Chapter XII: Part II (2)

Presently Yūgiri came out, wiping the tears from his eyes, and Kashiwagi said to him: ‘Tell us quickly what has happened. We heard very bad news on the road, but were loth to believe it, and have come, as we intended to do in any case, merely to enquire.... We hoped for some improvement. This has been going on for so long....’ ‘She has indeed been in a very serious condition for some weeks past,’ said Yūgiri. ‘Finally, early this morning, she lost consciousness altogether. However, at this point the presence of a “possession” became obvious, and when this had been dealt with, she came to, and is now, I hear, considered not to be in any immediate danger. Of course, this is a great relief to us all. But I am afraid there is not really much hope....’ It was obvious that he was deeply moved. He must have been crying a great deal for his eyes were quite swollen. ‘Why should he mind so much?’ Kashiwagi asked himself, remembering that Yūgiri had been brought up by his mother’s family, and had, ostensibly at any rate, always been kept at a distance from his stepmother. And at once, suspecting others (as we always do) of harbouring the same guilty secrets as ourselves, he began imagining that Yūgiri not Genji had been the partner of Murasaki’s great romance.

A message now came from Genji asking the visitors to excuse him from appearing in person. ‘You will forgive me, I know,’ he said, ‘when I tell you that we have all been taking part in what had every appearance of being an actual death-scene. Our gentlewomen have not yet had time to recover their composure, and I myself am still, I confess, far too agitated to receive you properly. I hope you will do me the honour of repeating your visit at some time when I am better able to appreciate it.’ The mere mention of Genji’s name filled Kashiwagi with shame and embarrassment; he for his part was glad it was upon so distracted an occasion that he had come to the house. As for repeating the experiment, the others might come if they chose, but he most assuredly would not be with them.

Meanwhile Murasaki remained conscious; but the services of intercession were continued, and to them Genji added secret masses for the Release of Rokujō’s soul. And he had reason enough of every kind to hope ardently that these would be successful. Even during her lifetime he had experienced in fashion sinister enough the evil potency of her rage; and now that she was in another world, changed into a thing devoid of all human pity or compunction, it was hideous to think that her malice towards him was still unappeased. Apparently all that he had done for Akikonomu was useless! But what was the good of trying to please women? If they were not fundamentally evil, they would not have been born as women at all.[120] Perhaps he ought not to have spoken of her to Murasaki. But he remembered the occasion perfectly well; it was the night before Murasaki’s illness began, and really he had not said anything very bad.... It was difficult enough to satisfy the living; but existence was intolerable if even one’s most intimate conversations might at any moment let loose the vindictive fury of the dead.

Murasaki still longed to receive the tonsure, and thinking that the ceremony might help her to rally a little, Genji at last consented. Her reception into the Order was more a semblance than a reality, for no attempt was made to do more than cut away a lock or two from the crown of her head, and only five of the Ten Vows were administered. During the whole ceremony Genji, regardless of convention, sat by her side, and with tears in his eyes helped her to repeat her responses.

The fifth month was now closing, and the weather was exceedingly hot. She began again to have frequent fainting-fits, and grew much weaker. But though her mind often wandered, she was perfectly well aware of the tense anxiety with which Genji watched her progress. She had herself no desire or hope of recovery, and if she now occasionally forced herself into a sitting posture or managed to swallow a little broth, it was that Genji might feel her to be still a living creature, rather than (as she knew herself to be) a strangely lingering ghost. At the beginning of the sixth month she astonished and delighted him by even looking about her a little. But he was still in great alarm, and did not once succeed in getting across to the New Palace.

Nyosan’s condition was now quite definitely established; but she was not by any means in bad health. Indeed, save for the fact that her complexion was rather sallow and her appetite not so good as usual, she had not much to complain of. Kashiwagi had not been able to restrain himself from several times repeating his visit, but the girl had made it abundantly plain that she would much rather he left her in peace. The truth was that Kashiwagi had made no such impression upon her as could outweigh her fear of getting into trouble with Genji. True, her lover was one of the handsomest and most talented figures at Court, and many a girl’s head would have been completely turned by his advances; but to Nyosan, used as she was to Genji’s far more striking looks and personality, this young man seemed almost insipid in character, no more than passable in appearance, and (Palace Counsellor though he was) none the more impressive on that account to one whose upbringing had been such as hers.

Her old nurse and gentlewoman had, of course, long ago discovered the condition she was in. ‘Do you remember exactly when it was that His Highness was last here?’ one of them said. ‘It seems to me as though it were a very long time ago.’ They felt rather uneasy about the matter, but thought it their duty to inform Genji. He at once came round to the New Palace.

It was as a matter of fact (Genji remembered this quite clearly) more than a year.... Surely there must be some mistake? He said nothing to her about the reason of his visit. She did, he thought, perhaps look a trifle out of sorts, and he treated her with every mark of tenderness and concern. Really, she was a charming girl. Now that, after being so many times obliged to postpone his visit, he had at last managed to get here, he ought to stay for a night or two. And so he did; but he was all the while in such a state of anxiety about Murasaki that he could think of nothing else, and spent most of the time in writing messages to her. ‘That’s good!’ said one of Nyosan’s ladies indignantly. ‘He saves up all his letter-writing till he comes here. We appreciate the compliment, I am sure!’ Kojijū for her part only wished that Kashiwagi took a like view of Genji’s visit. No sooner did the young man hear of it than he fell into a state of violent agitation and began pouring in upon Nyosan a stream of letters, couched in the most hectic terms of jealousy and desperation—all of which it fell to Kojijū’s lot to deliver.

‘Don’t show me these tiresome things,’ said Nyosan, when Kojijū, seeing Genji go to fetch something from Murasaki’s old rooms, hastily produced one of these frenzied epistles. ‘I do wish you would just read what he says here in the margin,’ Kojijū pleaded. ‘I am sure you would feel sorry for him....’ So saying, she unfolded the letter and had just placed it in Nyosan’s hands, when there was a noise of footsteps. A sudden panic descending upon her, Kojijū glided from the room. There was no time to destroy the letter or lock it up in a safe place. Her heart beating wildly, Nyosan stuffed it under the mattress of the couch upon which she lay.

Next morning he rose early, wanting to go back to the Nijō-in before the sun became unpleasantly strong. ‘Where is that fan I had yesterday?’ he asked his servant. ‘This one is no good at all. I think I must have left it where I was sitting with the Princess yesterday evening. I had better go and look.’ Having hunted high and low, he went towards the couch where Nyosan had lain, and suddenly noticed that a piece of light blue paper was sticking out from under her mattress, which was pushed slightly out of place. Without paying any particular attention to what he was doing, he pulled out this piece of paper, and glancing at it, saw that it was covered with writing in a man’s hand. He noticed too that it was heavily scented, and in every way as elegantly devised as a note could possibly be. Moreover, oddly enough he knew the writing (of which there was plenty, for it covered both sides of a double sheet). There could be no mistake. This was Kashiwagi’s hand. His servant, who had brought a mirror into the room and now began to do his master’s hair, was not in any way surprised to see him take possession of the note, for he supposed it to be one that Genji and Nyosan had been reading together on the day before. But Kojijū, who was also present, was startled to observe that it was of the same colour as the letter she had herself delivered. While serving Genji’s breakfast she never for an instant took her eye off this blue letter, that lay folded beside his bowl. Of course it could not be the same. Lots of people wrote on paper like that. The mere fact that it had been left lying about showed that it must be something quite different. The Princess would never have been so mad....

Meanwhile Nyosan was quietly sleeping. What a feather-hearted little creature she was! He had always suspected that expressions of feeling conveyed nothing to her mind whatever; and from the way in which she left such a letter as this (for he had already cast an eye over it) lying where any one might find it, he was convinced that its contents had no meaning for her at all. It was fortunate indeed that it was he who had found it, and not some outside person, upon whom the fact that she was receiving such letters would make a wholly erroneous impression.

‘What did you do with that note I brought yesterday?’ Kojijū said, when Genji left the room. ‘I saw His Highness looking just now at a letter that looked very much like it.’ Nyosan immediately remembered only too well what she had done with it. ‘Where did you put it?’ went on Kojijū, seeing that her eyes had suddenly filled with tears. ‘When we heard some one coming, I thought it might look as though there were a secret between us if I were found alone with you, and to be on the safe side I made off as fast as I could. But as a matter of fact it was some while before His Highness actually entered the room, and I supposed that during this time you would have managed to find somewhere safe to put the letter.’ ‘I had only that very moment begun reading it when he came in,’ she sobbed. ‘I just stuffed it away anywhere I could; and then I forgot about it....’ Helplessly she indicated the place under the mattress. Kojijū went and examined it. ‘There’s nothing there now,’ she said. ‘This is an awful business. I would give anything that it should not have happened. It was only the other day that Kashiwagi begged me to make you be more careful. He is terrified of Prince Genji getting wind of this. And now, no sooner do I put a letter in your hands than you leave it just where it was most likely to catch His Highness’s eye. However, it is all of a piece with the way you have always carried on. I shouldn’t say it, but you have no more idea how to behave than a baby. First of all you leave all your screens in disorder and let him see you. Then you allow him to go on for month after month writing desperate letters to you, and finally drive him to such a pitch of madness that he insists upon being allowed to see you. It was I who arranged it, I own; but I don’t mind telling you I would never have dreamed of bringing him, if I had supposed that you could look after yourself no better than you did. Well, I’m sorry for you both!’ So she scolded the girl, speaking to her as though she were a person of her own class; for Nyosan was so completely lacking in self-consequence that it was difficult for those about her to remember she was Genji’s favourite and the Emperor’s sister.

At Kojijū’s harsh words she only wept the more. During the course of the day her people noticed that she was in very low spirits and ate nothing at all. ‘Instead of fussing all the while about Lady Murasaki, who, if she was ever ill at all, is now perfectly recovered, His Highness might give a little more attention to our young lady, who really has got something the matter with her,’ they said.

As soon as he was alone Genji pulled out the letter and studied it more attentively. He did not now feel so certain that it was written by Kashiwagi. The writing indeed looked to him much more like an attempt to imitate Kashiwagi’s hand, and he came to the conclusion that it must be the work of some waiting-woman, who had concocted the letter as a practical joke. But the style did not in the least bear out this supposition. Granted the document was genuine, several facts emerged: the writer had been in love with Nyosan for several years, he had once at any rate obtained access to her, but now something had gone wrong, and the writer of the letter was evidently very ill at ease. All this could have been deduced without difficulty by any one who saw the letter. Since when (Genji wondered) had people taken to writing in this reckless and inconsiderate manner? For letters are ticklish things; one never knows into whose hands they may fall—as he himself had good reason to remember.[121] But, after all, there are ways of protecting oneself. Never had Genji in his life (or so he now felt convinced) addressed a woman whom he loved in terms so crude, so tactless, so flatly incriminating; and he was filled not so much with anger at Kashiwagi’s presumption as contempt for his stupidity.

Genji’s thoughts ran on. What must he do with Nyosan? Of course there was no longer any doubt how she came to be in her present condition. The simplest thing would be to go on as if nothing had happened. This, he felt, would have been impossible if the knowledge of their intrigue had come to him from outside. But having made the discovery for himself, he was free to use it as he chose. Yet was he free? He tried to imagine himself visiting her, joking, pretending to know nothing.... It was easy enough to decide on such a course, but utterly impossible to carry it out. He knew that when he was merely amusing himself with some one, without really being in love, the discovery that this person was receiving attentions from another man at once made it impossible for him to continue his own mild dalliance. In such cases it galled him that another should receive what he himself had never even claimed. And now Nyosan.... No, this was something that he could never forgive. As for Kashiwagi, his conduct had been of an insolence and treachery such as Genji would not have imagined any human being to be capable of. Suddenly it occurred to him that there was a certain resemblance between this episode and another, in which he himself had figured. But that was a very different affair. There is something special about an Emperor’s concubines. To begin with, many of them hold their position for reasons of State; no personal tie attaches them to their Master, and it is assumed that they are free to seek distraction elsewhere. Then again, the ladies and gentlemen of the Emperor’s entourage are through the very nature of their service thrown together in a way peculiar to the Court, and intimacies, such as could not without the gravest scandal be divulged, are constantly springing into existence, to be suspended at a moment’s notice if they are in any danger of being observed. Nor in the promiscuous life of the Palace are such shifts and changes, such sudden alliances and dissolutions, likely to attract the slightest attention. But this seduction of Nyosan was an entirely different matter. She, on her side, knew quite well all the circumstances that had induced him to take charge of her, knew that he had expended infinite pains in her education and improvement, had risked on her behalf a breach with the one being to whom his whole heart was drawn. Such ingratitude was unthinkable! That any one who belonged to him should turn elsewhere for affection—and to a person such as Kashiwagi—was more than he could be expected to endure. And yet, unless he were willing to make himself ridiculous, the alternatives to enduring it were not very obvious.

Suddenly it occurred to Genji to ask himself whether perhaps his father, the Old Emperor, had not been in just the same fix. No doubt he too (though Genji had never before suspected it) knew perfectly well what was going on, and had merely pretended not to see. There was no denying it: that was a disgraceful affair, as indeed he had always known; though all that his father might have suffered through it he had never till this moment guessed.

Murasaki at once saw, when he arrived, that something was on his mind. She thought that he had reluctantly left the New Palace merely out of pity for her, and was worried at being obliged to spend so much time out of Nyosan’s company. ‘You really need not have come back so soon,’ she said. ‘I am much better now, while Nyosan, they tell me, is very poorly.’

‘She looks a little bit out of sorts,’ he answered. ‘But there is nothing serious the matter with her, and I do not feel there is any need for me to remain there. But her family makes a great fuss. The Emperor is always sending to enquire after her. A messenger came while I was there to-day. I do not think he is really worried, but his father[122] expects it of him, and is always keeping him up to the mark. They both of them have their eye on me, and so I have to be extremely careful.’ ‘I don’t mind what the Emperor thinks,’ Murasaki replied. ‘But I should be very sorry indeed if my illness caused Nyosan to think you were neglecting her. And even if she understands, I am so afraid that some of her gentlewomen may make mischief....’ ‘You are evidently far more solicitous concerning Nyosan than I am myself,’ he said, laughing. ‘And for your sake I must try to take my responsibilities more seriously. But I fear I shall never succeed in working out what effect my actions may have on her maids and dependents. You may think me heartless, but I confess that if I avoid getting into trouble with the Emperor, I shall be quite satisfied. I am hoping that next time I go to the New Palace you will be able to come with me.’ ‘I am afraid that will not be for some while yet,’ she answered. ‘Do, I beg of you, go and live there again at once. It would be such a comfort to Nyosan. I will follow when I can.’ But days passed without his making the move.

Nyosan regarded his absence as a sign that she was in disgrace. True, he had often before deserted her for weeks on end; but in those days she had done nothing bad, and it had therefore not occurred to her that his staying away might be meant as a punishment. She was also terrified lest her father should hear that Genji never came to see her; for she had got it into her head that Suzaku too would at once think she had done something wicked.

The next time Kashiwagi tried to send a letter, Kojijū, rather glad of an opportunity to bring the business to an end, told him flatly what had happened to his last note. Kashiwagi was appalled.

If such an affair as this went on for a considerable time it was almost inevitable (he knew) that some rumour of it should eventually leak out. But there was no reason why any actual proof should exist; and if the parties concerned chose to deny it stoutly enough, people often ended by believing that nothing much had really happened. And here was Nyosan, after the infinite care that he had taken not to arouse the faintest suspicion on any side, leaving under the very nose of the person principally concerned a document of the most incriminating kind. It was the hottest time in the year; but at the receipt of this news he turned so icy cold from head to foot that he veritably thought he would freeze to death. It was not as though Genji had been a stranger (though even then it would have been bad enough, considering his rank and influence). Always, for years past, it had been for Kashiwagi that he had sent whenever either pleasure or business demanded the presence of some chosen friend whom he liked and could trust. And this obvious partiality of Genji for his company had been one of the greatest joys in Kashiwagi’s life. There could now be no question of their ever being friends again. That was of course the worst; but the actual and immediate question of how to behave towards Genji for the moment fretted Kashiwagi till he became positively ill. If he stayed away altogether every one would want to know the reason, and Genji himself, if by any chance he had failed to be absolutely convinced of Kashiwagi’s guilt, would then no longer be in doubt. Beset by continual panic and forebodings he shut himself up indoors. Constantly he assured himself that this overwhelming sense of guilt was out of all proportion to the magnitude of his crime. But he could not get out of his head the idea that by this one act he had forfeited all right to exist.

He felt now that it was madness on his part not to have foreseen what would happen. From the moment she exposed herself on that ill-fated evening of the football match he ought to have known she would prove utterly undependable. No doubt Yūgiri, to whom he had certainly betrayed his excitement on the way home that night, had known quite well what was in store for him, should he attempt to carry on a secret intrigue with a creature so completely lacking in the most elementary sense of responsibility or even loyalty (for he could hardly imagine that anyone could merely _forget_ to put a note of that kind somewhere out of sight). But though he tried at times to escape from his own sense of guilt by reflections of this kind, he was all the while extremely sorry for Nyosan and fully conscious of the terrible predicament in which he had landed her.

At last Genji visited the New Palace. Of course there could be no question now of his ever again feeling any affection for her; yet, so much sympathy did her obvious wretchedness and terror arouse in him, that he found himself longing to console her, caress her—to pretend, in fact, that everything was the same as before. But this lasted for a very short while. Expenditure on her behalf, solicitude for her comfort—these were easy enough; but when it came to speaking to her in such a manner that those present would not detect any embarrassment or frigidity, then he was hard put to it indeed, and by his own unavailing struggles knew something of what her misery must be. It soon became clear that he did not intend to refer in any way to what had happened; but this, so far from giving Nyosan confidence, seemed only to imprint a more abject look of shame and contrition upon her downcast face. She could not be certain how much he had discovered or what conclusions he had drawn; and to look as though she were being scolded, when precisely the opposite was happening, in itself betrayed her guilt. Such behaviour was indeed part and parcel of the same utter childishness that had brought about this whole catastrophe.

Meanwhile the news of Nyosan’s condition reached Suzaku in his mountain retreat. He was of course delighted. He knew that during the worst period of Murasaki’s illness Genji had for months on end been absent from the New Palace; but this, under the circumstances, was perfectly natural. It appeared that even after her partial recovery Genji had continued to be perhaps unduly nervous of leaving her; and this protracted neglect, for which Nyosan would see no adequate cause, had no doubt tried her patience. Not that in any of her letters she had ever complained. But it was only too likely that some of her people had, in their indiscreet zeal, talked against Genji at Court or in social gatherings elsewhere. Suzaku could only hope that Nyosan had herself done nothing to countenance such gossip. He had lost interest in all other worldly matters; but his affection for his daughter remained as keen as ever. The letter that he now wrote to her happened to arrive on one of the rare occasions when Genji was at the New Palace. ‘I am afraid it is a long time since you heard from me,’ he said; ‘but I always think about you a great deal. As soon as I heard of your condition I put a special supplication on your behalf into my prayers. Please be sure to let me know how you get on. I am afraid that, through no one’s fault, you have been left a great deal alone in the last few months Remember that, even if this should continue, it is no fault of Genji’s; and above all things avoid giving him or any one else the impression that you are in the slightest degree resentful of these long absences.’

The position was a very difficult one. Genji had not intended ever to speak to Suzaku of what had happened. But sooner or later the girl’s father would see that Murasaki’s illness was quite unconnected with the present estrangement. Unless he were told the truth Suzaku would think that Genji had broken all his promises in the cruellest and most treacherous manner. ‘How are you going to reply?’ he said, turning to Nyosan. ‘I wonder who told him that I was neglecting you? If we are nowadays on rather distant terms, it is certainly through no fault of mine.’ Blushing deeply, she turned away her head. ‘I think what most bothers your father,’ he continued, ‘is the knowledge that you are so childish and entirely unable to look after yourself. You must try in future to show him that he need no longer worry about you on that account. I had not meant to tell him about this business. But it is clearly impossible that you and I should be on the same terms as before; and if he is going to interpret this change as a dereliction on my part, I should be obliged to explain matters to him. I had not meant to discuss this even with you; but while we are on the subject, I may as well say that if you have found some one who can make you happier than I do, by all means go to him.... I think that from your own point of view you are behaving very imprudently; but whether that is so, events will prove.

‘It does not in the least surprise me that you should feel as you do. For one thing, novelties are inevitably more interesting, and you have known me since you were a child. But the real trouble is that I am too old for you. It is true. I am hideously old. Indeed, what in the world could be more natural than that an infant like you should desire to escape from me? I only make one condition. So long as your father is alive we must keep up the pretence, tiresome old person though you may find me, that I am still your husband. Afterwards you may do as you like. But I cannot bear that Suzaku should know what has in reality been the end of this wonderful marriage of ours, upon which he built all his hopes. It is not at all likely that he will live much longer. If you do not wish to add to his sufferings, please let us for the present have no more episodes of this kind.’

But as he said the words he caught in his own voice a familiar intonation. How often, years ago, those responsible for his upbringing had adopted just this tone, and how dreary, how contemptible he had thought their self-righteous homilies. ‘Boring old man!’ That was what she must be thinking, and in sudden shame he relapsed into a complete silence, during which he drew her writing-case towards him, carefully mixed the ink and arranged the paper. But Nyosan was by now sobbing bitterly, and her hand shook so much that at first she was unable to write. How very differently must her pen have flowed, Genji mused, when she sat down to answer the letter he had found under her cushion! But now, even when her hand ceased to tremble, she was quite unable to frame her sentences, and he was obliged to dictate the whole letter.

The celebration of Suzaku’s fiftieth birthday, again and again deferred, had now been fixed for the middle of the twelfth month. Arrangements for the dancing and music were already in active progress at the New Palace, and Murasaki, who had meant to put off her return some time longer, suddenly took it into her head that all this bustle would help to distract her from her sufferings. She was accordingly moved into her old apartments without further delay. The Akashi Princess was also in residence at the New Palace, with her little boy, Niou, and her second child, also a boy. They were both delightful children, and it was a great pleasure to have them in the house. Genji, who had not taken at first very kindly to the idea of being a grandfather, now played with them for hours on end.

Kashiwagi was of course invited to the rehearsal. He knew that if he stayed at home on such an occasion he would feel extremely bored and miserable; moreover his absence would be remarked upon by every one and might arouse unwelcome suspicions. But when the invitation arrived he wrote that he was too ill to come. Genji was certain that only a very serious and definite illness would have kept him away upon such an occasion, and wrote again, begging him to accept. His father Tō no Chūjō pointed out that Genji would certainly be offended. ‘Every one knows that there is nothing serious the matter with you,’ he said, ‘and on musical occasions of this kind your help is very much needed.’ Finally Kashiwagi promised to go. He arrived before the other princes and courtiers who were expected, and was at once admitted behind Genji’s screens-of-state. He did indeed not look at all well. He was thin, pale, utterly lacking in the buoyancy and high spirits that were the common possession of his family. He wore a thoughtful, serious air, like one who is over-conscious of his responsibilities. Just the kind of person, thought Genji, whom one would hit upon to put in charge of a flighty young princess. Probably they were very well suited to one another, and if only such an arrangement had been thought of before.... Indeed it was not so much what had happened, as the way in which it had taken place, that he would never be able to forgive. If only either of them had behaved with the slightest consideration....

But he spoke to Kashiwagi without a trace of coldness or disapproval. ‘What a long time it is since we last met!’ he said. ‘And there has really been no particular reason. I have, of course, a great deal of illness in the home. Things are better; but the arrangements connected with Suzaku’s birthday have kept me very busy, and I have also been obliged to have services read on behalf of his daughter, who, as you know, is now living here with me. Suzaku has taken his vows, and it would be unseemly to celebrate his birthday with the same festivities that we should use were he a layman. But it so happens that there are at present in my house a number of young boys, and I know that it would give Suzaku great pleasure if I trained them to do a few dances in his honour on the day of the celebration. There is no one who can be so useful to me in this matter as yourself, and I am very grateful to you for having forgiven my long neglect and thus hurried to assist me.’ While these words were being spoken Kashiwagi felt his colour continually come and go. It was some time before he could master his feelings sufficiently to reply. At last he said: ‘I was very sorry to hear of all your troubles. Since the spring I myself have been very unwell. I think it is really an attack of beri-beri. I have often been almost unable to walk. It is months since I got even so far as the Palace, and I feel as though I had been utterly shut off from the world. No one owes more to Suzaku than I do; but I am afraid that, had not my father reminded me, I should have entirely forgotten about his fiftieth birthday. If you will forgive my suggesting it, I do not think that a very elaborate ceremony would be at all to Suzaku’s taste. When the deputation visits him, a few unambitious songs and dances, with plenty of time afterwards for quiet conversation with his guests—that, I think, is what would give him most pleasure.’ ‘I entirely agree with you,’ answered Genji. ‘Of course, we must not cut things down so much as to seem disrespectful; but if you are in charge I shall have no anxiety on that score. Yūgiri is now thoroughly competent as regards public ceremonies and the like; but he has never understood much about art. Suzaku is so good a critic in all such matters, particularly as regards music and dancing, that what little we do must at all costs be done properly. That is why I want you to help Yūgiri in arranging the little boys’ dances. The professional dancing-masters are hopeless. Each of them has his own set of tricks, and nothing can persuade him to vary them.’

It would have been impossible for anyone to speak more kindly than Genji had just spoken; but Kashiwagi, though fully sensible of this fact, still felt as uncomfortable as when he first entered the room. Once this business about the rehearsal had been settled, there seemed nothing else to talk about, and after a few unsuccessful attempts to begin their usual sort of conversation, Kashiwagi quietly withdrew.

The rehearsal took place in the Music Room that opened out of the Fishing Pavilion, the dancers appearing at the foot of a high mound. There was a thin sprinkling of snow upon the ground; but the air had in it a softness which suggested that Spring was camping somewhere close at hand, and already the orchards were whitening with the first faint tinge of bloom.

As the day wore on, the scene grew somewhat riotous. Every one drank heavily, and the older men, at the sight of their grandchildren’s performance (which was indeed a very pretty one, the dancers all being of minute size), tended to become rather maudlin. ‘All right, Kashiwagi; don’t look so contemptuous!’ Genji shouted across to him. ‘Just wait a few years, and you’ll find a little wine will make your tears flow quite as fast as ours!’ Kashiwagi made no reply, and Genji, looking at him more attentively, saw that he was not only (alone among the whole company) entirely sober, but also extremely depressed. Surely, thought Kashiwagi, every one can see that I am far too ill to take part in such a scene as this. How inconsiderate of Genji (who was certainly not nearly so drunk as he pretended) to call attention to him by shouting across the room in that way! No doubt it was meant as a joke; but Kashiwagi found it quite impossible to be amused. He had a violent headache, and each time the flagon came round he merely pretended to drink out of it. Genji presently noticed this, and sending it back, pressed him again and again to take his share.

At last he could endure the banquet no longer, and though the proceedings showed no signs whatever of coming to a close, he dragged himself to his feet and left the room. He had such difficulty in walking that he at first imagined he must have drunk far more than he intended. But this explanation would not hold, for he could clearly recollect all that had happened, and was quite certain that he had not taken enough to cause any such effect as this. He definitely connected his present sensations with the strain of appearing in Genji’s presence. But embarrassing though the ordeal had been, it would scarcely account for the fact that he was in his present state of complete collapse.

It soon became apparent that his was no mere migraine or surfeit, but the beginning of a desperate malady. His mother proposed to remove him to his father’s house, where she thought he could be better looked after. Kashiwagi knew that such a step would be extremely painful to his wife Princess Ochiba, who had for months past endured his complete neglect of her with exemplary patience, always hoping that he would in the end recover from his present disastrous infatuation. The assumption that now, at the onset of a serious illness, she was not the proper person to take charge of him, would seem (as Kashiwagi was well aware) to mark the end of their brief and unhappy relationship. Ochiba’s mother was also present. ‘They ought never to have suggested such a thing,’ she said indignantly. ‘Under no possible circumstances have the parents any right to separate a man from his wife. Even if Kashiwagi only stays there till he recovers, the separation will be a most painful one for my daughter. She is perfectly capable of looking after him, and I can see no reason why he should not remain here, at any rate until it is proved that he is not making sufficient progress.’ Kashiwagi heard all this, and he felt that she was right. ‘I knew from the first,’ he said to Ochiba’s mother, ‘that as regards birth I was hopelessly inferior to the Princess. But I hoped as time went on to climb high enough in the Government to compensate for this inequality. However, since this terrible illness came upon me I have lost all hope of justifying myself in that way, and all I care about now is that she should not feel I have been altogether unkind to her. Shall I have time ever to do so much as that? Who knows? In any case, I have no desire to move....’ The upshot was that for the present he stayed in his own house. But his mother could not believe he was being properly looked after. ‘I am very sad about Kashiwagi,’ she said. ‘He does not any longer care to have me with him. In old days, if he was the least bit unwell or out of spirits, I would always leave my other children and come to look after him. And he liked me to be there; I know he did....’ She went to her son’s house and made another attempt to bring him away. This time he relented. It was quite true that his mother had been fonder of him than of the rest. Perhaps it was only because he was her first child. But be that as it may, her devotion to him both in the past and since his marriage had been such that he felt it would be cruel to the point of wickedness not to let her take him to a place where she could during those last days be always at his side. He said to Ochiba: ‘Do not worry about me. As soon as I am any worse I will let you know, and you can come round quietly to my father’s house. Forgive me for having treated you as I have done. I cannot understand now how I came to behave so foolishly. If only I had known that I had so short a time ahead of me....’ Weeping bitterly, he was carried to his father’s house; Ochiba remained behind, in a state of unspeakable agitation and suspense. The arrival of Kashiwagi in this condition was a great shock to his father Tō no Chūjō. But he reflected that the illness was not so sudden as people were making out. He had noticed for months that the boy was hardly eating anything, often taking no more than a paltry orange, and sometimes refusing even that. Under such circumstances he could not fail to lose his strength.

The sudden collapse of so well-known and talented a figure provoked in all quarters the liveliest regret. Every one at Court came to enquire after his progress; the Emperor and Suzaku both sent frequent messengers, while the grief of his parents need not be described. Genji too was very much upset, sent constant messages of enquiry, and wrote several letters of encouragement and sympathy to Tō no Chūjō. Above all, Yūgiri, who had been his closest friend, was in great distress, and now spent most of his time at Kashiwagi’s bedside.

The celebration of Suzaku’s birthday was fixed for the twenty-fifth of the twelfth month. The serious illness of so prominent a person, casting a gloom not only over his own family, but also over so great a part of the higher circles at Court, made the time chosen a singularly unfortunate one. But the affair had for so long been postponed from month to month, that to defer it on account of an illness that might go on indefinitely was out of the question. Moreover, Nyosan, who had already spent much time in planning the arrangements, would (he thought) be grievously disappointed. The ceremony accordingly took place on the appointed day; prayers were said in the usual Fifty temples, and in Suzaku’s own retreat the Scripture of the Great Sun Buddha[123] was solemnly recited.

[106] About three and a half years. This jump, which may read as though it were a ‘cut’ made by the translator, exists in the original.

[107] He was really Genji’s son, not the old Emperor’s. In sacrificing at the Imperial tomb, etc., he was committing an outrage upon the dead.

[108] The soothsayers taught that there were several ‘dangerous ages’ in the lives both of men and women. A few centuries later thirty-three was commonly regarded as a woman’s most dangerous age. Nowhere else is thirty-seven mentioned; but it is to be noted Fujitsubo died at the age of thirty-seven.

[109] See vol. i, chap. v.

[110] His intrigue with Fujitsubo.

[111] She was now Consort of the Emperor; but had not been proclaimed Empress.

[112] By spirits, demons or the like.

[113] Dreaming of a cat signifies that a child will be born.

[114] Fudō.

[115] See above, p. 186.

[116] As it was a Shintō shrine, the rival religion (Buddhism) could not be mentioned there.

[117] Partly with the idea of securing Murasaki’s safety; partly lest the words spoken by Rokujō through the boy’s mouth should be overheard.

[118] A pun on Genji’s name Hikaru, ‘The Shining One.’

[119] ‘If it were in our power to keep the cherry-blossom on the tree, we should cease so much to admire it.’

[120] A Buddhist doctrine.

[121] Cf. vol. ii, p. 91.

[122] Suzaku.

[123] In Sanskrit, Mahā-vairocana; in Japanese, Dainichi. The chief Buddha of the Mystical (Tantric) Sect.