Now, to perform due thanksgiving for this happy deliverance, the head of the monastery on Mount Hiye and some other distinguished priests were sent for. They came in all haste, wiping off the perspiration from their faces as they journeyed; and, from the Emperor and Royal princes down to the ordinary nobles, all took an interest in the ceremony of Ubyashinai (first feeding), and the more so as the child was a boy.
To return to the Lady of Rokjiâ. When she heard of the safe delivery of Lady Aoi, a slightly jealous feeling once more seemed to vex her; and when she began to move about, she could not understand how it was, but she perceived that her dress was scented with a strange odor.5 She thought this most surprising, and took baths and changed her dress, in order to get rid of it; but the odor soon returned, and she was disgusted with herself.
Some days passed, and the day of autumn appointments arrived. By this time, Lady Aoi's health seemed progressing favorably, and Genji left her in order to attend the Court.
When he said good-by to her, there was a strange and unusual look in her eyes. Sadaijin also went to Court, as well as his sons, who had some expectation of promotion, and there were few people left in the mansion.
It was in the evening of that day that Lady Aoi was suddenly attacked by a spasm, and before the news of this could be carried to the Court, she died.
These sad tidings soon reached the Court, and created great distress and confusion: even the arrangements for appointments and promotion were disturbed. As it happened late in the evening there was no time to send for the head of the monastery, or any other distinguished priest. Messengers of inquiry came one after another to the mansion, so numerous that it was almost impossible to return them all answers. We need not add how greatly affected were all her relations.
As the death took place from a malign spiritual influence, she was left untouched during two or three days, in the hope that she might revive; but no change took place, and now all hope was abandoned. In due course the corpse was taken to the cemetery of Toribeno. Numerous mourners and priests of different churches crowded to the spot, while representatives of the ex-Emperor, Princess Wistaria, and the Heir-apparent also were present. The ceremony of burial was performed with all solemnity and pathos.
Thus the modest and virtuous Lady Aoi passed away forever. Genji forthwith confined himself to his apartment in the grand mansion of Sadaijin, for mourning and consolation. Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, who was now elevated to the title of Sammi, constantly bore him company, and conversed with him both on serious and amusing subjects. Their struggle in the apartment of Gen-naishi, and also their rencontre in the garden of the “Saffron Flower,” were among the topics of their consoling conversation.
It was on one of these occasions that a soft shower of rain was falling. The evening was rendered cheerless, and Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ came to see him, walking slowly in his mourning robes of a dull color. Genji was leaning out of a window, his cheek resting on his hand; and, looking out upon the half-fading shrubberies, was humming—
“Has she become rain or cloud?
'Tis now unknown.”
Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ gently approached him. They had, as usual, some pathetic conversation, and then the latter hummed, as if to himself—
“Beyond the cloud in yonder sky,
From which descends the passing rain,
Her gentle soul may dwell,
Though we may cease to trace its form in vain.”
This was soon responded to by Genji:—
“That cloudy shrine we view on high,
Where my lost love may dwell unseen,
Looks gloomy now to this sad eye
That looks with tears on what has been.”
There was among the faded plants of the garden a solitary Rindâ-nadeshko.6 When Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ had gone, Genji picked this flower, and sent it to his mother-in-law by the nurse of the infant child, with the following:—
“In bowers where all beside are dead
Survives alone this lovely flower,
Departed autumn's cherished gem,
Symbol of joy's departed hour.”7
Genji still felt lonely. He wrote a letter to the Princess Mo-mozono (peach-gardens). He had known her long. He admired her, too. She had been a spectator, with her father, on the day of the consecration of the Saiin, and was one of those to whom the appearance of Genji was most welcome. In his letter he stated that she might have a little sympathy with him in his sorrow, and he also sent with it the following:—
“Many an autumn have I past
In gloomy thought, but none I ween
Has been so mournful as the last,
Which rife with grief and change hath been.”
There was, indeed, nothing serious between Genji and this princess; yet, as far as correspondence was concerned, they now and then exchanged letters, so she did not object to receiving this communication. She felt for him much, and an answer was returned, in which she expressed her sympathy at his bereavement.
Now, in the mansion of Sadaijin every performance of requiem was celebrated. The forty-ninth day had passed, and the mementoes of the dead, both trifling and valuable, were distributed in a due and agreeable manner; and Genji at length left the grand mansion with the intention of first going to the ex-Emperor, and then of returning to his mansion at Nijiâ. After his departure, Sadaijin went into the apartment occupied till lately by him. The room was the same as before, and everything was unchanged; but his only daughter, the pride of his old days, was no more, and his son-in-law had gone too.
He looked around him for some moments. He saw some papers lying about. They were those on which Genji had been practising penmanship for amusement—some in Chinese, others in Japanese; some in free style, others in stiff. Among these papers he saw one on which the words “Old pillows and old quilts” were written, and close to these the following:—
“How much the soul departed, still
Many love to linger round this couch,
My own heart tells me, even I
Reluctant am to leave it now.”
And on another of these papers, accompanying the words, “The white frost lies upon the tiles,” the following:—
“How many more of nights shall I
On this lone bed without thee lie;
The flower has left its well-known bed,
And o'er its place the dews are shed.”
As Sadaijin was turning over these papers a withered flower, which seems to have marked some particular occasion, dropped from amongst them.
Return we now to Genji. He went to the ex-Emperor, to whom he still seemed thin and careworn. He had some affectionate conversation with him, remained till evening, and then proceeded to his mansion at Nijiâ. He went to the western wing to visit the young Violet. All were habited in new winter apparel, and looked fresh and blooming.
“How long it seems since I saw you!” he exclaimed. Violet turned her glance a little aside. She was apparently shy, which only increased her beauty.
He approached, and after having a little conversation, said, “I have many things to say to you, but now I must have a little rest,” and returned to his own quarters.
The next morning, first of all he sent a letter to Sadaijin's, making inquiry after his infant child.
At this time he confined himself more than usual to his own house, and for companionship he was constantly with Violet, who was now approaching womanhood. He would sometimes talk with her differently from the manner in which he would speak to a mere girl; but on her part she seemed not to notice the difference, and for their daily amusement either Go or Heutski8 was resorted to, and sometimes they would play on till late in the evening.
Some weeks thus passed away, and there was one morning when Violet did not appear so early as usual. The inmates of the house, who did not know what was the reason, were anxious about her, thinking she was indisposed. About noon Genji came. He entered the little room, saying, “Are you not quite well? Perhaps you would like to play at Go again, like last night, for a change;” but she was more than ever shy.
“Why are you so shy?” he exclaimed; “be a little more cheerful—people may think it strange,” said he, and stayed with her a long time trying to soothe her; but to no effect—she still continued silent and shy.
This was the evening of Wild Boar's day, and some mochi (pounded rice cake) was presented to him, according to custom, on a tray of plain white wood.
He called Koremitz before him and said, “Today is not a very opportune day; I would rather have them tomorrow evening. Do send in some tomorrow.9 It need not be of so many colors.” So saying, he smiled a little, and sharp Koremitz soon understood what he meant. And this he accordingly did on the morrow, on a beautiful flower-waiter.
Up to this time nothing about Violet had been publicly known, and Genji thought it was time to inform her father about his daughter; but he considered he had better have the ceremony of Mogi first performed, and ordered preparations to be made with that object.
Let us here notice that the young daughter of Udaijin, after she saw Genji, was longing to see him again. This inclination was perceived by her relations. It seems that her father was not quite averse to this liking, and he told his eldest daughter, the reigning Emperor's mother, that Genji was recently bereaved of his good consort, and that he should not feel discontented if his daughter were to take the place of Lady Aoi; but this the royal mother did not approve. “It would be far better for her to be introduced at Court,” she said, and began contriving to bring this about.