THE BROOM-TREE
Genji the Shining One.... He knew that the bearer of such a name could
not escape much scrutiny and jealous censure and that his lightest
dallyings would be proclaimed to posterity. Fearing then lest he
should appear to after ages as a mere good-for-nothing and trifler,
and knowing that (so accursed is the blabbing of gossips’ tongues) his
most secret acts might come to light, he was obliged always to act
with great prudence and to preserve at least the outward appearance of
respectability. Thus nothing really romantic ever happened to him and
Katano no Shōshō[1] would have scoffed at his story.
While he was still a Captain of the Guard and was spending most of his
time at the Palace, his infrequent visits to the Great Hall[2] were
taken as a sign that some secret passion had made its imprint on his
heart. But in reality the frivolous, commonplace, straight-ahead
amours of his companions did not in the least interest him, and it was
a curious trait in his character that when on rare occasions, despite
all resistance, love did gain a hold upon him, it was always in the
most improbable and hopeless entanglement that he became involved.
It was the season of the long rains. For many days there had not been
a fine moment and the Court was keeping a strict fast. The people at
the Great Hall were becoming very impatient of Genji’s long residence
at the Palace, but the young lords, who were Court pages, liked
waiting upon Genji better than upon anyone else, always managing to
put out his clothes and decorations in some marvellous new way. Among
these brothers his greatest friend was the Equerry, Tō no Chūjō, with
whom above all other companions of his playtime he found himself
familiar and at ease. This lord too found the house which his
father-in-law, the Minister of the Right, had been at pains to build
for him, somewhat oppressive, while at his father’s house he, like
Genji, found the splendours somewhat dazzling, so that he ended by
becoming Genji’s constant companion at Court. They shared both studies
and play and were inseparable companions on every sort of occasion, so
that soon all formalities were dispensed with between them and the
inmost secrets of their hearts freely exchanged.
It was on a night when the rain never ceased its dismal downpour.
There were not many people about in the palace and Genji’s rooms
seemed even quieter than usual. He was sitting by the lamp, looking at
various books and papers. Suddenly he began pulling some letters out
of the drawers of a desk which stood near by. This aroused Tō no
Chūjō’s curiosity. ‘Some of them I can show to you’ said Genji, ‘but
there are others which I had rather....’ ‘It is just those which I
want to see. Ordinary, commonplace letters are very much alike and I
do not suppose that yours differ much from mine. What I want to see
are passionate letters written in moments of resentment, letters
hinting consent, letters written at dusk....’
He begged so eagerly that Genji let him examine the drawers. It was
not indeed likely that he had put any very important or secret
documents in the ordinary desk; he would have hidden them away much
further from sight. So he felt sure that the letters in these drawers
would be nothing to worry about. After turning over a few of them,
‘What an astonishing variety!’ Tō no Chūjō exclaimed and began
guessing at the writers’ names, and made one or two good hits. More
often he was wrong and Genji, amused by his puzzled air, said very
little but generally managed to lead him astray. At last he took the
letters back, saying ‘But you too must have a large collection. Show
me some of yours, and my desk will open to you with better will.’ ‘I
have none that you would care to see,’ said Tō no Chūjō, and he
continued: ‘I have at last discovered that there exists no woman of
whom one can say “Here is perfection. This is indeed she.” There are
many who have the superficial art of writing a good running hand, or
if occasion requires of making a quick repartee. But there are few who
will stand the ordeal of any further test. Usually their minds are
entirely occupied by admiration for their own accomplishments, and
their abuse of all rivals creates a most unpleasant impression. Some
again are adored by over-fond parents. These have been since childhood
guarded behind lattice windows[3] and no knowledge of them is allowed
to reach the outer-world, save that of their excellence in some
accomplishment or art; and this may indeed sometimes arouse our
interest. She is pretty and graceful and has not yet mixed at all with
the world. Such a girl by closely copying some model and applying
herself with great industry will often succeed in really mastering one
of the minor and ephemeral arts. Her friends are careful to say
nothing of her defects and to exaggerate her accomplishments, and
while we cannot altogether trust their praise we cannot believe that
their judgment is entirely astray. But when we take steps to test
their statements we are invariably disappointed.’
He paused, seeming to be slightly ashamed of the cynical tone which he
had adopted, and added ‘I know my experience is not large, but that is
the conclusion I have come to so far.’ Then Genji, smiling: ‘And are
there any who lack even one accomplishment?’ ‘No doubt, but in such a
case it is unlikely that anyone would be successfully decoyed. The
number of those who have nothing to recommend them and of those in
whom nothing but good can be found is probably equal. I divide women
into three classes. Those of high rank and birth are made such a fuss
of and their weak points are so completely concealed that we are
certain to be told that they are paragons. About those of the middle
class everyone is allowed to express his own opinion, and we shall
have much conflicting evidence to sift. As for the lower classes, they
do not concern us.’
The completeness with which Tō no Chūjō disposed of the question
amused Genji, who said ‘It will not always be so easy to know into
which of the three classes a woman ought to be put. For sometimes
people of high rank sink to the most abject positions; while others of
common birth rise to be high officers, wear self-important faces,
redecorate the inside of their houses and think themselves as good as
anyone. How are we to deal with such cases?’
At this moment they were joined by Hidari no Uma no Kami and Tō
Shikibu no Jō, who said they had also come to the Palace to keep the
fast. As both of them were great lovers and good talkers, Tō no Chūjō
handed over to them the decision of Genji’s question, and in the
discussion which followed many unflattering things were said. Uma
no Kami spoke first. ‘However high a lady may rise, if she does not
come of an adequate stock, the world will think very differently of
her from what it would of one born to such honours; but if through
adverse fortune a lady of highest rank finds herself in friendless
misery, the noble breeding of her mind is soon forgotten and she
becomes an object of contempt. I think then that taking all things
into account, we must put such ladies too into the “middle class.” But
when we come to classify the daughters of Zuryō,[4] who are sent to
labour at the affairs of distant provinces,—they have such ups and
downs that we may reasonably put them too into the middle class.
‘Then there are Ministers of the third and fourth classes without
Cabinet rank. These are generally thought less of even than the
humdrum, ordinary officials. They are usually of quite good birth, but
have much less responsibility than Ministers of State and consequently
much greater peace of mind. Girls born into such households are
brought up in complete security from want or deprivation of any kind,
and indeed often amid surroundings of the utmost luxury and splendour.
Many of them grow up into women whom it would be folly to despise;
some have been admitted at Court, where they have enjoyed a quite
unexpected success. And of this I could cite many, many instances.’
‘Their success has generally been due to their having a lot of money,’
said Genji smiling. ‘You should have known better than to say that,’
said Tō no Chūjō, reproving him, and Uma no Kami went on: ‘There are
some whose lineage and reputation are so high that it never occurs to
one that their education could possibly be at fault; yet when we meet
them, we find ourselves exclaiming in despair “How can they have
contrived to grow up like this?”
‘No doubt the perfect woman in whom none of those essentials is
lacking must somewhere exist and it would not startle me to find her.
But she would certainly be beyond the reach of a humble person like
myself, and for that reason I should like to put her in a category of
her own and not to count her in our present classification.
‘But suppose that behind some gateway overgrown with vine-weed, in a
place where no one knows there is a house at all, there should be
locked away some creature of unimagined beauty—with what excitement
should we discover her! The complete surprise of it, the upsetting of
all our wise theories and classifications, would be likely, I think,
to lay a strange and sudden enchantment upon us. I imagine her father
rather large and gruff; her brother, a surly, ill-looking fellow.
Locked away in an utterly blank and uninteresting bed-room she will be
subject to odd flights of fancy, so that in her hands the arts that
others learn as trivial accomplishments will seem strangely full of
meaning and importance; or perhaps in some particular art she will
thrill us by her delightful and unexpected mastery. Such a one may
perhaps be beneath the attention of those of you who are of flawless
lineage. But for my part I find it hard to banish her ...’ and here he
looked at Shikibu no Jō, who wondered whether the description had been
meant to apply to his own sisters, but said nothing. ‘If it is
difficult to choose even out of the top class ...’ thought Genji, and
began to doze.
He was dressed in a suit of soft white silk, with a rough cloak
carelessly slung over his shoulders, with belt and fastenings untied.
In the light of the lamp against which he was leaning he looked so
lovely that one might have wished he were a girl; and they thought
that even Uma no Kami’s ‘perfect woman,’ whom he had placed in a
category of her own, would not be worthy of such a prince as Genji.
The conversation went on. Many persons and things were discussed. Uma
no Kami contended that perfection is equally difficult to find in
other spheres. The sovereign is hard put to it to choose his
ministers. But he at least has an easier task than the husband, for he
does not entrust the affairs of his kingdom to one, two or three
persons alone, but sets up a whole system of superiors and subordinates.
But when the mistress of a house is to be selected, a single
individual must be found who will combine in her person many diverse
qualities. It will not do to be too exacting. Let us be sure that the
lady of our choice possesses certain tangible qualities which we
admire; and if in other ways she falls short of our ideal, we must be
patient and call to mind those qualities which first induced us to
begin our courting.
But even here we must beware; for there are some who in the
selfishness of youth and flawless beauty are determined that not a
dust-flick shall fall upon them. In their letters they choose the most
harmless topics, but yet contrive to colour the very texture of the
written signs with a tenderness that vaguely disquiets us. But such a
one, when we have at last secured a meeting, will speak so low that
she can scarcely be heard, and the few faint sentences that she
murmurs beneath her breath serve only to make her more mysterious than
before. All this may seem to be the pretty shrinking of girlish
modesty; but we may later find that what held her back was the very
violence of her passions.
Or again, where all seems plain sailing, the perfect companion will
turn out to be too impressionable and will upon the most inappropriate
occasions display her affections in so ludicrous a way that we begin
to wish ourselves rid of her.
Then there is the zealous house-wife, who regardless of her appearance
twists her hair behind her ears and devotes herself entirely to the
details of our domestic welfare. The husband, in his comings and
goings about the world, is certain to see and hear many things which
he cannot discuss with strangers, but would gladly talk over with an
intimate who could listen with sympathy and understanding, someone who
could laugh with him or weep if need be. It often happens too that
some political event will greatly perturb or amuse him, and he sits
apart longing to tell someone about it. He suddenly laughs at some
secret recollection or sighs audibly. But the wife only says lightly
‘What is the matter?’ and shows no interest.
This is apt to be very trying.
Uma no Kami considered several other cases. But he reached no definite
conclusion and sighing deeply he continued: ‘We will then, as I have
suggested, let birth and beauty go by the board. Let her be the
simplest and most guileless of creatures so long as she is honest and
of a peaceable disposition, that in the end we may not lack a place of
trust. And if some other virtue chances to be hers we shall treasure
it as a godsend. But if we discover in her some small defect, it shall
not be too closely scrutinized. And we may be sure that if she is
strong in the virtues of tolerance and amiability her outward
appearance will not be beyond measure harsh.
‘There are those who carry forbearance too far, and affecting not to
notice wrongs which cry out for redress seem to be paragons of misused
fidelity. But suddenly a time comes when such a one can restrain
herself no longer, and leaving behind her a poem couched in pitiful
language and calculated to rouse the most painful sentiments of
remorse, she flies to some remote village in the mountains or some
desolate seashore, and for a long while all trace of her is lost.
‘When I was a boy the ladies-in-waiting used to tell me sad tales of
this kind. I never doubted that the sentiments expressed in them were
real, and I wept profusely. But now I am beginning to suspect that
such sorrows are for the most part affectation. She has left behind
her (this lady whom we are imagining) a husband who is probably still
fond of her; she is making herself very unhappy, and by disappearing
in this way is causing him unspeakable anxiety, perhaps only for the
ridiculous purpose of putting his affection to the test. Then comes
along some admiring friend crying “What a heart! What depth of
feeling!” She becomes more lugubrious than ever, and finally enters a
nunnery. When she decided on this step she was perfectly sincere and
had not the slightest intention of ever returning to the world. Then
some female friend hears of it and “Poor thing” she cries; “in what an
agony of mind must she have been to do this!” and visits her in her
cell. When the husband, who has never ceased to mourn for her, hears
what she has become, he bursts into tears, and some servant or old
nurse, seeing this, bustles off to the nunnery with tales of the
husband’s despair, and “Oh Madam, what a shame, what a shame!” Then
the nun, forgetting where and what she is, raises her hand to her head
to straighten her hair, and finds that it has been shorn away. In
helpless misery she sinks to the floor, and do what she will, the
tears begin to flow. Now all is lost; for since she cannot at every
moment be praying for strength, there creeps into her mind the sinful
thought that she did ill to become a nun and so often does she commit
this sin that even Buddha must think her wickeder now than she was
before she took her vows; and she feels certain that these terrible
thoughts are leading her soul to the blackest Hell. But if the _karma_
of their past lives should chance to be strongly weighted against a
parting, she will be found and captured before she has taken her final
vows. In such a case their life will be beyond endurance unless she be
fully determined, come good or ill, this time to close her eyes to all
that goes amiss.
‘Again there are others who must needs be forever mounting guard over
their own and their husband’s affections. Such a one, if she sees in
him not a fault indeed but even the slightest inclination to stray,
makes a foolish scene, declaring with indignation that she will have
no more to do with him.
‘But even if a man’s fancy should chance indeed to have gone somewhat
astray, yet his earlier affection may still be strong and in the end
will return to its old haunts. Now by her tantrums she has made a rift
that cannot be joined. Whereas she who when some small wrong calls for
silent rebuke, shows by a glance that she is not unaware; but when
some large offence demands admonishment knows how to hint without
severity, will end by standing in her master’s affections better than
ever she stood before. For often the sight of our own forbearance will
give our neighbour strength to rule his mutinous affections.
‘But she whose tolerance and forgiveness know no bounds, though this
may seem to proceed from the beauty and amiability of her disposition,
is in fact displaying the shallowness of her feeling: “The unmoored
boat must needs drift with the stream.” Are you not of this mind?’
Tō no Chūjō nodded. ‘Some’ he said ‘have imagined that by arousing a
baseless suspicion in the mind of the beloved we can revive a waning
devotion. But this experiment is very dangerous. Those who recommend
it are confident that so long as resentment is groundless one need
only suffer it in silence and all will soon be well. I have observed
however that this is by no means the case.
‘But when all is said and done, there can be no greater virtue in
woman than this: that she should with gentleness and forbearance meet
every wrong whatsoever that falls to her share.’ He thought as he said
this of his own sister, Princess Aoi; but was disappointed and piqued
to discover that Genji, whose comments he awaited, was fast asleep.
Uma no Kami was an expert in such discussions and now stood preening
his feathers. Tō no Chūjō was disposed to hear what more he had to say
and was now at pains to humour and encourage him.
‘It is with women’ said Uma no Kami ‘as it is with the works of
craftsmen. The wood-carver can fashion whatever he will. Yet his
products are but toys of the moment, to be glanced at in jest, not
fashioned according to any precept or law. When times change, the
carver too will change his style and make new trifles to hit the fancy
of the passing day. But there is another kind of artist, who sets more
soberly about his work, striving to give real beauty to the things
which men actually use and to give to them the shapes which tradition
has ordained. This maker of real things must not for a moment be
confused with the carver of idle toys.
‘In the Painters’ Workshop too there are many excellent artists chosen
for their proficiency in ink-drawing; and indeed they are all so
clever it is hard to set one above the other. But all of them are at
work on subjects intended to impress and surprise. One paints the
Mountain of Hōrai; another a raging sea-monster riding a storm;
another, ferocious animals from the Land beyond the sea, or faces of
imaginary demons. Letting their fancy run wildly riot they have no
thought of beauty, but only of how best they may astonish the
beholder’s eye. And though nothing in their pictures is real, all is
probable. But ordinary hills and rivers, just as they are, houses such
as you may see anywhere, with all their real beauty and harmony of
form—quietly to draw such scenes as this, or to show what lies behind
some intimate hedge that is folded away far from the world, and thick
trees upon some unheroic hill, and all this with befitting care for
composition, proportion, and the like,—such works demand the highest
master’s utmost skill and must needs draw the common craftsman into a
thousand blunders. So too in handwriting, we see some who aimlessly
prolong their cursive strokes this way or that, and hope their
flourishes will be mistaken for genius. But true penmanship preserves
in every letter its balance and form, and though at first some letters
may seem but half-formed, yet when we compare them with the copy-books
we find that there is nothing at all amiss.
‘So it is in these trifling matters. And how much the more in judging
of the human heart should we distrust all fashionable airs and graces,
all tricks and smartness, learnt only to please the outward gaze! This
I first understood some while ago, and if you will have patience with
me I will tell you the story.’
So saying, he came and sat a little closer to them, and Genji woke up.
Tō no Chūjō, in wrapt attention, was sitting with his cheek propped
upon his hand. Uma no Kami’s whole speech that night was indeed very
much like a chaplain’s sermon about the ways of the world, and was
rather absurd. But upon such occasions as this we are easily led on
into discussing our own ideas and most private secrets without the
least reserve.
‘It happened when I was young, and in an even more humble position
than I am to-day’ Uma no Kami continued. ‘I was in love with a girl
who (like the drudging, faithful wife of whom I spoke a little
while ago) was not a full-sail beauty; and I in my youthful vanity
thought she was all very well for the moment, but would never do for
the wife of so fine a fellow as I. She made an excellent companion in
times when I was at a loose end; but she was of a disposition so
violently jealous, that I could have put up with a little less
devotion if only she had been somewhat less fiercely ardent and
exacting.
‘Thus I kept thinking, vexed by her unrelenting suspicions. But then I
would remember her ceaseless devotion to the interests of one who was
after all a person of no account, and full of remorse I made sure that
with a little patience on my part she would one day learn to school
her jealousy.
‘It was her habit to minister to my smallest wants even before I was
myself aware of them; whatever she felt was lacking in her she strove
to acquire, and where she knew that in some quality of mind she still
fell behind my desires, she was at pains never to show her deficiency
in such a way as might vex me. Thus in one way or another she was
always busy in forwarding my affairs, and she hoped that if all down
to the last dew drop (as they say) were conducted as I should wish,
this would be set down to her credit and help to balance the defects
in her person which meek and obliging as she might be could not (she
fondly imagined) fail to offend me; and at this time she even hid
herself from strangers lest their poor opinion of her looks should put
me out of countenance.
‘I meanwhile, becoming used to her homely looks, was well content with
her character, save for this one article of jealousy; and here she
showed no amendment. Then I began to think to myself “Surely, since
she seems so anxious to please, so timid, there must be some way of
giving her a fright which will teach her a lesson, so that for a while
at least we may have a respite from this accursed business.” And
though I knew it would cost me dear, I determined to make a pretence
of giving her up, thinking that since she was so fond of me this would
be the best way to teach her a lesson. Accordingly I behaved with the
greatest coldness to her, and she as usual began her jealous fit and
behaved with such folly that in the end I said to her, “If you want to
be rid for ever of one who loves you dearly, you are going the right
way about it by all these endless poutings over nothing at all. But if
you want to go on with me, you must give up suspecting some deep
intrigue each time you fancy that I am treating you unkindly. Do this,
and you may be sure I shall continue to love you dearly. It may well
be that as time goes on, I shall rise a little higher in the world and
then....”
‘I thought I had managed matters very cleverly, though perhaps in the
heat of the moment I might have spoken somewhat too roughly. She
smiled faintly and answered that if it were only a matter of bearing
for a while with my failures and disappointments, that did not trouble
her at all, and she would gladly wait till I became a person of
consequence. “But it is a hard task” she said “to go on year after
year enduring your coldness and waiting the time when you will at last
learn to behave to me with some decency; and therefore I agree with
you that the time has come when we had better go each his own way.”
Then in a fit of wild and uncontrollable jealousy she began to pour
upon me a torrent of bitter reproaches, and with a woman’s savagery
she suddenly seized my little finger and bit deep into it. The
unexpected pain was difficult to bear, but composing myself I said
tragically “Now you have put this mark upon me I shall get on worse
than ever in polite society; as for promotion, I shall be considered a
disgrace to the meanest public office and unable to cut a genteel
figure in any capacity, I shall be obliged to withdraw myself
completely from the world. You and I at any rate shall certainly not
meet again,” and bending my injured finger as I turned to go, I
recited the verse “As on bent hand I count the times that we have met,
it is not one finger only that bears witness to my pain.” And she, all
of a sudden bursting into tears ... “If still in your heart only you
look for pains to count, then were our hands best employed in
parting.” After a few more words I left her, not for a moment thinking
that all was over.
‘Days went by, and no news. I began to be restless. One night when I
had been at the Palace for the rehearsal of the Festival music, heavy
sleet was falling; and I stood at the spot where those of us who came
from the Palace had dispersed, unable to make up my mind which way to
go. For in no direction had I anything which could properly be called
a home. I might of course take a room in the Palace precincts; but I
shivered to think of the cheerless grandeur that would surround me.
Suddenly I began to wonder what she was thinking, how she was looking;
and brushing the snow off my shoulders, I set out for her house. I own
I felt uneasy; but I thought that after so long a time her anger must
surely have somewhat abated. Inside the room a lamp showed dimly,
turned to the wall. Some undergarments were hung out upon a large,
warmly-quilted couch, the bed-hangings were drawn up, and I made sure
that she was for some reason actually expecting me. I was priding
myself on having made so lucky a hit, when suddenly, “Not at home!”;
and on questioning the maid I learnt that she had but that very night
gone to her parents’ home, leaving only a few necessary servants
behind. The fact that she had till now sent no poem or conciliatory
message seemed to show some hardening of heart, and had already
disquieted me. Now I began to fear that her accursed suspiciousness
and jealousy had but been a stratagem to make me grow weary of her,
and though I could recall no further proof of this I fell into great
despair. And to show her that, though we no longer met, I still
thought of her and planned for her, I got her some stuff for a dress,
choosing a most delightful and unusual shade of colour, and a material
that I knew she would be glad to have. “For after all” I thought “she
cannot want to put me altogether out of her head.” When I informed her
of this purchase she did not rebuff me nor make any attempt to hide
from me, but to all my questions she answered quietly and composedly,
without any sign that she was ashamed of herself.
‘At last she told me that if I went on as before, she could never
forgive me; but if I would promise to live more quietly she would take
me back again. Seeing that she still hankered after me I determined to
school her a little further yet, and said that I could make no
conditions and must be free to live as I chose. So the tug of war went
on; but it seems that it hurt her far more than I knew, for in a
little while she fell into a decline and died, leaving me aghast at
the upshot of my wanton game. And now I felt that, whatever faults she
might have had, her devotion alone would have made her a fit wife for
me. I remembered how both in trivial talk and in consideration of
important matters she had never once shown herself at a loss, how in
the dyeing of brocades she rivalled the Goddess of Tatsuta who tints
the autumn leaves, and how in needlework and the like she was not less
skilful than Tanabata, the Weaving-lady of the sky.’
Here he stopped, greatly distressed at the recollection of the lady’s
many talents and virtues.
‘The Weaving-lady and the Herd boy’ said Tō no Chūjō ‘enjoy a love
that is eternal. Had she but resembled the Divine Sempstress in
this, you would not, I think, have minded her being a little less
skilful with her needle. I wonder that with this rare creature in mind
you pronounce the world to be so blank a place.’
‘Listen’ replied Uma no Kami ‘About the same time there was another
lady whom I used to visit. She was of higher birth than the first; her
skill in poetry, cursive writing, and lute-playing, her readiness of
hand and tongue were all marked enough to show that she was not a
woman of trivial nature; and this indeed was allowed by those who knew
her. To add to this she was not ill-looking and sometimes, when I
needed a rest from my unhappy persecutress, I used to visit her
secretly. In the end I found that I had fallen completely in love with
her. After the death of the other I was in great distress. But it was
no use brooding over the past and I began to visit my new lady more
and more often. I soon came to the conclusion that she was frivolous
and I had no confidence that I should have liked what went on when I
was not there to see. I now visited her only at long intervals and at
last decided that she had another lover.
‘It was during the Godless Month,[5] on a beautiful moonlight night.
As I was leaving the Palace I met a certain young courtier, who, when
I told him that I was driving out to spend the night at the
Dainagon’s, said that my way was his and joined me. The road passed my
lady’s house and here it was that he alighted, saying that he had an
engagement which he should have been very sorry not to fulfil. The
wall was half in ruins and through its gaps I saw the shadowy waters
of the lake. It would not have been easy (for even the moonbeams
seemed to loiter here!) to hasten past so lovely a place, and when he
left his coach I too left mine.
‘At once this man (whom I now knew to be that other lover whose
existence I had guessed) went and sat unconcernedly on the bamboo
skirting of the portico and began to gaze at the moon. The
chrysanthemums were just in full bloom, the bright fallen leaves were
tumbling and tussling in the wind. It was indeed a scene of wonderful
beauty that met our eyes. Presently he took a flute out of the folds
of his dress and began to play upon it. Then putting the flute aside,
he began to murmur “Sweet is the shade”[6] and other catches. Soon a
pleasant-sounding native zithern[7] began to tune up somewhere within
the house and an ingenious accompaniment was fitted to his careless
warblings. Her zithern was tuned to the autumn-mode, and she played
with so much tenderness and feeling that though the music came from
behind closed shutters it sounded quite modern and passionate,[8] and
well accorded with the soft beauty of the moonlight. The courtier was
ravished, and as he stepped forward to place himself right under her
window he turned to me and remarked in a self-satisfied way that
among the fallen leaves no other footstep had left its mark. Then
plucking a chrysanthemum, he sang:
Strange that the music of your lute,
These matchless flowers and all the beauty of the night,
Have lured no other feet to linger at your door!
and then, beseeching her pardon for his halting verses, he begged her
to play again while one was still near who longed so passionately to
hear her. When he had paid her many other compliments, the lady
answered in an affected voice with the verse:
Would that I had some song that might detain
The flute that blends its note
With the low rustling of the autumn leaves.
and after these blandishments, still unsuspecting, she took up the
thirteen-stringed lute, and tuning it to the _Banjiki_ mode[9] she
clattered at the strings with all the frenzy that fashion now demands.
It was a fine performance no doubt, but I cannot say that it made a
very agreeable impression upon me.
‘A man may amuse himself well enough by trifling from time to time
with some lady at the Court; will get what pleasure he can out of it
while he is with her and not trouble his head about what goes on when
he is not there. This lady too I only saw from time to time, but such
was her situation that I had once fondly imagined myself the only
occupant of her thoughts. However that night’s work dissolved the last
shred of my confidence, and I never saw her again.
‘These two experiences, falling to my lot while I was still so young,
early deprived me of any hope from women. And since that time my view
of them has but grown the blacker. No doubt to you at your age they
seem very entrancing, these “dew-drops on the grass that fall if they
are touched,” these “glittering hailstones that melt if gathered in
the hand.” But when you are a little older you will think as I do.
Take my advice in this at least; beware of caressing manners and soft,
entangling ways. For if you are so rash as to let them lead you
astray, you will soon find yourselves cutting a very silly figure
in the world.’
Tō no Chūjō as usual nodded his assent, and Genji’s smile seemed such
as to show that he too accepted Uma no Kami’s advice. ‘Your two
stories were certainly very dismal’ he said, laughing. And here Tō no
Chūjō interposed: ‘I will tell you a story about myself. There was a
lady whose acquaintance I was obliged to make with great secrecy. But
her beauty well rewarded my pains, and though I had no thought of
making her my wife I grew so fond of her that I soon found I could not
put her out of my head and she seemed to have complete confidence in
me. Such confidence indeed that when from time to time I was obliged
to behave in such a way as might well have aroused her resentment, she
seemed not to notice that anything was amiss, and even when I
neglected her for many weeks, she treated me as though I were still
coming every day. In the end indeed I found this readiness to receive
me whenever and however I came very painful, and determined for the
future to merit her strange confidence.
‘Her parents were dead and this was perhaps why, since I was all she
had in the world, she treated me with such loving meekness, despite
the many wrongs I did her. I must own that my resolution did not last
long, and I was soon neglecting her worse than before. During this
time (I did not hear of it till afterwards) someone who had discovered
our friendship began to send her veiled messages which cruelly
frightened and distressed her. Knowing nothing of the trouble she was
in, although I often thought of her I neither came nor wrote to her
for a long while. Just when she was in her worst despair a child was
born, and at last in her distress she plucked a blossom of the flower
that is called “Child of my Heart” and sent it to me.’
And here Tō no Chūjō’s eyes filled with tears.
‘Well’ said Genji ‘and did she write a message to go with it?’ ‘Oh
nothing very out-of-the-ordinary’ said Tō no Chūjō. ‘She wrote:
“Though tattered be the hillman’s hedge, deign sometimes to look with
kindness upon the Child-flower that grows so sweetly there.” This
brought me to her side. As usual she did not reproach me, but she
looked sad enough, and when I considered the dreary desolation of this
home where every object wore an aspect no less depressing than the
wailing voices of the crickets in the grass, she seemed to me like
some unhappy princess in an ancient story, and wishing her to feel
that it was for the mother’s sake and not the child’s that I had come,
I answered with a poem in which I called the Child-flower by its other
name “Bed-flower,” and she replied with a poem that darkly hinted at
the cruel tempest which had attended this Bed-flower’s birth. She
spoke lightly and did not seem to be downright angry with me; and when
a few tears fell she was at great pains to hide them, and seemed more
distressed at the thought that I might imagine her to be unhappy than
actually resentful of my conduct towards her. So I went away with an
easy mind and it was some while before I came again. When at last I
returned she had utterly disappeared, and if she is alive she must be
living a wretched vagrant life. If while I still loved her she had but
shown some outward sign of her resentment, she would not have ended
thus as an outcast and wanderer; for I should never have dared to
leave her so long neglected, and might in the end have acknowledged
her and made her mine forever. The child too was a sweet creature, and
I have spent much time in searching for them, but still without success.
‘It is, I fear, as sorrowful a tale as that which Uma no Kami has told
you. I, unfaithful, thought that I was not missed; and she, still
loved, was in no better case than one whose love is not returned.
I indeed am fast forgetting her; but she, it may be, cannot put me out
of her mind and I fear there may be nights when thoughts that she
would gladly banish burn fiercely in her breast; for now I fancy she
must be living a comfortless and unprotected life.’
‘When all is said and done’ said Uma no Kami ‘my friend, though I pine
for her now that she is gone, was a sad plague to me while I had her,
and we must own that such a one will in the end be sure to make us
wish ourselves well rid of her. The zithern-player had much talent to
her credit, but was a great deal too light-headed. And your diffident
lady, Tō no Chūjō, seems to me to be a very suspicious case. The world
appears to be so constructed that we shall in the end be always at a
loss to make a reasoned choice; despite all our picking, sifting and
comparing we shall never succeed in finding this in all ways and to
all lengths adorable and impeccable female.’
‘I can only suggest the Goddess Kichijō’[10] said Tō no Chūjō ‘and I
fear that intimacy with so holy and majestic a being might prove to be
impracticable.’
At this they all laughed and Tō no Chūjō continued: ‘But now it is
Shikibu’s turn and he is sure to give us something entertaining. Come
Shikibu, keep the ball rolling!’ ‘Nothing of interest ever happens to
humble folk like myself’ said Shikibu; but Tō no Chūjō scolded him for
keeping them waiting and after reflecting for a while which anecdote
would best suit the company, he began: ‘While I was still a student at
the University, I came across a woman who was truly a prodigy of
intelligence. One of Uma no Kami’s demands she certainly fulfilled,
for it was possible to discuss with her to advantage both public
matters and the proper handling of one’s private affairs. But not only
was her mind capable of grappling with any problems of this kind;
she was also so learned that ordinary scholars found themselves, to
their humiliation, quite unable to hold their own against her.
‘I was taking lessons from her father, who was a Professor. I had
heard that he had several daughters, and some accidental circumstance
made it necessary for me to exchange a word or two with one of them
who turned out to be the learned prodigy of whom I have spoken. The
father, hearing that we had been seen together, came up to me with a
wine-cup in his hand and made an allusion to the poem of The Two
Wives.[11] Unfortunately I did not feel the least inclination towards
the lady. However I was very civil to her; upon which she began to
take an affectionate interest in me and lost no opportunity of
displaying her talents by giving me the most elaborate advice how best
I might advance my position in the world. She sent me marvellous
letters written in a very far-fetched epistolary style and entirely in
Chinese characters; in return for which I felt bound to visit her, and
by making her my teacher I managed to learn how to write Chinese
poems. They were wretched, knock-kneed affairs, but I am still
grateful to her for it. She was not however at all the sort of woman
whom I should have cared to have as a wife, for though there may be
certain disadvantages in marrying a complete dolt, it is even worse to
marry a blue-stocking. Still less do princes like you and Genji
require so huge a stock of intellect and erudition for your support!
Let her but be one to whom the _karma_ of our past lives draws us in
natural sympathy, what matter if now and again her ignorance
distresses us? Come to that, even men seem to me to get along very
well without much learning.’
Here he stopped, but Genji and the rest, wishing to hear the end
of the story, cried out that for their part they found her a most
interesting woman. Shikibu protested that he did not wish to go on
with the story, but at last after much coaxing, pulling a comical wry
face he continued: ‘I had not seen her for a long time. When at last
some accident took me to the house, she did not receive me with her
usual informality but spoke to me from behind a tiresome screen. Ha,
Ha, thought I foolishly, she is sulking; now is the time to have a
scene and break with her. I might have known that she was not so
little of a philosopher as to sulk about trifles; she prided herself
on knowing the ways of the world and my inconstancy did not in the
least disturb her.
‘She told me (speaking without the slightest tremor) that having had a
bad cold for some weeks she had taken a strong garlic-cordial, which
had made her breath smell rather unpleasant and that for this reason
she could not come very close to me. But if I had any matter of
special importance to discuss with her she was quite prepared to give
me her attention. All this she had expressed with solemn literary
perfection. I could think of no suitable reply, and with an “at your
service” I rose to go. Then, feeling that the interview had not been
quite a success, she added, raising her voice “Please come again when
my breath has lost its smell.” I could not pretend I had not heard. I
had however no intention of prolonging my visit, particularly as the
odour was now becoming definitely unpleasant, and looking cross I
recited the acrostic “On this night marked by the strange behaviour of
the spider, how foolish to bid me come back to-morrow”[12] and calling
over my shoulder “There is no excuse for you”! I ran out of the
room. But she, following me “If night by night and every night we met,
in daytime too I should grow bold to meet you face to face.” Here in
the second sentence she had cleverly concealed the meaning “If I had
had any reason to expect you, I should not have eaten garlic.”’
‘What a revolting story’ cried the young princes, and then, laughing,
‘He must have invented it.’ ‘Such a woman is quite incredible; it must
have been some sort of ogress. You have shocked us, Shikibu!’ and they
looked at him with disapproval. ‘You must try to tell us a better
story than that.’ ‘I do not see how any story could be better’ said
Shikibu, and left the room.
‘There is a tendency among men as well as women’ said Uma no Kami ‘so
soon as they have acquired a little knowledge of some kind, to want to
display it to the best advantage. To have mastered all the
difficulties in the Three Histories and Five Classics is no road to
amiability. But even a woman cannot afford to lack all knowledge of
public and private affairs. Her best way will be without regular study
to pick up a little here and a little there, merely by keeping her
eyes and ears open. Then, if she has her wits at all about her, she
will soon find that she has amassed a surprising store of information.
Let her be content with this and not insist upon cramming her letters
with Chinese characters which do not at all accord with her feminine
style of composition, and will make the recipient exclaim in despair
“If only she could contrive to be a little less mannish!” And many of
these characters, to which she intended the colloquial pronunciation
to be given, are certain to be read as Chinese, and this will give the
whole composition an even more pedantic sound than it deserves. Even
among our ladies of rank and fashion there are many of this sort, and
there are others who, wishing to master the art of verse-making,
in the end allow it to master them, and, slaves to poetry, cannot
resist the temptation, however urgent the business they are about or
however inappropriate the time, to make use of some happy allusion
which has occurred to them, but must needs fly to their desks and work
it up into a poem. On festival days such a woman is very troublesome.
For example on the morning of the Iris Festival, when everyone is busy
making ready to go to the temple, she will worry them by stringing
together all the old tags about the “matchless root”[13] or on the 9th
day of the 9th month, when everyone is busy thinking out some
difficult Chinese poem to fit the rhymes which have been prescribed,
she begins making metaphors about the “dew on the chrysanthemums,”
thus diverting our attention from the far more important business
which is in hand. At another time we might have found these
compositions quite delightful; but by thrusting them upon our notice
at inconvenient moments, when we cannot give them proper attention,
she makes them seem worse than they really are. For in all matters we
shall best commend ourselves if we study men’s faces to read in them
the “Why so?” or the “As you will” and do not, regardless of times and
circumstances, demand an interest and sympathy that they have not
leisure to give.
‘Sometimes indeed a woman should even pretend to know less than she
knows, or say only a part of what she would like to say....’
All this while Genji, though he had sometimes joined in the
conversation, had in his heart of hearts been thinking of one person
only, and the more he thought the less could he find a single trace of
those shortcomings and excesses which, so his friends had declared,
were common to all women. ‘There is no one like her’ he thought,
and his heart was very full. The conversation indeed had not brought
them to a definite conclusion, but it had led to many curious
anecdotes and reflections. So they passed the night, and at last, for
a wonder, the weather had improved. After this long residence at the
Palace Genji knew he would be expected at the Great Hall and set out
at once. There was in Princess Aoi’s air and dress a dignified
precision which had something in it even of stiffness; and in the very
act of reflecting that she, above all women, was the type of that
single-hearted and devoted wife whom (as his friends had said last
night) no sensible man would lightly offend, he found himself
oppressed by the very perfection of her beauty, which seemed only to
make all intimacy with her the more impossible.
He turned to Lady Chūnagon, to Nakatsukasa and other attendants of the
common sort who were standing near and began to jest with them. The
day was now very hot, but they thought that flushed cheeks became
Prince Genji very well. Aoi’s father came, and standing behind the
curtain, began to converse very amiably. Genji, who considered the
weather too hot for visits, frowned, at which the ladies-in-waiting
tittered. Genji, making furious signs at them to be quiet, flung
himself on to a divan. In fact, he behaved far from well.
It was now growing dark. Someone said that the position of the Earth
Star[14] would make it unlucky for the Prince to go back to the Palace
that night; and another: ‘You are right. It is now set dead against
him.’ ‘But my own palace is in the same direction!’ cried Genji. ‘How
vexing! where then shall I go?’ and promptly fell asleep. The
ladies-in-waiting however, agreed that it was a very serious matter
and began discussing what could be done. ‘There is Ki no Kami’s
house’ said one. This Ki no Kami was one of Genji’s gentlemen in
waiting. ‘It is in the Middle River’ she went on; ‘and delightfully
cool and shady, for they have lately dammed the river and made it flow
right through the garden.’ ‘That sounds very pleasant’ said Genji,
waking up, ‘besides they are the sort of people who would not mind
one’s driving right in at the front gate, if one had a mind to.’[15]
He had many friends whose houses lay out of the unlucky direction. But
he feared that if he went to one of them, Aoi would think that, after
absenting himself so long, he was now merely using the Earth Star as
an excuse for returning to more congenial company. He therefore
broached the matter to Ki no Kami, who accepted the proposal, but
stepping aside whispered to his companions that his father Iyo no
Kami, who was absent on service, had asked him to look after his young
wife.[16] ‘I am afraid we have not sufficient room in the house to
entertain him as I could wish.’ Genji overhearing this, strove to
reassure him, saying ‘It will be a pleasure to me to be near the lady.
A visit is much more agreeable when there is a hostess to welcome us.
Find me some corner behind her partition...!’ ‘Even then, I fear you
may not find ...’ but breaking off Ki no Kami sent a runner to his
house, with orders to make ready an apartment for the Prince. Treating
a visit to so humble a house as a matter of no importance, he started
at once, without even informing the Minister, and taking with him only
a few trusted body-servants. Ki no Kami protested against the
precipitation, but in vain.
The servants dusted and aired the eastern side-chamber of the Central
Hall and here made temporary quarters for the Prince. They were at
pains to improve the view from his windows, for example by altering
the course of certain rivulets. They set up a rustic wattled hedge and
filled the borders with the choicest plants. The low humming of
insects floated on the cool breeze; numberless fireflies wove
inextricable mazes in the air. The whole party settled down near where
the moat flowed under the covered bridge and began to drink wine.
Ki no Kami went off in a great bustle, saying that he must find them
something to eat. Genji, quietly surveying the scene, decided this was
one of those middle-class families which in last night’s conversation
had been so highly commended. He remembered that he had heard the lady
who was staying in the house well spoken of and was curious to see
her. He listened and thought that there seemed to be people in the
western wing. There was a soft rustling of skirts, and from time to
time the sound of young and by no means disagreeable voices. They did
not seem to be much in earnest in their efforts to make their
whispering and laughter unheard, for soon one of them opened the
sliding window. But Ki no Kami crying ‘What are you thinking of?’
crossly closed it again. The light of a candle in the room filtered
through a crack in the paper-window. Genji edged slightly closer to
the window in the hope of being able to see through the crack, but
found that he could see nothing. He listened for a while, and came to
the conclusion that they were sitting in the main women’s apartments,
out of which the little front room opened. They were speaking very
low, but he could catch enough of it to make out that they were
talking about him.
‘What a shame that a fine young Prince should be taken so young and
settled down for ever with a lady that was none of his choosing!’
‘I understand that marriage does not weigh very heavily upon him’
said another. This probably meant nothing in particular, but Genji,
who imagined they were talking about what was uppermost in his own
mind, was appalled at the idea that his relations with Lady Fujitsubo
were about to be discussed. How could they have found out? But the
subsequent conversation of the ladies soon showed that they knew
nothing of the matter at all, and Genji stopped listening. Presently
he heard them trying to repeat the poem which he had sent with a
nose-gay of morning-glory to Princess Asagao, daughter of Prince
Momozono.[17] But they got the lines rather mixed up, and Genji began
to wonder whether the lady’s appearance would turn out to be on a
level with her knowledge of prosody.
At this moment Ki no Kami came in with a lamp which he hung on the
wall. Having carefully trimmed it, he offered Genji a tray of fruit.
This was all rather dull and Genji by a quotation from an old
folk-song hinted that he would like to meet Ki no Kami’s other guests.
The hint was not taken. Genji began to doze, and his attendants sat
silent and motionless.
There were in the room several charming boys, sons of Ki no Kami, some
of whom Genji already knew as pages at the Palace. There were also
numerous sons of Iyo no Kami; with them was a boy of twelve or
thirteen who particularly caught Genji’s fancy. He began asking whose
sons the boys were, and when he came to this one Ki no Kami replied
‘he is the youngest son of the late Chūnagon, who loved him dearly,
but died while this boy was still a child. His sister married my
father and that is why he is living here. He is quick at his books,
and we hope one day to send him to Court, but I fear that his lack
of influence....’
‘Poor child!’ said Genji. ‘His sister, then, is your step-mother, is
that not so? How strange that you should stand in this relationship
with so young a girl! And now I come to think of it there was some
talk once of her being presented at Court, and I once heard the
Emperor asking what had become of her. How changeable are the fortunes
of the world.’ He was trying to talk in a very grown-up way.
‘Indeed, Sir’ answered Ki no Kami, ‘her subsequent state was humbler
than she had reason to expect. But such is our mortal life. Yes, yes,
and such has it always been. We have our ups and downs—and the women
even more than the men.’
_Genji:_ ‘But your father no doubt makes much of her?’
_Ki no Kami:_ ‘Makes much of her indeed! You may well say so. She
rules his house, and he dotes on her in so wholesale and extravagant a
fashion that all of us (and I among the foremost) have had occasion
before now to call him to order, but he does not listen.’
_Genji:_ ‘How comes it then that he has left her behind in the house
of a fashionable young Courtier? For he looks like a man of prudence
and good sense. But pray, where is she now?’
_Ki no Kami:_ ‘The ladies have been ordered to retire to the common
room, but they have not yet finished all their preparations.’
Genji’s followers, who had drunk heavily, were now all lying fast
asleep on the verandah. He was alone in his room, but could not get to
sleep. Having at last dozed for a moment, he woke suddenly and noticed
that someone was moving behind the paper-window of the back wall.
This, he thought, must be where she is hiding, and faintly curious
he sauntered in that direction and stood listening. ‘Where are you?’ I
say ‘Where are you?’ whispered someone in a quaint, hoarse voice,
which seemed to be that of the boy whom Genji had noticed earlier in
the evening. ‘I am lying over here’ another voice answered. ‘Has the
stranger gone to sleep yet? His room must be quite close to this; but
all the same how far off he seems!’ Her sleepy voice was so like the
boy’s, that Genji concluded this must be his sister.
‘He is sleeping in the wing, I saw him to-night. All that we have
heard of him is true enough. He is as handsome as can be’ whispered
the boy. ‘I wish it were to-morrow; I want to see him properly’ she
answered drowsily, her voice seeming to come from under the bed
clothes. Genji was rather disappointed that she did not ask more
questions about him. Presently he heard the boy saying ‘I am going to
sleep over in the corner-room. How bad the light is’ and he seemed to
be trimming the lamp. His sister’s bed appeared to be in the corner
opposite the paper-window. ‘Where is Chūjō?’ she called. ‘I am
frightened, I like to have someone close to me.’ ‘Madam’ answered
several voices from the servants’ room, ‘she is taking her bath in the
lower house. She will be back presently.’ When all was quiet again,
Genji slipped back the bolt and tried the door. It was not fastened on
the other side. He found himself in an ante-room with a screen at the
end, beyond which a light glimmered. In the half-darkness he could see
clothes boxes and trunks strewn about in great disorder. Quietly
threading his way among them, he entered the inner room from which the
voices had proceeded. One very minute figure was couched there who, to
Genji’s slight embarrassment, on hearing his approach pushed aside the
cloak which covered her, thinking that he was the maid for whom she
had sent. ‘Madam, hearing you call for Chūjō[18] I thought that I
might now put at your service the esteem in which I have long secretly
held you.’ The lady could make nothing of all this, and terrified out
of her wits tried hard to scream. But no sound came, for she had
buried her face in the bed clothes.
‘Please listen’ said Genji. ‘This sudden intrusion must of course seem
to you very impertinent. You do not know that for years I have waited
for an occasion to tell you how much I like and admire you, and if
to-night I could not resist the temptation of paying this secret
visit, pray take the strangeness of my behaviour as proof of my
impatience to pay a homage that has long been due.’ He spoke so
courteously and gently and looked so kind that not the devil himself
would have taken umbrage at his presence. But feeling that the
situation was not at all a proper one for a married lady she said
(without much conviction) ‘I think you have made a mistake.’ She spoke
very low. Her bewildered air made her all the more attractive, and
Genji, enchanted by her appearance, hastened to answer: ‘Indeed I have
made no mistake; rather, with no guide but a long-felt deference and
esteem, I have found my way unerringly to your side. But I see that
the suddenness of my visit has made you distrust my purpose. Let me
tell you then that I have no evil intentions and seek only for someone
to talk with me for a while about a matter which perplexes me.’ So
saying he took her up in his arms (for she was very small) and was
carrying her through the ante-room when suddenly Chūjō, the servant
for whom she had sent before, entered the bedroom. Genji gave an
astonished cry and the maid, wondering who could have entered the
ante-room, began groping her way towards them. But coming closer she
recognized by the rich perfume of his dress that this could be none
other than the Prince. And though she was sorely puzzled to know
what was afoot, she dared not say a word. Had he been an ordinary
person, she would soon have had him by the ears. ‘Nay’ she thought
‘even if he were not a Prince I should do best to keep my hands off
him; for the more stir one makes, the more tongues wag. But if I
should touch this fine gentleman ...,’ and all in a flutter she found
herself obediently following Genji to his room. Here he calmly closed
the door upon her, saying as he did so ‘You will come back to fetch
your mistress in the morning.’ Utsusemi herself was vexed beyond
measure at being thus disposed of in the presence of her own
waiting-maid, who could indeed draw but one conclusion from what she
had seen. But to all her misgivings and anxieties Genji, who had the
art of improvising a convincing reply to almost any question, answered
with such a wealth of ingenuity and tender concern, that for awhile
she was content. But soon becoming again uneasy, ‘This must all be a
dream—that you, so great a Prince, should stoop to consider so humble
a creature as I, and I am overwhelmed by so much kindness. But I think
you have forgotten what I am. A Zuryō’s wife! there is no altering
that, and you...!’ Genji now began to realize how deeply he had
distressed and disquieted her by his wild behaviour, and feeling
thoroughly ashamed of himself he answered: ‘I am afraid I know very
little about these questions of rank and precedence. Such things are
too confusing to carry in one’s head. And whatever you may have heard
of me I want to tell you for some reason or other I have till this day
cared nothing for gallantry nor ever practised it, and that even you
cannot be more astonished at what I have done to-night than I myself
am.’ With this and a score of other speeches he sought to win her
confidence. But she, knowing that if once their talk became a jot less
formal, she would be hard put to it to withstand his singular
charm, was determined, even at the risk of seeming stiff and awkward,
to show him that in trying so hard to put her at her ease he was only
wasting his time, with the result that she behaved very boorishly
indeed. She was by nature singularly gentle and yielding, so that the
effort of steeling her heart and despite her feelings, playing all the
while the part of the young bamboo-shoot which though so green and
tender cannot be broken, was very painful to her; and finding that she
could not longer think of arguments with which to withstand his
importunity, she burst into tears; and though he was very sorry for
her, it occurred to him that he would not gladly have missed that
sight. He longed however to console her, but could not think of a way
to do so, and said at last, ‘Why do you treat me so unkindly? It is
true that the manner of our meeting was strange, yet I think that Fate
meant us to meet. It is harsh that you should shrink from me as though
the World and you had never met.’ So he chided her, and she: ‘If this
had happened long ago before my troubles, before my lot was cast,
perhaps I should have been glad to take your kindness while it
lasted, knowing that you would soon think better of your strange
condescension. But now that my course is fixed, what can such meetings
bring me save misery and regret? _Tell none that you have seen my
home_’ she ended, quoting the old song.[19] ‘Small wonder that she is
sad’ thought Genji, and he found many a tender way to comfort her. And
now the cock began to crow. Out in the courtyard Genji’s men were
staggering to their feet, one crying drowsily ‘How I should like to go
to sleep again,’ and another ‘Make haste there, bring out his Honour’s
coach.’ Ki no Kami came out into the yard, ‘What’s all this hurry? It
is only when there are women in his party that a man need hasten
from a refuge to which the Earth star has sent him. Why is his
Highness setting off in the middle of the night?’
Genji was wondering whether such an opportunity would ever occur
again. How would he be able even to send her letters? And thinking of
all the difficulties that awaited him, he became very despondent.
Chūjō arrived to fetch her mistress. For a long while he would not let
her go, and when at last he handed her over, he drew her back to him
saying ‘How can I send news to you? For, Madam,’ he said raising his
voice that the maid Chūjō might hear ‘such love as mine, and such
pitiless cruelty as yours have never been seen in the world before.’
Already the birds were singing in good earnest. She could not forget
that she was no one and he a Prince. And even now, while he was
tenderly entreating her, there came unbidden to her mind the image of
her husband Iyo no Suke, about whom she generally thought either not
at all or with disdain. To think that even in a dream he might see her
now, filled her with shame and terror.
It was daylight. Genji went with her to the partition door. Indoors
and out there was a bustle of feet. As he closed the door upon her, it
seemed to him a barrier that shut him out from all happiness. He
dressed, and went out on to the balcony. A blind in the western wing
was hastily raised. There seemed to be people behind who were looking
at him. They could only see him indistinctly across the top of a
partition in the verandah. Among them was one, perhaps, whose heart
beat wildly as she looked...?
The moon had not set, and though with dwindled light still shone crisp
and clear in the dawn. It was a daybreak of marvellous beauty. But in
the passionless visage of the sky men read only their own comfort or
despair; and Genji, as with many backward glances he went upon his
way, paid little heed to the beauty of the dawn. He would send her a
message? No, even that was utterly impossible. And so, in great
unhappiness he returned to his wife’s house.
He would gladly have slept a little, but could not stop trying to
invent some way of seeing her again; or when that seemed hopeless,
imagining to himself all that must now be going on in her mind. She
was no great beauty, Genji reflected, and yet one could not say that
she was ugly. Yes, she was in every sense a member of that Middle
Class upon which Uma no Kami had given them so complete a dissertation.
He stayed for some while at the Great Hall, and finding that, try as
he might, he could not stop thinking about her and longing for her, at
last in despair he sent for Ki no Kami and said to him ‘Why do you not
let me have that boy in my service,—the Chūnagon’s son, whom I saw at
your house? He is a likely looking boy, and I might make him my
body-servant, or even recommend him to the Emperor.’ ‘I am sensible of
your kindness’ said Ki no Kami, ‘I will mention what you have said to
the boy’s sister.’ This answer irritated Genji, but he continued: ‘And
has this lady given you step-brothers my lord?’ ‘Sir, she has been
married these two years, but has had no child. It seems that in making
this marriage she disobeyed her father’s last injunctions, and this
has set her against her husband.’
_Genji:_ ‘That is sad indeed. I am told that she is not ill-looking.
Is that so?’
_Ki no Kami:_ ‘I believe she is considered quite passable. But I have
had very little to do with her. Intimacy between step-children and
step-parents is indeed proverbially difficult.’
Five or six days afterwards Ki no Kami brought the boy. He was not
exactly handsome, but he had great charm and (thought Genji) an air of
distinction. The Prince spoke very kindly to him and soon completely
won his heart. To Genji’s many questions about his sister he made such
answers as he could, and when he seemed embarrassed or tongue-tied
Genji found some less direct way of finding out what he wanted to
know, and soon put the boy at his ease. For though he vaguely realized
what was going on and thought it rather odd, he was so young that he
made no effort to understand it, and without further question carried
back a letter from Genji to his sister.
She was so much agitated by the sight of it that she burst into tears
and, lest her brother should perceive them, held the letter in front
of her face while she read it. It was very long. Among much else it
contained the verse ‘Would that I might dream that dream again! Alas,
since first this wish was mine, not once have my eye-lids closed in
sleep.’
She had never seen such beautiful writing, and as she read, a haze
clouded her eyes. What incomprehensible fate had first dragged her
down to be the wife of a Zuryō, and then for a moment raised her so
high? Still pondering, she went to her room.
Next day, Genji again sent for the boy, who went to his sister saying
‘I am going to Prince Genji. Where is your answer to his letter?’
‘Tell him’ she answered ‘that there is no one here who reads such
letters.’ The boy burst out laughing. ‘Why, you silly, how could I say
such a thing to him. He told me himself to be sure to bring an
answer.’ It infuriated her to think that Genji should have thus taken
the boy into his confidence and she answered angrily, ‘He has no
business to talk to you about such things at your age. If that is
what you talk about you had better not go to him any more.’ ‘But he
sent for me’ said the boy, and started off.
‘I was waiting for you all yesterday’ said Genji when the boy
returned. ‘Did you forget to bring the answer? Did you forget to
come?’ The child blushed and made no reply. ‘And now?’ ‘She said
there is no one at home who reads such letters.’ ‘How silly, what can
be the use of saying such things?’, and he wrote another letter and
gave it to the boy, saying: ‘I expect you do not know that I used to
meet your sister before her marriage. She treats me in this scornful
fashion because she looks upon me as a poor-spirited, defenceless
creature. Whereas she has now a mighty Deputy Governor to look after
her. But I hope that you will promise to be my child not his. For he
is very old, and will not be able to take care of you for long.’
The boy was quite content with this explanation, and admired Genji
more than ever. The prince kept him always at his side, even taking
him to the Palace. And he ordered his Chamberlain to see to it that he
was provided with a little Court suit. Indeed he treated him just as
though he were his own child.
Genji continued to send letters; but she, thinking that the boy, young
as he was, might easily allow a message to fall into the wrong hands
and that then she would lose her fair name to no purpose, feeling too
(that however much he desired it) between persons so far removed in
rank there could be no lasting union, she answered his letters only in
the most formal terms.
Dark though it had been during most of the time they were together,
she yet had a clear recollection of his appearance, and could not deny
to herself that she thought him uncommonly handsome. But she very much
doubted if he on his side really knew what she was like; indeed
she felt sure that the next time they met he would think her very
plain and all would be over.
Genji meanwhile thought about her continually. He was for ever calling
back to memory each incident of that one meeting, and every
recollection filled him with longing and despair. He remembered how
sad she had looked when she spoke to him of herself, and he longed to
make her happier. He thought of visiting her in secret. But the risk
of discovery was too great, and the consequences likely to be more
fatal to her even than to himself.
He had been many days at the Palace, when at last the Earth Star again
barred the road to his home. He set out at once, but on the way
pretended that he had just remembered the unfavourable posture of the
stars. There was nothing to do but seek shelter again in the house on
the Middle River. Ki no Kami was surprised but by no means
ill-pleased, for he attributed Genji’s visit to the amenity of the
little pools and fountains which he had constructed in his garden.
Genji had told the boy in the morning that he intended to visit the
Middle River, and since he had now become the Prince’s constant
companion, he was sent for at once to wait upon him in his room. He
had already given a message to his sister, in which Genji told her of
his plan. She could not but feel flattered at the knowledge that it
was on her account he had contrived this ingenious excuse for coming
to the house. Yet she had, as we have seen, for some reason got it
into her head that at a leisurely meeting she would not please him as
she had done at that first fleeting and dreamlike encounter, and she
dreaded adding a new sorrow to the burden of her thwarted and unhappy
existence. Too proud to let him think that she had posted herself in
waiting for him, she said to her servants (while the boy was busy
in Genji’s room) ‘I do not care to be at such close quarters with our
guest, besides I am stiff, and would like to be massaged; I must go
where there is more room,’ and so saying she made them carry her
things to the maid Chūjō’s bedroom in the cross-wing.
Genji had purposely sent his attendants early to bed, and now that all
was quiet, he hastened to send her a message. But the boy could not
find her. At last when he had looked in every corner of the house, he
tried the cross-wing, and succeeded in tracking her down to Chūjō’s
room. It was too bad of her to hide like this, and half in tears he
gasped out ‘Oh how can you be so horrid? What will he think of you?’
‘You have no business to run after me like this’ she answered angrily,
‘It is very wicked for children to carry such messages. But’ she
added, ‘you may tell him I am not well, that my ladies are with me,
and I am going to be massaged....’ So she dismissed him; but in her
heart of hearts she was thinking that if such an adventure had
happened to her while she was still a person of consequence, before
her father died and left her to shift for herself in the world, she
would have known how to enjoy it. But now she must force herself to
look askance at all his kindness. How tiresome he must think her! And
she fretted so much at not being free to fall in love with him, that
in the end she was more in love than ever. But then she remembered
suddenly that her lot had long ago been cast. She was a wife. There
was no sense in thinking of such things, and she made up her mind once
and for all never again to let foolish ideas enter her head.
Genji lay on his bed, anxiously waiting to see with what success so
young a messenger would execute his delicate mission. When at last the
answer came, astonished at this sudden exhibition of coldness, he
exclaimed in deep mortification ‘This is a disgrace, a hideous
disgrace,’ and he looked very rueful indeed. For a while he said no
more, but lay sighing deeply, in great distress. At last he recited
the poem ‘I knew not the nature of the strange tree[20] that stands on
Sono plain, and when I sought the comfort of its shade, I did but lose
my road,’ and sent it to her. She was still awake, and answered with
the poem ‘Too like am I in these my outcast years to the dim tree that
dwindles from the traveller’s approaching gaze.’ The boy was terribly
sorry for Genji and did not feel sleepy at all, but he was afraid
people would think his continual excursions very strange. By this
time, however, everyone else in the house was sound asleep. Genji
alone lay plunged in the blackest melancholy. But even while
he was raging at the inhuman stubbornness of her new-found and
incomprehensible resolve, he found that he could not but admire her
the more for this invincible tenacity. At last he grew tired of lying
awake; there was no more to be done. A moment later he had changed his
mind again, and suddenly whispered to the boy ‘Take me to where she is
hiding!’ ‘It is too difficult’ he said, ‘she is locked in and there
are so many people there. I am afraid to go with you.’ ‘So be it’ said
Genji, ‘but you at least must not abandon me’ and he laid the boy
beside him on his bed. He was well content to find himself lying by
this handsome young Prince’s side, and Genji, we must record, found
the boy no bad substitute for his ungracious sister.
[1] The hero of a lost popular romance. It is also referred to by
Murasaki’s contemporary Sei Shōnagon in Chapter 145 of her _Makura no
Sōshi_.
[2] His father-in-law’s house, where his wife Princess Aoi still
continued to live.
[3] Japanese houses were arranged somewhat differently from ours and
for many of the terms which constantly recur in this book (_kichō_,
_sudare_, _sunoko_, etc.) no exact English equivalents can be found.
In such cases I have tried to use expressions which without being too
awkward or unfamiliar will give an adequate general idea of what is
meant.
[4] Provincial officials. Murasaki herself came of this class.
[5] The tenth month.
[6] From the _saibara_ ballad, _The Well of Asuka_: ‘Sweet is the
shade, the lapping waters cool, and good the pasture for our weary
steeds. By the Well of Asuka, here let us stay.’
[7] The ‘Japanese zithern’; also called _wagon_. A species of _koto_.
[8] As opposed to the formal and traditional music imported from
China.
[9] See _Encyclopedia de la Musique_, p. 247. Under the name Nan-lü
this mode was frequently used in the Chinese love-dramas of the
fourteenth century. It was considered very wild and moving.
[10] Goddess of Beauty.
[11] A poem by Po Chü-i pointing out the advantages of marrying a
poor wife.
[12] There is a reference to an old poem which says: ‘I know that
to-night my lover will come to me. The spider’s antics prove it
clearly’ Omens were drawn from the behaviour of spiders. There is also
a pun on _hiru_ ‘day’ and _hiru_ ‘garlic,’ so that an ordinary person
would require a few moments’ reflection before understanding the poem.
[13] The irises used for the Tango festival (5th day of 5th month) had
to have nine flowers growing on a root.
[14] The ‘Lord of the Centre,’ i.e. the planet Saturn.
[15] I.e. people with whom one can be quite at ease. It was usual to
unharness one’s bulls at the gate.
[16] Ki no Kami’s step-mother.
[17] We learn later that Genji courted this lady in vain from his
seventeenth year onward. Though she has never been mentioned before,
Murasaki speaks of her as though the reader already knew all about
her. This device is also employed by Marcel Proust.
[18] Chūjō means ‘Captain,’ which was Genji’s rank at the time.
[19] _Kokinshū_ 811, an anonymous love-poem.
[20] The _hahakigi_ or ‘broom-tree’ when seen in the distance appears
to offer ample shade; but when approached turns out to be a skimpy bush.