# A Wreath of Cloud/Chapter 2

CHAPTER II
ASAGAO
The death of Prince Momozono meant, of course, the return to Court of the Kamo Vestal, Lady Asagao; and Genji followed up his letter of welcome by numerous other notes and messages. For it was, as I have said before, a peculiarity of his character that if he had once become fond of any one, neither separation nor lapse of time could ever obliterate his affection. But Asagao remembered only too well the difficulty that she had before experienced in keeping him at arm’s length, and she was careful to answer in the most formal and guarded terms. He found these decorous replies exceedingly irritating. In the ninth month he heard that she had moved into her father’s old residence, the Momozono Palace, which was at that time occupied by Princess Nyogo, a younger sister of the old Emperor. Here was an opening; for it was perfectly natural and proper that Genji should visit this princess, who had been his father’s favourite sister and with whom he had himself always remained on excellent terms. He found that the two ladies were living in opposite wings of the Palace, separated by the great central hall. Though old Prince Momozono had so recently passed away the place had already assumed a rather decayed and depressing ​air. Princess Nyogo received him immediately. He noticed at once that she had aged very rapidly since he last saw her. She was indeed quite decrepit, and it was difficult to believe that she was really younger than Aoi’s mother, who seemed to him never to have changed since he had known her; whereas in the quavering accents and palsied gait of the aged lady who now greeted him it was well nigh impossible to recognize the princess of former days.
‘Everything has been in a wretched way since the old Emperor, your poor father, was taken from us, and as the years go by the outlook seems to grow blacker and blacker; I confess, I never have an easy moment. And now even my brother Prince Momozono has left me! I go on, I go on; but it hardly seems like being alive, except when I get a visit like yours to-day, and then I forget all my troubles….’ ‘Poor thing,’ thought Genji, ‘how terribly she has gone to pieces!’ But he answered very politely: ‘For me too the world has been in many ways a different place since my father died. First, as you know, came this unexpected attack upon me, followed by my exile to a remote district. Then came my restoration to rank and privilege, bringing with it all manner of ties and distractions. All this time I have been longing to have a talk with you, and regret immensely that there has never before been an opportunity….’ ‘Oh, the changes, the changes,’ she broke in; ‘such terrible destruction I have seen on every side. Nothing seems safe from it, and often I feel as though I would give anything to have died before all this began. But I do assure you I am glad I have lived long enough to witness your return. To die while you were still in such trouble, not knowing how it was all going to end—that would indeed have been a melancholy business.’ She paused for a while and then went on in her quavering, thin voice: ‘You know, you have grown to be a very handsome ​man. But I remember that the first time I saw you, when you were only a little boy, I was astonished at you, really I was. I could never have believed that such loveliness would be seen shining in the face of any mortal child! And every time I see you I always feel just as I did then. They say that his present Majesty, the Emperor Ryōzen, is the image of you; but I don’t believe a word of it. He may be just a little like; but no one is going to persuade me that he is half as handsome as you.’ So she rambled on. Coming from any one else such flattery would have very much embarrassed him. But at this strange old lady’s out-pourings one could only be amused. ‘Since my exile I have quite lost whatever good looks I may once have possessed,’ he said; ‘one cannot live for years on end under those depressing conditions without its changing one very much. As for the Emperor, I assure you that his is a beauty of an altogether different order. I should doubt if a better-looking young man has ever existed, and to assert that he is less handsome than me is, if you will forgive my saying so, quite ridiculous.’ ‘If only you came to see me every day I believe I should go on living for ever,’ she burst out. ‘I am suddenly beginning to feel quite young, and I am not at all sure that the world is half so bad a place as I made out just now.’ Nevertheless it was not long before she was again wailing and weeping. ‘How I envy my sister Princess Ōmiya,’ she cried; ‘no doubt, being your mother-in-law, she sees a great deal of you. I only wish I were in that position. You know, I expect, that my poor brother often talked of affiancing his daughter to you and was very sorry afterwards that he did not do so.’ At this Genji pricked up his ears. ‘I desired nothing better,’ said he, ‘than to be connected on close terms with your family, and it would still give me great pleasure to be on a ​more intimate footing in this house. But I cannot say that I have hitherto received much encouragement….’ He was vexed that he had not discovered this at the time. He looked towards the other wing of the house. The garden under the younger princess’s windows was carefully tended. He scanned those borders of late autumn flowers, and then the rooms behind; he pictured her sitting not far from the window, her eyes fixed upon these same swiftly-fading petals. Yes, he must certainly contrive to see her; and bowing to Princess Nyogo he said: ‘I naturally intend to pay my respects to your niece to-day; indeed, I should not like her to regard my visit as a mere afterthought, and for that reason I shall, with your permission, approach her apartments by way of the garden instead of going along the corridor and through the hall.’ Skirting the side of the house he came at length to her window. Although it was now almost dark, he could see, behind grey curtains, the outline of a black screen-of-state. He was soon observed, and Asagao’s servants, scandalized that he should have been left standing even for a moment in the verandah, hurried him into the guest-room at the back of the house. Here a gentlewoman came to enquire what was his pleasure, and he handed to her the following note: ‘How this carries me back to the days of our youth—this sending in of notes and waiting in ante-chambers! I had hoped, I confess, that my reticence during the years of your sacred calling would have won for me, still your ardent admirer, the right to a somewhat less formal reception.’ It would be hard indeed if she gave him no more encouragement than this! Her answer was brought by word of mouth: ‘To come back to this house and find my father no longer here, is so strange an experience that it is difficult to believe those old days were not a mere dream from which I now awake to a fleeting prospect of the most comfortless realities. But in a world ​where all is change, it would, I confess, be ungracious not to cherish and encourage a devotion so undeviating as that which you have described.’
She need not, he thought, remind him of life’s uncertainties. For who had in every circumstance great and small more grievously experienced them than he? In reply he sent the poem: ‘Have I not manfully held back and kept cold silence year on year, till the Gods gave me leave?’ ‘Madam,’ he added, ‘you are a Vestal no longer and cannot plead that any sanctity now hedges you about. Since last we met I have experienced many strange vicissitudes. If you would but let me tell you a little part of all that I have seen and suffered….’ The gentlewoman who took his answer noticed that his badges and decorations were somewhat more dazzling than in old days; but though he was now a good deal older, his honours still far out-stripped his years.
‘Though it were but to tell me of your trials and sorrows that you have made this visit, yet even such tidings the Gods, my masters till of late, forbid me to receive.’ This was too bad! ‘Tell your lady,’ he cried peevishly, ‘that I have long ago cast my offence of old days to the winds of Shinado; or does she think perhaps that the Gods did not accept my vows?’ The messenger saw that though he sought to turn off the matter with these allusions and jests he was in reality very much put about, and she was vexed on his behalf. She had for years past been watching her mistress become more and more aloof from the common interests and distractions of life, and it had long distressed her to see Prince Genji’s letters so often left unanswered. ‘I did ill to call at so late an hour,’ he said; ‘I can see that ​the purpose of my visit has been wholly misunderstood.’ And sighing heavily he turned to go, saying as he did so: ‘This is the way one is treated when one begins to grow old. … It is useless, I know, after what has passed, even to suggest that her Highness should come to the window for a moment to see me start…” and with that he left the house, watched by a bevy of ladies who made all the usual comments and appraisements. Not only was it delightful weather, but at this moment the wind was making a most agreeable music in the neighbouring trees, and these ladies soon fell to talking of the old days when Prince Momozono was alive; particularly of Genji’s visits long ago and the many signs he had given of a deep and unaltering attachment to their mistress.
After his return from this unsuccessful expedition, Genji felt in no mood for sleep, and soon he jumped up and threw open his casement. The morning mist lay thick over the garden of flowers, which, at the season’s close, looked very battered and wan. Among them, its blossoms shimmering vaguely, was here and there a Morning Glory, growing mixed in among the other flowers. Choosing one that was even more wilted and autumnal than the rest, he sent it to the Momozono palace, with the note: ‘The poor reception which you gave me last night has left a most humiliating and painful impression upon me. Indeed, I can only imagine it was with feelings of relief that you so soon saw my back turned upon your house, though I am loth to think that things can even now have come to such a pass: “Can it be that the Morning Glory, once seen by me and ever since remembered in its beauty, is now a dry and withered flower?” Does it count with you for nothing that I have admired you unrequited, year in year out, for so great a stretch of time? That at least might be put to my ​credit….’ She could not leave so mannerly an appeal quite unheeded, and when her people pressed round her with ink-stone and brush, she yielded to their persuasion so far-as to write the poem: ‘Autumn is over, and now with ghostly flower the Morning Glory withers on the mist-bound hedge.’ ‘Your comparison,’ she added, ‘is so just that the arrival of your note has brought fresh dewdrops to the petals of the flower to whom this reminder was addressed.’ That was all, and it was in truth not very interesting or ingenious. But for some reason he read the poem many times over, and during the course of the day found himself continually looking at it. Perhaps what fascinated him was the effect of her faint, sinuous ink-strokes on the blue-grey writing-paper which her mourning dictated. For it often happens that a letter, its value enhanced to us either by the quality of the writer or by the beauty of the penmanship, appears at the time to be faultless. But when it is copied out and put into a book something seems to have gone wrong. … Efforts are made to improve the sense or style, and in the end the original effect is altogether lost.
He realized the impropriety of the letters with which he had in old days assailed her and did not intend to return to so unrestrained a method of address. His new style had indeed met with a certain measure of success; for whereas she had formerly seldom vouchsafed any answer at all, he had now received a not unfriendly reply. But even this reply was far from being such as to satisfy him, and he was unable to resist the temptation of trying to improve upon so meagre a success. He wrote again, this time in much less cautious terms, and posting himself in the eastern wing of his palace he sent a carriage to fetch one of Asagao’s ladies, and presently sent her back again with the letter. Her ​gentlewomen would themselves never have dreamed of discouraging far less distinguished attentions, let alone those of such a personage as Prince Genji, and they now urged his claims upon their mistress as one ‘for whose sake a little virtue was surely worth sacrificing.’ But after all her efforts in the past to keep free of such an entanglement, this was hardly the moment to give in; for she felt that both he and she had now reached an age when such things are best put aside. She feared that even her inevitable allusions to the flowers and trees of the season might easily be misinterpreted, and even if Genji himself was under no misapprehension, there are always those who made a business of getting hold of such things and turning them to mischief, and in consequence she was careful to avoid the slightest hint of anything intimate or sentimental. About this time a rumour ran through the Court to the effect that Genji was in active correspondence with the former Vestal, abetted and encouraged by Princess Nyogo and the lady’s other relatives. The pair seemed very well suited to one another and no one expressed any surprise at the existence of such an attachment. The story eventually reached Murasaki’s ears. At first she refused to credit it, making sure that if he were indeed carrying on any such intrigue it would be scarcely possible for him to conceal it from her. But observing him with this tale in her mind she thought that he seemed unusually abstracted and depressed. What if this affair, which he had always passed off as a mere joke between himself and his cousin, were to turn out after all to be something important—the beginning of what she dreaded day and night? In rank and in accomplishments perhaps there was little to choose between Asagao and herself. But he had begun to admire and court this princess long, long ago; and if an affection grounded so far back in the past were now to resume its sway over him, Murasaki ​knew that she must be prepared for the worst. It was not easy to face what she now believed to threaten her. For years past she had held, beyond challenge or doubt, the first place in Genji’s affections—had been the centre of all his plans and contrivings. To see herself ousted by a stranger from a place which long use had taught her to regard as her own by inalienable right—such was the ordeal for which she now began silently to prepare herself. He would not, of course, abandon her altogether; of that she was sure. But the very fact that they had for so many years lived together on terms of daily intimacy and shared so many trifling experiences made her, she felt, in a way less interesting to him. So she speculated, sometimes thinking that all was indeed lost, sometimes that the whole thing was her fancy and nothing whatever was amiss. In his general conduct towards her there was not anything of which she could reasonably complain. But there were from time to time certain vague indications that he was not in the best of tempers, and these were enough whenever they occurred to convince her that she was undone for good and all,—though she showed no outward sign of the despair which had now settled upon her. Genji, meanwhile, spent much of his time in the front of the house and was also frequently at the Emperor’s Palace. His leisure was employed in writing endless letters. Murasaki wondered how she could have ever doubted the rumours that were now rampant throughout the Court. If only he would tell, give even the slightest hint of what was in these days passing through his mind!
Winter drew on, and at last the eleventh month came round. But this year there were none of the usual religious festivals and processions to distract him, and Genji became ​more and more restless. One evening when the delicate twilight was sprinkled with a few thin flakes of snow, he determined to set out for the Momozono palace. All day he had been more than usually preoccupied with thoughts of its occupant, and somehow he could not help feeling that she too would on this occasion prove less unyielding. Before starting, he came to take leave of Murasaki in the western wing. ‘I am sorry to say Princess Nyogo is very unwell,’ he said; ‘I must go and offer her my sympathy.’ She did not even look round, but went on playing with her little foster-child as though determined not to be interrupted. Evidently there was going to be trouble. ‘There has been something very strange in your manner lately,’ he said. ‘I am not conscious of having done anything to offend you. I thought we understood one another well enough for me to be able to spend a day or two now and then at the Emperor’s Palace without your taking offence. But perhaps it is something else?’ ‘I certainly understand you well enough,’ she answered, ‘to know that I must expect to put up with a great deal of suffering…’ and she sank back upon the divan, her face turned away from him. He could never bear to leave her thus, and knew he would be wretched every step of the way to Princess Nyogo’s house. But the hour was already late, and as he had promised beforehand that he would call there that evening, it was impossible to defer his departure.
Murasaki meanwhile lay on her couch, continually debating within herself whether this affair might not really have been going on for years past—perhaps ever since his return—without her having any suspicion of it. She went to the window. He was still dressed chiefly in ​grey; but the few touches of colour which his mourning permitted showed up all the more brightly, and as she watched his handsome figure moving against a background of glittering snow, the thought that she might be losing him, that soon, very soon perhaps, he would vanish never to return, was more than she could endure. His cortège consisted only of a few favourite outriders, to whom he said: ‘I am not feeling inclined just now to go about paying calls; indeed, you will have noticed that apart from a few necessary visits to Court, I have hardly left home at all. But my friends at the Momozono palace are passing through a very trying time. Her Highness has for years relied upon her brother’s aid and, now that he is taken from her, the least I can do is to help her occasionally with a little encouragement and advice….’ But his gentlemen were not so easily deceived and whispered among themselves as they rode along: ‘Come, come, that will not do. Unless he has very much changed his ways it is not to chatter with old ladies that his Highness sets out at this hour of a winter night. There is more here than meets the eye,’ and they shook their heads over his incurable frivolity.
The main gate of the palace was on the north side; but here there was usually a great deal of traffic, and not wishing to attract attention he drove up to a side-entrance, the one which Prince Momozono himself commonly used, and sent in a servant to announce his arrival. As he had promised to appear at a much earlier hour Princess Nyogo had by now quite given up expecting him, and, much put about by this untimely visit, she bade her people send the porter to the western gate. The man made his appearance a moment later, looking wretchedly pinched and cold as he hastened through the snow with the key in his hand. Unfortunately the lock would not work, and when he went back to look for help no other manservant could anywhere be found. ​‘It’s very rusty,’ said the old porter dolefully, fumbling all the while with the lock, that grated with an unpleasant sound but would not turn. ‘There’s nothing else wrong with it, but it’s terribly rusty. No one uses this gate now.’
The words, ordinary enough in themselves, filled Genji with an unaccountable depression. How swiftly the locks rust, the hinges grow stiff on doors that close behind us! ‘I am more than thirty,’ he thought; and it seemed to him impossible to go on doing things just as though they would last … as though people would remember …. ‘And yet,’ he said to himself, ‘I know that even at this moment the sight of something very beautiful, were it only some common flower or tree, might in an instant make life again seem full of meaning and reality.’
At last the key turned and with a great deal of pushing and pulling the gate was gradually forced open. Soon he was in the Princess’s room, listening to her usual discourses and lamentations. She began telling a series of very involved and rambling stories about things all of which seemed to have happened a great while ago. His attention began to wander; it was all he could do to keep awake. Before very long the Princess herself broke off and said with a yawn: ‘It’s no good; I can’t tell things properly at this time of night, it all gets mixed up….’
Then suddenly he heard a loud and peculiar noise. Where did it come from? What could it be? His eye fell upon the Princess. Yes; it was from her that these strange sounds proceeded; for she was now fast asleep and snoring with a resonance such as he would never have conceived to be possible.
Delighted at this opportunity of escape he was just about to slip out of the room when he heard a loud ‘Ahem,’ also uttered in a very aged and husky voice, and perceived that ​some one had just entered the room. ‘There! What a shame! I’ve startled you. And I made sure you heard me come in. But I see you don’t know who in the world I am. Well, your poor father, the old Emperor, who loved his joke, used to call me the Grandam. Perhaps that will help you to remember….’ Could this be…. Yes, surely it was that same elderly Lady of the Bedchamber who had flirted with him so outrageously years ago, at the time of the Feast of Red Leaves. He seemed to remember hearing that she had joined some lay order and become a pensioner in the late prince’s household. But it had not occurred to him that she could possibly still be in existence, and this sudden encounter was something of a shock. ‘I am distressed to find,’ he answered, ‘that those old days are becoming very dim in my mind, and anything that recalls them to me is therefore very precious. I am delighted to hear your voice again. Pray remember that, like the traveller whom Prince Shōtoku found lying at the wayside, I have ‘no parent to succour me’ and must therefore look to old friends such as you for shelter from the world’s unkindness.’ It was extraordinary how little she had changed in appearance, and her manner was certainly as arch and coquettish as ever. Her utterance, indeed, suggested that she now had very few teeth left in her head; but she still managed to impart to her words the same insinuating and caressing tone as of old. It amused him that she spoke of herself as though she had been a mere girl when they first met and that she continually apologized for the changes which he must now be noticing in her. He was amused, but also saddened. For he could not help thinking that of all the gentlewomen who had been this lady’s rivals scarce one was now left at Court. Most were dead; others had fallen into disgrace and were eking out a ​miserable existence no one knew where. Or again, that a creature such as Lady Fujitsubo should vanish so soon, while this absurd grandam, even in her younger days totally devoid of charm or intelligence, should be left behind! And judging by her appearance, there was every prospect that she would go on happily pottering about and telling her rosary for another twenty years. No; there was no sense, no purpose in all this.
She saw that thoughts which moved him deeply were passing through his mind and at once assumed that he was recalling the details of what she was pleased to think of as their ‘love affair’; and now in her most playful voice she recited the poem: ‘Though your father called me Granny, I am not so old but that you and I were sweethearts long ago.’ He felt somewhat embarrassed but he answered kindly: ‘Such motherly care as yours not in this life only but in all lives to come none save a scapegrace would forget.’ ‘We must meet again at a more convenient time and have a good talk,’ he said; and with that he hastened towards the western wing. The blinds were drawn and everything was shut up for the night, save that at one window she had left a lattice half unclosed, feeling that to show no light at all on the evening of his visit would be too pointedly uncivil. The moon had risen and its rays blended with the glitter of the newly-fallen snow. It was indeed a most charming night. ‘An old woman in love and the moon at mid-winter’: he remembered the saying that these are the two most dismal things in the world; but to-night he felt this collocation to be very unjust. He sent in an urgent letter: if despite her scruples she intended ever to admit him for a few moments to her presence, why not take advantage of this excellent opportunity and not subject him to the irritation of purposeless delays?
​She did not doubt the reality of his feelings; but if at a time when they were both young enough to be forgiven a few indiscretions, when moreover her father was actually seeking to promote an alliance between them, she had without a moment’s hesitation refused to yield herself to him—what sense could there be, now that they were both past the age to which such irresponsible gallantries by right belong, what sense (she asked herself) could there be in parleying with him, indeed, in admitting him into her presence at all? He saw that she was absolutely unmoved by his appeal, and was both astonished and hurt. She meanwhile disliked intensely this frigid interchange of messages and notes, but for the moment saw no way of bringing it to a close. It was now getting late, a fierce wind had begun to blow and Genji, feeling a very real disappointment and distress, was about to make his way homeward, flinging out as he did so the parting verse:
‘No penance can your hard heart find save such as you long since have taught me to endure.’ As usual her gentlewomen insisted that she must send a reply, and reluctantly she wrote the verse; ‘Is it for me to change, for me who hear on every wind some tale that proves you, though the years go by, not other than you were?’
He burst into a great rage when he received her note, but a moment afterwards felt that he was behaving very childishly, and said to the gentlewoman who had brought it: ‘I would not for the world have any one know how I have been treated to-night. Promise me, I beg of you, that you will speak of it to no one; stay, you had best even deny that I was here at all….’ He whispered this in a very low voice; but some servants who were hanging about near by noticed the aside, and one of them said to another: ‘Look at that now! Poor gentleman! You can see she has sent him a very stinging reply. Even if she does not ​fancy him, she might at least treat him with common civility. For he does not look at all the kind of gentleman who would take advantage of a little kindness….’
As a matter of fact, she had no distaste for him whatever. His beauty delighted her and she was sure that she would have found him a most charming companion. But she was convinced that from the moment she betrayed this liking he would class her among the common ruck of his admirers and imagine that she would put up with such treatment as they were apparently content to endure. A position so humiliating she knew that she could never tolerate. She was resolute, therefore, in her determination never to allow the slightest intimacy to grow up between them. But at the same time she was now careful always to answer his letters fully and courteously, and she allowed him to converse with her at second hand whenever he felt inclined. It was hardly conceivable that, submitted to this treatment, he would not soon grow weary of the whole affair. For her part she wished to devote herself to the expiation of the many offences against her own religion that her residence at Kamo had involved. Ultimately she meant to take orders; but any sudden step of that kind would certainly be attributed to an unfortunate love-affair and so give colour to the rumours which already connected her name with his. Indeed, she had seen enough of the world to know that in few people is discretion stronger than the desire to tell a good story, and she therefore took no one into her confidence, not even the gentlewoman who waited daily upon her. Meanwhile she devoted herself more and more ardently to preparation for the mode of life which she hoped soon to embrace.
She had several brothers; but they were the children of ​Prince Zembo’s first wife and she knew very little of them. Other visitors at the Momozono palace became increasingly rare; but the fact that no less a person than Genji was known to be Princess Asagao’s admirer aroused a widespread curiosity concerning her.
As a matter of fact, he was not very desperately in love with her; but her apparent indifference had piqued him and he was determined to go on till he had gained his point. He had recently gathered from several sources of information, including persons of every rank in society, but all of them in a position to know what they were talking about, that his own reputation now stood very high in the country. He felt indeed that his insight into affairs had very greatly improved since old days, and it would certainly be a pity if a scandal once more deprived him of popular confidence. Nevertheless, if gossip were to concern itself with the matter at all, he could not help feeling he should prefer to figure in the story as having succeeded than as having been ignominiously repulsed.
Meanwhile his frequent absences from the Nijō-in had already convinced Murasaki that the affair was as serious as it could possibly be. She tried to conceal her agitation, but there were times when it was evident that she had been secretly weeping, and Genji said to her one day: ‘What has come over you lately? I cannot imagine any reason why you should be so depressed’; and as he gently stroked the hair back from her forehead they looked such a pair as you might put straight into a picture.
‘Since his mother’s death,’ Genji went on presently, ‘the Emperor Ryōzen has been in very low spirits and I have felt bound to spend a good deal of time at the Palace. But that is not the only thing which takes up my time in these days; you must remember that I have now to attend ​personally to a mass of business which the old Minister of the Left used formerly to take off my hands. I am as sorry as you are that we see so much less of one another; but I do my best, and you must really try henceforward to bear with me more patiently. You are no longer a child; yet you make as little effort to enter into my feelings and see my point of view as if you were still in the nursery.’ And with that, just as though she were indeed a small child, he put back in its place a lock of her hair that had become disordered while she was weeping.
But still she turned away from him and would not speak a word. ‘This is quite new,’ he said; ‘who has been teaching you these pettish airs and graces?’ He spoke lightly; but how long, he wondered, was this going to last, how much time were they going to spend in this dismal fashion, while at any moment one of those countless horrors that life perpetually holds over us might suddenly descend upon them and reconciliation be no longer possible? Determined to bring the matter to a head, he said at last: ‘I think you have perhaps been misled by very foolish rumours concerning my friendship with the former Vestal. As a matter of fact, it is of the most distant kind, as in the end you will yourself probably realize. She has always, since I first got to know her years ago, treated me with an exaggerated coldness. This hurts me, and I have more than once remonstrated with her on the subject. As very little now goes on at the Momozono palace, she has a good deal of time on her hands and it amuses her to keep up a desultory correspondence. This is all that has happened between us; and even you will surely admit that is not worth crying about! If it is really this affair that has been on your mind, I assure you that there is no cause whatever for anxiety….’ He spent the whole day in trying to win back her confidence, and his patience was at last rewarded.
​By this time the snow was lying very deep, and it was still falling, though now very lightly. So far from obliterating the shapes of pine-tree and bamboo, the heavy covering of snow seemed only to accentuate their varying forms, which stood out with strange distinctness in the evening light. ‘We decided the other day,’ said Genji to Murasaki, ‘that Lady Akikonomu’s season is Autumn, and yours Spring. This evening I am more sure than ever that mine is Winter. What could be more lovely than a winter night such as this, when the moon shines out of a cloudless sky upon the glittering, fresh-fallen snow? Beauty without colour seems somehow to belong to another world. At any rate, I find such a scene as this infinitely more lovely and moving than any other in the whole year. How little do I agree with the proverb that calls the moon in winter a dismal sight!’ So saying he raised the window-blind, and they looked out. The moon was now fully risen, covering the whole garden with its steady, even light. The withered flower-beds showed, in these cold rays, with painful clearness the ravages of wind and frost. And look, the river was half-choked with ice, while the pond, frozen all over, was unutterably strange and lonesome under its coat of snow. Near it some children had been allowed to make a monster snow-ball. They looked very pretty as they tripped about in the moonlight. Several of the older girls had taken off their coats and set to in a very business-like way, showing all sorts of strange under-garments; while their brothers, coming straight from their tasks as page-boys and what not, had merely loosened their belts, and there was now a sight of smart coat-tails flapping and long hair falling forwards till its ends brushed the white garden floor—an effect both singular and delightful. Some of the very little ones were quite wild with joy and rushed about dropping all their fans and other belongings in their mad excitement. ​The glee imprinted on these small faces was charming to behold. The children made so big a snow-ball that when it came to rolling it along the ground they could not make it budge an inch, and the sight of their frantic endeavours to get it moving provoked much jeering and laughter from another party of children which had just made its appearance at the eastern door.
‘I remember,’ said Genji, ‘that one year Lady Fujitsubo had a snow-mountain built in front of her palace. It is a common enough amusement in winter time; but she had the art of making the most ordinary things striking and interesting. What countless reasons I have to regret her at every moment! I was during the greater part of her life not at all intimate with her and had little opportunity of studying her at close quarters. But during her residence at the Palace, she often allowed me to be of service to her in various small ways, and I frequently had occasion to use her good offices. In this way we were constantly discussing one piece of business or another, and I discovered that though she had no obvious or showy talents, she had the most extraordinary capacity for carrying through even quite unimportant and trivial affairs with a perfection of taste and management that has surely never been equalled. At the same time she was of a rather timid disposition and often took things too much to heart. Though you and she both spring from the same stem and necessarily have much in common, I have noticed that you are a good deal less even in temperament than she.
‘Lady Asagao, now, has a quite different nature. If in an idle moment I address to her some trifling fancy she replies with such spirit that I have hard work not to be left lagging. I know no one else at Court to compare with her in this respect.’
‘I have always heard,’ said Murasaki, ‘that Lady ​Oborozuki is extremely accomplished and quick-witted. I should have thought, too, from all I know of her that she was very sensible and discreet; and that makes me all the more surprised at certain stories that I have heard repeated….’
‘You are quite right,’ said Genji. ‘Among all the ladies now at Court she is the one I should pick out both for liveliness and beauty. As to the rumours you speak of—I know quite well what you are referring to. I bitterly regret what happened; as indeed I regret much else that belongs to that part of my life. And what quantities of things most people must begin to repent of, as the years go by! For compared with almost any of my friends, I have led a very quiet and decorous life.’ He paused for a moment; the mention of Oborozuki seemed to have moved him deeply. Presently he continued: ‘I have a feeling that you look down upon country people such as the Lady of Akashi. I assure you that, unlike most women in that station of life, she is extremely cultivated and intelligent; though of course people of her class are bound in many ways to be very different from us, and I admit she has certain strained and exaggerated ideas, of which I cannot approve.
‘About women of the common sort I know nothing; but among our own people it has always seemed to me that few indeed were in any way remarkable or interesting. An exception however is our guest in the new wing; she remains charming as ever. But though such beauty and intelligence are very rare, she has never cared to parade them; and since the time when I first realized her gifts and hastened to make her acquaintance, she has always continued to show the same indifference to the worldly conquests which she might so easily have secured. We have now been friends for so long that I do not think we are ever ​likely to part; I at any rate should be very sorry if she were to leave my house.’ While he thus talked of one thing and another, it grew very late. The moon shone brighter and brighter, and a stillness now reigned that, after the recent wintry storms, was very agreeable. Murasaki recited the verse: ‘The frozen waters are at rest; but now with waves of light the moon-beam ebbs and flows.’ She was looking out at the window, her head a little to one side, and both the expression of her face and the way her hair fell reminded him, as so often before, of her whom he had lost. Suddenly his affections, which for many weeks past had to some small extent been divided, were once more hers, and hers alone.
Just then a love-bird cried, and he recited the verse: ‘Does it not move you strangely, the love-bird’s cry, to-night when, like the drifting snow, memory piles up on memory?’ Long after he and Murasaki had retired to rest, recollections of Lady Fujitsubo continued to crowd into his mind, and when at last he fell asleep, a vision of her at once appeared to him, saying in tones of deep reproach: ‘It may be that you on earth have kept our secret; but in the land of the dead shame cannot be hid, and I am paying dearly for what you made me do….’ He tried to answer, but fear choked his voice, and Murasaki, hearing him suddenly give a strange muffled cry, said rather peevishly: ‘What are you doing that for? You frightened me!’ The sound of her voice roused him. He woke in a terrible state of grief and agitation, his eyes full of tears which he at once made violent efforts to control. But soon he was weeping bitterly, to the bewilderment of Murasaki, who nevertheless lay all the time stock still at his side. He was now too miserable and distracted to think of sleep, and slipping out of bed presently began writing notes to various temples in the district, directing that certain texts ​and spells should be recited; he did not however dare to state on whose behalf these things were to be done.
Small wonder that in the dream she turned upon him so bitter and reproachful a gaze, feeling (as by her words he judged she did) that this one sin had robbed her of salvation. He remembered her constant devotions; never since that fatal day had she omitted one single prayer, penance or charity that might serve as atonement for her guilt. Yet all had been in vain, and even in the world beyond, this one crime clung to her like a stain that could not be washed away. In the past he had never thought clearly about such things; but now they lived in his mind with a terrible vividness and certainty. Were there but some spell, some magic that could enable him to seek her out in the obscure region where her soul was dwelling, and suffer in her stead the penalties of his own offence! Yet the truth was that he could not so much as have a few poor Masses said for her soul; for, had he named her, the suspicions of the Court would at once have been aroused.
Concerning the Emperor, too, Genji’s conscience was very uneasy; for had Ryōzen indeed discovered the true story of his birth, he must now be living in a state of continual apprehension. It was at about this time that Genji put himself under the especial protection of Amida, Buddha of Boundless Light, beseeching the Blessed One that in due time his soul and that of the lady whom he had undone might spring from the same lotus in His holy Paradise. But of such an issue he had little hope, and often he would disconsolately recite the verse: ‘Fain would I follow her, could I but hope to thread my way among the sunless Rivers of the World Below.’
* ↑ Consequently an aunt both of Asagao and Genji, who were first cousins; Prince Momozono, Asagao’s father, being a brother of Genji’s father, the old Emperor. Asagao was the one lady whom Genji had courted in vain. See vol. i, p. 68.
* ↑ Aoi’s mother.
* ↑ I.e. making love to her.
* ↑ Allusion to the poem: ‘By the River of Cleansing I tied prayer-strips inscribed “I will love no more”; but it seems that the Gods would not accept my vow.’
* ↑ Asagao.
* ↑ Where Murasaki would not be likely to come.
* ↑ In the men’s quarters.
* ↑ During the 10th month the Gods withdraw themselves and cannot hear our prayers; their return in the 11th month is celebrated with rejoicing; but this year, owing to the National Mourning for Fujitsubo’s death, these ceremonies were omitted.
* ↑ See vol. i, p. 220.
* ↑ 572–621 A.D.
* ↑ Asagao.
* ↑ Buddhism. She had been Vestal in the Shintō temple at Kamo, where no Buddhist prayers or observances were allowed.
* ↑ Rokujō was his second.
* ↑ The lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.
* ↑ Generally called by the ugly name ‘Mandarin Duck.’
* ↑ Through each of the Three Evil Realms (of Animals, Hungry Ghosts and Demons) runs a meandering river.