 introduction to Genji Monogatari. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Moira Fogarty. Genji Monogatari by Murasaki Shikibu. Translated by Suya Matsu Kencho. Introduction. Genji Monogatari, the original of this translation, is one of the standard works of Japanese literature. It has been regarded for centuries as a national treasure. The title of the work is by no means unknown to those Europeans who take an interest in Japanese matters, for it is mentioned or alluded to in almost every European work relating to our country. It was written by a lady who, from her writings, is considered one of the most talented women that Japan has ever produced. She was the daughter of Fujiwara Tamatoki, a petty court noble remotely connected with the great family of Fujiwara in the 10th century after Christ, and was generally called Murasaki Shikibu. About these names a few remarks are necessary. The word shikibu means ceremonies and is more properly a name adopted with the addition of certain suffixes to designate special court offices. Thus the term shikibu kyou is synonymous with master of the ceremonies and shikibu no jyou with secretary to the master of the ceremonies. Hence it might at first sight appear rather peculiar if such an appellation should happen to be used as the name of a woman. It was, however, a custom of the period for noble ladies and their attendants to be often called after such offices, generally with the suffix no kata, indicating the female sex, and somewhat corresponding to the word madam. This probably originated in the same way as the practice in America of calling ladies by their husband's official titles, such as Mrs. Captain, Mrs. Judge, etc., only that in the case of the Japanese custom the official title came in time to be used without any immediate association with the offices themselves, and often even as a maiden name. From this custom our authoress came to be called shikibu, a name which did not originally apply to a person. To this another name, morasaki, was added in order to distinguish her from other ladies who may also have been called shikibu. Morasaki means violet, whether the flower or the color. Concerning the origin of this appellation there exist two different opinions. Those holding one derive it from her family name Fujiwara, for Fujiwara literally means the field of wisteria, and the color of the wisteria blossom is violet. Those holding the other trace it to the fact that out of several persons introduced into the story, violet, morasaki in the text, is a most modest and gentle woman. Wensidys thought that the admirers of the work transferred the name to the authoress herself. In her youth she was made of honor to a daughter of the then Prime Minister, who became eventually the wife of the Emperor Ichijyo, better known by her surname Jyotomonin, and who is especially famous as having been the patroness of our authoress. Morasaki Shikibu married a noble named Nobtaka to whom she bore a daughter, who herself wrote a work of fiction called Sagaromo, narrow sleeves. She survived her husband Nobtaka some years and spent her latter days in quiet retirement dying in the year 992 after Christ. The diary which she wrote during her retirement is still in existence, and her tomb may yet be seen in a Buddhist temple in Kyoto, the old capital where the principal scenes of her story are laid. The exact date when her story was written is not given in the work, but her diary proves that it was evidently composed before she arrived at old age. The traditional account given of the circumstances which preceded the writing of the story is this. When the above-mentioned Empress was asked by the Saigu, the sacred version of the temple of Issei, if Her Majesty could not procure an interesting romance for her, because the older fictions had become too familiar, she requested Shikibu to write a new one, and the result of this request was this story. The tradition goes on to say that when this request was made, Shikibu retired to the Buddhist temple in Ishiyama, situated on hilly ground at the head of the picturesque river Wuji, looking down on Lake Biwa. There Shikibu took herself to undergo the tuya, confinement in a temple throughout the night, a solemn religious observance for the purpose of obtaining divine help and good success in her undertaking. It was the evening of the 15th of August, before her eyes the view extended for miles. In the silver lake below, the pale face of the full moon was reflected in the calm, mirror-like waters, displaying itself in indescribable beauty. Her mind became more and more serene as she gazed on the prospect before her, while her imagination became more and more lively as she grew calmer and calmer. The ideas and incidents of the story, which she was about to write, stole into her mind as if by divine influence. The first topic which struck her most strongly was that given in the chapters on exile. These she wrote down immediately, in order not to allow the inspiration of the moment to be lost. On the back of a roll of Dihanya, the Chinese translation of Mahaprajna Paramitta, one of the Buddhist sutras, and formed subsequently two chapters in the text, the summa and akashi, all the remaining parts of the work having been added one by one. It is said that this idea of exile came naturally to her mind, because a prince who had been known to her from her childhood had been in exile at Kyusyu a little before this period. It is also said that the authoress afterwards copied the roll of Dihanya with her own hand, in expiation of her having profanely used it as a note-book, and that she dedicated it to the temple, in which there is still a room where she is alleged to have written down the story. A roll of Dihanya is there also, which is asserted to be the very same one copied by her. How far these traditions are in accordance with fact may be a matter of question, but thus they have come down to us and are popularly believed. Many Europeans, I daresay, have noticed on our lacker work and other art objects the representation of a lady seated at a writing-desk with a pen held in her tiny fingers, gazing at the moon reflected in a lake. This lady is no other than our authoress. The number of chapters in the modern text of the story is fifty-four, one of these having the title only and nothing else. There is some reason to believe that there might have existed a few additional chapters. Of these fifty-four chapters the first forty-one relate to the life and adventures of Prince Genji, and those which come after refer principally to one of his sons. The last ten are supposed to have been added by another hand, generally presumed to have been that of her daughter. This is conjectured because the style of these final chapters is somewhat dissimilar to that of those which precede. The period of time covered by the entire story is some sixty years, and this volume of translation comprises the first seventeen chapters. The aims which the authoress seems always to have kept in view are revealed to us at some length by the mouth of her hero. Ordinary histories, he is made to say, are the mere records of events and are generally treated in a one-sided manner. They give no insight into the true state of society. This, however, is the very sphere on which romances principally dwell. Romances, he continues, are indeed fictions, but they are by no means always pure inventions, their only peculiarities being these, that in them the writers often trace out, among numerous real characters, the best when they wish to represent the good, and the oddest when they wish to amuse. From these remarks we can plainly see that our authoress fully understood the true vocation of a romance writer, and has successfully realized the conception in her writings. The period to which her story relates is supposed to be the earlier part of the tenth century after Christ, a time contemporary with her own life. Our country had made a signal progress in civilization by its own internal development, and by the external influence of the Enlightenment of China with whom we had had, for some time, considerable intercourse. No country could have been happier than was ours at this epoch. It enjoyed perfect tranquility, being alike free from all fears of foreign invasion and domestic commotions. Such a state of things, however, could not continue long without producing some evils, and we can hardly be surprised to find that the imperial capital became a sort of center of comparative luxury and idleness. Society lost sight, to a great extent, of true morality, and the effeminacy of the people constituted the chief feature of the age. Men were ever ready to carry on sentimental adventures whenever they found opportunities, and the ladies of the time were not disposed to disencourage them altogether. The court was the focus of society, and the utmost ambition of ladies of some birth was to be introduced there. As to the state of politics, the emperor it is true reigned, but all the real power was monopolized by members of the Fujihara families. These, again, vied among themselves for the possession of this power, and their daughters were generally used as political instruments, since almost all the royal consorts were taken from some of these families. The abdication of an emperor was a common event, and arose chiefly from the intrigues of these same families, although partly from the prevailing influence of Buddhism over the public mind. Such then was the condition of society at the time when the authoress Murasaki Shikibu lived, and such was the sphere of her labours, a description of which she was destined to hand down to posterity by her writings. In fact, there is no better history than her story, which so vividly illustrates the society of her time. True it is that she openly declares in one passage of her story that politics are not matters which women are supposed to understand. Yet when we carefully study her writings, we can scarcely fail to recognize her work as a partly political one. This fact becomes more vividly interesting when we consider that the unsatisfactory conditions of both the state and society soon brought about a grievous weakening of the imperial authority, and opened wide the gate for the ascendancy of the military class. This was followed by the systematic formation of feudalism, which for some seven centuries totally changed the face of Japan. For from the first ascendancy of this military system down to our own days everything in society, ambitions, honors, the very temperament and daily pursuits of men, and political institutes themselves, became thoroughly unlike those of which our authoress was an eyewitness. I may almost say that for several centuries Japan never recovered the ancient civilization which she had once attained and lost. Another merit of the work consists in its having been written in pure classical Japanese, and here it may be mentioned that we had once made a remarkable progress in our own language quite independently of any foreign influence, and that when the native literature was at first founded its language was identical with that spoken. Though the predominance of Chinese studies had arrested the progress of the native literature, it was still extant at the time, and even for some time after the date of our authoress. But with the ascendancy of the military class the neglect of all literature became for centuries universal. The little that has been preserved is an almost unreadable chaos of mixed Chinese and Japanese. Thus a gulf gradually opened between the spoken and the written language. It has been only during the last two hundred and fifty years that our country has once more enjoyed a long continuance of peace, and has once more renewed its interest in literature. Still Chinese has occupied the front rank and almost monopolized attention. It is true that within the last sixty or seventy years numerous works of fiction of different schools have been produced, mostly in the native language, and that these, when judged as stories, generally excel in their plots, those of the classical period. The status, however, of these writers has never been recognized by the public, nor have they enjoyed the same degree of honour as scholars of a different description. Their style of composition, moreover, has never reached the same degree of refinement which distinguished the ancient works. This last is a strong reason for our appreciation of true classical works such as that of our authoress. Again, the concise description of scenery, the elegance of which it is almost impossible to render with due force in another language, and the true and delicate touches of human nature which everywhere abound in the work, especially in the long dialogue in Chapter 2, are almost marvellous when we consider the sex of the writer and the earlier period when she wrote. Yet this work affords fairground for criticism. The thread of her story is often diffuse and somewhat disjointed, a fault probably due to the fact that she had more flights of imagination than power of equal and systematic condensation. She having been often carried away by that imagination from points where she ought to have rested. But on the other hand in most parts the dialogue is scanty which might have been prolonged to considerable advantage if it had been framed on models of modern composition. The work also is too voluminous. In translating I have cut out several passages which appeared superfluous though nothing has been added to the original. The authoress has been by no means exact in following the order of dates, though this appears to have proceeded from her endeavour to complete each distinctive group of ideas in each particular chapter. In fact, she had even left the chapters unnumbered, simply contenting herself with a brief heading after which each is now called, such as Chapter Kiritsubo, etc., so that the numbering has been undertaken by the translator for the convenience of the reader. It has no extraordinarily intricate plot, like those which excite the readers of the sensational romances of the modern Western style. It has many heroines, but only one hero, and this comes no doubt from the peculiar purpose of the writer to portray different varieties and shades of female characters at once, as is shadowed in Chapter Two, and also to display the intense fickleness and selfishness of man. I notice these points beforehand in order to prepare the reader for the more salient faults of the work. On the whole my principal object is not so much to amuse my readers as to present them with a study of human nature, and to give them information on the history of the social and political condition of my native country nearly a thousand years ago. They will be able to compare it with the condition of medieval and modern Europe. Another peculiarity of the work, to which I would draw attention, is that, with a few exceptions, it does not give proper names to the personages introduced. For the male characters official titles are generally employed, and to the principal female ones some appellation taken from an incident belonging to the history of each. For instance, a girl is named Violet because the hero once compared her to that flower, while another is called Yu Gao because she was found at a humble dwelling where the flowers of the Yu Gao covered the hedges with the mantle of blossom. I have now only to add that the translation is perhaps not always idiomatic, though in this matter I have availed myself of some valuable assistance, for which I feel most thankful. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Moira Fogarty. Genji Monagattari by Mursaki Shikibu. Translated by Suimatsu Kencho. Chapter 1. The Chamber of Kiri. In the reign of a certain Emperor, whose name is unknown to us, there was, among the Nyogo and Koyi of the Imperial Court, one who, though she was not of high birth, enjoyed the full tide of royal favour. Hence her superiors, each one of whom had always been thinking, I shall be the one, gazed upon her disdainfully with malignant eyes, and her equals and inferiors were more indignant still. Such being the state of affairs, the anxiety which she had to endure was great and constant, and this was probably the reason why her health was at last so much affected, that she was often compelled to absent herself from court, and to retire to the residence of her mother. Her father, who was a Dainagon, was dead, but her mother, being a woman of good sense, gave her every possible guidance in the due performance of court ceremony, so that in this respect she seemed but little different from those whose fathers and mothers were still alive to bring them before public notice. Yet nevertheless her friendliness made her often times feel very diffident from the want of any patron of influence. These circumstances, however, only tended to make the favour shown to her by the Emperor, wax warmer and warmer, and it was even shown to such an extent as to become a warning to after generations. There had been instances in China in which favouritism such as this had caused national disturbance and disaster, and thus the matter became a subject of public animinversion, and it seemed not improbable that people would begin to allude even to the example of Yokehi. In due course, and in consequence, we may suppose, of the divine blessing on the sincerity of their affection, a jewel of a little prince was born to her. The first prince who had been born to the Emperor was the child of Kokidanyogo, the daughter of the Udayjin, a great officer of state. Not only was he first in point of age, but his influence on his mother's side was so great that public opinion had almost unanimously fixed upon him as heir apparent. Of this the Emperor was fully conscious, and he only regarded the newborn child with that affection which one lavishes on a domestic favourite. Nevertheless, the mother of the first prince had, not unnaturally, a foreboding that unless matters were managed adroitly her child might be superseded by the younger one. She, we may observe, had been established at court before any other lady, and had more children than one. The Emperor therefore was obliged to treat her with due respect, and reproaches from her always affected him more keenly than those of any others. To return to her rival. Her constitution was extremely delicate, as we have seen already, and she was surrounded by those who would feign lay bare, so to say, her hidden scars. Her apartments in the palace were Kiritsubo, the chamber of Kiri, so-called from the trees that were planted around. In visiting her there, the Emperor had to pass before several other chambers, whose occupants universally chafed when they saw it. And again, when it was her turn to attend upon the Emperor, it often happened that they played off mischievous pranks upon her at different points in the corridor, which leads to the imperial quarters. Sometimes they would soil the skirts of her attendants, sometimes they would shut against her the door of the covered portico, where no other passage existed, and thus in every possible way they one and all combined to annoy her. The Emperor at length became aware of this, and gave her for her special chamber another apartment, which was in the Koroden, and which was quite close to those in which he himself resided. It had been originally occupied by another lady, who was now removed, and thus fresh resentment was aroused. When the young Prince was three years old, the Hakamagi took place. It was celebrated with a pomp scarcely inferior to that which adorned the investiture of the first Prince. In fact, all available treasures were exhausted on the occasion, and again the public manifested its disapprobation. In the summer of the same year the Kiritsubo Koii became ill and wished to retire from the palace. The Emperor, however, who was accustomed to see her and disposed, strove to induce her to remain. But her illness increased day by day, and she had drooped and pined away until she was now but a shadow of her former self. She made scarcely any response to the affectionate words and expressions of tenderness which her royal lover caressingly bestowed upon her. Her eyes were half closed, she lay like a fading flower in the last stage of exhaustion, and she became so much enfeebled that her mother appeared before the Emperor, and entreated with tears that she might be allowed to leave. Distracted by his vain endeavours to devise means to aid her, the Emperor at length ordered a tegruma to be in readiness to convey her to her own home. But even then he went to her apartment and cried despairingly. Did not we vow that we would neither of us be either before or after the other even in travelling the last long journey of life? And can you find it in your heart to leave me now? Sadly and tenderly looking up she thus replied, with almost failing breath, Since my departure for this dark journey makes you so sad and lonely, Thane would I stay though weak and weary, and live for your sake only. Had I but known this before? She appeared to have much more to say, but was too weak to continue. Overpowered with grief the Emperor at one moment would feign accompany her himself, and at another moment would have her remain to the end where she then was. At the last her departure was hurried, because the exorcism for the sick had been appointed to take place on that evening at her home, and she went. The child Prince, however, had been left in the palace as his mother wished, even at that time, to make her withdrawal as privately as possible so as to avoid any invidious observations on the part of her rivals. To the Emperor the night now became black with gloom. He sent messenger after messenger to make inquiries and could not await their return with patience. Midnight came, and with it the sound of lamentation. The messenger, who could do nothing else, hurried back with the sad tidings of the truth. From that moment the mind of the Emperor was darkened, and he confined himself to his private apartments. He would still have kept with himself the young Prince now motherless, but there was no precedent for this, and it was arranged that he should be sent to his grandmother for the morning. The child, who understood nothing, looked with amazement at the sad countenances of the Emperor and of those around him. All separations had their sting, but sharp indeed was the sting in a case like this. Now the funeral took place. The weeping and wailing mother, who might have longed to mingle in the same flames, entered a carriage accompanied by female mourners. The procession arrived at the cemetery of Otagi, and the solemn rites commenced. What were then the thoughts of the desolate mother? The image of her dead daughter was still vividly present to her, still seemed animated with life. She must see her remains become ashes to convince herself that she was really dead. During the ceremony an Imperial Messenger came from the palace and invested the dead with the title of Sammi. The letters patent were read and listened to in solemn silence. The Emperor conferred this title now in regret that during her lifetime he had not even promoted her position from a koyi to a nyogo and wishing at this last moment to raise her title at least one step higher. Once more several tokens of disapprobation were manifested against the proceeding, but in other respects the beauty of the departed and her gracious bearing which had ever commanded admiration made people begin to think of her with sympathy. It was the excess of the Emperor's favour which had created so many detractors during her lifetime, but now even rivals felt pity for her, and if any did not it was in the koki den. When one is no more the memory becomes so dear, may be an illustration of a case such as this. Some days passed and due requiem services were carefully performed. The Emperor was still plunged in thought and no society had attractions for him. His constant consolation was to send messengers to the grandmother of the child and to make inquiries after them. It was now autumn and the evening winds blew chill and cold. The Emperor, who when he saw the first Prince could not refrain from thinking of the younger one, became more thoughtful than ever, and on this evening he sent Yu-Gi-No-Mi-O-Bu to repeat his inquiries. She went as the new moon just rose and the Emperor stood and contemplated from his veranda the prospect spread before him. At such moments he had usually been surrounded by a few chosen friends, one of whom was almost invariably his lost love. Now she was no more. The thrilling notes of her music, the touching strains of her melodies, stole over him in his dark and dreary reverie. The Miobu arrived at her destination, and as she drove in a sense of sadness seized upon her. The owner of the house had long been a widow, but the residence in former times had been made beautiful for the pleasure of her only daughter. Now bereaved of this daughter she dwelt alone, and the grounds were overgrown with weeds which here and there lay prostrated by the violence of the winds, while over them, fair as elsewhere, gleamed the mild luster of the impartial moon. The Miobu entered and was led into a front room in the southern part of the building. At first the hostess and the messenger were equally at loss for words. At length the silence was broken by the hostess who said, Already have I felt that I have lived too long, but doubly do I feel it now that I am visited by such a messenger as you. Here she paused, and seemed unable to contend with her emotion. When Nishinosuke returned from you, said the Miobu, she reported to the Emperor that when she saw you, face to face, her sympathy for you was irresistible. I too see now how true it is. A moment's hesitation, and she proceeded to deliver the imperial message. The Emperor commanded me to say that for some time he had wandered in his fancy and imagined he was but in a dream, and that, though he was now more tranquil, he could not find that it was only a dream. Again, that there is no one who can really sympathize with him, and he hopes that you will come to the palace and talk with him. His Majesty said also that the absence of the Prince made him anxious, and that he is desirous that you should speedily make up your mind. In giving me this message he did not speak with readiness. He seemed to fear to be considered unmanly, and strove to exercise reserve. I could not help experiencing sympathy with him, and hurried away here, almost fearing that perhaps I had not quite caught his full meaning. So saying, she presented to her a letter from the Emperor. The Lady's sight was dim and indistinct. Taking it therefore to the lamp, she said, Perhaps the light will help me to decipher, and then read as follows, much in unison with the oral message. I thought that time only would assuage my grief, but time only brings before me more vividly my recollection of the lost one. Yet it is inevitable. How is my boy? Of him too I am always thinking. Time once was, when we both hoped to bring him up together. May he still be to you a memento of his mother. Such was the brief outline of the letter, and it contained the following. The sound of the wind is dull and drear across Miyagi's Dewey Lee, and makes me mourn for the motherless deer that sleeps beneath the hagi tree. She put gently the letter aside, and said, Life in the world are irksome to me, and you can see then how reluctantly I should present myself at the palace. I cannot go myself, though it is painful to me to seem to neglect the honoured command. As for the little Prince, I know not why he thought of it, but he seems quite willing to go. This is very natural. Pleased to inform His Majesty that this is our position. Very possibly, when one remembers the birth of the young Prince, it would not be well for him to spend too much of his time as he does now. Then she wrote quickly a short answer, and handed it to the myobu. At this time her grandson was sleeping soundly. I should like to see the boy awake, and to tell the Emperor all about him. But he will already be impatiently awaiting my return, said the messenger. And she prepared to depart. It would be a relief to me to tell you how a mother laments over her departed child. Visit me then, sometimes, if you can, as a friend, when you are not engaged or pressed for time. Formerly, when you came here, your visit was ever glad and welcome. Now I see in you the messenger of woe. More and more my life seems aimless to me. From the time of my child's birth her father always looked forward to her being presented at court, and when dying he repeatedly enjoined me to carry out that wish. You know that my daughter had no patron to watch over her, and I well knew how difficult would be her position among her fellow maidens. Yet I did not disobey her father's request, and she went to court. There the Emperor showed her a kindness beyond our hopes. For the sake of that kindness she uncomplainingly endured all the cruel taunts of envious companions. But their envy ever deepening, and her troubles ever increasing, at last she passed away, worn out as it were with care. When I think of the matter in that light, the kindest favors seem to me fraught with misfortune. Ah, that the blind affection of a mother should make me talk in this way. The thoughts of his Majesty, maybe even as your own, said the Myobu. Often when he alluded to his overpowering affection for her he said that perhaps all this might have been because their love was destined not to last long, and that though he ever strove not to injure any subject, yet for Kiritsubo and for her alone he had sometimes caused the ill will of others, that when all this has been done she was no more. All this he told me in deep gloom and added that it made him ponder on their previous existence. The night was now far advanced and again the Myobu rose to take leave. The moon was sailing down westward and the cool breeze was waving the herbage to and fro in which numerous mushi were plaintively singing. The messenger, being still somehow unready to start, hummed. Fane would one weep the whole night long as weeps the Sudo-mushi's song, who chants her melancholy lay till night and darkness pass away. As she still lingered the lady took up the refrain. To the heath where the Sudo-mushi sings, from beyond the clouds when comes from on high, and more do's on the grass around she flings, and adds her own to the night wind's sigh. A court dress and a set of beautiful ornamental hairpins which had belonged to Kiritsubo were presented to Myobu by her hostess, who thought that these things, which her daughter had left to be available on such occasions, would be a more suitable gift under present circumstances than any other. On the return of the Myobu she found that the Emperor had not yet retired to rest. He was really awaiting her return, but was apparently engaged in admiring the Tsubo Senzai or Stands of Flowers which were placed in front of the palaces and in which the flowers were in full bloom. With him were four or five ladies, his intimate friends, with whom he was conversing. In these days his favourite topic of conversation was the long regret. Nothing pleased him more than to gaze upon the picture of that poem which had been painted by Prince Taishi-in, or to talk about the native poems on the same subject, which had been composed at the royal command by Issei, the poetess, and by Tsurayuki, the poet. And it was in this way that he was engaged on this particular evening. To him the Myobu now went immediately, and she faithfully reported to him all that she had seen, and she gave to him also the answer to his letter. That letter stated that the mother of Kiritsubo felt honoured by his gracious inquiries, and that she was so truly grateful that she scarcely knew how to express herself. She proceeded to say that his condescension made her feel at liberty to offer him the following. Since now no fostering love is found, and the hagi tree is dead and sear, the motherless deer lies on the ground, helpless and weak, no shelter near. The emperor strove in vain to repress his own emotion, and old memories, dating from the time when he first saw his favourite, rose up before him fast and thick. How precious has been each moment to me, but yet what a long time has elapsed since then thought he. And he said to the Myobu, how often have I too desired to see the daughter of the Dynagon in such a position as her father would have desired to see her? Tis in vain to speak of that now. A pause, and he continued, the child, however, may survive, and fortune may have some boon in store for him, and his grandmother's prayer should rather be for long life. The presents were then shown to him. Ah, thought he, could they be the souvenirs sent by the once lost love, as he murmured. Oh, could I find some wizard sprite, to bear my words to her I love, beyond the shades of envious night, to where she dwells in realms above. Now the picture of beautiful yoki-hi, however skillful the painter may have been, is after all only a picture. It lacks life and animation. Her features may have been worthily compared to the Lotus, and to the willow of the Imperial Gardens, but the style after all was Chinese, and to the Emperor his lost love was all in all, nor in his eyes was any other object comparable to her. Who doubts that they, too, had vowed to unite wings and intertwine branches? But to what end? The murmur of winds, the music of insects, now only served to cause him melancholy. In the meantime, in the Kokiden was heard the sound of music. She who dwelt there, and who had not now for a long time been with the Emperor, was heedlessly protracting her strains until this late hour of the evening. How painfully must these have sounded to the Emperor? Moonlight is gone, and darkness reigns. In and in the realms above the clouds. Ah! how can light or tranquil peace shine o'er that lone and lowly home? Thus thought the Emperor, and he did not retire until the lamps were trimmed to the end. The sound of the night watch of the right guard was now heard. It was five o'clock in the morning. So to avoid notice he withdrew to his bedroom, but calm slumber hardly visited his eyes. This now became a common occurrence. When he rose in the morning he would reflect on the time gone by when they knew not even that the casement was bright, but now, too, he would neglect morning court. His appetite failed him. The delicacies of the so-called Great Table had no temptation for him. Men pitied him much. There must have been some divine mystery that predetermined the course of their love, said they. For in matters in which she is concerned he is powerless to reason, and wisdom deserts him. The welfare of the State ceases to interest him. And now people actually began to quote instances that had occurred in a foreign court. Weeks and months had elapsed, and the son of Kiritsubo was again at the palace. In the spring of the following year the first prince was proclaimed heir apparent to the throne. Had the Emperor consulted his private feelings he would have substituted the younger prince for the elder one. But this was not possible, and especially for this reason. There was no influential party to support him, and more over public opinion would also have been strongly opposed to such a measure which, if affected by arbitrary power, would have become a source of danger. The Emperor, therefore, betrayed no such desire and repressed all outward appearance of it. And now the public expressed its satisfaction at the self-restraint of the Emperor and the mother of the first prince felt at ease. In this year the mother of Kiritsubo departed this life. She may not improbably have longed to follow her daughter at an earlier period, and the only regret to which she gave utterance was that she was forced to leave her grandson whom she had so tenderly loved. From this time the young prince took up his residence in the Imperial Palace, and next year, at the age of seven, he began to learn to read and write under the personal superintendents of the Emperor. He now began to take him into the private apartments, among others, of the Kokiden, saying, The mother is gone, now at least let the child be received with better feeling. And if even stony-hearted warriors or bitter enemies, if any such there were, smiled when they saw the boy. The mother of the heir apparent, too, could not entirely exclude him from her sympathies. This lady had two daughters, and they found in their half-brother a pleasant playmate. Everyone was pleased to greet him, and there was already a winning coquetry in his manners, which amused people and made them like to play with him. We need not allude to his studies in detail, but on musical instruments, such as the flute and the koto, he also showed great proficiency. About this time there arrived an embassy from Korea, and among them was an excellent physiognomist. When the Emperor heard of this, he wished to have the Prince examined by him. It was, however, contrary to the warnings of the Emperor Wuda, to call in foreigners to the palace. The Prince was, therefore, disguised as the son of one Udaiben, his instructor, with whom he was sent to the Korokwan, where foreign embassies are entertained. When the physiognomist saw him, he was amazed, and turning his own head from side to side, seemed at first to be unable to comprehend the lines of his features, and then said, his physiognomy argues that he might ascend to the highest position in the state, but in that case his reign will be disturbed, and many misfortunes will ensue. If, however, his position should only be that of a great personage in the country, his fortune may be different. This Udaiben was a clever scholar. He had with the Korean pleasant conversations, and they also interchanged with one another some Chinese poems, in which one of the Korean said what great pleasure it had given him to have seen before his departure, which was now imminent, a youth of such remarkable promise. The Koreans made some valuable presents to the Prince, who had also composed a few lines, and to them, too, many costly gifts were offered from the imperial treasures. In spite of all the precautions which were taken to keep all this rigidly secret, it did, somehow or other, become unknown to others, and among those to the Uday Jin, who not unnaturally viewed it with suspicion and began to entertain doubts of the emperor's intentions. The latter, however, acted with great prudence. It must be remembered that, as yet, he had not even created the boy a royal prince. He now sent for a native physiognomist, who approved of his delay in doing so, and whose observations to this effect the emperor did not receive unfavorably. He wisely thought to be a royal prince without having any influential support on the mother's side would be of no real advantage to his son. Moreover, his own tenure of power seemed precarious, and he, therefore, thought it better for his own dynasty as well as for the prince, to keep him in a private station, and to constitute him an outside supporter of the royal cause. And now he took more and more pains with his education in different branches of learning, and the more the boy studied, the more talent did he evince. Talent almost too great for one destined to remain in a private station. Nevertheless, as we have said, suspicions would have been aroused had royal rank been conferred upon him, and the astrologists, whom also the emperor consulted, having expressed their disapproval of such a measure, the emperor finally made up his mind to create a new family. To this family he assigned the name of Gen, and he made the young prince the founder of it. Some time had now elapsed since the death of the emperor's favorite, but he was still often haunted by her image. Ladies were introduced into his presence in order if possible to divert his attention, but without success. There was, however, living at this time a young princess, the fourth child of a late emperor. She had great promise of beauty, and was guarded with jealous care by her mother, the Empress Dowager. The Naishinosuke, who had been at the court from the time of the said emperor, was intimately acquainted with the Empress, and familiar with the princess, her daughter, from her very childhood. This person now recommended the emperor to see the princess, because her features closely resembled those of Kiritsubo. I have now fulfilled, she said, the duties of my office under three reigns, and as yet I have seen but one person who resembles the departed. The daughter of the Empress Dowager does resemble her, and she is singularly beautiful. There may be some truth in this, thought the emperor, and he began to regard her with awakening interest. This was related to the Empress Dowager. She, however, gave no encouragement whatever to the idea. How terrible, she said! Do we not remember the cruel harshness of the mother of the heir apparent, which hastened the fate of Kiritsubo? While thus discountenancing any intimacy between her daughter and the emperor, she too died, and the princess was left parentless. The emperor acted with great kindness, and intimated his wish to regard her as his own daughter. In consequence of this her guardian and her brother, Prince Hyobkyo, considering that life at court would be better for her and more attractive for her than the quiet of her own home, obtained for her an introduction there. She was styled the Princess Fujitsubo of the Chamber of Wisteria, from the name of the Chamber which was assigned to her. There was indeed, both in features and manners, a strange resemblance between her and Kiritsubo. The rivals of the latter constantly caused pain, both to herself and to the emperor, but the illustrious birth of the princess prevented anyone from ever daring to humiliate her, and she uniformly maintained the dignity of her position. And to her, alas, the emperor's thoughts were now gradually drawn, though he could not yet be said to have forgotten Kiritsubo. The young prince, whom we now style, Genji, the Gen, was still with the emperor, and passed his time pleasantly enough in visiting the various apartments where the inmates of the palace resided. He found the companionship of all of them sufficiently agreeable, but beside the many who were now of mature years, there was one who was still in the bloom of her youthful beauty, and who more particularly caught his fancy, the princess Wisteria. He had no recollection of his mother, but he had been told by Nishinosuke that this lady was exceedingly like her, and for this reason he often yearned to see her and to be with her. The emperor showed equal affection to both of them, and he sometimes told her that he hoped she would not treat the boy with coldness or think him forward. He said that his affection for the one made him feel the same for the other two, and that the mutual resemblance of her own and of his mother's face easily accounted for Genji's partiality to her. And thus, as a result of this generous feeling on the part of the emperor, a warmer tinge was gradually imparted both to the boyish humour and to the awakening sentiment of the young prince. The mother of the heir apparent was not unnaturally averse to the princess, and this revived her old antipathy to Genji also. The beauty of her son, the heir apparent, though remarkable, could not be compared to his, and so bright and radiant was his face, that Genji was called by the public Hikal Genji Nokemi, the shining prince-gen. When he attained the age of twelve, the ceremony of Gembuk, or crowning, took place. This was also performed with all possible magnificence. Various fets which were to take place in public were arranged by special order by responsible officers of the household. The royal chair was placed in the eastern wing of the Sario-Den, where the emperor dwells, and in front of it were the seats of the hero of the ceremony, and of the Sadi-jin, who was to crown him, and to regulate the ceremonial. About ten o'clock in the forenoon Genji appeared on the scene. The boyish style of his hair and dress excellently became his features, and it almost seemed matter for regret that it should be altered. The Okura-kyo Kurahito, whose office it was to rearrange the hair of Genji, faltered as he did so. As to the emperor, a sudden thought stole into his mind. Ah! Could his mother but have lived to have seen him now? This thought, however, he at once suppressed. After he had been crowned the prince withdrew to a dressing-room, where he had tired himself in the full robes of manhood. Then, descending to the courtyard, he performed a measured dance in grateful acknowledgement. This he did with so much grace and skill that all present were filled with admiration, and his beauty, which some feared might be lessened, seemed only more remarkable from the change. And the emperor, who had before tried to resist them, now found old memories irresistible. Sadaijin had by his wife, who was a royal princess, and only daughter. The heir apparent had taken some notice of her, but her father did not encourage him. He had, on the other hand, some idea of Genji, and had sounded the emperor on the subject. He regarded the idea with favour, and especially on the ground that such a union would be of advantage to Genji, who had not yet any influential supporters. Now all the court and the distinguished visitors were assembled in the palace, where a great festival was held. Genji occupied a seat next to that of the royal princess. During the entertainment Sadaijin whispered something several times into his ear, but he was too young and diffident to make any answer. Sadaijin was now summoned before the deus of the emperor, and, according to custom, an imperial gift, a white o' uchiki, grand robe, and a suit of silk vestments were presented to him by a lady. Then, preferring his own wine-cup, the emperor addressed him thus, In the first hair-knot of youth, let love that lasts for age be bound. This evidently implied an idea of matrimony. Sadaijin feigned surprise and responded, I, if the purple of the cord, I bound so anxiously endure. He then descended into the courtyard, and gave expression to his thanks in the same manner in which Genji had previously done. A horse from the imperial stables and a falcon from the Kurandokoro were on view in the yard, and were now presented to him. The princes and nobles were all gathered together in front of the grand staircase, and appropriate gifts were also presented to each one of them. Among the crowd, baskets and trays of fruits and delicacies were distributed by the emperor's order, under the direction of Udaiben, and more rice-cakes and other things were given away now than at the gambuk of the heir apparent. In the evening the young prince went to the mansion of the Sadaijin, where the espousal with the young daughter of the latter was celebrated with much splendor. The youthfulness of the beautiful boy was well pleasing to Sadaijin, but the bride, who was some years older than he was, and who considered the disparity in their age to be unsuitable, blushed when she thought of it. Not only was this Sadaijin himself a distinguished personage in the state, but his wife was also the sister of the emperor by the same mother, the late empress, and her rank therefore was unequivocal. When to this we add the union of their daughter with Genji it was easy to understand that the influence of Udaijin, the grandfather of the heir apparent, and who therefore seemed likely to attain great power, was not after all a very much moment. Sadaijin had several children. One of them, who was the issue of his royal wife, was the Kurand Shoshio. Udaijin was not, for political reasons, on good terms with his family, but nevertheless he did not wish to estrange the youthful Kurand. On the contrary, he endeavored to establish friendly relations with him, as was indeed desirable, and he went so far as to introduce him to his fourth daughter, the younger sister of the Kokiden. Genji still resided in the palace, where his society was a source of much pleasure to the emperor, and he did not take up his abode in a private house. Indeed, his bride, Lady Aoi, Lady Hollyhawk, though her position ensured her every attention from others, had few charms for him, and the Princess Wisteria much more frequently occupied his thoughts. How pleasant her society, and how few like her, he was always thinking, and a hidden bitterness blended with his constant reveries. The years rolled on, and Genji now being older was no longer allowed to continue his visits to the private rooms of the Princess as before. But the pleasure of overhearing her sweet voice, as its strains flowed occasionally through the curtain casement, and blended with the music of the flute and koto, made him still glad to reside in the palace. Under these circumstances he seldom visited the home of his bride, sometimes only for a day or two after an absence of five or six at court. His father-in-law, however, did not attach much importance to this, on account of his youth, and whenever they did receive a visit from him, pleasant companions were invited to meet him, and various games likely to suit his taste were provided for his entertainment. In the palace Shigesa, his late mother's quarters, was allotted to him, and those who had waited on her waited on him. The private house where his grandmother had resided was beautifully repaired for him by the Shuritakmi, the Imperial Repairing Committee, in obedience to the wishes of the emperor. In addition to the original loveliness of the landscape and the noble forest ranges, the basin of the lake was now enlarged, and similar improvements were affected throughout with the greatest pains. Oh, how delightful would it not be to be in a place like that which such and one as one might choose, thought Genji within himself. We may hear also note that the name Hikal Genji is said to have been originated by the Korean who examined his physiognomy. Footnotes Footnote 2. The beautiful tree, called Kiddi, has been named Polonia Imperialis by botanists. Footnote 3. Official titles held by court ladies. Footnote 4. The name of a court office. Footnote 5. A celebrated and beautiful favorite of an emperor of the Thang dynasty in China, whose administration was disturbed by a rebellion, said to have been caused by the neglect of his duties for her sake. Footnote 6. A Nyogo who resided in a part of the imperial palace called Kokiden. Footnote 7. The Hakamagi is the investiture of boys with trousers when they pass from childhood to boyhood. In ordinary cases this is done when about five years old, but in the royal family it usually takes place earlier. Footnote 8. A carriage drawn by hands. Its use in the courtyard of the palace was only allowed to persons of distinction. Footnote 9. Cremation was very common in these days. Footnote 10. A court lady whose name was Yugae holding an office called Myobu. Footnote 11. Miyagi is the name of a field which is famous for the hagi or lespedeza, a small and pretty shrub which blooms in the autumn. In poetry it is associated with deer and a male and female deer are often compared to a lover and his love, and they're young to their children. Footnote 12. In Japan there is a great number of mushi or insects which sing in herbage grass, especially in the evenings of autumn. They are constantly alluded to in poetry. Footnote 13. In Japanese poetry persons connected with the court are spoken of as the people above the clouds. Footnote 14. A famous Chinese poem by Hak Rak Ten. The heroine of the poem was Yoki He, to whom we have made reference before. The story is that after death she became a fairy and the emperor sent a magician to find her. The works of the poet Pei Luo Tian, as it is pronounced by modern Chinese, were the only poems in vogue at that time, hence perhaps the reason of its being frequently quoted. Footnote 15. There were two divisions of the imperial guard, right and left. Footnote 16. The general name for a species of musical instrument resembling the zither but longer. Footnote 17. In these days imperial princes were often created founders of new families and with some given name, the gen being one most frequently used. These princes had no longer a claim to the throne. Footnote 18. The ceremony of placing a crown or coronet upon the head of a boy. This was an ancient custom observed by the upper and middle classes, both in Japan and China, to mark the transition from boyhood to youth. Footnote 19. Before the crown was placed upon the head at the Genbuk, the hair was gathered up in a conical form from all sides of the head and then fastened securely in that form with a knot of silken cords of which the color was always purple. Footnote 20. The color of purple typifies and is emblematical of love. Footnote 21. A body of men who resembled gentlemen at arms and a part of whose duty it was to attend to the Falkens. Chapter 2 of Genji Monogatari. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Chapter 2. The Broom-like Tree. Hikal Genji, the name is singularly well known and is the subject of innumerable remarks and censures. Indeed, he had many intrigues in his lifetime and most of them are vividly preserved in our memories. He had always striven to keep all these intrigues in the utmost secrecy and had to appear constantly virtuous. This caution was observed to such an extent that he scarcely accomplished anything really romantic, a fact which Katano no Shoshio would have ridiculed. Even with such jealous watchfulness secrets easily transpire from one to another, so loquacious is man. Moreover, he had, unfortunately from nature, a disposition of not appreciating anything within easy reach but of directing his thought in undesirable quarters, hence sundry improprieties in his career. Now it was the season of continuous rain, namely the month of May, and the court was keeping a strict monohimi. Genji who had now been made a tuchio and who was still continuing his residence in the Imperial Palace was also confined to his apartments for a considerable length of time. His father-in-law naturally felt for him and his sons were sent to bear him company. Among these, Quran Shoshio, who was now elevated to the post of Tono Tuchio, proved to be the most intimate and interesting companion. He was married to the fourth daughter of the Udayagin, but being a man of lively disposition, he too, like Genji, did not often resort to the mansion of the bride. When Genji went to the Sadajins, he was always his favourite associate. They were together in their studies and in their sports and accompanied each other everywhere, and so all stiffness and formality were dispensed with, and they did not scruple to reveal their secrets to each other. It was on an evening in the above-mentioned season. Rain was falling drearily. The inhabitants of the palace had almost all retired, and the apartment of Genji was more than usually still. He was engaged in reading near a lamp, but at length mechanically put his book aside, and began to take out some letters and writings from a bureau which stood on one side of the room. Tono Tuchio happened to be present, and Genji soon gathered from his countenance that he was anxious to look over them. Yes, said Genji, some you may see, but there may be others. Those others retorted Tono Tuchio are precisely those which I wish to see. Ordinary ones, even your humble servant may have received. I only long to look upon those which may have been written by fair hands, when the tender rider had something to complain of, or when in twilight hour she was outpouring all her yearning. Being so pressed, Genji allowed his brother-in-law to see them all. It is, however, highly probable that any very sacred letters would not have been loosely deposited in an ordinary bureau, and these would therefore seem, after all, to have been of second rate importance. What a variety, said Tono Tuchio as he turned them over, and he asked several questions, guessingly, about this or that. About some he guessed correctly, about others he was puzzled and suspicious. Genji smiled and spoke little, only making some obscure remark, and continuing as he took the letters. But you surely must have collected many. Will you not show me some? And then my bureau also may open more easily. You do not suppose I have any worth reading, do you? replied Tono Tuchio. I have only just now discovered, continued he, how difficult it is to meet with a fair creature of whom one can say, this is indeed the one. Here is at last perfection. There are indeed many who fascinate, many who are ready with their pens, and who, when occasion may require, are quick at repartee. But how often such goals as these are conceited about their own accomplishments, an endeavour unduly to disparage those of others. There are again some who are special pets of their parents, and most jealously watched over at home. Often, no doubt, they are pretty, often graceful, and frequently they will apply themselves with effect to music and to poetry, in which they may even attain to special excellence. But then their friends will keep their drawbacks in the dark, and eulogize their merits to the utmost. If we were to give full credence to this exaggerated praise, we could not but fail in every single instance to be more or less disappointed. So saying, Tono Chio Chio paused, and appeared as if he were ashamed of having such an experience, when Genji smilingly remarked, Can any one of them however exist without at least one good point? Nay, were there any so little favoured as that no one would ever be misled at all, replied Tono Chio Chio, and he continued, in my opinion the most and the least favoured are in the same proportion. I mean they are both not many. Their birth also divides them into three classes. Those however who are especially well-born are often too jealously guarded, and are for the most part kept secluded from the outside gaze, which frequently tends to make their deportments shy and timid. It is those of the middle class who are much more frequently seen by us, who afford us most chance of studying their character. As for the lower class it would be almost useless to trouble ourselves with them. Thus Tono Chio Chio appeared to be thoroughly at home in his description of the merits of the fair sex, which made Genji amused, and he said, But how do you define the classes you have referred to and classify them into three? Those who are of high births sink sometimes in the social scale until the distinction of their rank is forgotten in the abjectness of their present position. Others again of low origin rise to a high position, and with self-important faces and in ostentatious residences regard themselves as inferior to none. Into what class will you allot these? Just at this moment, Samano Kami and Tō Shikabnojiō joined the party. They came to pay their respects to Genji, and both of them were gay and light-hearted talkers. So Tono Chio Chio now made over the discussion to them, and it was carried to rather questionable lengths. However exalted a lady's position may be, said Samano Kami, if her origin is an unenviable one, the estimation of the public for her will be widely different from that which it shows to those who are naturally entitled to it. If again adverse fortune assails one whose birth is high, so that she becomes friendless and helpless, degradation here will meet our eyes, though her heart may still remain as noble as ever. Examples of both of these are very common. After much reflection I can only come to the conclusion that both of them should be included in the middle class. In this class, too, must be included many daughters of the Duryō, who occupy themselves with local administration. These ladies are often very attractive and are not seldom introduced at court, and enjoy high favour, and successes depend pretty much upon the state of one's fortune I fancy interrupted Genji with a placid smile. That is a remark very unlikely to fall from the lips of a champion of romance chimed in Tonō Chōshō. There may be some resumed Samano Kami, who are of high birth and to whom public respect is duly paid, yet whose domestic education has been much neglected. Of a lady such as this we may simply remark. Why and how is it that she is so brought up? And she would only cause discredit to her class. There are, of course, some who combine in themselves every perfection befitting their position. These best of the best are, however, not within everyone's reach. But listen! Within an old, dilapidated gateway, almost unknown to the world, and overgrown with wild vegetation, perchance we might find, shut up a maiden charming beyond imagination. Her father might be an aged man, corpulent in person and stern in mien, and her brothers of repulsive countenance. But there, in an uninviting room, she lives full of delicacy and sentiment, and fairly skilled in the arts of poetry or music, which she may have acquired by her own exertions alone, unaided. If there were such a case, surely she deserves our attention. Save that of those of us who themselves are highly exalted in position. So, saying, Sama no Kamii winks lightly at Shikab Nojyo, the latter was silent. Perhaps he fancied that Sama no Kamii was speaking in the above strain with a hidden reference to his, Shikab's sisters, who, he imagined, answered the description. Meantime Genji may have thought, if it is so difficult to choose one even from the best class, how can, ah, and he began to close his eyes and does. His dress was of soft white silk, partly covered by the Naoshi, worn carelessly with its cord left loose and untied. His appearance and bearing formed quite a picture. Meanwhile the conversation went on about different persons and characters, and Sama no Kamii proceeded. It is unquestionable that though at first glance many women appear to be without defects, yet when we come to the actual selection of any one of them, we should seriously hesitate in our choice. Let me illustrate my meaning by reference to the numerous public men who may be aspiring to fulfil the duties of several important posts. You will at once recognize the great difficulty there would be in fixing upon the individual statesmen, under whose guardianship the Empire could best repose. And supposing that if at last by good fortune the most able man were designated, even then we must bear in mind that it is not in the power of one or two individuals, however gifted they may be, to carry on the whole administration of the kingdom alone. Public business can only be tranquilly conducted when the Superior receives the assistance of subordinates, and when the subordinate yields a becoming respect and loyalty to his Superior. And affairs are thus conducted in a spirit of mutual conciliation. So too it is in the narrow range of the domestic circle. To make a good mistress of that circle one must possess, if our ideal is to be fully realised, many important qualifications. Were we to be constantly indulging in the severity of criticism, always objecting to this or that, a perfect character would be almost unattainable. Men should therefore bear with patience any trifling dissatisfaction which they may feel, and strive constantly to keep alive, to augment, and to cherish the warmth of their early love. Only such a man as this can be called faithful, and the partner of such a man alone can enjoy the real happiness of affection. How unsatisfactory to us, however, seems the actual world if we look round upon it. Still more difficult must it be to satisfy such as you, who seek your companions but from among the best. How varied are the characters and the dispositions of women, some who are youthful and favoured by nature strive almost selfishly to keep themselves with the utmost reserve. If they write, they write harmlessly and innocently, yet at the same time they are choice in their expressions which have delicate touches of bewitching sentiment. This might possibly make us entertain a suddenly conceived fancy for them, yet they would give us but slight encouragement. They may allow us just to hear their voices but when we approach them they will speak with subdued breath and almost inaudibly. Beware, however, lest among these you chance to encounter some astute artiste who, under a surface that is smooth, conceals a current that is deep. This sort of lady, it is true, generally appears quite modest but often proves, when we come closer, to be of a very different temperament from what we anticipated. Here is one drawback to be guarded against. Among characters differing from the above some are too full of sentimental sweetness whenever occasion offers them romance they become spoiled. Such would be decidedly better if they had less sentiment and more sense. Others, again, are singularly earnest, too earnest indeed in the performance of their domestic duty and such, with their hair pushed back, devote themselves like household judges to household affairs. Man, whose duties generally call him from home all day, naturally hears and sees the social movements both of public and private life, and notices different things both good and bad. Of such things he would not like to talk freely with strangers, but only with someone closely allied to him. Indeed a man may have many things in his mind which cause him to smile or to grieve. Occasionally something of a political nature may irritate him beyond endurance. These matters he would like to talk over with his fair companion that she might soothe him and sympathize with him. But a woman as above described is often unable to understand him, or does not endeavour to do so, and this only makes him more miserable. At another time he may brood over his hopes and aspirations, but he has no hope of solace. She is not only incapable of sharing these with him, but might carelessly remark, What ails you? How severely would this try the temper of a man? If then clearly we see all these, the only suggestion I can make is that the best thing to do is to choose one who is gentle and modest, and strive to guide and educate her according to the best ideal we may think of. This is the best plan, and why should we not do so? Our efforts would not be surely all in vain. But no! A girl whom we thus educate and who proves to be competent to bear as company often disappoints us when she is left alone. She may then show her incapability and her occasional actions may be done in such an unbecoming manner that both good and bad are equally displeasing. Are not all these against us men? Remember, however, that there are some who may not be very agreeable at ordinary times, yet who flash occasionally upon us with a potent and almost irresistible charm. The summer no kami, though eloquent, not having come to one point or another, remained thoughtful for some minutes, and again resumed. After all, as I have once observed, I can only make this suggestion, that we should not too much consider either birth or beauty, but select one who is gentle and tranquil, and consider her to be best suited for our last haven of rest. If in addition she is of fair position and is blessed with sweetness of temper, we should be delighted with her and not trouble ourselves to search or notice any trifling deficiency, and the more so as, if her conscience is clear and pure, calmness and serenity of features can naturally be looked for. There are women who are too diffident and too reserved and carry their generosity to such an extent as to pretend not to be aware, even of such annoyances as afford them just grounds of complaint. A time arrives when their sorrows and anxieties become greater than they can bear. Even then, however, they cannot resort to plain speaking and complain, but instead thereof they will fly away to some remote retreat among the mountain hamlets, or to some secluded spot by the seaside, leaving behind them some painful letter or despairing verses and making themselves mere sad memories of the past. Often when a boy I heard such stories read by ladies, and the sad pathos of them even caused my tears to flow. But now I can only declare such deeds to be acts of mere folly. For what does it all amount to? Simply to this, that the woman, in spite of the pain which it causes her, and discarding a heart which may be still lingering towards her, takes to flight, regardless of the feelings of others, of the anguish and of the anxiety which those who are dearest to her suffer with her. Nay, this act of folly may even be committed simply to test the sincerity of her lover's affection for her. What pitiable subtlety! Worse than this, the woman thus led astray, perhaps by ill advice, may even be beguiled into more serious errors. In the depth of her despairing melancholy she will become a nun. Her conscience, when she takes the fatal vow, may be pure and unsullied, and nothing may seem able to call her back again to the world which she forsook. But, as time rolls on, some household servant or aged nurse brings her tidings of the lover who has been unable to cast her out of his heart, and whose tears drop silently when he hears ought about her. Then, when she hears of his affection still living, and his heart still yearning, and thinks of the uselessness of the sacrifice she has made voluntarily, she touches the hair on her forehead, and she becomes regretful. She may indeed do her best to persevere in her resolve, but if one single tear bedues her cheek, she is no longer strong in the sanctity of her vow. Weakness of this kind would be in the eyes of Buddha more sinful than those offences which are committed by those who never leave the lay circle at all, and she would eventually wonder about in the wrong passage. But there are also women who are too self-confident and obtrusive. These, if they discover some slight inconsistency in men, fiercely betray their indignation and behave with arrogance. A man may show a little inconsistency occasionally, but yet his affection may remain. Then matters will in time become right again and they will pass their lives happily together. If, therefore, the woman cannot show a tolerable amount of patience, this will but add to her unhappiness. She should above all things drive not to give way to excitement, and when she experiences any unpleasantness she should speak of it frankly but with moderation. And if there should be anything worse than unpleasantness she should even then complain of it in such a way as not to irritate the man. If she guides her conduct on principles such as these, even her very words, her very demeanour, may in all probability increase his sympathy and consideration for her. One self-denial and the restraint which one imposes upon oneself often depend on the way in which another behaves to us. The woman who is too indifferent and too forgiving is also inconsiderate. Remember, the unmoored boat floats about. Is it not so? Dono Gio Gio quickly nodded ascent as he said quite true. A woman who has no strength of emotion, no passion of sorrow or of joy can never behold as of us. Nay, even jealousy, if not carried to the extent of undue suspicion, is not undesirable. If we ourselves are not in fault and leave the matter alone, such jealousy may easily be kept within due bounds. But stop! added he suddenly. Some women have to bear and do bear every grief that they may encounter with unmermering and suffering patients. So said Dono Gio Gio who implied by this illusion that his sister was a woman so circumstanced. But Genji was still dozing and no remark came from his lips. Summer Nokami had been recently made a Doctor of Literature and, like a bird, was inflating his feathers. So Dono Gio Gio, willing to draw him out as much as possible, gave him every encouragement to proceed with his discourse. Again, therefore, he took up the conversation and said, Call to your mind affairs in general and judge of them. Is it not always true that reality and sincerity are to be preferred to mere artificial excellence? Artisans, for instance, make different sorts of articles as their talents serve them. Some of them are keen and expert and cleverly manufacture objects of temporary fashion which have no fixed or traditional style, and which are only intended to strike the momentary fancy. These, however, are not the true artisans. The real excellence of the true artisan is tested by those who make, without defects or sensational peculiarities, articles to decorate, we will say, some particular building, in conformity with correct taste, and high aesthetic principles. Look for another instance at the eminence which has been attained by several of the artists of the Imperial College of Painting. Take the case of draftsmen in Black Ink. Pictures indeed, such as those of Mount Hoare, which has never been beheld by mortal eye, or of some raging monstrous fish in a rough sea, or of a wild animal of some far-off country, or of the imaginary face of the demon, are often drawn with such striking vividness that people are startled at the sight of them. These pictures, however, are neither real nor true. On the other hand, ordinary scenery of familiar mountains, of calm streams of water, and of dwellings just before our eyes, may be sketched with an irregularity so charming, and with such excellent skill, as almost to rival nature. In pictures such as these, the perspective of gentle mountain slopes, and sequestered nooks surrounded by leafy trees, are drawn with such admirable fidelity to nature, that they carry the spectator in imagination to something beyond them. These are the pictures in which is mostly evinced the spirit and effectiveness of the superior hand of a master, and in these an inferior artist would only show dullness and inefficiency. Similar observations are applicable to handwriting. Some people boldly dash away with great freedom and endless flourishes, and appear at the first glance to be elegant and skilful. But that which is written with scrupulous neatness, in accordance with the true rules of penmanship, constitutes a very different handwriting from the above. If perchance the upstrokes and downstrokes do not at first sight appear to be fully formed, yet when we take it up and critically compare it with writing in which dashes and flourishes predominate, we shall at once see how much more of real and sterling merit it possesses. Such then is the nature of the case in painting, in penmanship, and in the arts generally. And how much more than are those women undeserving of our admiration, who though they are rich in outward and infashionable display, attempting to dazzle our eyes, are yet lacking in the solid foundations of reality, fidelity, and truth. Do not, my friends, consider me going too far, but let me proceed to illustrate these observations by my own experience. So saying, Samanokami advanced his seat, and Genji awoke. Dono Jyotjo was quite interested in the conversation and was keeping his eye upon the speaker, leaning his cheek upon his hand. This long discourse of Samanokami reminds us of the preacher's sermon, and amuses us, and it seems that on occasions like these one may easily be carried away by circumstances, until he is willing to communicate even his own private affairs. It was at a time, continued Samanokami, when I was in a still more humble position that there was a girl to whom I had taken a fancy. She was like one of those whom I described in the process of my discourse, not a regular beauty. Although for this reason my youthful vanity did not allow me to pledge myself to her forever, I still considered her a pleasant companion. Nevertheless, from occasional fits of restlessness, I roamed often here and there. This she always resented fiercely and with so much indignation that I sighed for a sweeter temper and more moderation. Indeed there were times when her suspicion and spitefulness were more than I could endure. But my irritation was generally calmed down, and I even felt sorry myself when I reflected how strong and devoted her affection for me was, in spite of the mean state of my circumstances. As to her general character her only endeavour seemed to be to do everything for my sake, even what was beyond her powers, while she struggled to perfect herself in anything in which she might be deficient and took the most faithful care of all my interests, striving constantly and earnestly to please me. She appeared at first even too zealous but in time became more moderate. She seemed as if she felt uneasy lest her plain face should cause me displeasure, and she even denied herself the sight of other people in order to avoid unbecoming comment. As time went by the more I became accustomed to observe how really simple-hearted she was, the more I sympathised with her. The one thing that I could not bear, however, was that jealousy of hers. Sincere and devoted as she is thought I, is there no means of ridding her of this jealous weakness? Could I but do that? It would not matter even if I were to alarm her a little, and I also thought that since she was devoted to me, if I showed any symptoms of getting tired of her she would in all probability be warned by it. Therefore I purposely behaved to her with great coolness and heartlessness. This she resented as usual. I then said to her that though our affection had been of old date I should not see her again. If you wish to sever from me you may suspect me as much as you like. If you prefer to enjoy long happiness with me in future be modest and patient in trifling matters. If you can only be so how can I do otherwise than love you? My position also may in time be improved and then we may enjoy greater happiness. In saying this I thought I had managed matters very ingeniously. Without meaning it however I had in fact spoken a little too harshly. She replied with a bitter smile, that to put up with a life of undistinguished condition even though with faint hopes of future promotion was not a thing about which we ought to trouble ourselves, but that it was indeed a hard task to pass long weary some days in waiting until a man's mind should be restored to a sense of propriety, and that for this reason we had perhaps better separate at once. This she said with such sarcastic bitterness that I was irritated and stung to the quick, and overwhelmed her with a fresh torrent of reproaches. At this junction she gave way to an uncontrollable fit of passion, and snatching up my hand she thrust my little finger into her mouth and bit off the end of it. Then not withstanding my pain I became quite cool and collected and calmly said, insulted and maimed as I have now been, it is most fitting that I should absent myself for the future from polite society. Office and title would ill become me now. Your spite has now left me without spirit to face the world in which I should be ridiculed, and has left me no alternative but to withdraw my maimed person from the public gaze. After I had alarmed her by speaking in this exalted strain I added, today we meet for the last time. And bending these fingers, pointing to them as she spoke, I made the farewell remark. When on my fingers I may say I count the hours I spent with thee, is this and this alone I pray, the only pang you've caused to me. You are now quits with me. At the instance I said so she burst into tears and without premeditation, hod forth the following. From me who long bore grievous harms from that cold hand and wandering heart, you now withdraw your sheltering arms and coolly tell me we must part. To speak the truth I had no real intention of separating from her altogether. For some time, however, I sent her no communication and was passing rather an unsettled life. Well, I was once returning from the palace late one evening in November, after an experimental practice of music for a special festival in the temple of Camel. Sleet was falling heavily, the wind blew cold and my road was dark and muddy. There was no house near where I could make myself at home. To return and spend a lonely night in the palace was not to be thought of. At this moment a reflection flashed across my mind. How cold must she feel whom I have treated so coldly, thought I, and suddenly became very anxious to know what she felt and what she was about. This made me turn my steps towards her dwelling and brushing away the snow that had gathered on my shoulders I trudged on. At one moment shyly biting my nails at another thinking that on such a night at least all her enmity towards me might be all melted away I approached the house. The curtains were not drawn and I saw the dim light of a lamp reflected on the windows. It was even perceivable that a soft quilt was being warmed and thrown over the large couch. The scene was such as to give you the notion that she was really anticipating that I might come at least on such an evening. This gave me encouragement, but alas, she whom I hoped to see was not at home. I was told she had gone to her parents that very evening. Previous to that time she had sent me no sad verses, no conciliatory letter, and this had already given birth to unpleasant feelings on my part. And at this moment when I was told that she had gone away all these things seem to have been done almost purposely. And I involuntarily began to suspect that her very jealousy had only been assumed by her on purpose to cause me to become tired of her. As I reflected what our future might be after such an estrangement as this I was truly depressed. I did not however give up all hope thinking that she would not be so determined as to abandon me forever. I had even carefully selected some stuff for a dress for her. Some time however passed away without anything particularly occurring. She neither accepted nor refused the offers of reconciliation which I made to her. She did not, it is true, hide herself away like any of those of whom I have spoken before. But nevertheless she did not evince the slightest symptom of regret for her previous conduct. At last after a considerable interval she intimated to me that her final resolve was not to forgive me any more if I intended in future to behave as I had done before. But that on the other hand she should be glad to see me again if I would thoroughly change my habits and treat her with the kindness which was her due. From this I became more convinced that she still entertained longings for me. Hence with the hope of warning her a little more I made no expressions of any intention to make a change in my habits and I tried to find out which of us had the most patience. While matters were in this state she to my great surprise suddenly died, perhaps broken-hearted. I must now frankly confess that she certainly was a woman in whom a man might place his confidence. Often too I had talked with her on music and on poetry as well as on the more important business of life and I found her to be by no means wanting an intellect and capability. She had two the clever hands of Tattita Hime and Tanabata. When I recall these pleasant memories my heart still clings to her endearingly. Clever in weaving she may have been like Tanabata but that is but a small matter, interposed to no chiu-chiu. We should have preferred to have seen your lovers enduring as Tanabatas. Nothing is so beautiful as the brilliant dyes spread over the face of nature yet the red tints of autumn are often not dyed to a color so deep as we desire because of the early drying of the dew so we say such is the uncertain fate of this world and so saying he made a sign to Samanokami to go on with his story.