CHAPTER IV

YŪGAO

It was at the time when he was secretly visiting the lady of the Sixth

Ward.[1] One day on his way back from the Palace he thought that he

would call upon his foster-mother who, having for a long while been

very ill, had become a nun. She lived in the Fifth Ward. After many

enquiries he managed to find the house; but the front gate was locked

and he could not drive in. He sent one of his servants for Koremitsu,

his foster-nurse’s son, and while he was waiting began to examine the

rather wretched looking by-street. The house next door was fenced with

a new paling, above which at one place were four or five panels of

open trellis-work, screened by blinds which were very white and bare.

Through chinks in these blinds a number of foreheads could be seen.

They seemed to belong to a group of ladies who must be peeping with

interest into the street below.

At first he thought they had merely peeped out as they passed; but he

soon realized that if they were standing on the floor they must be

giants. No, evidently they had taken the trouble to climb on to some

table or bed; which was surely rather odd!

He had come in a plain coach with no outriders. No one could possibly

guess who he was, and feeling quite at his ease he leant forward

and deliberately examined the house. The gate, also made of a kind of

trellis-work, stood ajar, and he could see enough of the interior to

realize that it was a very humble and poorly furnished dwelling. For a

moment he pitied those who lived in such a place, but then he

remembered the song ‘Seek not in the wide world to find a home; but

where you chance to rest, call that your house’; and again, ‘Monarchs

may keep their palaces of jade, for in a leafy cottage two can sleep.’

There was a wattled fence over which some ivy-like creeper spread its

cool green leaves, and among the leaves were white flowers with petals

half unfolded like the lips of people smiling at their own thoughts.

‘They are called Yūgao, “Evening Faces,”’ one of his servants told

him; ‘how strange to find so lovely a crowd clustering on this

deserted wall!’ And indeed it was a most strange and delightful thing

to see how on the narrow tenement in a poor quarter of the town they

had clambered over rickety eaves and gables and spread wherever there

was room for them to grow. He sent one of his servants to pick some.

The man entered at the half-opened door, and had begun to pluck the

flowers, when a little girl in a long yellow tunic came through a

quite genteel sliding door, and holding out towards Genji’s servant a

white fan heavily perfumed with incense, she said to him ‘Would you

like something to put them on? I am afraid you have chosen a

wretched-looking bunch,’ and she handed him the fan. Just as he was

opening the gate on his way back, the old nurse’s son Koremitsu came

out of the other house full of apologies for having kept Genji waiting

so long—‘I could not find the key of the gate’ he said. ‘Fortunately

the people of this humble quarter were not likely to recognize you and

press or stare; but I am afraid you must have been very much bored

waiting in this hugger-mugger back street,’ and he conducted Genji

into the house. Koremitsu’s brother, the deacon, his brother-in-law

Mikawa no Kami and his sister all assembled to greet the Prince,

delighted by a visit with which they had not thought he was ever

likely to honour them again.

The nun too rose from her couch: ‘For a long time I had been waiting

to give up the world, but one thing held me back: I wanted you to see

your old nurse just once again as you used to know her. You never came

to see me, and at last I gave up waiting and took my vows. Now, in

reward for the penances which my Order enjoins, I have got back a

little of my health, and having seen my dear young master again, I can

wait with a quiet mind for the Lord Amida’s Light,’ and in her

weakness she shed a few tears.

‘I heard some days ago’ said Genji ‘that you were very dangerously

ill, and was in great anxiety. It is sad now to find you in this

penitential garb. You must live longer yet, and see me rise in the

world, that you may be born again high in the ninth sphere of Amida’s

Paradise. For they say that those who died with longings unfulfilled

are burdened with an evil Karma in their life to come.’

People such as old nurses regard even the most blackguardly and

ill-favoured foster-children as prodigies of beauty and virtue. Small

wonder then if Genji’s nurse, who had played so great a part in his

early life, always regarded her office as immensely honourable and

important, and tears of pride came into her eyes while he spoke to her.

The old lady’s children thought it very improper that their mother,

having taken holy orders, should show so lively an interest in a human

career. Certain that Genji himself would be very much shocked, they

exchanged uneasy glances. He was on the contrary deeply touched. ‘When

I was a child’ he said ‘those who were dearest to me were early

taken away, and although there were many who gave a hand to my

upbringing, it was to you only, dear nurse, that I was deeply and

tenderly attached. When I grew up I could not any longer be often in

your company. I have not even been able to come here and see you as

often as I wanted to. But in all the long time which has passed since

I was last here, I have thought a great deal about you and wished that

life did not force so many bitter partings upon us.’

So he spoke tenderly. The princely scent of the sleeve which he had

raised to brush away his tears filled the low and narrow room, and

even the young people, who had till now been irritated by their

mother’s obvious pride at having been the nurse of so splendid a

prince, found themselves in tears.

Having arranged for continual masses to be said on the sick woman’s

behalf, he took his leave, ordering Koremitsu to light him with a

candle. As they left the house he looked at the fan upon which the

white flowers had been laid. He now saw that there was writing on it,

a poem carelessly but elegantly scribbled: ‘The flower that puzzled

you was but the _Yūgao_, strange beyond knowing in its dress of

shining dew.’ It was written with a deliberate negligence which seemed

to aim at concealing the writer’s status and identity. But for all

that the hand showed a breeding and distinction which agreeably

surprised him. ‘Who lives in the house on the left?’ he asked.

Koremitsu, who did not at all want to act as a go-between, replied

that he had only been at his mother’s for five or six days and had

been so much occupied by her illness that he had not asked any

questions about the neighbours. ‘I want to know for a quite harmless

reason’ said Genji. ‘There is something about this fan which raises a

rather important point. I positively must settle it. You would oblige

me by making enquiries from someone who knows the neighbourhood.’

Koremitsu went at once to the house next door and sent for

the steward. ‘This house’ the man said ‘belongs to a certain

Titular-Prefect. He is living in the country, but my lady is still

here; and as she is young and loves company, her brothers who are in

service at the Court often come here to visit her.’ ‘And that is about

all one can expect a servant to know’ said Koremitsu when he repeated

this information. It occurred at once to Genji that it was one of

these Courtiers who had written the poem. Yes, there was certainly a

self-confident air in the writing. It was by someone whose rank

entitled him to have a good opinion of himself. But he was

romantically disposed; it was too painful to dismiss altogether the

idea that, after all, the verses might really have been meant for him,

and on a folded paper he wrote: ‘Could I but get a closer view, no

longer would they puzzle me—the flowers that all too dimly in the

gathering dusk I saw.’ This he wrote in a disguised hand and gave to

his servant. The man reflected that though the senders of the fan had

never seen Genji before, yet so well known were his features, that

even the glimpse they had got from the window might easily have

revealed to them his identity. He could imagine the excitement with

which the fan had been despatched and the disappointment when for so

long a time no answer came. His somewhat rudely belated arrival would

seem to them to have been purposely contrived. They would all be agog

to know what was in the reply, and he felt very nervous as he

approached the house.

Meanwhile, lighted only by a dim torch, Genji quietly left his nurse’s

home. The blinds of the other house were now drawn and only the

fire-fly glimmer of a candle shone through the gap between them.

When he reached his destination[2] a very different scene met his

eyes. A handsome park, a well-kept garden; how spacious and

comfortable it all was! And soon the magnificent owner of these

splendours had driven from his head all thought of the wooden paling,

the shutters and the flowers.

He stayed longer than he intended, and the sun was already up when he

set out for home. Again he passed the house with the shutters. He had

driven through the quarter countless times without taking the

slightest interest in it; but that one small episode of the fan had

suddenly made his daily passage through these streets an event of

great importance. He looked about him eagerly, and would have liked to

know who lived in all the houses.

For several days Koremitsu did not present himself at Genji’s palace.

When at last he came, he explained that his mother was growing much

weaker and it was very difficult for him to get away. Then drawing

nearer, he said in a low voice ‘I made some further enquiries, but

could not find out much. It seems that someone came very secretly in

June and has been living there ever since; but who she really is not

even her own servants know. I have once or twice peeped through a hole

in the hedge and caught a glimpse of some young women; but their

skirts were rolled back and tucked in at their belts, so I think they

must have been waiting-maids. Yesterday some while after sunset I saw

a lady writing a letter. Her face was calm, but she looked very

unhappy, and I noticed that some of her women were secretly weeping.’

Genji was more curious than ever.

Though his master was of a rank which brought with it great

responsibilities, Koremitsu knew that in view of his youth and

popularity the young prince would be thought to be positively

neglecting his duty if he did not indulge in a few escapades, and that

everyone would regard his conduct as perfectly natural and proper

even when it was such as they would not have dreamed of permitting to

ordinary people.

‘Hoping to get a little further information,’ he said, ‘I found an

excuse for communicating with her, and received in reply a very

well-worded answer in a cultivated hand. She must be a girl of quite

good position.’ ‘You must find out more’ said Genji; ‘I shall not be

happy till I know all about her.’

Here perhaps was just such a case as they had imagined on that rainy

night: a lady whose outward circumstances seemed to place her in that

‘Lowest Class’ which they had agreed to dismiss as of no interest; but

who in her own person showed qualities by no means despicable.

But to return for a moment to Utsusemi. Her unkindness had not

affected him as it would have affected most people. If she had

encouraged him he would soon have regarded the affair as an appalling

indiscretion which he must put an end to at all costs; whereas now he

brooded continually upon his defeat and was forever plotting new ways

to shake her resolution.

He had never, till the day of his visit to the foster-nurse, been

interested in anyone of quite the common classes. But now, since that

rainy night’s conversation, he had explored (so it seemed to him)

every corner of society, including in his survey even those categories

which his friends had passed over as utterly remote and improbable. He

thought of the lady who had, so to speak, been thrown into his life as

an extra. With how confiding an air she had promised that she would

wait! He was very sorry about her, but he was afraid that if he wrote

to her Utsusemi might find out and that would prejudice his chances.

He would write to her afterwards....

Suddenly at this point Iyo no Suke himself was announced. He had

just returned from his province, and had lost no time in paying his

respects to the prince. The long journey by boat had made him look

rather swarthy and haggard. ‘Really’ thought Genji ‘he is not at all

an attractive man!’ Still it was possible to talk to him; for if a man

is of decent birth and breeding, however broken he may be by age or

misfortune, he will always retain a certain refinement of mind and

manners which prevent him from becoming merely repulsive. They were

beginning to discuss the affairs of Iyo’s province and Genji was even

joking with him, when a sudden feeling of embarrassment came over him.

Why should those recollections make him feel so awkward? Iyo no Suke

was quite an old man, it had done him no harm. ‘These scruples are

absurd’ thought Genji. However, she was right in thinking it was

too queer, too ill-assorted a match; and remembering Uma no Kami’s

warnings, he felt that he had behaved badly. Though her unkindness

still deeply wounded him, he was almost glad for Iyo’s sake that she

had not relented.

‘My daughter is to be married’ Iyo was saying ‘And I am going to take

my wife back with me to my province.’ Here was a double surprise. At

all costs he must see Utsusemi once again. He spoke with her brother

and the boy discussed the matter with her. It would have been

difficult enough for anyone to have carried on an intrigue with the

prince under such circumstances as these. But for her, so far below

him in rank and beset by new restrictions, it had now become

unthinkable. She could not however bear to lose all contact with him,

and not only did she answer his letters much more kindly than before,

but took pains, though they were written with apparent negligence, to

add little touches that would give him pleasure and make him see that

she still cared for him. All this he noticed, and though he was vexed

that she would not relent towards him, he found it impossible to

put her out of his mind.

As for the other girl, he did not think that she was at all the kind

of person to go on pining for him once she was properly settled with a

husband; and he now felt quite happy about her.

It was autumn. Genji had brought so many complications into his life

that he had for some while been very irregular in his visits to the

Great Hall, and was in great disgrace there. The lady[3] in the grand

mansion was very difficult to get on with; but he had surmounted so

many obstacles in his courtship of her that to give her up the moment

he had won her seemed absurd. Yet he could not deny that the blind

intoxicating passion which possessed him while she was still

unattainable, had almost disappeared. To begin with, she was far too

sensitive; then there was the disparity of their ages,[4] and the

constant dread of discovery which haunted him during those painful

partings at small hours of the morning. In fact, there were too many

disadvantages.

It was a morning when mist lay heavy over the garden. After being many

times roused Genji at last came out of Rokujō’s room, looking very

cross and sleepy. One of the maids lifted part of the folding-shutter,

seeming to invite her mistress to watch the prince’s departure. Rokujō

pulled aside the bed-curtains and tossing her hair back over her

shoulders looked out into the garden. So many lovely flowers were

growing in the borders that Genji halted for a while to enjoy them.

How beautiful he looked standing there, she thought. As he was nearing

the portico the maid who had opened the shutters came and walked by

his side. She wore a light green skirt exquisitely matched to the

season and place; it was so hung as to show to great advantage

the grace and suppleness of her stride. Genji looked round at her.

‘Let us sit down for a minute on the railing here in the corner,’ he

said. ‘She seems very shy’ he thought, ‘but how charmingly her hair

falls about her shoulders,’ and he recited the poem: ‘Though I would

not be thought to wander heedlessly from flower to flower, yet this

morning’s pale convolvulus I fain would pluck!’ As he said the lines

he took her hand and she answered with practised ease: ‘You hasten, I

observe, to admire the morning flowers while the mist still lies about

them,’ thus parrying the compliment by a verse which might be

understood either in a personal or general sense. At this moment a

very elegant page wearing the most bewitching baggy trousers came

among the flowers brushing the dew as he walked, and began to pick a

bunch of the convolvuli. Genji longed to paint the scene.

No one could see him without pleasure. He was like the flowering tree

under whose shade even the rude mountain peasant delights to rest. And

so great was the fascination he exercised that those who knew him

longed to offer him whatever was dearest to them. One who had a

favourite daughter would ask for nothing better than to make her

Genji’s handmaiden. Another who had an exquisite sister was ready for

her to serve in his household, though it were at the most menial

tasks. Still less could these ladies who on such occasions as this

were privileged to converse with him and stare at him as much as they

pleased, and were moreover young people of much sensibility—how could

they fail to delight in his company and note with much uneasiness that

his visits were becoming far less frequent than before?

But where have I got to? Ah, yes. Koremitsu had patiently continued

the enquiry with which Genji entrusted him. ‘Who the mistress is’ he

said, ‘I have not been able to discover; and for the most part

she is at great pains not to show herself. But more than once in the

general confusion, when there was the sound of a carriage coming along

past that great row of tenement houses, and all the maid-servants were

peering out into the road, the young lady whom I suppose to be the

mistress of the house slipped out along with them. I could not see her

clearly, but she seemed to be very pretty.

‘One day, seeing a carriage with outriders coming towards the house,

one of the maids rushed off calling out “Ukon, Ukon, come quickly and

look. The Captain’s carriage is coming this way.” At once a

pleasant-faced lady no longer young, came bustling out. “Quietly,

quietly” she said holding up a warning finger; “how do you know it is

the Captain? I shall have to go and look,” and she slipped out. A sort

of rough drawbridge leads from the garden into the lane. In her

excitement the good lady caught her skirt in it and falling flat on

her face almost tumbled into the ditch: “A bad piece of work His

Holiness of Katsuragi[5] made here!” she grumbled; but her curiosity

did not seem to be at all damped and she stared harder than ever at

the approaching carriage. The visitor was dressed in a plain, wide

cloak. He had attendants with him, whose names the excited

servant-girls called out as one after another they came near enough to

be recognized; and the odd thing is that the names were certainly

those of Tō no Chūjō’s[6] grooms and pages.’

‘I must see that carriage for myself’ said Genji. What if this should

be the very lady whom Chūjō, at the time of that rainy night’s

conversation, despaired of rediscovering? Koremitsu, noting that Genji

was listening with particular attention continued: ‘I must tell you

that I too have reason to be interested in this house, and while

making enquiries on my own account I discovered that the young lady

always addresses the other girls in the house as though they were her

equals. But when, pretending to be taken in by this comedy, I began

visiting there, I noticed that though the older ladies played their

part very well, the young girls would every now and then curtsey or

slip in a “My Lady” without thinking; whereupon the others would

hasten to cover up the mistake as best they might, saying anything

they could think of to make it appear that there was no mistress among

them,’ and Koremitsu laughed as he recollected it.

‘Next time I come to visit your mother’ said Genji, ‘you must let me

have a chance of peeping at them.’ He pictured to himself the queer,

tumbled-down house. She was only living there for the time being; but

all the same she must surely belong to that ‘bottom class’ which they

had dismissed as having no possible bearing on the discussion. How

amusing it would be to show that they were wrong and that after all

something of interest might be discovered in such a place!

Koremitsu, anxious to carry out his master’s every wish and intent

also on his own intrigue, contrived at last by a series of ingenious

stratagems to effect a secret meeting between Genji and the mysterious

lady. The details of the plan by which he brought this about would

make a tedious story, and as is my rule in such cases I have thought

it better to omit them.

Genji never asked her by what name he was to call her, nor did he

reveal his own identity. He came very poorly dressed and—what was most

unusual for him—on foot. But Koremitsu regarded this as too great a

tribute to so unimportant a lady, and insisted upon Genji riding his

horse, while he walked by his side. In doing so he sacrificed his

own feelings; for he too had reasons for wishing to create a good

impression in the house, and he knew that by arriving in this rather

undignified way he would sink in the estimation of the inhabitants.

Fortunately his discomfiture was almost unwitnessed, for Genji took

with him only the one attendant who had on the first occasion plucked

the flowers—a boy whom no one was likely to recognize; and lest

suspicions should be aroused, he did not even take advantage of his

presence in the neighbourhood to call at his foster-nurse’s house.

The lady was very much mystified by all these precautions and made

great efforts to discover something more about him. She even sent

someone after him to see where he went to when he left her at

day-break; but he succeeded in throwing his pursuer off the scent and

she was no wiser than before. He was now growing far too fond of her.

He was miserable if anything interfered with his visits; and though he

utterly disapproved of his own conduct and worried a great deal about

it, he soon found that he was spending most of his time at her house.

He knew that at some time or another in their lives even the soberest

people lose their heads in this way; but hitherto he had never really

lost his, or done anything which could possibly have been considered

very wrong. Now to his astonishment and dismay he discovered that even

the few morning hours during which he was separated from her were

becoming unendurable. ‘What is it in her that makes me behave like a

madman?’ he kept on asking himself. She was astonishingly gentle and

unassuming, to the point even of seeming rather apathetic, rather

deficient perhaps in depth of character and emotion; and though she

had a certain air of girlish inexperience, it was clear that he was

not by any means her first lover; and certainly she was rather

plebeian. What was it exactly that so fascinated him? He asked

himself the question again and again, but found no answer.

She for her part was very uneasy to see him come to her thus in shabby

old hunting-clothes, trying always to hide his face, leaving while it

was still dark and everyone was asleep. He seemed like some

demon-lover in an old ghost-tale, and she was half-afraid. But his

smallest gesture showed that he was someone out of the ordinary, and

she began to suspect that he was a person of high rank, who had used

Koremitsu as his go-between. But Koremitsu obstinately pretended to

know nothing at all about his companion, and continued to amuse

himself by frequenting the house on his own account.

What could it mean? She was dismayed at this strange love-making

with—she knew not whom. But about her too there was something

fugitive, insubstantial. Genji was obsessed by the idea that, just as

she had hidden herself in this place, so one day she would once more

vanish and hide, and he would never be able to find her again. There

was every sign that her residence here was quite temporary. He was

sure that when the time came to move she would not tell him where she

was going. Of course her running away would be proof that she was not

worth bothering about any more, and he ought, thankful for the

pleasure they had had together, simply to leave the matter at that.

But he knew that this was the last thing he would be likely to do.

People were already beginning to be suspicious, and often for several

nights running he was unable to visit her. This became so intolerable

that in his impatience he determined to bring her secretly to the

Nijō-in.[7] There would be an appalling outcry if she were discovered;

but that must be risked.

‘I am going to take you somewhere very nice where no one will disturb

us’ he said at last. ‘No, No’ she cried; ‘your ways are so strange, I

should be frightened to go with you.’ She spoke in a tone of childish

terror, and Genji answered smiling: ‘One or the other of us must be a

fox-in-disguise.[8] Here is a chance to find out which it is!’ He

spoke very kindly, and suddenly, in a tone of absolute submission, she

consented to do whatever he thought best. He could not but be touched

at her willingness to follow him in what must appear to her to be the

most hazardous and bizarre adventure. Again he thought of Tō no

Chūjō’s story on that rainy night, and could not doubt that this must

indeed be Chūjō’s fugitive lady. But he saw that she had some reason

for wishing to avoid all questions about her past, and he restrained

his curiosity. So far as he could see she showed no signs of running

away; nor did he believe that she would do so as long as he was

faithful. Tō no Chūjō, after all, had for months on end left her to

her own devices. But he felt that if for an instant she suspected him

of the slightest leaning in any other direction it would be a bad

business.

It was the fifteenth night of the eighth month. The light of an

unclouded full-moon shone between the ill-fitting planks of the roof

and flooded the room. What a queer place to be lying in! thought

Genji, as he gazed round the garret, so different from any room he had

ever known before. It must be almost day. In the neighbouring houses

people were beginning to stir, and there was an uncouth sound of

peasant voices: ‘Eh! how cold it is! I can’t believe we shall do much

with the crops this year.’ ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen about

my carrying-trade’ said another; ‘things look very bad.’ Then (banging

on the wall of another house) ‘Wake up, neighbour. Time to start.

Did he hear, d’you think?’ and they rose and went off each to the

wretched task by which he earned his bread.

All this clatter and bustle going on so near her made the lady very

uncomfortable, and indeed so dainty and fastidious a person must often

in this miserable lodging have suffered things which would make her

long to sink through the floor. But however painful, disagreeable or

provoking were the things that happened, she gave no sign of noticing

them. That being herself so shrinking and delicate in her ways she

could yet endure without a murmur the exasperating banging and bumping

that was going on in every direction, aroused his admiration, and he

felt that this was much nicer of her than if she had shuddered with

horror at each sound. But now, louder than thunder, came the noise of

the threshing-mills, seeming so near that they could hardly believe it

did not come from out of the pillow itself. Genji thought that his

ears would burst. What many of the noises were he could not at all

make out; but they were very peculiar and startling. The whole air

seemed to be full of crashings and bangings. Now from one side, now

from another, came too the faint thud of the bleacher’s mallet, and

the scream of wild geese passing overhead. It was all too distracting.

Their room was in the front of the house. Genji got up and opened the

long, sliding shutters. They stood together looking out. In the

courtyard near them was a clump of fine Chinese bamboos; dew lay thick

on the borders, glittering here no less brightly than in the great

gardens to which Genji was better accustomed. There was a confused

buzzing of insects. Crickets were chirping in the wall. He had often

listened to them, but always at a distance; now, singing so close to

him, they made a music which was unfamiliar and indeed seemed far

lovelier than that with which he was acquainted. But then,

everything in this place where one thing was so much to his liking,

seemed despite all drawbacks to take on a new tinge of interest and

beauty. She was wearing a white bodice with a soft, grey cloak over

it. It was a poor dress, but she looked charming and almost

distinguished; even so, there was nothing very striking in her

appearance—only a certain fragile grace and elegance. It was when she

was speaking that she looked really beautiful, there was such pathos,

such earnestness in her manner. If only she had a little more spirit!

But even as she was he found her irresistible and longed to take her

to some place where no one could disturb them: ‘I am going to take you

somewhere not at all far away where we shall be able to pass the rest

of the night in peace. We cannot go on like this, parting always at

break of day.’ ‘Why have you suddenly come to that conclusion?’ she

asked, but she spoke submissively. He vowed to her that she should be

his love in this and in all future lives and she answered so

passionately that she seemed utterly transformed from the listless

creature he had known, and it was hard to believe that such vows were

no novelty to her.

Discarding all prudence he sent for the maid Ukon and bade her order

his servants to fetch a coach. The affair was soon known to all the

household, and the ladies were at first somewhat uneasy at seeing

their mistress carried off in this fashion; but on the whole they did

not think he looked the sort of person who would do her any harm. It

was now almost daylight. The cocks had stopped crowing. The voice of

an old man (a pilgrim preparing for the ascent of the Holy Mountain)

sounded somewhere not far away; and, as at each prayer he bent forward

to touch the ground with his head, they could hear with what pain and

difficulty he moved. What could he be asking for in his prayers, this

old man whose life seemed fragile as the morning dew? Namu tōrai

no dōshi ‘Glory be to the Saviour that shall come’: now they could

hear the words. ‘Listen’ said Genji tenderly, ‘is not that an omen

that our love shall last through many lives to come? ‘And he recited

the poem: ‘Do not prove false this omen of the pilgrim’s chant: that

even in lives to come our love shall last unchanged.’

Then unlike the lovers in the ‘Everlasting Wrong’ who prayed that they

might be as the ‘twin birds that share a wing’ (for they remembered

that this story had ended very sadly) they prayed ‘May our love last

till Maitreya comes as a Buddha into the World.’ But she, still

distrustful, answered his poem with the verse: ‘Such sorrow have I

known in this world that I have small hope of worlds to come.’ Her

versification was still a little tentative.[9]

She was thinking with pleasure that the setting moon would light them

on their way, and Genji was just saying so when suddenly the moon

disappeared behind a bank of clouds. But there was still great beauty

in the dawning sky. Anxious to be gone before it was quite light, he

hurried her away to the coach and put Ukon by her side.

They drove to an untenanted mansion which was not far off. While he

waited for the steward to come out Genji noticed that the gates were

crumbling away; dense shinobu-grass grew around them. So sombre an

entrance he had never seen. There was a thick mist and the dew was so

heavy that when he raised the carriage-blind his sleeve was drenched.

‘Never yet has such an adventure as this befallen me’ said Genji; ‘so

I am, as you may imagine, rather excited,’ and he made a poem in which

he said that though love’s folly had existed since the beginning of

the world, never could man have set out more rashly at the break of

day into a land unknown. ‘But to you this is no great novelty?’

She blushed and in her turn made a poem: ‘I am as the moon that walks

the sky not knowing what menace the cruel hills may hold in store;

high though she sweeps, her light may suddenly be blotted out.’

She seemed very depressed and nervous. But this he attributed to the

fact that she had probably always lived in small houses where

everything was huddled together, and he was amused at the idea that

this large mansion should overawe her. They drove in, and while a room

was being got ready they remained in the carriage which had been drawn

up alongside of the balustrade. Ukon, looking very innocent all the

while, was inwardly comparing this excursion with her mistress’s

previous adventures. She had noticed the tone of extreme deference

with which this latest lover had been received by the steward, and had

begun to draw her own conclusions.

The mist was gradually clearing away. They left the coach and went

into the room which had been prepared for them. Though so quickly

improvised, their quarters were admirably clean and well-provided, for

the steward’s son had previously been a trusted house-servant of

Genji’s and had also worked at the Great Hall. Coming now to their

room he offered to send for some of Genji’s gentlemen, ‘For’ he said

‘I cannot bear to see you going unattended.’ ‘Do nothing of the kind’

said Genji; ‘I have come here because I do not wish to be disturbed.

No one but yourself is to know that I have used this house,’ and he

exacted a promise of absolute secrecy. No regular meal had been

prepared, but the steward brought them a little rice porridge. Then

they lay down again to sleep together for the first time in this

unfamiliar and so strangely different place.

The sun was high when they woke. Genji went and opened the shutters

himself. How deserted the garden looked! Certainly here there was no

one to spy upon them. He looked out into the distance: dense

woods fast turning to jungle. And nearer the house not a flower or

bush, but only unkempt, autumn grasslands, and a pond choked with

weeds. It was a wild and desolate place. It seemed that the steward

and his men must live in some outbuilding or lodge at a distance from

the house; for here there was no sign or sound of life. ‘It is, I must

own, a strange and forsaken place to which we have come. But no ghost

or evil fairy will dare molest you while _I_ am here.’

It pained her very much that he still was masked;[10] and indeed such

a precaution was quite out of keeping with the stage at which they had

now arrived. So at last, reciting a poem in which he reminded her that

all their love down to this moment when ‘the flower opened its petals

to the evening dew’ had come from a chance vision seen casually from

the street, half-turning his face away, for a moment he let her see

him unmasked. ‘What of the “shining dew”’ he asked using the words

that she had written on the fan. ‘How little knew I of its beauty who

had but in the twilight doubted and guessed...!’; so she answered his

poem in a low and halting voice. She need not have feared, for to him,

poor as the verses were, they seemed delightful. And indeed the beauty

of his uncovered face, suddenly revealed to her in this black

wilderness of dereliction and decay, surpassed all loveliness that she

had ever dreamed of or imagined. ‘I cannot wonder that while I still

set this barrier between us, you did not choose to tell me all that I

longed to know. But now it would be very unkind of you not to tell me

your name.’ ‘I am like the fisherman’s daughter in the song’[11] she

said, ‘“I have no name or home.”’ But for all that she would not tell

him who she was, she seemed much comforted that he had let her

see him. ‘Do as you please about it’ said Genji at last; but for a

while he was out of temper. Soon they had made it up again; and so the

day passed. Presently Koremitsu came to their quarters, bringing fruit

and other viands. He would not come in, for he was frightened that

Ukon would rate him mercilessly for the part he had played in

arranging the abduction of her mistress. He had now come to the

conclusion that the Lady must possess charms which he had wholly

overlooked, or Genji would certainly never have taken all this trouble

about her, and he was touched at his own magnanimity in surrendering

to his master a prize which he might well have kept for himself. It

was an evening of marvellous stillness. Genji sat watching the sky.

The lady found the inner room where she was sitting depressingly dark

and gloomy. He raised the blinds of the front room, and came to sit

with her. They watched the light of the sunset glowing in each other’s

eyes, and in her wonder at his adorable beauty and tenderness she

forgot all her fears. At last she was shy with him no longer, and he

thought that the new-found boldness and merriment became her very

well. She lay by his side till night. He saw that she was again

wearing the plaintive expression of a frightened child; so quickly

closing the partition-door he brought in the great lamp, saying:

‘Outwardly you are no longer shy with me; but I can see that deep down

in your heart there is still some sediment of rancour and distrust. It

is not kind to use me so,’ and again he was cross with her.

What were the people at the Palace thinking? Would he have been sent

for? How far would the messengers pursue their search? He became quite

agitated. Then there was the great lady in the Sixth Ward.[12] What a

frenzy she must be in! This time, however, she really had good

cause to be jealous. These and other unpleasant considerations were

crowding into his head, when looking at the girl who lay beside him so

trustfully, unconscious of all that was going on in his mind, he was

suddenly filled with an overwhelming tenderness towards her. How

tiresome the other was, with her eternal susceptibilities, jealousies

and suspicions! For a while at any rate he would stop seeing her. As

the night wore on they began sometimes to doze. Suddenly Genji saw

standing over him the figure of a woman, tall and majestic: ‘You who

think yourself so fine, how comes it that you have brought to toy with

you here this worthless common creature, picked up at random in the

streets? I am astonished and displeased,’ and with this she made as

though to drag the lady from his side. Thinking that this was some

nightmare or hallucination, he roused himself and sat up. The lamp had

gone out. Somewhat agitated he drew his sword and laid it beside him,

calling as he did so for Ukon. She came at once, looking a good deal

scared herself. ‘Please wake the watchman in the cross-wing,’ he said,

‘and tell him to bring a candle.’ ‘All in the dark like this? How can

I?’ she answered. ‘Don’t be childish,’ said Genji laughing and clapped

his hands.[13] The sound echoed desolately through the empty house. He

could not make anyone hear; and meanwhile he noticed that his mistress

was trembling from head to foot. What should he do? He was still

undecided, when suddenly she burst out into a cold sweat. She seemed

to be losing consciousness. ‘Do not fear, Sir’ said Ukon ‘all her life

she has been subject to these nightmare fits.’ He remembered now how

tired she had seemed in the morning and how she had lain with her eyes

turned upwards as though in pain. ‘I will go myself and wake someone’

he said; ‘I am tired of clapping with only echoes to answer me.

Do not leave her!’ and drawing Ukon towards the bed he went in the

direction of the main western door. But when he opened it, he found

that the lamp in the cross-wing had also gone out. A wind had risen.

The few attendants he had brought with him were already in bed. There

was indeed only the steward’s son (the young man who had once been

Genji’s body-servant), and the one young courtier who had attended him

on all his visits. They answered when he called and sprang to their

feet. ‘Come with a candle,’ he said to the steward’s son, ‘and tell my

man to get his bow and keep on twanging the string as loud as he can.

I wonder anyone should sleep so soundly in such a deserted place. What

has happened to Koremitsu?’ ‘He waited for some time, but as you

seemed to have no need of him, he went home, saying he would be back

at day-break.’

Genji’s man had been an Imperial Bowman, and making a tremendous din

with his bow he strode towards the steward’s lodge crying ‘Fire, Fire’

at the top of his voice. The twanging of the bow reminded Genji of the

Palace. The roll-call of night courtiers must be over; the Bowman’s

roll-call must be actually going on. It was not so very late.

He groped his way back into the room. She was lying just as he had

left her, with Ukon face downwards beside her. ‘What are you doing

there’ he cried? ‘Have you gone mad with fright? You have heard no

doubt that in such lonely places as this, fox-spirits sometimes try to

cast a spell upon men. But, dear people, you need not fear. I have

come back, and will not let such creatures harm you.’ And so saying he

dragged Ukon from the bed. ‘Oh, Sir’ she said ‘I felt so queer and

frightened that I fell flat down upon my face; and what my poor lady

must be going through I dare not think.’ ‘Then try not to add to her

fright’ said Genji, and pushing her aside bent over the prostate

form. The girl was scarcely breathing. He touched her; she was quite

limp. She did not know him.

Perhaps some accursed thing, some demon had tried to snatch her spirit

away; she was so timid, so childishly helpless. The man came with the

candle. Ukon was still too frightened to move. Genji placed a screen

so as to hide the bed and called the man to him. It was of course

contrary to etiquette that he should serve Genji himself and he

hesitated in embarrassment, not venturing even to ascend the dais.

‘Come here’ said Genji impatiently; ‘use your common-sense.’

Reluctantly the man gave him the light, and as he held it towards the

bed, he saw for a moment the figure which had stood there in his dream

still hovering beside the pillow; suddenly it vanished. He had read in

old tales of such apparitions and of their power, and was in great

alarm. But for the moment he was so full of concern for the lady who

now lay motionless on the bed, that he gave no thought to that

menacing vision, and lying down beside her, began gently to move her

limbs. Already they were growing cold. Her breathing had quite

stopped. What could he do? To whom could he turn for help? He ought to

send for a priest. He tried to control himself, but he was very young,

and seeing her lying there all still and pale, he could contain

himself no longer and crying ‘Come back to me, my own darling, come

back to life. Do not look at me so strangely!’ he flung his arms about

her. But now she was quite cold. Her face was set in a dull, senseless

stare.

Suddenly Ukon, who had been so busy with her own fears, came to

herself again, and set up the most dismal weeping. He disregarded her.

Something had occurred to him. There was a story of how a certain

minister was waylaid by a demon as he passed through the Southern

Hall. The man, Genji remembered, had been prostrate with fear; but in

the end he revived and escaped. No, she could not really be dead,

and turning to Ukon he said firmly: ‘Come now, we cannot have you

making such a hideous noise in the middle of the night.’ But he

himself was stunned with grief, and though he gave Ukon distracted

orders scarce knew what he was doing. Presently he sent for the

steward’s son and said to him: ‘Someone here has had a fright and is

in a very bad way. I want you to go to Koremitsu’s house and tell him

to come as quickly as he can. If his brother the priest is there too,

take him aside and tell him quietly that I should like to see him at

once. But do not speak loud enough for the nun their mother to hear;

for I would not have her know of this excursion.’ But though he

managed to say the words, his brain was all the while in a hideous

turmoil. For added to the ghastly thought that he himself had caused

her death there was the dread and horror with which the whole place

now inspired him.

It was past midnight. A violent storm began to rise, sighing dismally

as it swept the pine-trees that clustered round the house. And all the

while some strange bird—an owl, he supposed—kept screeching hoarsely.

Utter desolation on all sides. No human voice; no friendly sound. Why,

why had he chosen this hideous place?

Ukon had fainted and was lying by her mistress’s side. Was she too

going to die of fright? No, no. He must not give way to such thoughts.

He was now the only person left who was capable of action. Was there

nothing he could do? The candle was burning badly. He lit it again.

Over by the screen in the corner of the main room something was

moving. There it was again, but in another corner now. There was a

sound of footsteps treading cautiously. It still went on. Now they

were coming up behind him....

If only Koremitsu would return! But Koremitsu was a rover and a long

time was wasted in looking for him. Would it never be day? It seemed

to him that this night was lasting a thousand years. But now,

somewhere a long way off, a cock crowed.

Why had fate seen fit to treat him thus? He felt that it must be as a

punishment for all the strange and forbidden amours into which in

these last years he had despite himself been drawn, that now this

unheard of horror had befallen him. And such things, though one may

keep them secret for a time, always come out in the end. He minded

most that the Emperor would be certain to discover sooner or later

about this and all his other affairs. Then there was the general

scandal. Everyone would know. The very gutter boys would make merry

over him. Never, never must he do such things again, or his reputation

would utterly collapse....

At last Koremitsu arrived. He prided himself on being always ready to

carry out his master’s wishes immediately at whatever hour of the

night or day, and he thought it very provoking of Genji to have sent

for him just on the one occasion when he was not to hand. And now that

he had come his master did not seem able to give him any orders, but

stood speechless in front of him.

Ukon, hearing Koremitsu’s voice, suddenly came to herself and

remembering what had happened, burst into tears. And now Genji, who

while he alone was there had supported and encouraged the weeping

maid-servant, relieved at last by Koremitsu could contain himself no

longer, and suddenly realizing again the terrible thing that had

befallen him he burst into uncontrollable weeping. ‘Something horrible

has happened here,’ he managed to say at last, ‘too dreadful to

explain. I have heard that when such things as this suddenly befall,

certain scriptures should be read. I would have this done, and prayers

said. That is why I asked you to bring your brother....’

‘He went up to the mountain yesterday’ said Koremitsu. ‘But I see

that there has been terrible work here afoot. Was it in some sudden

fit of madness that you did this thing?’ Genji shook his head. So

moved was Koremitsu at the sight of his master weeping, that he too

began to sob. Had he been an older man, versed in the ways of the

world, he might have been of some use in such a crisis, but both of

them were young and both were equally perplexed. At last Koremitsu

said: ‘One thing at least is clear. The steward’s son must not know.

For though he himself can be depended upon, he is the sort of person

who is sure to tell all his relatives, and they might meddle

disastrously in the affair. We had best get clear of this house as

quietly as we can.’ ‘Perhaps’ said Genji; ‘but it would be hard to

find a less frequented place than this.’ ‘At any rate’ Koremitsu

continued, ‘we cannot take her to her own house; for there her

gentlewomen, who loved her dearly, would raise such a weeping and

wailing as would soon bring a pack of neighbours swarming around, and

all would quickly be known. If only I knew of some mountain-temple—for

there such things are customary[14] and pass almost unnoticed.’ He

paused and reflected. ‘There is a lady I once knew who has become a

nun and now lives on the Higashi Yama. She was my father’s wet-nurse

and is now very old and bent. She does not of course live alone; but

no outside people come there.’ A faint light was already showing in

the sky when Koremitsu brought the carriage in. Thinking that Genji

would not wish to move the body himself, he wrapt it in a rush-mat and

carried it towards the carriage. How small she was to hold! Her face

was calm and beautiful. He felt no repulsion. He could find no way to

secure her hair, and when he began to carry her it overflowed and

hung towards the ground. Genji saw, and his eyes darkened. A hideous

anguish possessed him.

He tried to follow the body, but Koremitsu dissuaded him, saying ‘You

must ride back to your palace as quickly as you can; you have just

time to get there before the stir begins,’ and putting Ukon into the

carriage, he gave Genji his horse. Then pulling up his silk trousers

to the knee, he accompanied the carriage on foot. It was a very

singular procession; but Koremitsu, seeing his master’s terrible

distress, forgot for the moment his own dignity and walked stolidly

on. Genji, hardly conscious of what went on around him arrived at last

in ghostly pallor at his house. ‘Where do you come from, my Lord?’

‘How ill you look.’ ... Questions assailed him, but he hurried to his

room and lay behind his curtain. He tried to calm himself, but hideous

thoughts tormented him. Why had he not insisted upon going with her?

What if after all she were not dead and waking up should find that he

had thus abandoned her? While these wild thoughts chased through his

brain a terrible sensation of choking began to torment him. His head

ached, his body seemed to be on fire. Indeed he felt so strange that

he thought he too was about to die suddenly and inexplicably as she

had done. The sun was now high, but he did not get up. His gentlemen,

with murmurs of astonishment, tried every means to rouse him. He sent

away the dainties they brought, and lay hour after hour plunged in the

darkest thoughts. A messenger arrived from the Emperor: ‘His Majesty

has been uneasy since yesterday when his envoys sought everywhere for

your Highness in vain.’

The young lords too came from the Great Hall. He would see none of

them but Tō no Chūjō, and even him he made stand outside his curtain

while he spoke to him: ‘My foster-mother has been very ill since the

fifth month. She shaved her head and performed other penances, in

consequence of which (or so it seems) she recovered a little and

got up, but is very much enfeebled. She sent word that she desired to

see me once more before she died, and as I was very fond of her when I

was a child, I could not refuse. While I was there a servant in the

house fell ill and died quite suddenly. Out of consideration for me

they removed the body at nightfall. But as soon as I was told of what

had happened I remembered that the Fast of the Ninth Month was at hand

and for this reason I have not thought it right to present myself to

the Emperor my father. Moreover, since early morning I have had a

cough and very bad headache, so you will forgive me for treating you

in this way.’

‘I will give the Emperor your message. But I must tell you that last

night when you were out he sent messengers to look for you and seemed,

if I may venture to say so, to be in a very ill humour.’ Tō no Chūjō

turned to go, but pausing a moment came back to Genji’s couch and said

quietly: ‘What really happened to you last night? What you told me

just now cannot possibly be true.’ ‘You need not go into details,’

answered Genji impatiently. ‘Simply tell him that unintentionally I

became exposed to a pollution, and apologize to him for me as best you

can.’ He spoke sharply, but in his heart there was only an unspeakable

sadness; and he was very tired.

All day he lay hidden from sight. Once he sent for Tō no Chūjō’s

brother Kurōdo no Ben and gave him a formal message for the Emperor.

The same excuse would serve for the Great Hall, and he sent a similar

message there and to other houses where he might be expected.

At dusk Koremitsu came. The story of Genji’s pollution had turned all

visitors from the door, and Koremitsu found his palace utterly

deserted. ‘What happened?’ said Genji, summoning him, ‘you are sure

that she is dead?’ and holding his sleeve before his face he wept.

‘All is over; of that there is no doubt,’ said Koremitsu, also in

tears; ‘and since it is not possible for them to keep the body long, I

have arranged with a very respectable aged priest who is my friend

that the ceremony shall take place to-morrow, since to-morrow chances

to be a good calendar day.’ ‘And what of her gentlewoman?’ asked

Genji. ‘I fear she will not live,’ said Koremitsu. ‘She cries out that

she must follow her mistress and this morning, had I not held her, she

would have cast herself from a high rock. She threatened to tell the

servants at my lady’s house, but I prevailed upon her to think the

matter over quietly before she did this.’ ‘Poor thing,’ said Genji,

‘small wonder that she should be thus distracted. I too am feeling

strangely disordered and do not know what will become of me.’ ‘Torment

yourself no more,’ said Koremitsu. ‘All things happen as they must.

Here is one who will handle this matter very prudently for you, and

none shall be the wiser.’ ‘Happen as they must. You are right’ said

Genji ‘and so I try to persuade myself. But in the pursuit of one’s

own wanton pleasures to have done harm and to have caused someone’s

death—that is a hideous crime; a terrible load of sin to bear with me

through the world. Do not tell even your sister; much less your mother

the nun, for I am ashamed that she should even know I have ever done

that kind of thing.’[15] ‘Do not fear’ answered Koremitsu. ‘Even to

the priests, who must to a certain extent be let into the secret, I

have told a long made-up tale’ and Genji felt a little easier in his

mind.

The waiting-women of his palace were sorely puzzled; ‘First he says he

has been defiled and cannot go to Court, and now he sits whispering

and sighing.’ What could it all mean? ‘Again I beg you’ said Genji at

last ‘to see that everything is done as it should be.’ He was thinking

all the time of the elaborate Court funerals which he had

witnessed (he had, indeed, seen no others) and imagined Koremitsu

directing a complicated succession of rituals. ‘I will do what I can;

it will be no such great matter,’ he answered and turned to go.

Suddenly Genji could bear no longer the thought that he should never

see her again. ‘You will think it very foolish of me,’ he said, ‘but I

am coming with you. I shall ride on horseback.’ ‘If your heart is set

upon it,’ said Koremitsu, ‘it is not for me to reason with you. Let us

start soon, so that we may be back before the night is over.’ So

putting on the hunting-dress and other garments in which he had

disguised himself before, he left his room.

Already the most hideous anguish possessed him, and now, as he set out

upon this strange journey, to the dark thoughts that filled his mind

was added a dread lest his visit might rouse to some fresh fury the

mysterious power which had destroyed her. Should he go? He hesitated;

but though he knew that this way lay no cure for his sadness, yet if

he did not see her now, never again perhaps in any life to come would

he meet the face and form that he had loved so well. So with Koremitsu

and the one same groom to bear him company he set out upon the road.

The way seemed endless. The moon of the seventeenth night had risen

and lit up the whole space of the Kamo plain, and in the light of the

outrunners’ torches the countryside towards Toribeno now came dimly

into sight. But Genji in his sickness and despair saw none of this,

and suddenly waking from the stupor into which he had fallen found

that they had arrived.

The nun’s cell was in a chapel built against the wall of a wooden

house. It was a desolate spot, but the chapel itself was very

beautiful. The light of the visitors’ torches flickered through the

open door. In the inner room there was no sound but that of a

woman weeping by herself; in the outer room were several priests

talking together (or was it praying?) in hushed voices. In the

neighbouring temples vespers were over and there was absolute

stillness; only towards the Kiyomizu were lights visible and many

figures seemed to throng the hill-side.[16]

A senior priest, son of the aged nun, now began to recite the

Scriptures in an impressive voice, and Genji as he listened felt the

tears come into his eyes. He went in. Ukon was lying behind a screen;

when she heard him enter, she turned the lamp to the wall. What

terrible thing was she trying to hide from him? But when he came

nearer he saw to his joy that the dead lady was not changed in any way

whatsoever, but lay there very calm and beautiful; and feeling no

horror or fear at all he took her hand and said, ‘Speak to me once

again; tell me why for so short a while you came to me and filled my

heart with gladness, and then so soon forsook me, who loved you so

well?’ and he wept long and bitterly by her side.

The priests did not know who he was, but they were touched by his

evident misery and themselves shed tears. He asked Ukon to come back

with him, but she answered: ‘I have served this lady since she was a

little child and never once for so much as an hour have I left her.

How can I suddenly part from one who was so dear to me and serve in

another’s house? And I must now go and tell her people what has become

of her; for (such is the manner of her death) if I do not speak soon,

there will be an outcry that it was I who was to blame, and that would

be a terrible thing for me, Sir,’ and she burst into tears, wailing ‘I

will lie with her upon the pyre; my smoke shall mingle with hers!’

‘Poor soul’ said Genji, ‘I do not wonder at your despair. But

this is the way of the world. Late or soon we must all go where she

has gone. Take comfort and trust in me.’ So he sought to console her,

but in a moment he added: ‘Those, I know, are but hollow words. I too

care no longer for life and would gladly follow her.’ So he spoke,

giving her in the end but little comfort.

‘The night is far spent’ said Koremitsu; ‘we must now be on our way.’

And so with many backward looks and a heart full to bursting he left

the house. A heavy dew had fallen and the mist was so thick that it

was hard to see the road. On the way it occurred to him that she was

still wearing his scarlet cloak, which he had lent her when they lay

down together on the last evening. How closely their lives had been

entwined!

Noting that he sat very unsteadily in his saddle, Koremitsu walked

beside him and gave him a hand. But when they came to a dyke, he lost

hold and his master fell to the ground. Here he lay in great pain and

bewilderment. ‘I shall not live to finish the journey’ he said; ‘I

have not strength to go so far.’ Koremitsu too was sorely troubled,

for he felt that despite all Genji’s insistence, he ought never to

have allowed him, fever-stricken as he was, to embark upon this

disastrous journey. In great agitation he plunged his hands in the

river and prayed to Our Lady Kwannon of Kiyomizu. Genji too roused

himself at last and forced himself to pray inwardly to the Buddha. And

so they managed to start upon their journey again and in the end with

Koremitsu’s help he reached his palace.

This sudden journey undertaken so late at night had seemed to all his

household the height of imprudence. They had noted for some while past

his nightly wanderings grow more and more frequent; but though often

agitated and pre-occupied, never had he returned so haggard as that

morning. What could be the object of these continual excursions?

And they shook their heads in great concern. Genji flung himself upon

his bed and lay there in fever and pain for several days. He was

growing very weak. The news was brought to the Emperor who was greatly

distressed and ordered continual prayers to be said for him in all the

great temples; and indeed there were more special services and

purification-ceremonies and incantations than I have room to rehearse.

When it became known that this prince so famous for his great charm

and beauty, was likely soon to die, there was a great stir in all the

kingdom.

Sick though he was he did not forget to send for Ukon and have her

enrolled among his gentlewomen. Koremitsu, who was beside himself with

anxiety concerning his master, yet managed on her arrival to calm

himself and give to Ukon friendly instruction in her new duties; for

he was touched by the helpless plight in which she had been left. And

Genji, whenever he felt a little better, would use her to carry

messages and letters, so that she soon grew used to waiting upon him.

She was dressed in deep black and though not at all handsome was a

pleasant enough looking woman.

‘It seems that the same fate which so early stayed your lady’s course

has willed that I too should be but little longer for this world. I

know in what sore distress you are left by the loss of one who was for

so many years your mistress and friend; and it was my purpose to have

comforted you in your bereavement by every care and kindness I could

devise. For this reason, indeed, it grieves me that I shall survive

her for so short a time.’ So, somewhat stiltedly, he whispered to

Ukon, and being now very weak he could not refrain from tears. Apart

from the fact that his death would leave her utterly without resource,

she had now quite taken to him and would have been very sorry indeed

if he had died.

His gentlemen ran hither and thither, distracted; the Emperor’s envoys

thronged thick as the feet of the raindrops. Hearing of his

father’s distress and anxiety, Genji strove hard to reassure him by

pretending to some slight respite or improvement. His father-in-law

too showed great concern, calling every day for news and ordering the

performance of various rites and potent liturgies; and it was perhaps

as a result of this, that having been dangerously ill for more than

twenty days, he took a turn for the better, and soon all his symptoms

began to disappear. On the night of his recovery the term of his

defilement also ended and hearing that the Emperor was still extremely

uneasy about him, he determined to reassure the Court by returning to

his official residence at the Palace. His father-in-law came to fetch

him in his own carriage and rather irritatingly urged upon him all

sorts of remedies and precautions.

For some while everything in the world to which he had now returned

seemed strange to him and he indeed scarce knew himself; but by the

twentieth day of the ninth month his recovery was complete, nor did

the pallor and thinness of his face become him by any means ill.

At times he would stare vacantly before him and burst into loud

weeping, and seeing this there were not wanting those who said that he

was surely possessed.

Often he would send for Ukon, and once when they had been talking in

the still of the evening he said to her ‘There is one thing which

still puzzles me. Why would she never tell me who she was? For even if

she was indeed, as she once said, “a fisherman’s child,” it was a

strange perversity to use such reticence with one who loved her so

well.’

‘You ask why she hid her name from you?’ said Ukon. ‘Can you wonder at

it? When could she have been expected to tell you her name (not that

it would have meant much to you if you had heard it)? For from the

beginning you treated her with a strange mistrust, coming with such

secrecy and mystery as might well make her doubt whether you were

indeed a creature of the waking world. But though you never told her

she knew well enough who you were, and the thought that you would not

be thus secret had you regarded her as more than a mere plaything or

idle distraction was very painful to her.’

‘What a wretched series of misunderstandings’ said Genji. ‘For my part

I had no mind to put a distance between us. But I had no experience in

such affairs as this. There are many difficulties in the path of such

people as I. First and foremost I feared the anger of my father the

Emperor; and then, the foolish jesting of the world. I felt myself

hedged in by courtly rules and restrictions. But for all the tiresome

concealments that my rank forced upon me, from that first evening I

had so strangely set my heart upon her that though reason counselled

me I could not hold back; and indeed it seems sometimes to me that an

irresistible fate drove me to do the thing of which I now so bitterly

and continually repent. But tell me more about her. For there can now

be no reason for concealment. When on each seventh day I cause the

names of the Buddhas to be written for her comfort and salvation, whom

am I to name in my inward prayer?’

‘There can be no harm in my telling you that’ said Ukon, ‘and I should

have done so before, did I not somehow feel it a shame to be prating

to you now about things she would not have me speak of while she was

alive. Her parents died when she was quite small. Her father, Sammi

Chūjō, loved her very dearly, but felt always that he could not give

her all the advantages to which her great beauty entitled her; and

still perplexed about her future and how best to do his duty by her,

he died. Soon afterwards some accident brought her into the company of

Tō no Chūjō[17] who was at that time still a lieutenant and for three

years he made her very happy. But in the autumn of last year

disquieting letters began to arrive from the Great Hall of the

Right,[18] and being by nature prone to fits of unreasoning fear she

now fell into a wild panic and fled to the western part of the town

where she hid herself in the house of her old wet-nurse. Here she was

very uncomfortable, and had planned to move to a certain village in

the hills, when she discovered that it would be unlucky, owing to the

position of the stars since the beginning of the year, to make a

journey in that direction; and (though she never told me so) I think,

Sir, it troubled her sorely that you should have come upon her when

she was living in so wretched a place. But there was never anyone in

the world like my lady for keeping things to herself; she could never

bear that other people should know what was on her mind. I have no

doubt, Sir, that she sometimes behaved very oddly to you and that you

have seen all this for yourself.’

Yes, this was all just as Tō no Chūjō had described. ‘I think there

was some mention of a child that Chūjō was vexed to have lost sight

of’ said Genji more interested than ever; ‘am I right?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’

she answered ‘it was born in the spring of last year, a girl, and a

fine child it was.’ ‘Where is it now?’ asked Genji. ‘Could you get

hold of it and bring it to me here without letting anyone know where

you were taking it? It would be a great comfort to me in my present

misery to have some remembrance of her near me;’ and he added, ‘I

ought of course to tell Chūjō, but that would lead to useless and

painful discussions about what has happened. Somehow or other I will

manage to bring her up here in my palace. I think there can be no harm

in that. And you will easily enough find some story to tell to

whatever people are now looking after her.’ ‘I am very glad that

this has entered your head,’ said Ukon, ‘it would be a poor look-out

for her to grow up in the quarter where she is now living. With no one

properly belonging to her and in such a part of the town....’

In the stillness of the evening, under a sky of exquisite beauty, here

and there along the borders in front of his palace some insect croaked

its song; the leaves were just beginning to turn. And as he looked

upon this pleasant picture he felt ashamed at the contrast between his

surroundings and the little house where Yūgao had lived. Suddenly

somewhere among the bamboo groves the bird called iyebato uttered its

sharp note. He remembered just how she had looked when in the gardens

of that fatal house the same bird had startled her by its cry, and

turning to Ukon, ‘How old was she?’ he suddenly asked; ‘for though she

seemed childlike in her diffidence and helplessness, that may only

have been a sign that she was not long for this world.’ ‘She must have

been nineteen’ said Ukon. ‘When my mother, who was her first

wet-nurse, died and left me an orphan, my lady’s father was pleased to

notice me and reared me at my lady’s side. Ah Sir, when I think of it,

I do not know how I shall live without her; for kind as people here

may be I do not seem to get used to them. I suppose it is that I knew

her ways, poor lady, she having been my mistress for so many years.’

To Genji even the din of the cloth-beaters’ mallets had become dear

through recollection, and as he lay in bed he repeated those verses of

Po Chü-i.

_In the eighth month and ninth month when the nights are growing long

A thousand times, ten thousand times the fuller’s stick beats._

The young brother still waited upon him, but he no longer brought with

him the letters which he had been used to bring. Utsusemi thought he

had at last decided that her treatment of him was too unfriendly to be

borne, and was vexed that he should feel so. Then suddenly she

heard of his illness, and all her vexation turned to consternation and

anxiety. She was soon to set out upon her long journey, but this did

not much interest her; and to see whether Genji had quite forgotten

her she sent him a message saying that she had been able to find no

words in which to express her grief at hearing the news of his

illness. With it she sent the poem: ‘I did not ask for news and you

did not ask why I was silent; so the days wore on and I remained in

sorrow and dismay.’ He had not forgotten her, no, not in all his

trouble; and his answer came: ‘Of this life, fragile as the

utsusemi’s[19] shell, already I was weary, when your word came, and

gave me strength to live anew.’ The poem was written in a very

tremulous and confused hand; but she thought the writing very

beautiful and it delighted her that he had not forgotten how,

cicada-like, she had shed her scarf. There could be no harm in this

interchange of notes, but she had no intention of arranging a meeting.

She thought that at last even he had seen that there could be no sense

in that.

As for Utsusemi’s companion, she was not yet married, and Genji heard

that she had become the mistress of Tō no Chūjō’s brother Kurōdo no

Shōshō; and though he feared that Shōshō might already have taken very

ill the discovery that he was not first in the field, and did not at

all wish to offend him, yet he had a certain curiosity about the girl

and sent Utsusemi’s little brother with a message asking if she had

heard of his illness and the poem: ‘Had I not once gathered for my

pillow a handful of the sedge that grows upon the eaves,[20] not a

dewdrop of pretext could my present message find.’ It was an acrostic

with many hidden meanings. He tied the letter to a tall reed and

bade him deliver it secretly; but was afterwards very uneasy at the

thought that it might go astray. ‘If it falls into Shōshō’s hands’ he

thought ‘he will at once guess that it was I who was before him.’ But

after all Shōshō would probably not take that so very hard, Genji had

vanity enough to think.

The boy delivered the message when Shōshō was at a safe distance. She

could not help feeling a little hurt; but it was something that he had

remembered her at all, and justifying it to herself with the excuse

that she had had no time to do anything better, she sent the boy

straight back with the verse: ‘The faint wind of your favour, that but

for a moment blew, with grief has part befrosted the small sedge of

the eaves.’ It was very ill-written, with all sorts of ornamental but

misleading strokes and flourishes; indeed with a complete lack of

style. However, it served to remind him of the face he had first seen

that evening by the lamplight. As for the other who on that occasion

had sat so stiffly facing her, what determination there had been in

her face, what a steady resolution to give no quarter!

The affair with the lady of the sedge was so unintentional and so

insignificant that though he regarded it as rather frivolous and

indiscreet, he saw no great harm in it. But if he did not take himself

in hand before it was too late he would soon again be involved in some

entanglement which might finally ruin his reputation.

On the forty-ninth day after Yūgao’s death a service in her memory was

by his orders secretly held in the Hokedō on Mount Hiyei. The ritual

performed was of the most elaborate kind, everything that was required

being supplied from the Prince’s own store; and even the decoration of

the service books and images was carried out with the utmost

attention. Koremitsu’s brother, a man of great piety, was

entrusted with the direction of the ceremony, and all went well. Next

Genji sent for his old writing-master, a doctor of letters for whom he

had a great liking and bade him write the prayer for the dead.[21]

‘Say that I commit to Amida the Buddha one not named whom I loved, but

lost disastrously,’ and he wrote out a rough draft for the learned man

to amend. ‘There is nothing to add or alter,’ said the master, deeply

moved. Who could it be, he wondered, at whose death the prince was so

distressed? (For Genji, try as he might, could not hide his tears.)

When he was secretly looking through his store for largesse to give to

the Hokedō priests, he came upon a certain dress and as he folded it

made the poem: ‘The girdle that to-day with tears I knot, shall we

ever in some new life untie?’

Till now her spirit had wandered in the void.[22]

But already she must be setting out on her new life-path, and in great

solicitude, he prayed continually for her safety.

He met Tō no Chūjō and his heart beat violently, for he had longed to

tell him about Yūgao’s child and how it was to be reared. But he

feared that the rest of the story would needlessly anger and distress

him, and he did not mention the matter. Meanwhile the servants of

Yūgao’s house were surprised that they had had no news from her nor

even from Ukon, and had begun to be seriously disquieted. They had

still no proof that it was Genji who was her lover, but several of

them thought that they had recognized him and his name was whispered

among them. They would have it that Koremitsu knew the secret, but he

pretended to know nothing whatever about Yūgao’s lover and found a

way to put off all their questions; and as he was still frequenting

the house for his own purposes, it was easy for them to believe that

he was not really concerned in their mistress’s affairs. Perhaps after

all it was some blackguard of a Zuryō’s son who, frightened of Tō no

Chūjō’s interference, had carried her off to his province. The real

owner of the house was a daughter of Yūgao’s second wet-nurse, who had

three children of her own. Ukon had been brought up with them, but

they thought that it was perhaps because she was not their own sister

that Ukon sent them no news of their mistress, and they were in great

distress.

Ukon who knew that they would assail her with questions which her

promise to Genji forbade her to answer, dared not go to the house, not

even to get news of her lady’s child. It had been put out somewhere to

nurse, but to her great sorrow she had quite lost sight of it.

Longing all the while to see her face once more though only in a

dream, upon the night after the ceremony on Mount Hiyei, he had a

vision very different from that for which he prayed. There appeared to

him once more, just as on that fatal night, the figure of a woman in

menacing posture, and he was dismayed at the thought that some demon

which haunted the desolate spot might on the occasion when it did that

terrible thing, also have entered into him and possessed him.

Iyo no Suke was to start early in the Godless Month and had announced

that his wife would go with him. Genji sent very handsome parting

presents and among them with special intent he put many very exquisite

combs and fans. With them were silk strips to offer to the God of

Journeys and, above all, the scarf which she had dropped, and, tied to

it, a poem in which he said that he had kept it in remembrance of her

while there was still hope of their meeting, but now returned it wet

with tears shed in vain. There was a long letter with the poem,

but this was of no particular interest and is here omitted. She sent

no answer by the man who had brought the presents, but gave her

brother the poem: ‘That to the changed cicada you should return her

summer dress shows that you too have changed and fills an insect heart

with woe.’

He thought long about her. Though she had with so strange and

inexplicable a resolution steeled her heart against him to the end,

yet each time he remembered that she had gone forever it filled him

with depression.

It was the first day of the tenth month, and as though in sign that

winter had indeed begun heavy rain fell. All day long Genji watched

the stormy sky. Autumn had hideously bereaved him and winter already

was taking from him one whom he dearly loved:

Now like a traveller who has tried two ways in vain

I stand perplexed where these sad seasons meet.

Now at least we must suppose he was convinced that such secret

adventures led only to misery.

I should indeed be very loth to recount in all their detail matters

which he took so much trouble to conceal, did I not know that if you

found I had omitted anything you would at once ask why, just because

he was supposed to be an Emperor’s son, I must needs put a favourable

showing on his conduct by leaving out all his indiscretions; and you

would soon be saying that this was no history but a mere made-up tale

designed to influence the judgment of posterity. As it is I shall be

called a scandal-monger; but that I cannot help.

[1] Lady Rokujō. Who she was gradually becomes apparent in the course

of the story.

[2] Lady Rokujō’s house.

[3] Rokujō.

[4] Genji was now seventeen; Rokujō twenty-four.

[5] The god of bridges. He built in a single night the stone causeway

which joins Mount Katsuragi and Mount Kombu.

[6] Genji’s brother-in-law.

[7] His own palace.

[8] Foxes, dressed up as men, were believed to be in the habit of

seducing and bewitching human beings.

[9] We gather later that she was only nineteen.

[10] I.e. covered part of his face with a scarf or the like, a

practice usual with illicit lovers in mediæval Japan.

[11] _Shin Kokinshū_, 1701.

[12] Lady Rokujō.

[13] To summon a servant.

[14] The bringing of a corpse. Temples were used as mortuaries.

[15] I.e. pursued illicit amours.

[16] Pilgrimages to Kiyomizu Temple are made on the seventeenth day.

[17] Chūjō means ‘Captain’; see above, p. 71.

[18] From Tō no Chūjō’s wife, who was the daughter of the Minister of

the Right.

[19] Cicada.

[20] ‘Sedge upon the eaves ‘is _Nokiba no Ogi_, and it is by this name

that the lady is generally known.

[21] _Gwammon_.

[22] For forty-nine days the spirit of the dead leads the intermediate

existence so strangely described in the _Abhidharma Kośa Śāstra_; then

it begins its new incarnation.