THE VILLAGE OF FALLING FLOWERS
The outlook was very black. Not only were his private affairs in a
state of grievous entanglement, but also his position at Court was
being made every day more difficult. So despondent did he become that
he had serious thoughts of giving everything up and quitting the
Capital. But this was by no means easy now that so many persons were
dependent upon him. For example there was Lady Reikeiden, a lady of his
father’s Court. She had no children to look after her and had, since
the old Emperor’s death, been living in very bad circumstances. But
for Genji’s assistance she would never have pulled through. With her
lived a sister much younger than herself with whom he had once had a
fugitive affair when both of them were living at the Palace. He never
forgot anyone to whom he had stood, even for the briefest period, in
such a relation as this. Their friendship had never been resumed; but
he had reason to suppose that on her side the attachment was still as
strong as ever. During the period of emotional tumult through which
he had just passed he had many times brooded upon his relations with
this lady. At last he felt that he could neglect her no longer, and the
rains of the fifth month having given place to an enchanting spell of
fine warm weather, he set out for her sister’s house. He went without
any outriders and took care that there should be nothing to distinguish
his coach from that of an ordinary individual. As he was nearing
the Middle River he noticed a small house standing amid clumps of
trees. There came from it the sound of some one playing the zithern; a
well-made instrument, so it seemed, and tuned to the eastern mode.[1]
It was being excellently played. The house was quite near the highway
and Genji, alighting for a moment from the carriage, stood near the
gate to listen. Peeping inside he saw a great laurel-tree quavering
in the wind. It reminded him of that Kamo festival long ago, when
the dancers had nodded their garlands of laurel and sun-flower.[2]
Something about the place interested him, seemed even to be vaguely
familiar. Suddenly he remembered that this was a house which he had
once visited a long while before. His heart beat fast.... But it had
all happened too long ago. He felt shy of announcing himself. All the
same, it seemed a pity to pass the house without a word, and for a
while he stood hesitating. Just when he was about to drive away, a
cuckoo flew by. Somehow its note seemed to be an invitation to him to
stay, and turning his chariot he composed the following poem, which he
gave into Koremitsu’s hands: ‘Hark to the cuckoo’s song! Who could not
but revisit the hedge-row of this house where once he sung before?’
There seemed to be several people sitting together in a room on the
left. This must be the lady’s own apartment. Several of the voices
Koremitsu thought he could remember having heard before. He made a
slight noise to attract attention and delivered the poem. He could
hear it being discussed within by a number of young women who seemed
somewhat puzzled by it. Presently a reply was brought: ‘That to my
garden Cuckoo has returned, his song proclaims. But how, pray, should I
see him, caged behind the summer rain?’ Koremitsu made sure that
they were only pretending not to know who their visitor was. The lady
indeed, though she hid her feelings from the rest, was very loath to
send Koremitsu away with this hollow message. But so long a time had
elapsed since her adventure with Genji that she may very well have had
good reasons for doing so. Suddenly, as he drove away, there came into
his mind a picture of this lady dancing with four others at the Palace.
Yes, that was who she was. She had been one of the Gosechi dancers one
winter long ago. How much he had admired her! And for a moment he felt
about her exactly as he had felt before. It was this strange capacity
of his for re-creating in its full intensity an emotion suspended
for months or even years and overlaid by a thousand intervening
distractions, that gained for him, faithless though he was, so large a
number of persistent admirers.
At last he arrived at Lady Reikeiden’s house. Noting that it wore an
aspect fully as cheerless and deserted as he had feared, he hastened
at once to the elder lady’s room. They talked much of old times and
the night was soon far advanced. It was the twentieth day and the moon
had now risen, but so tall were the surrounding trees that the garden
still looked dark and gloomy as before. The lady herself sat in a room
pervaded by the fragrance of orange-trees. She was no longer young,
but still preserved much dignity and charm. Though she had never been
singled out as a particular favourite with the late Emperor, they had
been on very familiar terms and she was able to entertain Genji with
many intimate recollections of his father’s life and habits. Indeed so
vivid a picture of those old days soon rose before his mind that the
tears came into his eyes. A cuckoo was suddenly heard in the garden
outside, perhaps the very same that had sung when he was waiting
at the gate of the little house; its note at any rate seemed strangely
similar. Had it followed him? Pleased with this idea he sang softly to
himself the old song ‘Knows the cuckoo when he sings?’ Presently he
handed to her this poem: ‘“It is the scent of orange-trees that draws
the cuckoo to the village of falling flowers.” I knew you would remind
me of many things that I would not gladly forget; that is why I made my
way straight to your room. Though life at Court gives me much both to
think of and to feel, there are often times when I should like to have
about me people who would talk of the past, and now that the world has
given its allegiance to new powers such people are hard to find. But
if I, amid the bustle of the town, feel this deprivation, how much the
more must you in your long hours of tedious inactivity!’
His prospects had indeed changed very much for the worse since she had
first known him, and he certainly seemed to feel those changes deeply.
But if her heart went out to him it was perhaps rather because of his
youth and beauty than because she regarded his position in the world
as calling for any particular commiseration. She answered him with
the poem: ‘To these wild gardens and abandoned halls only the scent
of orange-trees could draw the traveller’s steps!’ She said no more
and he took his leave. Yes, despite the fact that greater beauties had
overshadowed her at his father’s Court, this lady had a singular charm
and distinction of her own.
Her sister was living in the western wing. He did not hide from her
that he was only calling upon her on his way from Lady Reikeiden’s
rooms. But in her delight at his sudden arrival and her surprise at
seeing him under circumstances so different she forgot to take offence
either at his having visited her sister first or having taken so
long in making up his mind to come at all. The time that they
spent together was in every way successful and agreeable, and she can
scarcely have thought that he did not care for her.
It was often thus with those whom he met only in this casual way.
Being women of character and position they had no false pride and saw
that it was worth while to take what they could get. Thus without any
ill will on either side concerning the future or the past they would
enjoy the pleasure of each other’s company, and so part. However, if
by chance anyone resented this kind of treatment and cooled towards
him, Genji was never in the least surprised; for though, as far as
feelings went, perfectly constant himself, he had long ago learnt that
such constancy was very unusual. The lady in the little house by the
road-side was clearly an example of the latter class; she had resented
the infrequence of his visits and no longer felt disposed to receive
him.
[1] I.e. as a _wagon_ or Japanese zithern, not in the Chinese style.
[2] See vol. i, p. 257.