let them summon His Highness. But Genji was still in the other part of the house, and she would not let them go to him. Presently, however, there came a note from the Crown Princess, and in the answer that she dictated Murasaki mentioned that she was unwell. The Princess felt alarmed, and guessing that Genji might not have heard, she sent a note to him, repeating the little that Murasaki had told her. In a moment he was at her bedside in a state of the utmost concern. ‘Are you better?’ he asked; but laying his hand upon her burning forehead he knew that she was not. At once he remembered their conversation of the other day. What if this were the very danger against which he had warned her? He was terrified. Presently, seeing that he would not leave her, his people brought him his breakfast on a tray; but he did not touch it, and all day long he sat motionless by the bedside, gazing at her as though stupefied with grief. Thus many days passed. She was evidently in great pain, not a morsel of food would she eat, nor did she once raise her head from the pillows. Meanwhile his messengers set out at top speed in all directions, arranging for prayers on her behalf to be said in every important temple throughout the land, and priests were sent for to work their spells at the bedside. She was now in great general distress and discomfort. The pain in her chest was no longer continual, but at each fresh attack was so severe that she hardly knew how to bear it. Every known remedy was tried, but nothing brought her any relief. It was apparent that she was very ill indeed, but Genji tried to find encouragement in the fact that there were now considerable intervals between these severe attacks. This showed, he thought, some natural resistance to the disease; perhaps in time the intervals would gradually become long enough for health to reassert itself. But he was still in the greatest agitation and anxiety. He ought at this very time to have been supervising the arrangements for the celebration of Suzaku’s fiftieth birthday. But he was utterly unable to give his mind to any outside subject, and left the business in other hands. Suzaku in his monastery heard the news of Murasaki’s illness, and constantly sent messages of enquiry.

Week after week passed without any improvement. The only expedient which now remained untried was a change of scene, and, as this was recommended, Genji, with extreme reluctance, moved her into his old palace, the Nijō-in.

Often she was hardly conscious of what went on around her; but once during a moment of comparative calm and lucidity she reproached Genji for not having allowed her to seek the consolations of religion while there was still time. But if it was terrible to see her thus carried from him by a stroke of fate, by this cruel sickness against which she struggled in vain, how much worse would it have been to see her deliberately proclaim as worthless the love he bore her, to stand by while she cast away her beauty, her talents, her charm, and in preference to living with him chose as a more tolerable lot the gloom and squalor of a convent? ‘Long, long before you ever thought of it,’ he said, ‘I earnestly desired to take my vows, and if I did not do so, it was wholly for your sake. Think what I should have felt if, after all, you had deserted me first....’

She was now so weak that small hope of her recovery could be entertained. Again and again it seemed as though the end were come, and Genji lived in so continual an agony of suspense that during this whole time he never once went near Nyosan’s rooms. There were no more music lessons, and week after week her lute and zitherns lay packed away in their wrappers. Many of the servants belonging to the New Palace had followed Murasaki to the Nijō-in, so that, what with her own rooms empty and so little stir of any kind going on, the place wore a strangely crepuscular air, and it seemed as though the whole life of this once so brilliant and joyous house had depended on Murasaki’s presence, and on that alone.

One day Genji brought the Akashi Princess[111] to see her. ‘Come quickly!’ she called to them. ‘Strange visions haunt me, and I am afraid to be alone.’ The Princess had brought her little boy, Prince Niou, with her, and seeing him Murasaki burst into tears. ‘I longed to watch him growing up,’ she sobbed. ‘Now he will not even remember me.’ ‘No, no,’ Genji interrupted her, ‘we must not let you talk like that. You are going to get well. Everything depends on what we think. If our thoughts are large and courageous, all kinds of good things will come our way; but if they are small and timid, then ill-luck will always attend us. And it is just so with health. Even people of the highest birth, surrounded by every comfort, often worry themselves into the grave by fretting over every trifle, and never learning to take life as it comes. But you have always been so sensible and even-tempered. That is sure to stand you in good stead....’ And in his prayers to Buddha and to the Gods of our land he mentioned her great beauty of character, begging them to spare one who in her dealings with others had always shown such gentleness and forbearance. The priests and miracle-workers, who were on duty night and day, being told that her condition had reached a very critical phase, now redoubled their efforts, and for five or six days she seemed to be a little better. After that she had another bad attack; but things had gone on thus for so long that it seemed quite probable she would again rally. Of her final recovery Genji no longer had any expectation. Those in attendance upon her could discover no sign of any actual possession,[112] nor was it clear where the principal seat of her malady lay. But she was growing steadily weaker, and knowing that at any moment the end might come, Genji watched by her bedside hour after hour in an agony of continual suspense.

Among those whom recent changes in the government had tended to bring to the fore was Kashiwagi. He had for long past been one of the new Emperor’s most intimate friends, and it was evident that, should he choose to take advantage of his position, a great future was in store for him. Realizing at last the hopelessness of his designs upon Nyosan, he had been prevailed upon to take as a concubine her elder sister, Lady Ochiba, who being the child of a waiting-woman and thus at a great disadvantage in the world, was glad enough to accept the position now offered to her by a very half-hearted lover. She was quite good-looking. Indeed, many would have regarded her as extremely attractive. But Kashiwagi was under no delusion that this alliance would in any way console him for his failure with the younger sister. His own old nurse was a sister of Nyosan’s nurse (the mother of Kojijū, whose assistance had proved so fruitless before). It was through the relationship of these two old ladies that Kashiwagi had first heard of Nyosan. Indeed, while the Princess was still a child, his old nurse had whenever he visited her regaled him with continual stories of the little girl’s clever sayings and pretty ways, and of Suzaku’s extraordinary attachment to her; and it was these tales, repeated from her nurse to his, that had first aroused his curiosity. It was now long since Kashiwagi had attempted to hold any communication with her; but seeing the New Palace almost deserted (for since Murasaki’s illness Genji was always at the Nijō-in and most of the servants had followed him), Kashiwagi felt that the time for a further attempt had come, and sending for Kojijū he begged her to assist him. ‘I feel no compunction in the matter,’ he said, ‘for Genji is neglecting her scandalously. Indeed, he ought never to have accepted such a responsibility, for his affections were already engaged in many other quarters, and it was clear from the beginning that she would be left entirely to her own devices. Months pass without his ever going near her, and she leads (I gather) the dullest life imaginable. Suzaku has heard something of this, and is now extremely sorry that he did not give her to some commoner who would have appreciated the honour and devoted himself to making her happy. I am afraid he thinks that in providing for Ochiba he has found just such a steady-going, conscientious husband in me! I wish it were so; but though they are sisters and in some ways very much alike, Ochiba is Ochiba and Nyosan is Nyosan. That is all there is to be said about it....’ Kojijū was horrified. ‘Come now!’ she said. ‘That beats all. You have just promised to devote your life to one sister, and now you tell me that the only person in the world you care for is the other.’ ‘I know it seems very odd,’ said Kashiwagi, smiling. ‘But I believe both Suzaku and his present Majesty would really have liked to give me Nyosan. And even now, since it is clear that Genji does not take any interest in her, I gather they are by no means displeased that I should feel as I do. They have her happiness to consider, and at present she is leading a miserable existence.... Come! I think you might oblige me by having one more try.’ ‘You are asking a great deal more than you suppose,’ said Kojijū heatedly. ‘To begin with, she knows that you have just married some one else. And then, do you really think you have reached such a position in the world that you can afford to make an enemy of Prince Genji? I may be mistaken, but it does not seem so very long....’ She was beginning to remind him how recent was his present promotion, but so indignant was she at his audacity that the words tripped over one another and she suddenly broke off. ‘That will do,’ he said. ‘Let us stick to the point. All I ask is that one day when you and she are alone together you should mention me. This surely cannot be very difficult now that so little is going on at the New Palace. I only want her to know that I have not forgotten her. I am not asking you to arrange a meeting, or indeed to say anything that could possibly bring a blush to the most modest cheek.’ ‘You are asking me to do precisely what is most likely to lead you both into trouble. Besides which, how can I suddenly begin talking about you? And for the matter of that, how am I to get at her when she is alone? It is hardly ever possible....’ So she fenced, trying her best to put him off. ‘You are simply inventing difficulties,’ he said impatiently at last. ‘And why all this fuss? Is it so strange a thing for a lady to be admired? Queens, I seem to remember, and Empresses too have sometimes been known to have their lovers. And who is Nyosan that you should think it sacrilege for any one to dream of her? Certainly the way she is treated at present does not suggest that Genji considers her to be of any great importance. You must learn to be less rigid in your ideas....’ ‘If you think that Nyosan feels herself to be imperfectly appreciated and is on the look-out for some one to rescue her from her humiliations, you are very much mistaken. It was clearly understood from the beginning that this was not to be an ordinary marriage. She was extremely young, and came to the New Palace that, after her father’s retirement from the City, she might have a fixed home and gain a little experience of polite life. All your talk of her being neglected or maltreated is beside the point.’ She was beginning to lose her temper; but by adroit flattery he managed to prevent her flinging out of the room, and at last she said: ‘If I ever do find myself alone with my Lady, I will speak of this. But even when Genji is away at the Nijō-in there are always a lot of people gathered round her curtains-of-state, and even by her chair there is generally some one in attendance. So don’t ask me to make any promises.’

Day after day he badgered her, and at last, about the middle of the fourth month, there came from her a hurried note bidding him at once repair to the New Palace. He set out heavily disguised. His expectations were of an agreeable but by no means exorbitant kind. He did not for a moment suppose that she would admit him within her curtained dais. But she would, he hoped, be willing to converse with him, and if he were fortunate he might catch a glimpse of her sleeve, her fan, the train of her dress.

The Purification of the new Kamo Vestal was to take place next day. Twelve of the ladies who were to attend her were in service at the New Palace and were now in their own rooms busily engaged in trimming and sewing. The other gentlewomen of the household were to be present at to-morrow’s show and were busy with their preparations, so that in Nyosan’s part of the house there were very few people about; and even her confidential maid Azechi was absent, for she had received a sudden summons from a certain young captain (a member of the Minamoto clan, who had been paying her attentions for some time) and Nyosan had given her a holiday. Indeed, only Kojijū was in attendance, and she now led him noiselessly to a seat close by the side of her mistress’s dais. Well, he thought, even should matters go no further, this was already a great deal more than he had expected when he set out.

Nyosan was asleep, and presently waking to find a man’s form outlined against the curtains of her dais she naturally thought that it was Genji. But it was certainly not at all like Genji to sit nervously at the end of his chair in an attitude of constrained obeisance. For a moment she thought herself haunted by a ghost and hid her face in her hands; but finding courage to look up once more she saw clearly enough that the visitor, though not Genji, was a person quite as real. Seeing that she was now awake, Kashiwagi began explaining his presence. Protestations, entreaties, apologies.... Who was he, and what did it all mean? More terrified now than when she had thought him a ghost, Nyosan called for help. But no one came, for there was no one to hear her call. She was now trembling from head to foot and drops of perspiration stood out on her brow. In this exhibition of childish panic there was something that fascinated him; but he was at the same time ashamed of having terrified her, and again began rather confusedly apologizing for his intrusion: ‘My rank does not, I know, entitle me to address you as an equal. But I had hoped all the same you would not consider me quite outside the pale of possible acquaintance. This claim at least I have upon your interest: that for years past you have occupied my thoughts to the exclusion of all else, as your father could bear witness. For utterly unable to lock up these feelings in my own breast (where indeed they were already grown rank with keeping) I long ago made confession of them, and found him by no means discouraging. But I was soon disillusioned. For weighed in the balance against one who had never given a moment’s thought to you I, who loved you so dearly, was found wanting merely for lack of governmental dignities and royal pedigree. So soon as your lot was cast I determined to banish all thought of you for ever from my heart. But love had burnt down too deep into the core. Months, years passed, and still I thought of you, longed for you, wept for you; until, unable for an instant longer to support my misery, I rushed thus uncivilly into your presence, showing, as I fully perceive, a lack of consideration for your feelings that makes me blush for shame. But now that I am here, let me make amends by assuring you that you shall at least have no cause to repent of my having been admitted.’ While he spoke she kept on asking herself who he was, and it was only gradually that it dawned upon her he could not very well be any one but Kashiwagi. This realization made her feel more than ever scared, and she did not manage to bring out a word in reply. ‘You know so little of me,’ he went on, ‘that I am not surprised you should be somewhat nervous. But after all, such visits as this of mine to-night are of fairly frequent occurrence! If you persist in treating it as an affront, my misery will drive me to.... But no! Have pity on me, say one kind word, and I will leave you.’ Her complete lack of self-importance had, however, somewhat upset his calculations. He had expected to find her haughty, stiff, unapproachable—in a word, all that women of such rank are generally supposed to be. Consequently it had never occurred to him that on this first visit he would by any conceivable chance get beyond the stage of a little stiff and unadventurous conversation. But to his surprise she was not grand, not proud, not contemptuous. She was only a singularly handsome girl, looking up at him with a shy, questioning yet almost trustful air. His good resolutions suddenly broke down. Soon the world and its inhabitants seemed nothing to him, nor would he have stretched out a hand to save them from instant destruction.

At last, lying by her side, he did not exactly fall asleep, or certainly had no mind to do so; but must indeed have dozed a little. For suddenly there appeared before him the cat which he had once contrived to steal from her. It advanced towards him purring loudly, and wondering in his dream how it had got there, he supposed that he must have brought it with him. What had made him do that?... So he was asking himself in his dream, when he woke with a start. There was of course no cat anywhere to be seen, and he wondered why he should have had so curious a dream.

The Princess felt that something terrible had befallen her; and yet, so sudden had it all been, she could scarcely believe that anything had happened at all. ‘This was in our destinies,’ he whispered. ‘Surely you too will admit that it could not but come,’ and he began to tell her about the evening of the football match, and how he had seen her through the gap in her ill-fastened curtains, thanks partly to the plunging and tugging of the runaway cat.

So he _had_ seen her—everyone had seen her on that unfortunate night! But what happened then was a small disgrace indeed compared with what had followed as the direct consequence of that unguarded moment. How should she ever face Genji again? So she asked herself, and burst into agonized tears—the tears of a child that is at the same time sorry and afraid. Tenderly, almost respectfully he helped her to wipe those tears away. It was growing light, and Kashiwagi, whose one thought for months past had been how to get into her rooms, was now face to face with the much more difficult problem of how to escape from them. However, he was determined not to go till he had obtained from her some sign that she did not altogether detest him. ‘All this time you have hardly spoken a word,’ he said. ‘Do say something—no matter how unkind—that I may not go away from you for ever without even knowing the sound of your voice. For, having shown so plainly that I am distasteful to you, you need not fear that I shall ever trouble you again.’

In vain he entreated her. She was far too scared and penitent to utter a single syllable. ‘You need not think that by prolonging your silence you will reduce me to any greater pitch of misery,’ he said at last. ‘More downcast than I am at this minute no human being could ever be.’ Still she remained mute, and maddened by her obstinacy, he burst out: ‘I see it is no use. Well, that decides matters for me. This is my last night on earth. It was the thought of you that alone gave life any value in my eyes, and now that I must think of you no more.... But stay, are you so heartless that, knowing I have scarce an hour to live, you grudge me the gift of one kind word to take with me as my prize to the grave?’ So saying he picked her up in his arms and carried her back to the outer room. The door by which he had entered last night was still open. Why did he not leave her? She watched him with consternation. Surely he did not intend to wait till some fresh harm was done? The house was still quite dark. But midnight must by now be long past; and thinking that out of doors there might already be a little light, he gently raised the shutter, and turning round caught (as he had hoped to) a clearer view of her form and face.

‘I cannot think, I cannot move,’ he cried, looking at her desperately. ‘If you wish me to recover my senses, to be calm, to leave you, let me hear you say one word. Speak, though it be only in pity....’ Never had she seen any one behave like this; what could it matter to him whether she spoke or not? At this point, however, she did try to say something; but so violently was she trembling that the words turned into meaningless jangle of sound. The room was growing lighter every moment. ‘Listen!’ he said excitedly, ‘I had a wonderful dream last night. I know what it means and wanted to tell you, but how could I, when I found you hated me so? Well, you shall not hear it. But time will show me whether I read it right or no.’ He stumbled towards the door.

It was early summer, but never had autumn sky looked to him colder and sadder than that which now met his eyes. ‘So dim to me the dawning world, I know not whither I go; nor whence I came, save that the place was dank with showers of dew.’ Such was his parting poem, and as he spoke it he held up the sleeve with which he had wiped her tears. Now that he was really going she plucked up heart a little, and managed in a faint voice to murmur the reply: ‘Would that with the shadows of this dawn my grief might vanish, and of last night no token but a dream be left behind.’ Her soft, half-childish voice was echoing in his ears as he left the room, and for the first time in his life he knew that it was no mere phrase when the poet said: ‘Though the body move, the soul may stay behind.’

Instead of going home he went to his father’s house, slipping in quietly without being seen. He lay down and tried to sleep, but did not succeed. That dream.... It was, as a matter of fact, very unlikely that it could signify what it is generally supposed to,[113] and looking back in detail upon all that had happened he felt that there was no need to worry. He even, with a certain pleasure, recalled the details of his dream. But whether his dreaming of a cat really signified anything or no, he had committed what the world would consider a terrible crime. For many days afterwards he was haunted by a shame and fear that made it impossible for him to set foot outside his own door. These feelings indeed were gradually assuming an intensity quite out of proportion (as Kashiwagi kept telling himself) to the magnitude of his offence. No doubt he had behaved indiscreetly, and should the meeting have certain consequences the girl might conceivably find herself in an embarrassing position. But that was only a remote chance, and in all probability no harm of any kind had been done. Why was it that such a weight of shame and contrition had settled upon him? If he had seduced the Empress herself and his crime were already known, he could not have been in a greater panic—a state of mind all the more unreasonable since he was convinced that no punishment, not even death itself, could be more terrible than the torture that he was now enduring.

Long before Nyosan could possibly have shown any outward sign such as might betray her, he began to fancy that Genji was looking at him with a peculiar expression, and those supposedly accusing eyes filled him with terror and shame.

There is in many high-born women an abundance of natural appetite that the good manners instilled into them from childhood render invisible to the common eye. But upon the mildest provocation this tendency will manifest itself in the most surprising ways. With Nyosan, however, this was not the case. Her innocence was every bit as great as it seemed. The experiences of that fatal night had left in her mind no impression but that of the most abject terror. She could not convince herself that all was safely over, that no one had betrayed them, and hardly daring to appear even among her own people she spent week after week in the darkness of the back room. She felt that something had gone wrong with her, and at last, unaided by any outside person, she realized what was amiss.

Genji heard that she was indisposed and hurried round in alarm to the New Palace. Had a fresh burden now been added to the already unbearable load of his anxiety? He was glad to find her, to all appearances, uncommonly well. All he noticed was that she looked very much ashamed of herself and persistently refused to meet his gaze. No doubt she was cross with him for having left her so long to her own devices, and in order that she might better understand how he had come thus to neglect her, he began describing Murasaki’s illness. ‘I do not think she can last much longer now,’ he said after a while, ‘and you may be certain that you will never find yourself neglected like this again. But Murasaki has been with me since she was a child, she has become an inseparable part of my life, and you will guess, I am sure, that during these last weeks I have been in no condition to think or speak of anything else. I am sure you are not so unreasonable as to be cross with me....’ He was gone again. Evidently her people had not told him the nature of her malady. But in the long run he would have to know, and as soon as she was alone Nyosan burst into a flood of tears.

So seldom did Genji now visit the New Palace that he had much to do there and did not intend to return immediately. He was wondering uneasily what condition affairs would be in when he got back to the Nijō-in. Suddenly a messenger arrived announcing that Murasaki appeared to be sinking fast. In a moment all else was forgotten, and with darkness closing about his heart he rushed round to his old palace. It seemed to take an interminable time to get there. At last, coming into view of the house, he saw that something terrible must indeed have happened, for the whole space between the main building and the highway was filled with a surging throng of people, while from within came a continual sound of weeping.

Not looking to right or left, he tore towards her apartments, where he was met by one of her maids. ‘All day she had seemed much better,’ said the lady. ‘This faintness came upon her quite suddenly.’ Within, all was weeping and confusion. Many of those that had served her longest, frantic with grief, were calling upon death not to leave them behind; while such of the priests and miracle-workers whose duty for the day was over were noisily dismantling their altars and making ready to depart. There was nothing unusual in this; their places would soon be taken by new-comers and the long services of intercession would continue. But to Genji there seemed on this particular day to be an air of finality in the methodical clatter of their departure. He rushed towards them, sharply bidding them make their exit more quietly. Murasaki was now unconscious, but he was convinced that this was merely a trance, due to ‘possession’ by some evil influence, and so far from allowing the priests to slacken their efforts, he now sent for a number of celebrated miracle-workers from all parts of the land, and bade them preside over a grand service of exorcism. The form of their prayer was that, even though the sick woman’s days were numbered, she might in accordance with the Promise of the Immovable One,[114] be granted a half-year of reprieve. The priests, intent upon their ritual, bent so close over the burnt offering that it seemed as though the smoke was rising not from the altar but from their very heads. The most Genji now hoped for was that she might for a brief spell recover consciousness before she died. The thought that she would perhaps never know him again, that he would never be able to ask her forgiveness for all that he had done amiss, threw him into such a state of agitation and despair as those about him had seldom witnessed, and they felt it was impossible he should survive her loss. Perhaps the sight of so deep a sorrow touched even Buddha’s heart; be that as it may, signs of a definite ‘possession’—the first that had been visible for many months—now became manifest in the patient, and the exorcists were soon able to transfer this possessing spirit to the body of a small boy whom they had brought with them to act as medium. While, through this boy’s mouth, the spirit railed against the priests who had forced it to do their bidding, Murasaki gradually regained consciousness, and it was with mingled feelings of joy and horror that he watched on the one hand her slow recovery, and on the other the ravings and contortions of the boy. At last, subdued to reason by the spells and passes of the exorcists, the spirit still speaking through the boy’s mouth said quietly: ‘Let every one save Prince Genji leave the room. What I must now say, no one else but he must hear. You have plagued me this long time past with your spells and incantations. I do not love you for it, of that you may be sure. And I would here and now take my vengeance on you all; it is not that I lack the power ... rather, I have chosen of my own free will to postpone the task; for strange though you may think it, we ghosts love as we loved on earth; and when I saw Prince Genji frantic with grief, shattered by long days of watching and apprehension—when I saw that, did I not leave my work a while, he too would fall beneath my blow—then I was sorry for him; I, that have become a foul and fiendish thing, pitied him as tenderly as any living creature can pity. That is why I have shown myself to you. I did not mean that you should ever know....’

The hair stood upright on the boy-medium’s head, while at the same time huge tears trickled down his cheeks. Where had he seen before this strange blending of rage and misery? Yes. Such had been the face of the apparition that had appeared at Aoi’s bedside. He was dumbfounded. Nothing then, not death itself, could alter the hideous trend of evil that the passionate agony of those old days had set upon its course. All else was fading, slipping away. But this terrible thing had never changed.

He took the medium by the hand, and leading him to a safe distance from Murasaki’s bed, he said: ‘Give me some proof.... Speak of something that I shall remember, but no one else could possibly know about. Then I shall believe that you are she. But not till then; for fox-spirit and the like often cause great harm by passing themselves off as the spirits of our dead friends, and I must be on my guard.’ While Genji spoke thus, the medium was shaken by violent sobbing. At last a voice sounded amid the sobs, and though distorted by anguish, it was, past all denying, the proud passionate voice of Rokujō: ‘You know me well enough; for changed though I may be, I still remember what it means when you put on that stupid, innocent air. You at least are what you always were—heartless, dishonest....’ Again the voice was choked by sobs. He was filled with pity, but, at the same time, a kind of repulsion, and made no attempt to reply. Presently the medium spoke again: ‘Do not think that, even in my most distant wanderings, banished amid the realms of outer space, I have ever for a moment been ignorant of what was passing here on earth. All that in penitence you have done for my daughter, the Empress’s sake, is known to me, and I thank you for it. And yet—it is strange—nothing now seems the same to me. She is mine, I have not forgotten her. But do not think that I love her as a living woman loves her child. Nothing, not one thought nor feeling, have I brought with me unaltered into the world of death, save this insensate passion, that even on earth made my own nature loathsome and despicable to me. Rage, jealousy, hatred—they alone cling to my soul and drag it back each moment closer to the earth.

‘And do you know what hurt me more than all your cruelty to me when I was alive? It was to hear you entertaining this friend of yours with stories of my “bad temper,” my “grievances,” my “inordinate jealousy.”[115] I should have thought that the dead at least might be spared such insults and lies! A thousand times I have asked myself how you of all men, you with your fine breeding, could speak of me thus to another woman. Bad as I was before, this fresh insult has worked in me a ghastly change. Never before have I done harm to those on earth, but now—Listen! If you think I have any desire to prey upon this woman on the bed, you are wrong. I want to leave her, to leave you all; but if you wish to be rid of me, put an end to all these spells and incantations, that can but keep me at a little distance, and use these mighty miracle-workers and priests, whom you have set like a hedge about you, to pray for my soul’s release, for the cancelling of all my sins. Do not think that because for the moment I could stand your dronings and buzzings no longer—your prayers and scripture-readings that beset me like tongues of flame—do not think that I am conquered. Back I shall come and back again, till in your liturgies I hear some word of comfort for my own soul. Say masses for me, read them night and day. Tell my daughter the Empress to pray for me with all her heart; and bid her never for one instant, though she may fall from favour and another be set in her place, never so much as in a dream to let one envious or jealous thought creep into her heart. She has guilt enough on her conscience, having spent many months at Ise,[116] where the name of the Blessed One may not be spoken.’

The medium continued to rave; but this conversation with a ghost was too eerie to be prolonged. Already those who had been asked to retire from the room must be asking themselves what was happening. He readmitted them, had the boy-medium placed in a sealed room,[117] and Murasaki carried secretly to a different part of the house.

Somehow or other a rumour got started that Murasaki was dead, and Genji had the painful experience of receiving innumerable letters of condolence. It was the day of the Kamo festival, and among the courtiers returning from the Shrine many jokes were made on the topic of Murasaki’s sudden fall and eclipse. Some one said that since she had lost her power to charm the sunlight[118] it was not to be wondered at that the rain should have washed her away. And another: ‘Prodigies of that kind never last long, and perhaps it is as well for them that they do not. Otherwise they might tend to fare like the cherry-blossom in the proverb.[119] Did they not so quickly retire from the scene they would end by getting all the fun into their own hands and spoiling things for every one else. It is nice to think of that poor little Princess Nyosan coming into her own again. I am sure it was high time....’

Kashiwagi had stayed at home on the previous day, but had found the time hang so heavily on his hands that to-day he set out for the Festival, taking his brothers with him in the back of the carriage. On the way home they heard the rumour that was being bandied from coach to coach. The brothers were by no means convinced of its truth, and to offer premature condolences would be very embarrassing. But they decided that there could be no harm in paying an ordinary visit, as though in ignorance of what was being said. Their first impression upon arriving at the New Palace was that the end had indeed come. On every side rose the sound of weeping and wailing. No sooner had they entered than Murasaki’s father Prince Hyōbukyō rushed past them into the house, obviously in a state of frenzied agitation.