All four dancers were to be retained at the Palace; but for the moment they had to retire from Court in order to perform the ceremony of Purification. Yoshikiyo’s daughter was taken off to Karasaki, Koremitsu’s to Naniwa, and soon the dancers had all left Court. A post in the Lady of the Bedchamber’s office was vacant, and when the Emperor suggested that Koremitsu’s daughter might care to take it Genji naturally accepted for her with alacrity. This was bad news for Yūgiri. Young and unimportant as he was, he could not possibly try to restrain her from accepting such a post; but it would be too bad if she never even found out who it was that had made friends with her that evening at the Nijō-in; and though Kumoi still occupied the chief place in his thoughts, there were times when this subsidiary failure weighed heavily upon him. The girl had a brother who was a page at Court and had also often waited upon Yūgiri at Genji’s palace. ‘When is your sister going into residence at Court?’ he asked the page one day, after making conversation with him for some time. ‘I do not know; some time this year, I suppose,’ the boy answered. ‘She has an extraordinarily beautiful face,’ said Yūgiri. ‘I envy you for seeing her so constantly. I wish you would arrange for me to meet her again.’ ‘How can I?’ said the boy. ‘I am much younger than she. We have not been brought up together, and I do not myself see her except on special occasions. I have no chance of introducing her to gentlemen such as you....’ ‘But a letter, surely you could manage a letter?’ and Yūgiri handed him a note. The boy had been brought up to consider this kind of thing very underhand; but Yūgiri was so insistent that, much against his will, he at last consented. The girl had more taste in such matters than is usual at her age, and the appearance of the note greatly delighted her. It was on a greenish paper, very thin and fine, laid down on a stout backing. The hand was naturally still somewhat unformed; but it did not promise ill for the future. With the letter was a poem: ‘Hidden though I was, surely the Maid of Heaven perceived with what enthralment I witnessed the waving of her feathery sleeves?’

Brother and sister were reading the note together when Koremitsu suddenly entered the room and snatched it out of their hands. The girl sat motionless, while the blood rushed to her cheeks. But her brother, indignant at Koremitsu’s high-handed manner of dealing with the situation, strode angrily out of the room. ‘Who sent this?’ Koremitsu called after him. ‘Prince Genji’s son,’ the boy answered, turning back; ‘the one who is studying for the College. At any rate it was he who gave me the note and asked me to bring it here.’ Koremitsu, who regarded Yūgiri as a mere child, burst into a hearty laugh. ‘Well, you have chosen a pretty little prince for your sweetheart,’ he said; ‘I thought this letter came from some grown-up person. Of course there can be no harm in fun of that sort ...’, and showing the letter to his wife he proceeded to tell her what a nice child Yūgiri was. ‘If it ever should happen,’ he said to her in an aside, ‘that one of these young princes took a fancy to our daughter, we should do much better for her that way than by keeping her at the Palace, where she can never play more than a very humble part. There’s this comfort about it, that if Prince Yūgiri is anything like his father he will continue to show an interest in her when he grows up. You know I have always told you that once Prince Genji takes a fancy to people, he never forgets them, come what may. Look at what he has done for that girl from Akashi.’ Nevertheless they hurried on the preparations for their daughter’s departure to Court.

After this brief diversion Yūgiri became more than ever pre-occupied with his main misfortune. To Kumoi it was impossible even to send a letter, and all his time was now spent in endless speculations as to where and how he should ever see her again. He no longer visited the Great Hall, for the sight of the rooms where they used to play together evoked memories that he could not endure. But he was almost equally miserable at home, and shut himself up for days on end in his own room. Genji now put him under the care of the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. ‘His grandmother is not likely to live very long,’ Genji said to her. ‘You have known him since he was quite small and will be much the best person to look after him.’ She always accepted with docility whatever duties he put upon her, and now did her best to look after the boy, of whom she was indeed very fond. Yūgiri liked her, but he did not think she was at all pretty. It seemed to him that Genji, who had gone on being fond of this uninteresting lady for so many years, would surely be able to understand that if one fell in love with a handsome creature like Kumoi one was not likely to give her up all in a minute. No doubt the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers had quite other qualities to recommend her. She was docile and equable, and Yūgiri saw that it would be very convenient only to fall in love with people of that sort. However, if they were as plain as the lady who had been commissioned to look after him, love would be a painful business. But perhaps his father thought her beautiful or intelligent? The question was hard to answer, but one thing was certain: Genji managed not to spend much time alone with her. ‘No,’ said Yūgiri to himself, ‘I cannot remember his doing more than bring her some little present or chat with her for a few moments from outside her screen ever since I have been in the house.’

About this time old Princess Ōmiya took her vows, and though this necessitated a change of costume, it did not prevent her being as anxious as ever to make a good impression, and she continued to take the greatest possible pains with her appearance. Yūgiri had indeed always known people with whom appearances counted for a great deal; while the lady who had been put in charge of him, having never been particularly handsome, had, now that she was no longer quite young, grown somewhat angular, and her hair was becoming scanty. These things made a disagreeable impression upon him.

As the year drew towards a close, Princess Ōmiya’s whole attention became occupied with the delightful task of making ready the young scholar’s New Year clothes. It was a splendid costume, that he could not deny. But it did not seem to interest him very much. ‘I don’t know why you have ordered all these clothes,’ he said at last; ‘I have no intention of going to Court at all on New Year’s day. Why did you suppose I meant to?’ ‘What a way to talk!’ she said in bitter disappointment. ‘One would think you were already an old gentleman hardly able to drag yourself about!’ ‘One can have the feeling that one’s life is over, without being old,’ he muttered, his eyes filling with tears. She knew quite well what was on his mind, and felt very sorry for him. But she thought it better not to discuss the matter and said gently: ‘A man ought to bear himself with pride even if he knows that he deserves a higher rank than that which for the moment has been accorded to him. You must not let it depress you so much. Why do you go about looking so wretched nowadays? It really becomes quite insufferable.’ ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘Why should I go to Court if I do not choose to? As a matter of fact, it is very unpleasant to be only in the Sixth Rank. People notice it and make remarks. I know it is only for the present; but all the same I had rather stay at home. I am sure that if my grandfather were alive, he would never allow me to be treated like this. One would think my father might do something about it; but he does not seem to care what becomes of me. I saw little enough of him before; but now he has put me to live right away in the new eastern wing, and never comes near me at all. The only person who takes any trouble about me is this ‘Falling Flowers’ whom he keeps there....’ ‘Poor child,' said Princess Ōmiya, ‘it is a terrible misfortune to have no mother, in whatever rank of life one may be. But before long you will be old enough to go out into the world and shift for yourself. Then people will soon learn to respect you. Meanwhile you must try to be patient and not take these things so much to heart. Your grandfather would indeed have done more for you if he were here. For though your father holds the same position, he does not seem to have the same influence over people as your poor grandfather did. They still tell me that your uncle Tō no Chūjō is a man of very remarkable talents, and I used to think so myself. But I have noticed a change in him lately, and it becomes greater every day. However, things must indeed be in a bad way if a young boy like you, with all his life before him, can talk so gloomily about the future....’

On New Year’s day Genji, being Grand Minister Extraordinary, did not go to Court, but following the precedent set by Fujiwara no Yoshifusa⁸³ celebrated the rites of the season at his own palace. On the seventh day a White Horse was presented to the Grand Minister with exactly the same ceremonies as to the Emperor at Court; indeed, in many respects the festivities arranged by Genji exceeded in their magnificence anything that had ever been seen on such occasions save at the Palace itself. Towards the end of the second month came the Imperial Visit to the ex-Emperor Suzaku. It was too early for the blossoms to be quite at their best, but immediately afterwards came the ‘month of fasting’ in memory of the Emperor’s mother, so the Visit could not be postponed. Fortunately the cherry blossom was unusually early this year and in Suzaku’s gardens it already made a delightful show. A tremendous cleaning and polishing was set afoot at his palace in preparation for the Emperor’s arrival; and meanwhile the noblemen and princes who were to accompany his Majesty thought of nothing but their new clothes. They had been ordered to wear dove-grey lined with pale green; the Emperor himself was to be dressed all in crimson. By special command Genji was also in attendance on the day of the Visit, and he too wore red; so that frequently during the day the figure of the Emperor seemed to merge into that of his Minister, and it was as though the two of them formed but one crimson giant. Every one present had taken unusual pains with his appearance, and their host, the ex-Emperor, who had grown into a far better-looking man than at one time seemed possible, evidently took much more interest in such matters than before, and was himself magnificently apparelled.

Professional poets had not been summoned for the occasion, but only some ten scholars from the College who had the reputation of being able to turn out good verses.

The subjects chosen were modelled on those given out to the competitors for posts in the Board of Rites. It was thought that it would be a good thing to give Yūgiri some idea of the themes given out at Palace examinations. That his mind might not be disturbed, each poet was set adrift on the lake all by himself, and it was with considerable alarm that these timid scholars, few of whom had ever set foot in a boat before, saw their moorings loosed and felt themselves gliding further and further away from the shore. As dusk drew on, boats with musicians on board began to circle the lake, and their tunes mingled agreeably with the sighing of the mountain wind. Here, thought Yūgiri, was a profession which brought one into pleasant contact with the world and at the same time entailed studies far less arduous than those to which he had been so heartlessly condemned; and he wandered about feeling very discontented.

Later on, the dance called ‘Warbling of the Spring Nightingales,’ was performed, and Suzaku, remembering that famous Feast of Flowers⁸⁴ years ago said to Genji with a sigh: ‘What wonderful days those were! We shall not see their like again.’ There were indeed many incidents belonging to that time which even now Genji looked back upon with considerable emotion, and when the dance was over, he handed the wine bowl to Suzaku, reciting as he did so: ‘Spring comes, and still the sweet birds warble as of old; but altered and bereft⁸⁵ are they that sit beneath the blossoming tree.’ To this Suzaku replied: ‘To-day the nightingales have come to tell me of the Spring. Else had no sunshine pierced the mists that hide my hermit’s-dwelling from the world’s pomp and pride.' It was now the turn of Prince Sochi no Miya, who had recently become President of the Board of War, to present the bowl. He did so, reciting the verse: ‘Speak not of change; unaltered through all ages⁸⁶ shall the flute preserve their song, the nightingales that in the spring-time warble on the swaying bough.’ This was said with a glance towards the Emperor, and in loud clear voice, that the compliment might not be missed. Ryōzen was indeed gratified by the graceful allusion, but as he took the bowl he answered modestly: ‘If birds still sing and a few faded blossoms deck the tree, it is but in remembrance of those happier days when Virtue ruled the world.’ This was said with great earnestness and humility. All the above poems were exchanged privately and only overheard by a few privileged persons, and there were others which did not get recorded at all. The pavilion of the musicians was some way off, and Suzaku suggested that those about him should send for their instruments and make a little music of their own. Sochi no Miya accordingly played on the lute, Tō no Chūjō on the Japanese zithern, while Suzaku himself played to the Emperor on the thirteen-stringed zithern. The Chinese zithern was as usual played by Genji. It was seldom that so gifted a band of performers chanced to meet in one place, and the concert that followed was of unforgettable beauty. Several of the courtiers present had good voices, and the songs ‘Was ever such a day!’ and the ‘Cherry Man’⁸⁷ were now performed. Finally torches were lit all round the edge of the island in the lake, and so the feast at last came to an end. But late as it was, Ryōzen felt that it would be uncivil on his part if he went away without paying his respects to Suzaku’s mother, Lady Kōkiden, who was living in the same house with him. Genji was naturally obliged to accompany him. The old lady received them in person and was evidently very much gratified by the visit. She had aged immensely since he last saw her; but here she still was, and it irritated him to think that she should hang on to life in this way, when a much younger woman like Fujitsubo was already in her grave. ‘My memory is not so good as it was,’ said Kōkiden, ‘but this visit of yours has brought back the old days to my mind more clearly than anything that has happened to me for a long time past.’ ‘Those upon whom I leaned have now been taken from me one after another,’ the Emperor replied, ‘and hitherto the year has had no spring-time for me. But my visit to your house to-day has at last dispelled my grief; I hope you will permit me to come here often....’ Genji too had to make a suitable speech, and had even to ask if he also might venture to call again. The procession left the house amid great scenes of popular enthusiasm, which painfully reminded the old lady of her complete failure to injure Prince Genji’s career. To govern he was born, and govern he would despite all her scheming. ‘Well, such is fate,’ she thought, and was almost sorry that she had wasted time contending against it.

It was natural that this visit should bring Oborozuki to his mind. Not that he had altogether ceased corresponding with her; for lately whenever an opportunity occurred, he had sent her a word or two of greeting. And now there rose before him on his way home many delightful recollections of the hours they had spent together.

As for Kōkiden, despite her professions of good will she did as a matter of fact intensely dislike all contact with the present Emperor and his government. But it was sometimes necessary to communicate with them concerning her own salary, or the preferment of her friends, and on such occasions she often wished that she had not lived to see an age which was in all respects the reversal of what she herself had striven for. Old age had not improved her temper, and even Suzaku found her very difficult to get on with, and sometimes wondered how much longer he would be able to endure so trying a partnership.

So greatly had Yūgiri distinguished himself in the literary competitions which marked that day’s festivity, that upon the strength of them alone he was awarded the Doctor’s degree. Among those who had competed were many who were far older than he and some who were thought to possess remarkable ability. But besides Yūgiri only two others were passed. When the time of the autumn appointments came round he received the rank of Chamberlain. He longed as much as ever to see Lady Kumoi. But he knew that Tō no Chūjō had his eye upon him, and to force his way into her presence under such circumstances would have been so very disagreeable that he contented himself with an occasional letter. She, meanwhile, was fully as wretched as her young lover.

Genji had long had it in his mind, if only he could find a site sufficiently extensive and with the same natural advantages as the Nijō-in, to build himself a new palace where he could house under one roof the various friends whose present inaccessibility, installed as they were in remote country places, was very inconvenient to him. He now managed to secure a site of four machi⁸⁸ in the Sixth Ward close to where Lady Rokujō had lived and at once began to build.

The fiftieth birthday of Murasaki’s father Prince Hyōbukyō was in the autumn of the following year. The preparations for this event were of course chiefly in her hands; but Genji too, seeing that on this occasion at any rate he must appear to have overcome his dislike of the prince, determined to give the affair an additional magnificence by holding the celebrations in his new house; and with this end in view he hurried on the work of construction as fast as he could. The New Year came, and still the place was far from finished. What with spurring on architects and builders, arranging for the Birthday Service, choosing the musicians, the dancers and the like, he had plenty to keep him busy. Murasaki herself had undertaken the decking of the scripture-rolls and images that would be used at the Service; as well as the customary distribution of presents and mementos. In these tasks she was aided by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, and it was at this time that an intimacy sprang up between them such as had never existed before.

The rumour of these preparations soon reached Prince Hyōbukyō’s ears. After the general amnesty which succeeded his return from Suma, Genji in general made no difference between those who had remained loyal to his cause and those who had stood aloof from him. But from the first Hyōbukyō felt that in his case an exception was made. Over and over again he found himself treated with marked coldness, and the refusal to accept his younger daughter as a candidate for the Emperor’s hand, together with a number of other small but vexatious incidents, finally convinced him that he must at some time have given Genji particular offence. How this had occurred he was at a loss to conjecture; it was indeed the last thing in the world which he would have wished to happen. The fact that, among the many women upon whom Genji had bestowed his favours, it was Murasaki who had been chosen to be the mistress of his house, gave to Hyōbukyō, as her father, a certain worldly prestige. But it could by no means be said that he had hitherto taken a personal share in any of his daughter’s triumphs. This time however, a celebration in which Hyōbukyō necessarily played the foremost part was being planned and prepared by Genji himself on a scale which had set the whole country talking. The prince began to hope that his old age would be lightened by a period of belated conspicuity, and he began to feel very well pleased with himself. This intensely irritated his wife, who could not endure that honours should come to him through the influence of her step-child, and saw no reason why Genji should so quickly be forgiven his obstructive attitude concerning the Presentation of her own little daughter.

The new palace was finished in the eighth month. The portions corresponding to the astrological signs Sheep and Monkey⁸⁹ were reserved for Lady Akikonomu’s occasional use, for they stood on ground that her own suite of rooms had once occupied. The Dragon and Snake quarters were for Genji himself; while the Bull and Tiger corner was to be used by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. Finally the Dog and Wild Boar quarters were made ready for the Lady from Akashi, in the hope that she would at last consent to instal herself under his roof.

He effected great improvement in the appearance of the grounds by a judicious handling of knoll and lake, for though such features were already there in abundance, he found it necessary here to cut away a slope, there to dam a stream, that each occupant of the various quarters might look out of her windows upon such a prospect as pleased her best. To the south-east he raised the level of the ground, and on this bank planted a profusion of early flowering trees. At the foot of this slope the lake curved with especial beauty, and in the foreground, just beneath the windows, he planted borders of cinquefoil, of red-plum, cherry, wistaria, kerria, rock-azalea, and other such plants as are at their best in spring-time; for he knew that Murasaki was in especial a lover of the spring; while here and there, in places where they would not obstruct his main plan, autumn beds were cleverly interwoven with the rest.

Akikonomu’s garden was full of such trees as in autumn-time turn to the deepest hue. The stream above the waterfall was cleared out and deepened to a considerable distance; and that the noise of the cascade might carry further, he set great boulders in mid-stream, against which the current crashed and broke. It so happened that, the season being far advanced, it was this part of the garden that was now seen at its best; here indeed was such beauty as far eclipsed the autumn splendour even of the forests near Ōi, so famous for their autumn tints.

In the north-eastern garden there was a cool spring, the neighbourhood of which seemed likely to yield an agreeable refuge from the summer heat. In the borders near the house upon this side he planted Chinese bamboos, and a little further off, tall-stemmed forest-trees whose thick leaves roofed airy tunnels of shade, pleasant as those of the most lovely upland wood. This garden was fenced with hedges of the white deutzia flower, the orange tree ‘whose scent rewakes forgotten love,’ the briar-rose, and the giant peony; with many other sorts of bush and tall flower so skilfully spread about among them that neither spring nor autumn would ever lack in bravery.

On the east a great space was walled off, behind which rose the Racing Lodge⁹⁰; in front of it the race-course was marked off with ozier hurdles; and as he would be resident here during the sports of the fifth month, all along the stream at this point he planted the appropriate purple irises.⁹¹ Opposite were the stables with stalls for his racehorses, and quarters for the jockeys and grooms. Here were gathered together the most daring riders from every province in the kingdom. To the north of Lady Akashi’s rooms rose a high embankment, behind which lay the storehouses and granaries, screened also by a close-set wall of pine-trees, planted there on purpose that she might have the pleasure of seeing them when their boughs were laden with snow; and for her delight in the earlier days of the winter there was a great bed of chrysanthemums, which he pictured her enjoying on some morning when all the garden was white with frost. Then there was the mother-oak⁹² (for was not she a mother?) and, brought hither from wild and inaccessible places, a hundred other bushes and trees, so seldom seen that no one knew what names to call them by.

The move was to take place about the time of the Festival of the Further Shore.⁹³ He had at first intended to transfer all the occupants at one time. But it soon became apparent that this would be too vast an undertaking, and it was arranged that Lady Akikonomu should not arrive till somewhat later than the rest. With her usual amiability and good-sense the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers readily fell in with the suggestion that she and her party should not form a separate cortège, but should join with Murasaki in the ceremony of removal. Genji regretted that the latter was not going to see her new domain at the season for which it had been principally designed; but still, the move itself was a diverting experience. There were fifteen coaches in the procession and almost all the outriders were gentlemen of the fourth or fifth rank. The ordering of the procession was not so elaborate as might have been expected, for it seemed likely at the moment that too lavish a display might try the temper of the common people, and some of the more ostentatious forms and ceremonies were either omitted or abridged.

But Genji was careful not to let it seem that any of these restrictions had been carried out to the detriment of one lady rather than another. The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers had indeed nothing to complain of, for Yūgiri had been told off to wait upon her exclusively during the whole ceremony. The gentlewomen and maids found their quarters in the new house admirably fitted out with every comfort and convenience, and they were louder than ever in Genji’s praises. About six days later the Empress Akikonomu arrived from the Palace. The ceremony of her arrival, though it had been intended that the whole move should be as little ostentatious as possible, was necessarily a very sumptuous and imposing affair. Not only had she risen from obscurity to the highest place which a woman can hold in the land, but she had herself advanced so much in beauty and acquired so great a dignity of carriage and mien that she now figured very large in the popular imagination, and crowds flocked the road wherever she was to pass.

The various quarters of which the New Palace was composed were joined by numerous alleys and covered ways, so that access from one to another was easy, and no one felt that she had been bundled away into a corner. When the ninth month came and the autumn leaves began to be at their best, the splendours of Akikonomu’s new garden were at last revealed, and indeed the sights upon which her windows looked were indescribably lovely. One evening when the crimson carpet was ruffled by a gusty wind, she filled a little box with red leaves from different trees and sent it to Murasaki. As messenger she chose one of the little girls who waited upon her. The child, a well grown, confident little thing, came tripping across the humped wooden bridge that led from the Empress’s apartments with the utmost unconcern. Pleased though Murasaki was to receive this prompt mark of friendship, she could for a while do nothing but gaze with delight at the messenger’s appearance, and she quite forgot to be resentful, as some in her place would have been, that an older and more dignified messenger had not been entrusted with the Empress’s gift. The child wore a silk shirt, yellow outside and lined with green. Her mantle was of brown gauze. She was used to running about on messages in the Palace, had that absolute faultlessness of turn-out and bearing which seems never to be found elsewhere, and was far from being overawed at finding herself in the presence of such a person as Lady Murasaki. Attached to the box was the poem: ‘Though yours be a garden where only Spring-time is of price, suffer it that from my house Autumn should blow a crimson leaf into your hand.’ It was amusing to see how while Murasaki read the missive, her ladies crowded round the little messenger and plied her with refreshments and caresses. For answer, Murasaki placed in the lid of the box a carpet of moss and on it laid a very little toy rock. Then she wrote on a strip of paper tied to a sprig of five-pointed pine: ‘The light leaf scatters in the wind, and of the vaunted spring no tinge is left us, save where the pine-tree grips its ledge of stone.’

The Empress thought at first that it was a real pine-branch. But when she looked closer she saw that, like the rock, it was a work of art—as delicate and ingenious a piece of craftsmanship as she had ever encountered. The readiness of Murasaki’s answer and the tact with which, while not exalting her own favourite season above that of Akikonomu’s choice, she had yet found a symbol to save her from tame surrender, pleased the Empress and was greeted as a happy stroke by all the ladies who were with her. But Genji when she showed it to him pretended to think the reply very impertinent, and to tease Murasaki he said to her afterwards: ‘I think you received these leaves most ungraciously. At another season one might venture perhaps upon such disparagement; but to do so now that the Goddess of Tatsuta⁹⁴ holds us all in sway seems almost seditious. You should have bided your time; for only from behind the shelter of blossoming boughs could such a judgment be uttered with impunity.’ So he spoke; but he was in reality delighted to find these marks of interest and good will being exchanged between the various occupants of his house, and he felt that the new arrangement was certain to prove a great success.

When the Lady of Akashi heard of the removal to the New Palace and was told that only her own quarters, as spacious and handsome as any of the rest, now remained untenanted, she determined at last to hold aloof no longer. It was the Godless month when she arrived. She looked around her and, mistrustful though she was, she certainly could see no sign here that as regards either elegance or comfort she would be expected to put up with less than her neighbours. And indeed Genji saw to it that on all occasions she should rank in the eyes of the household rather as mother of the little Princess for whom so brilliant a future was in store, than as the scion of a poor and undistinguished provincial family.