THE PALACE IN THE TANGLED WOODS
While Genji, like Yukihira of old, ‘dragged his leaky pails’ along
the shore of Suma, his absence had been mourned, in varying ways
and degrees, by a very large number of persons in the Capital. Even
those who stood in no need of patronage or protection and had through
his departure lost only the amenities of a charming friendship were
deeply distressed. For some of them, such as Murasaki, this sad time
was mitigated by constant messages from his place of exile; some were
privileged to busy their needles upon such garments as his altered
state prescribed, or were allowed the consolation of rendering him
other small services such as in his present difficulties he was likely
to require. But there were others who, though they had received his
favours, had done so unknown to the world, and these ladies now learned
of Genji’s last hours at the Capital from the casual gossip of some
friend who had no idea that the matter was of any particular concern
to them. Needless to say they feigned a like indifference; but such
concealment costs one dear and not a few hearts were broken in the
process.
Among those who fared worst during his absence was the lady at the
Hitachi Palace.[1] During the period after her father’s death there
had been no one to take care of her and she had for a while led a very
wretched existence. But then came the unexpected apparition of
Genji. His letters and visits, which to him in the crowded days of his
glory were insignificant acts of courtesy, implying no more than a very
mild degree of interest and affection, were to their recipient, with
her narrow and unvarying life, like the reflection of a star when it
chances to fall into a bowl of water. It was but natural, she thought,
that when the outcry against him began Genji should no longer find time
for an attachment which had in any case played only a very subordinate
part in his life, particularly as the attacks upon him were part of a
widespread movement which could not but be causing him the greatest
anxiety. Then came his exile and at last his triumphant return. But
still she heard no word from him.
In old days when she heard nothing from him for a week or two she
would become a little tearful it is true, but she still managed to
carry on her ordinary existence. Now months, years had passed; long
ago she had given up all hope, and sank into a condition of settled
apathy and gloom. ‘Poor princess!’ said the elderly gentlewomen who
waited upon her. ‘Really she has had the worst possible luck! To see
this glorious apparition suddenly descending upon her like a God or
Buddha out of the sky—not that he meant very much by it; but she,
poor lady, could never get over the surprise of his noticing her at
all—and then for him to disappear without a word! She knows of course
that it is not from her that he has run away to Suma; it all comes of
this new government! But still, one cannot help being very sorry for
the poor young creature.’ She had indeed during the time after her
father’s death become gradually inured to a life of extreme monotony
and isolation; but Genji’s visits had awakened in her quite new
ambitions; for the first time in her life she began to feel herself
drawn towards the world of taste and fashion. This made her
renewed state of poverty and isolation all the more difficult to bear.
The fact that Genji frequented the house had for the time being induced
a certain number of other visitors to present themselves. But since
his departure one visitor after another, having grown more and more
remiss in his attentions, finally ceased to come at all. Her father’s
ladies-in-waiting were all very advanced in years and every now and
then one of them would die; the other servants, both indoors and out,
were continually seeking better service, and hardly a month passed
but some member of her staff either died or drifted away. The palace
grounds, which had for long years past been allowed to sink into a sad
state of neglect, had now become a mere jungle. Foxes had made their
lairs in the garden walks, while from the ornamental plantations, now
grown into dank and forbidding woods, the voice of the screech-owl
sounded day and night alike; so little was there now any sign of
human habitation in that place, so dim was the daylight that pierced
those tangled thickets. The few servants who still lingered on in
the midst of all this desolation began to declare that tree-spirits
and other fearsome monsters had established themselves in the palace
grounds and were every day becoming more open and venturesome in their
habits. ‘There is no sense in continuing to live like this,’ one of
these ladies said. ‘Nowadays all the government officials are building
themselves handsome houses. Several of them have for a long time past
had their eye on all your timber and have been making enquiries in the
neighbourhood whether you might not be prevailed upon to part with
it. If only you would consent to do so, you might with the proceeds
easily buy some newer place that would be less depressing to live in.
You are really asking too much of the few servants that remain with
you....’ ‘Hush, how can you suggest such a thing!’ answered the
princess. ‘What would people think if they heard you? So long as I
am alive no such disrespect to my poor Father’s memory shall ever be
committed. I know quite well that the grounds have become rather wild
and dismal; but this was his home, his dear spirit haunts the place,
and I feel that so long as I am here I am never far off from him. That
has become my only comfort....’ She broke off in tears, and it was
impossible to allude to the subject again. Her furniture too, though
entirely out of fashion, was much of it very beautiful in an old-world
way, and enquiries were constantly coming from those who made it their
business to understand such matters and had heard that she possessed
a work by such and such a master of some particular time and school.
Such proposals she regarded merely as an ill-bred comment upon her
poverty and indeed complained of them bitterly to the aforementioned
gentlewoman. ‘But, Madam,’ the lady protested, ‘it is not at all
an unusual thing....’ And to convince her mistress that funds must
somehow or other be procured she began to call her attention to various
dilapidations, the repair of which could not safely be deferred for a
single day. But it made no difference. The idea of selling any of her
possessions seemed to the princess utterly untenable. ‘If he had not
meant me to keep them, he would not have put them here,’ she said; ‘I
cannot bear to think of them becoming ornaments in ordinary, worldly
people’s houses. I do not think he would wish me to...,’ and that was
all that could be got out of her.
Visitors and even letters were now absolutely unknown at the Hitachi
Palace. True, her elder brother the Zen priest on the rare occasions
when he came up to the Capital, usually visited the palace. But he did
little more than poke his head in and go away. He was a particularly
vague and unpractical sort of man, who even among his fellow
clerics ranked as unusually detached from all worldly considerations.
In fact he was a saint, and consequently very unlikely to notice that
the whole place was overgrown with weeds and bushes, still less to
suggest any means of clearing them away.
Meanwhile, the state of affairs was becoming very acute. The once
elegant courtyard was thickly overgrown with weeds; and lusty hemlock
clumps were fast destroying the gables and eaves of the roof. The main
eastern and western gates of the park were barricaded by huge masses
of mugwort and it was impossible to open them. This might have given
the inhabitants of the palace a certain comforting sense of security,
had it not been for the fact that the walls which surrounded the estate
were everywhere either broken down or upon the point of falling. Horse
and oxen from the neighbouring pastures soon found their way through
these gaps, and when the summer came they began to make free with
the palace lawns in a way which scandalized the little herd-boys who
were in charge of them. At the time of the autumn equinox there were
very heavy gales, and one day the main roof of the servants’ wing
was blown right away, leaving only a ceiling of thin match-boarding,
a mere shell, which would not have withstood the mildest shower of
rain. At this the under-servants left in a body. Henceforward the few
inhabitants of the palace led a pitiable existence, not even getting
enough to eat, for there was no one to make up the fires or prepare
their food. Thieves and vagabonds had the place completely at their
mercy; but fortunately it never occurred to them to go near it.
How could so desolate a ruin contain anything worth meddling with?
They shook their heads and trudged on. But strangely enough, had
he penetrated those savage thickets, an enterprising burglar would
have found, amid a tangled mass of wreckage, a drawing-room[2]
perfectly appointed in every detail, each ornament, each screen and
article of furniture still standing exactly where the late prince had
left it. True, there was no longer anyone to dust this last-surviving
room, and it needed dusting badly. Never mind, it was a real room;
not just a living-place, but a noble apartment with everything in it
handsome and dignified just as it ought to be. And here, year in and
year out, her whole life was spent.
Solitary people with a great deal of time on their hands seem usually
to turn to old ballads and romances for amusement and distraction,
but for such employments the princess showed little inclination. Even
in the lives of those who have no particular interest in poetry there
are usually periods of inactivity during which they take to exchanging
verses with some sympathetic correspondent—verses which, if they are
young, generally contain affecting references to various kinds of plant
and tree. But the princess’s father had imbued her with the belief
that all outward display of emotion is undignified and ill-bred; she
felt that what he would really have liked best would have been for her
to communicate with no one at all, and she had long given up writing
even to the few relations with whom she might have been expected
occasionally to correspond.
At rare intervals she would open an old-fashioned chest and fiddle for
a while with a number of ancient picture-scrolls, illustrations of such
stories as _The Chinese Prefect_, _The Mistress of Hakoya_, _Princess
Kaguya_[3] and the like. Then there were some poems which, though
all of very ancient date, were excellently chosen, with the names of
the poets and the titles of the poems written in a nice clear hand at
the side, so that one could really tell what one was reading. They were
written on the best Kanya and Michinoku papers, now grown somewhat
puffy with age,[4] and though it cannot be supposed that she could
derive much pleasure from reading the same familiar pages over and over
again, yet it was noticed that in her hours of deepest depression she
would often sit with the books spread open before her. As for reading
the Sūtras or performing those Buddhist ceremonies which have now
become so indispensable an element in fashionable life, she would have
shuddered at the thought, and would not have dreamed of so much as
touching a rosary, even though no one was there to see. Such was the
arduous standard of conduct which this lady imposed upon herself.
Of her old servants only Jijū, the daughter of her foster-nurse, had
survived the general exodus of the last few years. Jijū’s friend, the
former Vestal of Kamo, whose company had been one of her distractions,
was dead, and the poor lady’s existence had become such as no one could
reasonably be expected to endure. A sister of the princess’s mother
had fallen on evil days and ended by marrying a provincial official.
She now lived at the Capital, and as she had daughters, together with
a bevy of unusually agreeable young waiting-women, Jijū occasionally
visited the house, where indeed she was quite at home, for both her
parents had been friends of the family. But the princess herself, with
her usual unsociability, absolutely refused to hold any communication
with her aunt’s household. ‘I am afraid the princess looks upon
me as a very vulgar person,’ the aunt said to Jijū one day. ‘She still
thinks, despite the wretched manner in which she now lives, that to
have such relations as we is a disgrace to her. At any rate I suppose
that is why she is so careful never to come near us.’ It was in this
somewhat malicious tone that she always discussed her niece’s behaviour.
I have noticed that people of quite common origin who have risen in
the world can in a very short time achieve a perfect imitation of
aristocratic importance. And similarly, if through some accident an
aristocrat falls into low company, he generally exhibits a meanness
so thorough-going that it is hard to believe he has been at any pains
to acquire it. Of this second tendency the princess’s aunt was a good
example. She knew that after her unfortunate marriage the people at the
Hitachi Palace had regarded her as a disgrace to the family. Now that
the prince was dead and Suyetsumu herself was in circumstances of such
difficulty, there seemed to be quite a good chance that the princess
might eventually have to take shelter under her aunt’s roof. This was
what the aunt herself was looking forward to. It was her revenge.
She saw the princess installed as a dependant, fetching and carrying
for her daughters. And what an ideal drudge she would make, being so
priggish and strait-laced that it would never be necessary to keep an
eye upon her! ‘You ought to bring her round to see us sometimes,’ the
aunt would say to Jijū, ‘and if you could get her to bring her zithern,
so much the better; we have heard so much about her playing.’ Jijū did
her best, and the princess, docile as usual, admitted that there was
everything to be said in favour of paying an occasional visit. But when
it came to the point, panic overwhelmed her. She would do anything,
anything that Jijū asked; but she would not make friends. And so,
greatly to the aunt’s discomfiture, the matter was dropped.
About this time her uncle was appointed treasurer to a provincial
district. He intended to take his family with him, and was anxious to
equip his daughters with attendants whom it would be pleasant to name
in the ears of provincial visitors. The chance of being able to exhibit
a real princess as a member of their staff was not to be thrown away
and the aunt returned once more to the attack. ‘I am very worried at
having to go so far away from you,’ she sent word by Jijū. ‘We have not
had the pleasure of seeing you much lately; but it was a great comfort
to me to feel that I was near at hand and could help you if anything
went wrong. I am most anxious that, if possible, we should not be
separated....’ All this had no effect whatever. ‘The conceited little
fool! I have no patience with her,’ the aunt cried out at last. ‘She
may have these grand ideas about herself if she chooses; but no one
else is going to take much notice of a creature that goes on year after
year living in the hole-and-corner way that she does; least of all this
famous Prince Genji, with whom she pretends to be so intimate.’
At last came Genji’s pardon and recall, celebrated in every part of the
kingdom by riotous holiday-making and rejoicing. His friends of either
sex were soon vying with one another in demonstrations of good will and
affection. These testimonies to his popularity, pouring in from persons
of every rank and condition in life, naturally touched him deeply,
and in these stirring days it would have been strange indeed if many
minor affairs had not escaped his memory. But for her the time of his
restoration was far harder to bear than that of his exile. For whereas
she had before confidently looked forward to his return, counting upon
it as we count upon the winter trees to bud again in spring, this
glorious home-coming and restoration, when at last they came, brought
joy to every hut and hovel in the land, but to her only a hundredfold
increase of her former misery. For of what comfort to her were his
triumphs, if she must hear of them from other lips?
The aunt had the satisfaction of seeing her prophecies fulfilled.
It was of course out of the question that anyone would own to an
acquaintance with a person living in such miserable squalor as now
surrounded the princess. There are those, says the _Hokkekyō_,[5]
whom even Buddha and his saints would have hard work to redeem; and
certainly this lady had allowed her affairs to drift into a disorder
which the most generous patron would shrink from attempting to set
straight. This contempt for all the rest of the world, this almost
savage unsociability, was of course no invention of her own; it was
merely an attempt to perpetuate the haughty demeanour of the late
prince and princess, her parents. But this did not make the young
princess’s attitude any less irritating and ridiculous. ‘There is still
time to change your mind,’ said her aunt one day. ‘A change of scene—a
journey through the mountains, for example, is often very beneficial
to people who have some trouble on their minds. I am sure you think
that life in the provinces is very uncomfortable and disagreeable, but
I can assure you that while you are with us you will never have to
stay anywhere quite so higgledy-piggledy....’ The wretched old women
who still dragged on their existence in the palace eagerly watched the
princess’s face while their fate was being decided. Surely she would
not throw away this opportunity of escape! To their consternation they
soon saw that her aunt’s appeal was not making the slightest impression
upon her. Jijū, for her part, had recently become engaged to a young
cousin of the provincial treasurer’s, who was to accompany him
to his province, and she was therefore pledged to go down to Tsukushi,
whether the princess joined the party or not. She was however deeply
attached to her mistress and very loath indeed to leave her in her
present condition. She therefore discussed the matter with her again,
and did everything in her power to persuade the princess to accompany
them; only to make the extraordinary discovery that Suyetsumu was still
from day to day living in the hope that the visitor from whom she
had for all those years had no word would suddenly reappear and put
everything to rights again. ‘He was very fond of me,’ she said. ‘It is
only because he has been unhappy himself that he has not remembered
to write to me. If he had the slightest idea of what is happening
to us here, he would come at once....’ So she had been thinking for
years, and though the general structure of the house fell every day
into a more fantastic state of dilapidation, she still persisted as
obstinately as ever in retaining every trifling article of furniture
and decoration in exactly the place where it had always been. She spent
so much of her time in tears that a certain part of her face had now
become as red as the flower which the hillman carries over his ear; so
that her appearance, particularly when she showed her face in profile,
would have struck a casual visitor as somewhat forbidding. But of
this I will say no more; it is perhaps always a mistake to enter into
matters of that kind.
As the cold weather came on, existence at the Hitachi Palace rapidly
became more and more difficult. The princess sat staring in front of
her, plunged in unbroken gloom. Meanwhile Genji celebrated the ritual
of the Eight Readings, in memory of his father, the old Emperor. He
took great trouble in choosing the priests for this ceremony and
succeeded finally in assembling a notable band of dignitaries.
Among them none was more renowned for the sanctity of his life and
the wide range of his studies than Princess Suyetsumu’s brother, the
Abbot of Daigoji. On his way back from the ceremony, he looked in for a
moment at the Hitachi Palace. ‘I have just been celebrating the Eight
Readings in Prince Genji’s palace,’ he said; ‘a magnificent ceremony!
It is a pleasure to take part in such a service as that! I cannot
imagine anything more beautiful and impressive. A veritable paradise—I
say it in all reverence—a veritable paradise on earth; and the
prince himself, so calm and dignified, you might have thought him an
incarnation of some holy Buddha or Bodhisat. How came so bright a being
to be born into this dim world of ours?’ So saying, he hurried off to
his temple. Unlike ordinary, worldly men and women he never wasted
time in discussing sordid everyday affairs or gossiping about other
people’s business. Consequently he made no allusion to the embarrassed
circumstances in which his sister was living. She sometimes wondered
whether even the Saints whom he worshipped would, if they had found
some one in a like situation, really have succeeded in behaving with so
splendid an indifference.
She was indeed beginning to feel that she could hold out no longer,
when one day her aunt suddenly arrived at the palace. This lady was
quite prepared to meet with the usual rebuffs; but having on this
occasion come in a comfortable travelling coach stored with everything
that the princess could need during a journey she did not for an
instant doubt that she would gain her point. With an air of complete
self-confidence she bustled towards the front gate. No sooner had the
porter begun trying to open it than she realized into what a pitch of
decay her niece’s property had fallen. The doors were off their hinges,
and as soon as they were moved tottered over sideways, and it
was not till her own menservants come to the rescue that, after a
tremendous shouldering and hoisting, a passage was cleared through
which she could enter the grounds. What did one do next? Even such a
heap of gimcrack ruins as this presumably had some apertures which
were conventionally recognized as doors and windows. A lattice door
on the southern side of the house was half open and here the visitors
halted. It did not seem possible that any human being was within hail;
but to their astonishment, from behind a smoke-stained, tattered
screen-of-state the maid Jijū suddenly appeared. She was looking very
haggard, but though age and suffering had greatly changed her, she was
still a well-made, pleasing woman; ‘at any rate far more presentable
than her mistress,’ thought the visitors. ‘We are just starting,’ cried
out the aunt to the lady of the house, who, as she guessed, was seated
behind this sooty screen: ‘I have come to take Jijū away. I am afraid
you will find it very difficult to get on without her, but even if
you will not deign to have any dealings with us yourself, I am sure
you will not be so inconsiderate as to stand in this poor creature’s
way....’ She put in so moving a plea on behalf of Jijū that there
ought by rights to have been tears in her eyes. But she was in such
high spirits at the prospect of travelling as a provincial governor’s
wife that a smile of pleasant anticipation played upon her lips all
the while. ‘I know quite well,’ she continued, ‘that the late prince
was not at all proud of his connexion with us, and I am sure it was
quite natural that when you were a child you should pick up his way
of thinking and feeling. But that is a long time ago now. You may say
that it was my fault we did not meet. But really while celebrities such
as Prince Genji were frequenting the house I was not at all sure that
humble people like ourselves would be welcome. However, one of the
advantages of being of no importance is that we humdrum creatures
are not subject to the same violent ups and downs as you exalted
people. I for my part was very sorry to see your fortunes declining
so rapidly as they have done of late, but so long as I was near at
hand I was quite happy about you and did not consider it my duty to
interfere. But now that I am going away to another part of the country,
I confess I feel very uneasy....’ ‘It would be delightful to go with
you. Most people would be very glad indeed.... But I think that as long
as the place holds together at all I had better go on as I am....’
That was all that could be got out of her. ‘Well, that is for you to
decide,’ said the aunt at last, ‘but I should not think that anyone
has ever before buried himself alive in such a god-forsaken place. I
am sure that if you had asked him in time Prince Genji would have been
delighted to put things straight for you; indeed, with a touch here
and there no doubt he would soon have made the place more sumptuous
than the Jade Emperor’s[6] Palace. But unfortunately he is now entirely
preoccupied with this young daughter of Prince Hyōbukyō, and will do
nothing for anyone else. He used to lead a roving life, distributing
his favours in all sorts of directions. But now that has all stopped,
and under these circumstances it is very unlikely to occur to him that
a person living buried away in the middle of such a jungle as this,
is all the time expecting him to rush round and take her affairs in
hand.’ The princess knew that this was only too true and she now began
to weep bitterly. Yet she showed no signs of changing her mind, and
the Chancellor’s wife, after wasting the whole afternoon in tormenting
her, exclaimed at last: ‘Well then, I shall take Jijū. Make haste,
please, please; it is getting late!’ Weeping and flustered Jijū drew
her mistress back into the alcove: ‘I never meant to go,’ she
whispered, ‘but this lady seems so very anxious to take me. I think
perhaps I will travel with them part of the way and then come back
again. There is a great deal of truth in all that she has been saying.
But then, on the other hand, I do not like to upset you by leaving. It
is terrible to have to decide so quickly....’ So she whispered; but
though the princess loved her dearly and was stung to the quick that
even this last friend should be making ready to desert her, she said
not a word to encourage Jijū to stay, but only sobbed more bitterly
than before. She was wondering what she could give to her maid to keep
in remembrance of her long service in the family. Perhaps some cloak
or dress? Unfortunately all her clothes were far too worn and soiled
to give away. She remembered that somewhere in the house was a rather
pretty box containing some plaited strands of her own hair, her fine
glossy hair that grew seven feet long. This would be her present,
and along with it she would give one of those boxes of delicious
clothes-scent that still survived from the old days when her parents
were alive. These she handed to Jijū together with an acrostic poem in
which she compared her departure to the severing of this plaited tress
of hair. ‘Your Mama told me always to look after you,’ she said, ‘and
whatever happened to me I should never dream of sending you away. I
think however that you are probably right to go, and only wish that
some one nicer were taking charge of you....’ ‘I know Mama wished me to
stay with you,’ said Jijū at last through her tears. ‘But quite apart
from that, we have been through such terrible times together in these
last years that I cannot bear to go off heaven knows where and leave
you here to shift for yourself. But, Madam, “By the Gods of Travel to
whom I shall make offering upon my way, I swear that never can _I_
be shorn from you like this tress of severed hair.”’ Suddenly
the voice of the aunt broke in upon them shouting impatiently: ‘What
has become of Jijū? Be quick, now, it is getting quite dark!’ Hardly
knowing what she did, Jijū climbed into the coach and as it drove away
stared helplessly at the dilapidated house.
So at last Jijū had left her; Jijū who for years past, though in sore
need of a little pleasure and distraction, had never once asked for
a single day’s holiday! But this was not the end of the princess’s
troubles; for now even the few old charwomen who still remained in the
house—poor doddering creatures who could never have persuaded anyone
else to employ them—began threatening to leave. ‘Do you think I blame
her?’ said one of them, speaking of Jijū’s departure. ‘Not I! What had
she to stay for, I ask you. And come to that, I should like to know
why we go on putting up with it all.’ And they began with one accord
remembering influential patrons who had at one time or another promised
to employ them. No, decidedly they would not stay in the place any
longer.
These conversations, which took place in the princess’s hearing, had
the most disquieting effect upon her. The Frosty Month[7] had now
come. In the open country around, though snow and hail frequently
fell, they tended to melt between-whiles. But in the wilderness that
surrounded the Hitachi Palace vast drifts of snow, protected by the
tangled overgrowth from any ray of sunlight, piled higher and higher,
till one might have fancied oneself in some valley among the Alps of
Koshi. Through these arctic wastes not even the peasants would consent
to press their way and the palace was for weeks on end entirely cut off
from the outer world.
The princess sat staring at the snow. Life had been dull enough before,
but at any rate she had some one at hand whose chatter at
times broke in upon her gloom. But now Jijū’s laughter, Jijū’s tears
were gone, and as she lay day and night alike behind her crumbling
curtains-of-state the princess was consumed by a loneliness and misery
such as she had never known before.
Meanwhile, at the Nijō Palace, Genji remained wholly absorbed in the
girl from whom he had so long been separated, and it was only a few
very particular friends who heard any news of him at all. He did
sometimes think of the Hitachi Palace and wondered whether the princess
could still be living there all alone. But he was in no great hurry to
discover, and the New Year passed without his having taken any steps
about her. In the fourth month he decided to call upon the ladies
in the Village of Falling Flowers, and having obtained Murasaki’s
permission he set out one evening, clad in his usual disguise. For days
it had rained unceasingly. But now, just at the moment when the heavy
rain stopped and only a few scattered drops were falling, the moon
rose; and soon it was one of those exquisite late spring nights through
whose moonlight stillness he had in earlier years so often ridden out
on errands of adventure. Busy with memories of such excursions he had
not noticed where he was driving, when suddenly looking up he saw a
pile of ruined buildings surrounded by plantations so tangled and
overgrown that they wore the aspect of a primeval jungle. Over a tall
pine-tree a trail of wisteria blossoms was hanging; it quivered in the
moonlight, shaken by a sudden puff of wind that carried with it when
it reached him a faint and almost imperceptible odour of flowers. It
was for orange-blossom that he had set out that night; but here too
was a flower that had a fragrance worth enjoying. He leaned out of the
carriage window. They were passing by a willow whose branches swept
the ground; with the crumbling away of the wall which had once
supported it the tree had fallen forward till its trunk was almost
prostrate. Surely he had seen these grounds before? Why, yes, this must
be—suddenly it all came back to him. Of course it was that strange
lady’s house. He was driving past the Hitachi Palace. Poor creature, he
must discover at once what had become of her; and stopping his carriage
and calling to Koremitsu, who as usual on occasions of the kind was in
attendance upon him, he asked him whether this was not indeed Princess
Suyetsumu’s place. ‘Why certainly!’ said Koremitsu. ‘In that case,’
said Genji, ‘I should like to find out whether the same people are
still living there. I have not time to pay a personal visit now, but
I should like you to go in and enquire. Make sure that you discover
exactly how things stand. It looks so silly if one calls on the wrong
people.’
After a particularly dismal morning spent in staring blankly in front
of her the princess had fallen asleep and dreamed that her father, the
late prince, was still alive and well. After such a dream as that she
woke up more miserable than ever. The window side of the room had been
flooded in the recent rains; but taking a cloth she began mopping up
the water and trying to find a place where she could put her chair.
While she did so the stress of her sufferings stirred her to a point
of mental alertness which she did not often reach. She had composed
a poem, and suddenly she recited the lines: ‘To the tears I shed in
longing for him that is no more, are added the ceaseless drippings that
patter from my broken roof!’
Meanwhile Koremitsu had made his way into the house and was wandering
this way and that looking for some sign of life. He spent a long while
in poking into all sorts of corners and at last concluded that the
place had been abandoned as uninhabited. He was just setting out to
report this to Genji when the moon came out from behind a cloud,
lighting up the front of the house. He then noticed a trellis roll-door
which was half pulled up. A curtain behind it moved. It almost seemed
as though some one were there. Koremitsu, feeling oddly enough quite
nervous, turned back and approached this door, clearing his throat
loudly as he did so. In answer to this signal a very aged, decrepit
voice answered from within the room. ‘Well, what is it? Who are you?’
‘It is Koremitsu,’ he answered, ‘could you tell Jijū that I should like
to speak to her?’ ‘Jijū?’ the aged voice answered, ‘you cannot speak
to her, she has gone away. But would not I do just as well?’ The voice
was incredibly ancient and croaking, but he recognized it as that of
one of the gentlewomen whom he used to meet here in former days. To
those within, inured as they were to years of absolute isolation, the
sudden apparition of this figure wrapped in a great hunting cloak, was
a mystery so startling and inexplicable that for a while it did not
occur to them that their visitor could be other than some fox-spirit
or will-o’-the-wisp masquerading in human form. But the apparition
behaved with reassuring gentility and coming right up to the doorway
now addressed them as follows: ‘I must make it my business to find
out exactly how matters stand. If you can assure me that, on your
mistress’s side, nothing has changed since the time when we used to
come here, then I think you will find His Highness my master no less
ready to help you than he was in days gone by. Can I trust you to let
her know that we halted here to-night? I must be able to report to my
master that his message is in safe hands....’ The old lady and her
companions burst out laughing. ‘Listen to him!’ they cried, ‘asking
whether Madam has altered her way of life, whether she has taken to
new friends! Do you suppose, young man, that if she were not
waiting day and night for this famous prince of yours, she would still
be living in this wilderness? Why, if there had been a soul in the
world to help us, we should have shifted from these tumbledown quarters
a long while ago. Just let Prince Genji have a look at the place for
himself; he’ll soon know how things stand! Yes, and we have been living
like this for years; I shouldn’t think anyone in the world has ever
been through such times as we have in this house. I tell you it’s a
wonder we’ve been able to bear it for so long, such a life as we and
our poor young lady have been leading....’ They soon got launched upon
a recital of their sufferings and misfortunes, which wandered so far
from the purpose in hand that Koremitsu, growing impatient, at last
interrupted them. ‘Enough, enough,’ he cried; ‘that will do to go on
with. I will go to Prince Genji at once and tell him of this.’
‘What a long time you have been!’ exclaimed Genji, when Koremitsu
finally reappeared. ‘Are things in the palace much as they used to be?
The whole place is so overgrown with creepers and bushes that I hardly
recognize it.’ Koremitsu described how he at last discovered signs of
life in the house and finally recognized the voice of Shōshō, Jijū’s
old aunt, who had told him the lamentable tale which he now repeated.
Genji was horror-stricken at what he heard. How she must have suffered,
buried away month after month amid all this disorder and decay! He was
appalled at his own cruelty. How was it conceivable that he should have
left her all this while to her own devices? ‘Now then, what am I to
do?’ he said at last. ‘If I am to visit the poor lady I had much rather
it was not at this time of night; but if I do not go in now, I may not
get another chance for a long while. I am afraid that what the old
ladies said is only too true; if she were not counting upon my return,
she would scarcely have gone on living such a life as you have
just heard described....’ He was about to go straight into the house,
but suddenly he hesitated. Would it not be better first of all to send
in a very nice friendly note and discover whether she really insisted
upon seeing him? But then he remembered the extraordinary difficulty
with which she penned an answer. If she had not very much improved in
this respect since his last dealings with her, he might easily spend
the rest of the night waiting for his messenger to return with her
reply. He had just dismissed that idea as impracticable when Koremitsu
broke in: ‘Pardon me, you have no notion how difficult it is to force
a way through the brambles. Let me go first and shake the dew off the
long branches. Then you will not get quite so wet.’
Accordingly Koremitsu went in front lashing the bushes with his
riding-whip. But when they got under the trees such showers shook
down on them from the branches (for the woods were still wet with the
recent rains) that Koremitsu was obliged to go and fetch his master’s
umbrella, quoting as he held it aloft the old song about the dense
forests of Miyagi-no, where ‘the drippings from wet boughs are worse
than rain.’ Even so, the ends of Genji’s trousers became dripping
wet before he reached the house. It was by no means easy even in old
days to distinguish which was supposed to be the front door. By now
such architectural features as doors and lobbies had long ago become
merged in the general dilapidation. Genji’s entry, though effected
by a somewhat undignified scramble, had at any rate the advantage of
being completely private and unobserved. At last, just as she had
always predicted, Genji had come back! But in the midst of her elation
a sudden panic seized her. How could she meet him in the miserable
dress that she was wearing? All seemed lost, when she remembered
the clothes that her aunt had brought for her to travel in. She had
thought at the time that her father would have considered them very
unsuitable and had put them aside after a mere hasty glance. The
servants had packed them in a scented Chinese trunk and now brought
them out, smelling deliciously fragrant. She could not receive him in
what she was wearing and she had nothing else to change into. Much as
she disapproved of her aunt’s taste, what could she do but let them
dress her in these new-fangled clothes? Thus equipped she took her seat
behind the smoky curtains-of-state and waited. Presently Genji entered
the room. ‘It is a long time since we have held any communication, is
it not?’ he said, ‘but on my side at any rate that does not mean that
there has been any change of feeling. I was all the while expecting to
hear from you and was determined that I would not be the first to give
a sign of life. At last however the sight of the familiar tree-groups
by your gate overcame this resolution and I could not forbear....’ So
saying he lifted one corner of the curtains that surrounded her daïs
and peeped in. As in old days she was utterly overcome by confusion,
and sat for some while unable to make any kind of rejoinder. At last,
almost inaudibly, she murmured something about its being ‘kind of him
to have found his way ... through all those wet bushes ... such a
scramble!’
‘I am afraid you have been having a very dull time,’ he went on;
‘but pray give me credit for to-night’s persistence. It showed some
devotion, did it not, that I should have forced my way into the heart
of this tangled, dripping maze, without a word of invitation or
encouragement? I am sure you will forgive me for neglecting you for so
long when I tell you that for some while past I have seen absolutely
no one. Not having received a word of any kind from you, I
could not suppose that you were particularly anxious to see me. But
henceforward I am going to assume, whether you write to me or no, that
I shall not be unwelcome. There now! After that, if I ever behave badly
again you will really have some cause to complain.’ So unhappy was he
at the thought of all that she must have suffered during those years
of penury and isolation that, in his desire to make amends, he soon
began saying things which he did not quite mean. He even had thoughts
of giving up his intended excursion and staying here for the night. But
the princess seemed to be so painfully conscious of the deficiencies
in her domestic arrangements and in general so completely overwhelmed
by the presence of a visitor, that after passing some time in rather
unsuccessful efforts to make further conversation, he began looking
for an opportunity to slip quietly away. There came into his mind
the old song: ‘The tree I planted spreads its boughs so high.’[8] He
had not indeed planted those great pine-trees that closed about the
ruined palace on every side, but it seemed to him that they had shot up
surprisingly since he first visited the place. How quickly the years
had sped! And from the thought of what she must have been through
during all this time he passed naturally to the recollection of his own
misfortunes and adventures. ‘Yes, when one comes to think of it, it is
indeed a long time,’ he said at last. ‘At Court there have been great
changes, many of them for the worse. Some day when I have plenty of
time I must tell you of my exile and the strange outcast life we led
on those deserted shores. You too, no doubt, have much to tell of all
that has befallen you in these last dull and dreary days. I could wish
indeed that you had many friends to whom you could confide your
sorrows. But if for the moment I am the only one, make what use of me
you can. You will find that, whatever my faults may be, as a listener I
have much to recommend me.’
The moon was now sinking. The main western door stood wide open, and
as the covered gallery which had formerly run along that side of
the house had now completely crumbled away, the moonlight streamed
unimpeded into the room where they were sitting. Looking about him he
recognized one after another the familiar fittings and ornaments. Not
a thing was missing from its place. It was strange indeed to contrast
the absolutely unchanged aspect of this corner of the house with the
surrounding wreckage and desolation. He remembered the old story of
the unfilial son who so much enjoyed pulling down the pagoda which his
poor father had erected. The princess could not indeed prevent the
outward fabric of her father’s palace from falling into decay; but it
was astonishing how little trace the passage of time had left upon the
inner room in which he had once taken such pride.
Genji’s thoughts returned to the princess herself. She was the shyest,
the most awkward creature he had ever met; and yet there was something
extraordinarily distinguished about her movements and bearing. She
interested him, as indeed she had always done; so much so that he had
fully intended not to lose sight of her. How should he ever forgive
himself for allowing her affairs to drift into this deplorable
condition? The truth was, he had been entirely absorbed in his own
troubles and projects. But that was no excuse.
Had his ultimate destination that night been some scene of lively
modern entertainment, the contrast would have been fatal. But the
Village of Falling Flowers struck him on this occasion as particularly
staid and dreary, and he left with the impression that the latter
hours of the night had been by no means more agreeably spent than the
former.
The time of the Kamo Festival had come. On the eve of the festival-day
Genji was to undergo the ritual of Purification and the presents which
are customary in connexion with this occasion began pouring in thick
and fast. Much of his time was spent in acknowledging them; but he did
not forget his promise to the lady at Hitachi. The first thing to do
was to make her palace habitable; and sending for his most reliable
bailiffs he explained to them what he wanted done. Soon a host of
workmen were clearing away the undergrowth, while carpenters went
round with planks and stays, here patching a hole, there shoring up
a tottering wall or replacing some rotten beam, till at last all was
tolerably weather-tight and secure. The mere fact that Genji’s men
were at work upon the building at once set the gossips talking and the
most absurd stories were circulated. Somewhat embarrassed by all this
Genji himself remained at a distance, but he wrote a long letter to the
princess, telling her of the new rooms which he was now adding to his
palace and offering her accommodation in them, so soon as the place was
ready. ‘You had better be looking round for a few nice young maids and
pages to bring with you,’ he told her. Nor did he forget to enquire
individually after each of the queer old waiting-ladies, an attention
which put them into such high spirits that the old palace had hardly
room enough to hold them, as now gazing up at the sky, now staring in
the direction from which the messenger had come, they gave unbridled
vent to their gratitude and admiration. It was well known in society
that Genji took little interest in the common run of women. Even the
mildest flirtation with such persons seemed to hold no attraction
for him; their conversation would have bored him and indeed he
scarcely seemed to notice their existence. Those few favoured persons
with whom he was generally known to have been on terms of intimacy were
in every case women of entirely exceptional qualities. That one who in
general showed such discrimination should single out as the recipient
of his attentions a creature who could not lay claim to a single merit
either of person or intellect, caused universal astonishment. This much
at any rate was agreed, that though no one had heard anything about it,
the affair must in reality be of very long standing.
The retainers and dependants who, thinking that the Hitachi Palace
would never see better days, had a short while ago been in such a
hurry to seek other employment, now one after another came begging to
re-enter the princess’s service. She at any rate knew how to behave
towards those who waited upon her—treated them even with perhaps an
exaggerated consideration. Whereas in the houses to which they had
betaken themselves, belonging for the most part to wholly uncultured
and undistinguished members of the petty bureaucracy, their experiences
had been such as they would never have imagined to be possible; and
they made no secret of the fact that they heartily repented of their
recent experiment.
Prince Genji’s influence was now greater than it had ever been in the
days before his disaster. The mere fact that he was known to take an
interest in the Hitachi Palace was enough to invest the place with a
certain glamour. Visitors began to make their appearance, and soon the
once deserted hills presented quite a busy and animated scene. One
thing which had made the house so depressing was the fact that it was
wholly shut in by bushes and trees. This jungle Genji now ordered to
be reduced to tolerable dimensions; he had the ponds cleared and
pleasant streams were made to run in and out among the flower-beds. All
this work was performed with remarkable despatch, for even the lowest
labourers and serfs knew that it was in their interest to please a lady
who, for whatever reason it might be, evidently stood high in Genji’s
esteem.
She lived for two years more in the old palace, at the end of which
time she moved into the new Eastern Wing that Prince Genji had been
building. He did not spend much time in her company, but she was
well content merely to feel that they inhabited the same domain, and
whenever he had occasion to visit that part of the house he would look
in upon her for a few minutes, that she might not feel she was wholly
neglected. Her aunt’s astonishment when in due time she returned to the
Capital—Jijū’s delight at her mistress’s good fortune and shame at the
thought that she had not held out a little longer in the princess’s
service—all this remains yet to be told. I would indeed have been glad
to carry my story a little further, but at this moment my head is
aching and I am feeling very tired and depressed. Provided a favourable
opportunity presents itself and I do not forget to, I promise I will
tell you all about it on some future occasion.
[1] Suyetsumuhana. See vol. i, ch. vi. I shall henceforward call her
Suyetsumu.
[2] Such a term must only be taken as a rough equivalent.
[3] Of these three romances the first is quite unknown; the second
must have been a Taoist fairy story, for ‘Hakoya’ is the ‘Miao-ku-shē’
of Chuang Tzŭ, Chapter I,—a divine mountain inhabited by mysterious
sages. The third is either identical with the _Taketori Monogatari_
(‘The Bamboo-cutter’s Story’) or at any rate treated the same theme.
[4] Kanya River (‘Paper-makers’ River’) is between Hirano and Kitano,
near Kyōto. Michinoku paper, from the province of that name, was made
of spindle-wood. These stout Japanese papers become thick and fluffy
with age.
[5] The _Saddharmapundarika Sūtra_.
[6] The sovereign divinity of the Chinese Taoists.
[7] Eleventh month.
[8] ‘I knew it not, but an old man must I be indeed; the pine-tree that
with my hands I planted spreads its boughs so high.’