THE SAFFRON-FLOWER
Try as he might he could not dispel the melancholy into which Yūgao’s
sudden death[1] had cast him, and though many months had gone by he
longed for her passionately as ever. In other quarters where he had
looked for affection, coldness vied with coldness and pride with
pride. He longed to escape once more from the claims of these
passionate and exacting natures, and renew the life of tender intimacy
which for a while had given him so great a happiness. But alas, no
second Yūgao would he ever find. Despite his bitter experience he
still fancied that one day he might at least discover some beautiful
girl of humble origin whom he could meet without concealment, and he
listened eagerly to any hint that was likely to put him upon a
promising track. If the prospects seemed favourable he would follow up
his enquiries by writing a discreet letter which, as he knew from
experience, would seldom indeed meet with a wholly discouraging reply.
Even those who seemed bent on showing by the prim stiffness of their
answers that they placed virtue high above sensibility, and who at
first appeared hardly conversant with the usages of polite society,
would suddenly collapse into the wildest intimacy which would continue
until their marriage with some commonplace husband cut short the
correspondence.
There were vacant moments when he thought of Utsusemi with regret. And
there was her companion too; some time or other there would surely be
an opportunity of sending her a surprise message. If only he could see
her again as he had seen her that night sitting by the chess-board in
the dim lamplight. It was not indeed in his nature ever to forget
anyone of whom he had once been fond.
Among his old nurses there was one called Sayemon to whom, next after
Koremitsu’s mother, he was most deeply attached. She had a daughter
called Taifu no Myōbu who was in service at the Palace. This girl was
an illegitimate child of a certain member of the Imperial family who
was then Vice-minister of the Board of War. She was a young person of
very lively disposition and Genji often made use of her services. Her
mother, Genji’s nurse, had afterwards married the governor of Echizen
and had gone with him to his province, so the girl when she was not at
the Palace lived chiefly at her father’s.
She happened one day when she was talking with Genji to mention a
certain princess, daughter of the late Prince Hitachi. This lady, she
said, was born to the Prince when he was quite an old man and every
care had been lavished upon her upbringing. Since his death she had
lived alone and was very unhappy. Genji’s sympathy was aroused and he
began to question Myōbu about this unfortunate lady. ‘I do not really
know much either about her character or her appearance’ said Myōbu;
‘she is extremely seclusive in her habits. Sometimes I have talked to
her a little in the evening, but always with a curtain between us. I
believe her zithern is the only companion in whom she is willing to
confide.’ ‘Of the Three Friends[2] one at least would in her case be
unsuitable’ said Genji. ‘But I should like to hear her play; her
father was a great performer on this instrument and it is
unlikely that she has not inherited some of his skill.’ ‘Oh, I am
afraid she is not worth your coming to hear,’ said Myōbu. ‘You are
very discouraging,’ he answered, ‘but all the same I shall hide there
one of these nights when the full moon is behind the clouds and listen
to her playing; and you shall come with me.’ She was not best pleased;
but just then even upon the busy Palace a springtime quiet seemed to
have settled, and being quite at leisure she consented to accompany
him. Her father’s house was at some distance from the town and for
convenience he sometimes lodged in Prince Hitachi’s palace. Myōbo got
on badly with her step-mother, and taking a fancy to the lonely
princess’s quarters she kept a room there.
It was indeed on the night after the full moon, in just such a veiled
light as Genji had spoken of, that they visited the Hitachi palace. ‘I
am afraid,’ said Myōbu, ‘that it is not a very good night for
listening to music; sounds do not seem to carry very well.’ But he
would not be thus put off. ‘Go to her room’ he said, ‘and persuade her
to play a few notes; it would be a pity if I went away without hearing
her at all.’ Myōbu felt somewhat shy of leaving him like this in her
own little private room. She found the princess sitting by the window,
her shutters not yet closed for the night; she was enjoying the scent
of a blossoming plum-tree which stood in the garden just outside. It
did indeed seem just the right moment. ‘I thought how lovely your
zithern would sound on such a night as this,’ she said, ‘and could not
resist coming to see you. I am always in such a hurry, going to and
from the Palace, that do you know I have never had time to hear you
play. It is such a pity.’ ‘Music of this sort,’ she replied, ‘gives no
pleasure to those who have not studied it. What do they care for such
matters _who all day long run hither and thither in the City of a
Hundred Towers_?’[3] She sent for her zithern; but her heart beat fast.
What impression would her playing make upon this girl? Timidly she
sounded a few notes. The effect was very agreeable. True, she was not
a great performer; but the instrument was a particularly fine one and
Genji found her playing by no means unpleasant to listen to.
Living in this lonely and half-ruined palace after such an upbringing
(full no doubt of antiquated formalities and restrictions) as her
father was likely to have given her it would be strange indeed if her
life did not for the most part consist of memories and regrets. This
was just the sort of place which in an old tale would be chosen as the
scene for the most romantic happenings. His imagination thus stirred,
he thought of sending her a message. But perhaps she would think this
rather sudden. For some reason he felt shy, and hesitated.
‘It seems to be clouding over,’ said the astute Myōbu, who knew that
Genji would carry away a far deeper impression if he heard no more for
the present. ‘Someone was coming to see me’ she continued; ‘I must
not keep him waiting. Perhaps some other time when I am not in such a
hurry.... Let me close your window for you,’ and with that she
rejoined Genji, giving the princess no encouragement to play any more.
‘She stopped so soon,’ he complained, ‘that it was hardly worth
getting her to play at all. One had not time to catch the drift of
what she was playing. Really it was a pity!’ That the princess was
beautiful he made no doubt at all. ‘I should be very much obliged if
you would arrange for me to hear her at closer quarters.’ But Myōbu,
thinking that this would lead to disappointment, told him that the
princess who led so hermit-like an existence and seemed always so
depressed and subdued would hardly welcome the suggestion that
she should perform before a stranger. ‘Of course,’ said Genji, ‘a
thing of that kind could only be suggested between people who were on
familiar terms or to someone of very different rank. This lady’s rank,
as I am perfectly well aware, entitles her to be treated with every
consideration, and I would not ask you to do more than hint at my
desire.’ He had promised to meet someone else that night and carefully
disguising himself he was preparing to depart when Myōbu said laughing
‘It amuses me sometimes to think how the Emperor deplores the too
strict and domesticated life which he suffers you to lead. What would
he think if he could see you disguising yourself like this?’ Genji
laughed. ‘I am afraid,’ he said as he left the room, ‘that you are not
quite the right person to denounce me. Those who think such conduct
reprehensible in a man must find it even less excusable in a girl.’
She remembered that Genji had often been obliged to reproach her for
her reckless flirtations, and blushing made no reply.
Still hoping to catch a glimpse of the zithern-player he crept softly
towards her window. He was about to hide at a point where the
bamboo-fence was somewhat broken down when he perceived that a man was
already ensconced there. Who could it be? No doubt it was one of the
princess’s lovers and he stepped back to conceal himself in the
darkness. The stranger followed him and turned out to be no other than
Tō no Chūjō. That evening they had left the Palace together, but when
they parted Genji (Chūjō had noticed) did not either go in the
direction of the Great Hall nor back to his own palace. This aroused
Chūjō’s curiosity and, despite the fact that he too had a secret
appointment that night, he decided first to follow Genji and discover
what was afoot. So riding upon a strange horse and wearing a
hunting-cloak, he had got himself up altogether so villainously
that he was able to follow Genji without being recognized upon the
road. Seeing him enter so unexpected a place, Chūjō was trying to
imagine what business his friend could possibly have in such a quarter
when the music began and he secreted himself with a vague idea of
waylaying Genji when he came out. But the prince, not knowing who the
stranger was and frightened of being recognized, stole on tip-toe into
the shadow. Chūjō suddenly accosted him: ‘Though you shook me off so
uncivilly, I thought it my duty to keep an eye on you’ he said, and
recited the poem: ‘Though together we left the great Palace hill, your
setting-place you would not show me, Moon of the sixteenth night!’
Thus he remonstrated; and Genji, though at first he had been somewhat
put out by finding that he was not alone, when he recognized Tō no
Chūjō could not help being rather amused. ‘This is indeed an
unexpected attention on your part’ he said, and expressed his slight
annoyance in the answering verse: ‘Though wheresoever it shines men
marvel at its light, who has before thought fit to follow the full
moon to the hill whereon it sets?’
‘It is most unsafe for you to go about like this,’ said Chūjō. ‘I
really mean it. You ought always to have a bodyguard; then you are all
right whatever happens. I wish you would always let me come with you.
I am afraid that these clandestine expeditions may one day get you
into trouble,’ and he solemnly repeated the warning. What chiefly
worried Genji was the thought that this might not be the first
occasion upon which Chūjō had followed him; but if it had been his
habit to do so it was certainly very tactful of him never to have
questioned Genji about Yūgao’s child.[4]
Though each of them had an appointment elsewhere, they agreed not
to part. Both of them got into Genji’s carriage and the moon having
vanished behind a cloud, beguiled the way to the Great Hall by playing
a duet upon their flutes. They did not send for torch-bearers to see
them in at the gates, but creeping in very quietly stole to a portico
where they could not be seen and had their ordinary clothes brought to
them there. Having changed, they entered the house merrily blowing
their flutes as though they had just come back from the Palace.
Chūjō’s father, who usually pretended not to hear them when they
returned late at night, on this occasion brought out his flageolet,
which was his favourite instrument, and began to play very agreeably.
Aoi sent for her zithern and made all her ladies play on the
instruments at which they excelled. Only Nakatsukasa, though she was
known for her lute-playing, having thrown over Tō no Chūjō who had
been her lover because of her infatuation for Genji with whom her sole
intercourse was that she sometimes saw him casually when he visited
the Great Hall,—only Nakatsukasa sat drooping listlessly; for her
passion had become known to Aoi’s mother and the rest, and they were
being very unpleasant about it. She was thinking in her despair that
perhaps it would be better if she went and lived in some place where
she would never see Genji at all; but the step was hard to take and
she was very unhappy.
The young princes were thinking of the music they had heard earlier in
the evening, of those romantic surroundings tinged with a peculiar and
inexplicable beauty. Merely because it pleased him so to imagine her,
Tō no Chūjō had already endowed the occupant of the lonely mansion
with every charm. He had quite decided that Genji had been courting
her for months or even years, and thought impatiently that he for his
part, if like Genji he were violently in love with a lady of this
kind, would have been willing to risk a few reproaches or even
the loss of a little reputation. He could not however believe that his
friend intended to let the matter rest as it was much longer and
determined to amuse himself by a little rivalry. From that time
onwards both of them sent letters to the lady, but neither ever
received any answer. This both vexed and puzzled them. What could be
the reason? Thinking that such images were suitable to a lady brought
up in these rustic surroundings, in most of the poems which they sent
her they alluded to delicate trees and flowers or other aspects of
nature, hoping sooner or later to hit on some topic which would arouse
her interest in their suit. Though she was of good birth and
education, perhaps through being so long buried away in her vast
mansion she had not any longer the wits to write a reply. And what
indeed did it matter whether she answered or not, thought Tō no Chūjō,
who none the less was somewhat piqued. With his usual frankness he
said to Genji: ‘I wonder whether you have had any answer. I must
confess that as an experiment I too sent a mild hint, but without any
success, so I have not repeated it.’ ‘So he too has been trying his
hand,’ thought Genji smiling to himself. ‘No,’ he answered aloud, ‘my
letter did not need an answer, which was perhaps the reason that I did
not receive one.’ From this enigmatic reply Chūjō deduced that Genji
had been in communication of some kind with the lady and he was
slightly piqued by the fact that she had shown a preference between
them. Genji’s deeper feelings were in no way involved, and though his
vanity was a little wounded he would not have pursued the matter
farther had he not known the persuasive power of Chūjō’s style, and
feared that even now she might overcome her scruples and send him a
reply. Chūjō would become insufferably cock-a-hoop if he got into his
head the idea that the princess had transferred her affections from
Genji to himself. He must see what Myōbu could be persuaded to
do. ‘I cannot understand,’ he said to her, ‘why the princess should
refuse to take any notice of my letters. It is really very uncivil of
her. I suppose she thinks I am a frivolous person who intends to amuse
himself a little in her company and then disappear. It is a strangely
false conception of my character. As you know, my affections never
alter, and if I have ever seemed to the world to be unfaithful it has
always been because in reality my suit had met with some unexpected
discouragement. But this lady is so placed that no opposition from
parents or brothers can interrupt our friendship, and if she will but
trust me she will find that her being alone in the world, so far from
exposing her to callous treatment, makes her the more attractive.’
‘Come,’ answered Myōbu, ‘it will never do for you to run away with the
idea that you can treat this great lady as a pleasant wayside
distraction; on the contrary she is extremely difficult of access and
her rank has accustomed her to be treated with deference and
ceremony.’ So spoke Myōbu, in accordance indeed with her own
experience of the princess. ‘She has evidently no desire to be thought
clever or dashing’ said Genji; ‘for some reason I imagine her as very
gentle and forgiving.’ He was thinking of Yūgao when he said this.
Soon after this he fell sick of his fever and after that was occupied
by a matter of great secrecy; so that spring and summer had both
passed away before he could again turn his attention to the lonely
lady. But in the autumn came a time of quiet meditation and reflexion.
Again the sound of the cloth-beaters’ mallets reached his ears,
tormenting him with memories and longings. He wrote many letters to
the zithern-player, but with no more success than before. Her
churlishness exasperated him. More than ever he was determined not to
give in, and sending for Myōbu he scolded her for having been of
so little assistance to him. ‘What can be going on in the princess’s
mind?’ he said; ‘such strange behaviour I have never met with before.’
If he was piqued and surprised, Myōbu for her part was vexed that the
affair had gone so badly. ‘No one can say that you have done anything
so very eccentric or indiscreet, and I do not think she feels so. If
she does not answer your letters it is only part of her general
unwillingness to face the outer world.’ ‘But such a way of behaving is
positively barbarous,’ said Genji; ‘if she were a girl in her ’teens
and under the care of parents or guardians, such timidity might be
pardoned; but in an independent woman it is inconceivable. I would
never have written had I not taken it for granted that she had some
experience of the world. I was merely hoping that I had found someone
who in moments of idleness or depression would respond to me
sympathetically. I did not address her in the language of gallantry,
but only begged for permission sometimes to converse with her in that
strange and lonely dwelling-place. But since she seems unable to
understand what it is I am asking of her, we must see what can be done
without waiting for her permission. If you will help me, you may be
sure I shall not disgrace you in any way.’
Myōbu had once been in the habit of describing to him the appearance
of people whom she had chanced to meet and he always listened to such
accounts with insatiable interest and curiosity; but for a long while
he had paid no attention to her reports. Now for no reason at all the
mere mention of the princess’s existence had aroused in him a fever of
excitement and activity. It was all very unaccountable. Probably he
would find the poor lady extremely unattractive when he saw her and
she would be doing her a very poor service in effecting the
introduction; but to give Genji no help in a matter to which he
evidently attached so much importance, would seem very ill-natured.
Even in Prince Hitachi’s life-time visitors to this stiff,
old-fashioned establishment had been very rare, and now no foot at all
ever made its way through the thickets which were closing in around
the house. It may be imagined then what the visit of so celebrated a
person as Genji would have meant to the ladies-in-waiting and lesser
persons of the household and with what urgency they begged their
mistress to send a favourable reply. But the same desperate shyness
still possessed her and Genji’s letters she would not even read.
Hearing this Myōbu determined to submit Genji’s request to her at some
suitable moment when she and the princess were carrying on one of
their usual uneasy conversations, with the princess’s screen-of-honour
planted between them. ‘If she seems displeased,’ thought Myōbu, ‘I
will positively have nothing more to do with the matter; but if she
receives him and some sort of an affair starts between them, there is
fortunately no one connected with her to scold me or get me into
trouble.’ As the result of these and other reflections, being quite at
home in matters of this kind, she sensibly decided to say nothing
about the business to anybody, not even to her father.
Late one night, soon after the twentieth day of the eighth month, the
princess sat waiting for the moon to rise. Though the star-light shone
clear and lovely the moaning of the wind in the pine-tree branches
oppressed her with its melancholy, and growing weary of waiting she
was with many tears and sighs recounting to Myōbu stories of bygone
men and days.
Now was the time to convey Genji’s message, thought Myōbu. She sent
for him, and secretly as before he crept up to the palace. The moon
was just rising. He stood where the neglected bamboo-hedge grew
somewhat sparsely and watched. Persuaded by Myōbu the princess was
already at her zithern. So far as he could hear it at this
distance, he did not find the music displeasing; but Myōbu in her
anxiety and confusion thought the tune very dull and wished it would
occur to the princess to play something rather more up-to-date. The
place where Genji was waiting was well screened from view and he had
no difficulty in creeping unobserved into the house. Here he called
for Myōbu, who pretending that the visit was a complete surprise to
her said to the princess: ‘I am so sorry, here is Prince Genji come to
see me. I am always getting into trouble with him for failing to
secure him your favour. I have really done my best, but you do not
make it possible for me to give him any encouragement, so now I
imagine he has come to deal with the matter for himself. What am I to
say to him? I can answer for it that he will do nothing violent or
rash. I think that considering all the trouble he has taken you might
at least tell him that you will speak to him through a screen or
curtain.’ The idea filled the princess with consternation. ‘I should
not know what to say to him,’ she wailed and as she said the words
bolted towards the far side of the room with a bashfulness so
infantile that Myōbu could not help laughing. ‘Indeed, Madam,’ she
said, ‘it is childish of you to take the matter to heart in this way.
If you were an ordinary young lady under the eye of stern parents and
brothers, one could understand it; but for a person in your position
to go on for ever being afraid to face the world is fantastic.’ So
Myōbu admonished her and the princess, who could never think of any
argument against doing what she was told to do, said at last: ‘If I
have only to listen and need not say anything he may speak to me from
behind the lattice-door, so long as it is well locked.’ ‘I cannot ask
him to sit on the servant’s bench,’ said Myōbu. ‘You really need not
be afraid that he will do anything violent or sudden.’ Thus persuaded,
the princess went to a hatch which communicated between the
women’s quarters and the strangers’ dais and firmly locking it with
her own hand stuffed a mattress against it to make sure that no chink
was left unstopped. She was in such a terrible state of confusion that
she had not the least idea what she should say to her visitor, if she
had to speak to him, and had agreed to listen to him only because
Myōbu told her that she ought to.
Several elderly serving-women of the wet-nurse type had been lying
half-asleep in the inner room since dusk. There were however one or
two younger maids who had heard a great deal about this Prince Genji
and were ready to fall in love with him at a moment’s notice. They now
brought out their lady’s handsomest dress and persuaded her to let
them put her a little to rights; but she displayed no interest in
these preparations. Myōbu meanwhile was thinking how well Genji looked
in the picturesque disguise which he had elaborated for use on these
night excursions and wished it were being employed in some quarter
where it was more likely to be appreciated. Her only consolation was
that so mild a lady was not likely to make inordinate demands upon him
or pester him with jealousies and exactions. On the other hand, she
was rather worried about the princess. ‘What’ thought Myōbu, ‘if she
should fall in love with him and her heart be broken merely because I
was frightened of getting scolded?’
Remembering her rank and upbringing, he was far from expecting her to
behave with the lively pertness of an up-to-date miss. She would be
langorous; yes, langorous and passionate. When, half-pushed by Myōbu,
the princess at last took her stand near the partition where she was
to converse with her visitor, a delicious scent of sandal-wood[5]
invaded his nostrils, and this piece of coquetry at once raised
his hopes. He began to tell her with great earnestness and eloquence
how for almost a year she had continually occupied his thoughts. But
not a word did she answer; talking to her was no better than writing!
Irritated beyond measure he recited the verse: ‘If with a Vow of
Silence thus ten times and again my combat I renew, ’tis that against
me at least no sentence of muteness has been passed.’ ‘Speak at least
one word of dismissal,’ he continued; ‘do not leave me in this
bewilderment.’ There was among her ladies one called Jijū, the
daughter of her old nurse. Being a girl of great liveliness and
intelligence she could not bear to see her mistress cutting such a
figure as this and stepping to her side she answered with the poem:
‘The bell[6] had sounded and for a moment silence was imposed upon my
lips. To have kept you waiting grieves me, and there let the matter
rest.’ She said the words in such a way that Genji was completely
taken in and thought it was the princess who had thus readily answered
his poem. He had not expected such smartness from an aristocratic lady
of the old school; but the surprise was agreeable and he answered:
‘Madam, you have won the day,’ adding the verse: ‘Though well I know
that thoughts unspoken count more than thoughts expressed, yet
dumb-crambo is not a cheering game to play.’
He went on to speak of one trifle or another as it occurred to him,
doing his very best to entertain her; but it was no use. Thinking at
last that silence might after all in this strange creature be merely a
sign of deep emotion he could no longer restrain his curiosity and,
easily pushing back the bolted door, entered the room. Myōbu, seeing
with consternation that he had falsified all her assurances, thought
it better to know nothing of what followed and without turning her
head rushed away to her own apartments. Jijū and the other
ladies-in-waiting had heard so much about Genji and were so anxious to
catch sight of him that they were more than ready to forgive his
uncivil intrusion. Their only fear was that their mistress would be at
a loss how to deal with so unexpected a situation. He did indeed find
her in the last extremity of bashfulness and embarrassment, but under
the circumstances that, thought Genji, was natural. Much was to be
explained by the strict seclusion in which she had been brought up. He
must be patient with her....
As his eyes grew used to the dim light he began to see that she was
not at all beautiful. Had she then not one quality at all to justify
all these hopes and schemes? Apparently not one. It was late. What was
the use of staying? Bitterly disappointed he left the house. Myōbu,
intensely curious to know what would happen, had lain awake listening.
She wanted however to keep up the pretence that she had not witnessed
Genji’s intrusion and though she plainly heard him leaving the house
she did not go to see him off or utter a sound of any kind. Stealing
away as quietly as possible he returned to the Nijō-in and lay down
upon his bed. This time at least he thought he was on the right path.
What a disillusionment! And the worst of it was that she was a
princess, a great lady. What a mess he was in! So he lay thinking,
when Tō no Chūjō entered the room. ‘How late you are!’ he cried; ‘I
can easily guess the reason.’ Genji rose: ‘I was so comfortable
sleeping here all alone that I overslept myself,’ he said. ‘Have you
come here from the Palace?’ ‘Yes,’ said Chūjō, ‘I was on my way home.
I heard yesterday that to-day they are choosing the dancers and
musicians for the celebrations of the Emperor’s visit to the Suzaku-in
and I am going home to tell my father of this. I will look in here on
my way back.’ Seeing that Chūjō was in a hurry Genji said that he
would go with him to the Great Hall. He sent at once for his
breakfast, bidding them also serve the guest. Two carriages were drawn
up waiting for them, but they both got into the same one. ‘You still
seem very sleepy,’ said Chūjō in an aggrieved tone; ‘I am sure you
have been doing something interesting that you do not want to tell me
about.’
That day he had a number of important duties to perform and was hard
at work in the Palace till nightfall. It did not occur to him till a
very late hour that he ought at least to send the customary letter. It
was raining. Myōbu had only the day before reproached him for using
the princess’s palace as a ‘wayside refuge.’ To-day however he had no
inclination whatever to halt there.
When hour after hour went by and still no letter came Myōbu began to
feel very sorry for the princess whom she imagined to be suffering
acutely from Genji’s incivility. But in reality the poor lady was
still far too occupied with shame and horror at what had happened the
night before to think of anything else, and when late in the evening
Genji’s note at last arrived she could not understand in the least
what it meant. It began with the poem: ‘Scarce had the evening mist
lifted and revealed the prospect to my sight when the night rain
closed gloomily about me.’ ‘I shall watch with impatience for a sign
that the clouds are breaking,’ the letter continued. The ladies of the
household at once saw with consternation the meaning of this note:
Genji did not intend ever to come again. But they were all agreed that
an answer must be sent, and their mistress was for the time being in
far too overwrought a condition to put brush to paper; so Jijū
(pointing out that it was late and there was no time to be lost) again
came to the rescue: ‘Give a thought to the country folk who wait for
moonlight on this cloudy night, though, while they gaze, so different
their thoughts from yours!’ This she dictated to her mistress
who, under the joint direction of all her ladies, wrote it upon a
piece of paper which had once been purple but was now faded and
shabby. Her writing was coarse and stiff, very mediocre in style, the
upward and downward strokes being of the same thickness. Genji laid it
aside scarcely glancing at it; but he was very much worried by the
situation. How should he avoid hurting her feelings? Such an affair
was certain to get him into trouble of some kind. What was he to do?
He made up his mind that at all costs he must go on seeing her.
Meanwhile, knowing nothing of this decision, the poor lady was very
unhappy.
That night his father-in-law called for him on the way back from the
Palace and carried him off to the Great Hall.
Here in preparation for the coming festival all the young princes were
gathered together, and during the days which followed everyone was
busy practising the songs or dances which had been assigned to him.
Never had the Great Hall resounded with such a continual flow of
music. The recorder and the big flute were all the while in full
blast; and even the big drum was rolled out on to the verandah, the
younger princes amusing themselves by experimenting upon it. Genji was
so busy that he had barely time to pay an occasional surreptitious
visit even to his dearest friends, and the autumn passed without his
returning to the Hitachi Palace. The princess could not make it out.
Just at the time when the music-practices were at their height Myōbu
came to see him. Her account of the princess’s condition was very
distressing. ‘It is sad to witness day by day as I do how the poor
lady suffers from your unkind treatment,’ she said and almost wept as
she told him about it. He was doubly embarrassed. What must Myōbu be
thinking of him since she found out that he had so recklessly
falsified all the assurances of good behaviour that she had made
on his account? And then the princess herself.... He could imagine
what a pathetic figure she must be, dumbly buried in her own
despondent thoughts and questionings. ‘Please make it clear to her’ he
said, ‘that I have been extremely busy; that is really the sole reason
that I have not visited her.’ But he added with a sigh ‘I hope soon to
have a chance of teaching her not to be quite so stiff and shy.’ He
smiled as he said it, and because he was so young and charming Myōbu
somehow felt that despite her indignation she must smile too. At his
age it was inevitable that he should cause a certain amount of
suffering. Suddenly it seemed to her perfectly right that he should do
as he felt inclined without thinking much about the consequences. When
the busy festival time was over he did indeed pay several visits to
the Hitachi Palace, but then followed his adoption of little Murasaki
whose ways so entranced him that he became very irregular even in his
visits to the Sixth Ward;[7] still less had he any inclination, though
he felt as sorry for the princess as ever, to visit that desolate
palace. For a long while he had no desire to probe the secret of her
bashfulness, to drive her into the light of day. But at last the idea
occurred to him that he had perhaps all the while been mistaken. It
was only a vague impression gathered in a room so dark that one could
hardly see one’s hand in front of one’s face. If only he could
persuade her to let him see her properly? But she seemed frightened to
submit herself to the ordeal of daylight. Accordingly one night when
he knew that he should catch her household quite at its ease he crept
in unobserved and peeped through a gap in the door of the women’s
apartments. The princess herself was not visible. There was a very
dilapidated screen-of-honour at the end of the room, but it looked as
if it had not been moved from where it stood for years and years.
Four or five elderly gentlewomen were in the room. They were preparing
their mistress’s supper in Chinese vessels which looked like the
famous ‘royal blue’ ware,[8] but they were much damaged and the food
which had been provided seemed quite unworthy of these precious
dishes. The old ladies soon retired, presumably to have their own
supper. In a closet opening out of the main road he could see a very
chilly-looking lady in an incredibly smoke-stained white dress and
dirty apron tied at the waist. Despite this shabbiness, her hair was
done over a comb in the manner of Court servants in ancient days when
they waited at their master’s table, though it hung down untidily. He
had sometimes seen figures such as this haunting the housekeeper’s
rooms in the Palace, but he had no idea that they could still actually
be seen waiting upon a living person! ‘O dear, O dear,’ cried the lady
in the apron, ‘what a cold winter we are having! It was not worth
living so long only to meet times like these,’ and she shed a tear.
‘If only things had but gone on as they were in the old Prince’s
time!’ she moaned. ‘What a change! No discipline, no authority. To
think that I should have lived to see such days!’ and she quivered
with horror like one who ‘were he a bird would take wing and fly
away.’[9] She went on to pour out such a pitiful tale of things gone
awry that Genji could bear it no longer, and pretending that he had
just arrived tapped at the partition-door. With many exclamations of
surprise the old lady brought a candle and let him in. Unfortunately
Jijū had been chosen with other young persons to wait upon the Vestal
Virgin and was not at home. Her absence made the house seem more
rustic and old-fashioned than ever, and its oddity struck him even
more forcibly than before.
The melancholy snow was now falling faster and faster. Dark
clouds hung in the sky, the wind blew fierce and wild. The big lamp
had burnt out and it seemed to be no one’s business to light it. He
remembered the terrible night upon which Yūgao had been bewitched. The
house indeed was almost as dilapidated. But it was not quite so large
and was (to Genji’s comfort) at least to some small degree inhabited.
Nevertheless it was a depressing place to spend the night at in such
weather as this. Yet the snow-storm had a beauty and fascination of
its own and it was tiresome that the lady whom he had come to visit
was far too stiff and awkward to join him in appreciating its
wildness. The dawn was just breaking and lifting one of the shutters
with his own hand, he looked out at the snow-covered flower-beds.
Beyond them stretched great fields of snow untrodden by any foot. The
sight was very strange and lovely, and moved by the thought that he
must soon leave it: ‘Come and look how beautiful it is out of doors,’
he cried to the princess who was in an inner room. ‘It is unkind of
you always to treat me as though I were a stranger.’ Although it was
still dark the light of the snow enabled the ancient gentlewomen who
had now returned to the room to see the freshness and beauty of
Genji’s face. Gazing at him with undisguised wonder and delight, they
cried out to their mistress: ‘Yes, madam, indeed you must come. You
are not behaving as you should. A young lady should be all kindness
and pretty ways.’ Thus admonished, the princess who when told what to
do could never think of any reasons for not doing it, giving her
costume a touch here and there reluctantly crept into the front room.
Genji pretended to be still looking out of the window, but presently
he managed to glance back into the room. His first impression was that
her manner, had it been a little less diffident, would have been
extremely pleasing. What an absurd mistake he had made. She was
certainly very tall as was shown by the length of her back when
she took her seat; he could hardly believe that such a back could
belong to a woman. A moment afterwards he suddenly became aware of her
main defect. It was her nose. He could not help looking at it. It
reminded him of the trunk of Samantabhadra’s[10] steed! Not only was
it amazingly prominent, but (strangest of all) the tip which drooped
downwards a little was tinged with pink, contrasting in the oddest
manner with the rest of her complexion which was of a whiteness that
would have put snow to shame. Her forehead was unusually high, so that
altogether (though this was partly concealed by the forward tilt of
her head) her face must be hugely long. She was very thin, her bones
showing in the most painful manner, particularly her shoulder-bones
which jutted out pitiably above her dress. He was sorry now that he
had exacted from her this distressing exhibition, but so extraordinary
a spectacle did she provide that he could not help continuing to gaze
upon her. In one point at least she yielded nothing to the greatest
beauties of the Capital. Her hair was magnificent; she was wearing it
loose and it hung a foot or more below the skirt of her gown. A
complete description of people’s costumes is apt to be tedious, but as
in stories the first thing that is said about the characters is
invariably _what they wore_, I shall once in a way attempt such a
description. Over a terribly faded bodice of imperial purple she wore
a gown of which the purple had turned definitely black with age. Her
mantle was of sable-skins heavily perfumed with scent. Such a garment
as this mantle was considered very smart several generations ago, but
it struck him as the most extraordinary costume for a comparatively
young girl. However as a matter of fact she looked as though without
this monstrous wrapping she would perish with cold and he could
not help feeling sorry for her. As usual she seemed quite devoid of
conversation and her silence ended by depriving Genji also of the
power of speech. He felt however that he must try again to conquer her
religious muteness and began making a string of casual remarks.
Overcome with embarrassment she hid her face with her sleeve. This
attitude, together with her costume, reminded him so forcibly of queer
pompous old officials whom he had sometimes seen walking at funeral
pace in state processions, hugging their emblems of office to their
breasts, that he could not help laughing. This he felt to be very
rude. Really he was very sorry for her and longing to put a quick end
to her embarrassment he rose to go. ‘Till I began to look after you
there was no one in whom you could possibly have confided. But
henceforward I think you must make up your mind to be frank with me
and tell me all your secrets. Your stern aloofness is very painful to
me,’ and he recited the verse: ‘Already the icicle that hangs from the
eaves is melting in the rays of the morning sun. How comes it that
these drippings to new ice should turn?’ At this she tittered
slightly. Finding her inability to express herself quite unendurable
he left the house. Even in the dim light of early morning he noticed
that the courtyard gate at which his carriage awaited him was shaky on
its posts and much askew; daylight, he was sure, would have revealed
many other signs of dilapidation and neglect. In all the desolate
landscape which stretched monotonously before him under the bleak
light of dawn only the thick mantle of snow which covered the
pine-trees gave a note of comfort and almost of warmth.
Surely it was such a place as this, sombre as a little village in the
hills, that his friends had thought of on that rainy night when they
had spoken of the gate ‘deep buried in green thickets.’ If only there
were really hidden behind _these_ walls some such exquisite
creature as they had imagined. How patiently, how tenderly he would
court her! He longed for some experience which would bring him respite
from the anguish with which a certain hopeless and illicit passion was
at that time tormenting him. Alas, no one could have been less likely
to bring him the longed-for distraction than the owner of this
romantic mansion. Yet the very fact that she had nothing to recommend
her made it impossible for him to give her up, for it was certain that
no one else would ever take the trouble to visit her. But why, why had
it fallen to him of all people to become her intimate? Had the spirit
of the departed Prince Hitachi, unhappy at the girl’s friendless
plight, chosen him out and led him to her?
At the side of the road he noticed a little orange-tree almost buried
in snow. He ordered one of his attendants to uncover it. As though
jealous of the attention that the man was paying to its neighbour a
pine-tree near by shook its heavily laden branches, pouring great
billows of snow over his sleeve. Delighted with the scene Genji
suddenly longed for some companion with whom he might share this
pleasure; not necessarily someone who loved such things as he did, but
one who at least responded to them in an ordinary way.
The gate through which his carriage had to pass in order to leave
the grounds was still locked. When at last the man who kept the key
had been discovered he turned out to be immensely old and feeble.
With him was a big, awkward girl who seemed to be his daughter or
grand-daughter. Her dress looked very grimy in contrast with the new
snow amid which she was standing. She seemed to be suffering very much
from the cold, for she was hugging a little brazier of some kind with
a stick or two of charcoal burning none too brightly in it. The old
man had not the strength to push back the door, and the girl was
dragging at it as well. Taking pity on them one of Genji’s
servants went to their assistance and quickly opened it. Genji
remembered the poem in which Po Chü-i describes the sufferings of
villagers in wintry weather and he murmured the lines ‘The little
children run naked in the cold; the aged shiver for lack of winter
clothes.’ All at once he remembered the chilly appearance which that
unhappy bloom had given to the princess’s face and he could not help
smiling. If ever he were able to show her to Tō no Chūjō, what strange
comparison, he wondered, would Chūjō use concerning it? He remembered
how Chūjō had followed him on the first occasion. Had he continued to
do so? Perhaps even at this minute he was under observation. The
thought irritated him.
Had her defects been less striking he could not possibly have
continued these distressing visits. But since he had actually seen her
in all her tragic uncouthness pity gained the upper hand, and
henceforward he kept in constant touch with her and showed her every
kindness. In the hope that she would abandon her sables he sent her
presents of silk, satin and quilted stuffs. He also sent thick cloth
such as old people wear, that the old man at the gate might be more
comfortably dressed. Indeed he sent presents to everyone on the estate
from the highest to the lowest. She did not seem to have any objection
to receiving these donations, which under the circumstances was very
convenient as it enabled him for the most part to limit their very
singular friendship to good offices of this kind.
Utsusemi too, he remembered, had seemed to him far from handsome when
he had peeped at her on the evening of her sudden flight. But she at
least knew how to behave and that saved her plainness from being
obtrusive. It was hard to believe that the princess belonged to a
class so far above that of Utsusemi. It only showed how little these
things have to do with birth or station. For in idle moments he
still regretted the loss of Utsusemi and it rankled in him yet that he
had in the end allowed her unyielding persistency to win the day.
And so the year drew to its close. One day when he was at his
apartments in the Emperor’s Palace, Myōbu came to see him. He liked to
have her to do his hair and do small commissions for him. He was not
in the least in love with her; but they got on very well together and
he found her conversation so amusing that even when she had no duty to
perform at the Palace he encouraged her to come and see him whenever
she had any news. ‘Something so absurd has happened’ she said, ‘that I
can hardly bring myself to tell you about it ...,’ and she paused
smiling. ‘I can hardly think,’ answered Genji, ‘that there can be
anything which you are frightened of telling to me.’ ‘If it were
connected with my own affairs,’ she said, ‘you know quite well that I
should tell you at once. But this is something quite different. I
really find it very hard to talk about.’ For a long while he could get
nothing out of her, and only after he had scolded her for making so
unnecessary a fuss she at last handed him a letter. It was from the
princess. ‘But this,’ said Genji taking it, ‘is the last thing in the
world that you could have any reason to hide from me.’ She watched
with interest while he read it. It was written on thick paper drenched
with a strong perfume; the characters were bold and firm. With it was
a poem: ‘Because of your hard heart, your hard heart only, the sleeves
of this my Chinese dress are drenched with tears.’ The poem must, he
thought, refer to something not contained in the letter.
He was considering what this could be, when his eye fell on a clumsy,
old-fashioned clothes-box wrapped in a painted canvas cover. ‘Now’
said Myōbu, ‘perhaps you understand why I was feeling rather
uncomfortable. You may not believe it, but the princess means you to
wear this jacket on New Year’s Day. I am afraid I cannot take it back
to her; that would be too unkind. But if you like I will keep it for
you and no one else shall see it. Only please, since it was to you
that she sent, just have one look at it before it goes away.’ ‘But I
should hate it to go away,’ said Genji; ‘I think it was so kind of her
to send it.’ It was difficult to know what to say. Her poem was indeed
the most unpleasant jangle of syllables that he had ever encountered.
He now realized that the other poems must have been dictated to her,
perhaps by Jijū or one of the other ladies. And Jijū too it must
surely be who held the princess’s brush and acted as writing-master.
When he considered what her utmost poetic endeavour would be likely to
produce he realized that these absurd verses were probably her
masterpiece and should be prized accordingly. He began to examine the
parcel; Myōbu blushed while she watched him. It was a plain,
old-fashioned, buff-coloured jacket of finely woven material, but
apparently not particularly well cut or stitched. It was indeed a
strange present, and spreading out her letter he wrote something
carelessly in the margin. When Myōbu looked over his shoulder she saw
that he had written the verse: ‘How comes it that with my sleeve I
brushed this saffron-flower[11] that has no loveliness either of shape
or hue?’
What, wondered Myōbu, could be the meaning of this outburst against a
flower? At last turning over in her mind the various occasions when
Genji had visited the princess she remembered something[12] which she
had herself noticed one moonlit night, and though she felt the joke
was rather unkind, she could not help being amused. With practised
ease she threw out a verse in which she warned him that in the
eyes of a censorious world even this half-whimsical courtship might
fatally damage his good name. Her impromptu poem was certainly faulty;
but Genji reflected that if the poor princess had even Myōbu’s very
ordinary degree of alertness it would make things much easier; and it
was quite true that to tamper with a lady of such high rank was not
very safe.
At this point visitors began to arrive. ‘Please put this somewhere out
of sight,’ said Genji pointing to the jacket; ‘could one have believed
that it was possible to be presented with such an object?’ and he
groaned. ‘Oh why ever did I show it to him?’ thought Myōbu. ‘The only
result is that now he will be angry with me as well as with the
princess,’ and in very low spirits she slipped out of his apartments.
Next day she was in attendance upon the Emperor and while she was
waiting with other gentlewomen in the ladies’ common-room Genji came
up saying: ‘Here you are. The answer to yesterday’s letter. I am
afraid it is rather far-fetched,’ and he flung a note to her. The
curiosity of the other gentlewomen was violently aroused. Genji left
the room humming ‘The Lady of Mikasa Hill,’[13] which naturally amused
Myōbu very much. The other ladies wanted to know why the prince was
laughing to himself. Was there some joke...? ‘Oh, no,’ said Myōbu; ‘I
think it was only that he had noticed someone whose nose was a little
red with the morning cold. The song he hummed was surely very
appropriate.’ ‘I think it was very silly,’ said one of the ladies.
‘There is no one here to-day with a red nose. He must be thinking of
Lady Sakon or Higo no Uneme.’ They were completely mystified. When
Myōbu presented Genji’s reply, the ladies of the Hitachi Palace
gathered round her to admire it. It was written negligently on plain
white paper but was none the less very elegant. ‘Does your gift of a
garment mean that you wish a greater distance than ever to be kept
between us?’[14]
On the evening of the last day of the year he sent back the box which
had contained his jacket, putting into it a court dress which had
formerly been presented to him, a dress of woven stuff dyed
grape-colour and various stuffs of yellow-rose colour and the like.
The box was brought by Myōbu. The princess’s ancient gentlewomen
realized that Genji did not approve of their mistress’s taste in
colours and wished to give her a lesson. ‘Yes,’ they said grudgingly,
‘that’s a fine deep red while its new, but just think how it will
fade. And in Madam’s poem too, I am sure, there was much more good
sense. In his answer he only tries to be smart.’ The princess shared
their good opinion of her poem. It had cost her a great deal of effort
and before she sent it she had been careful to copy it into her
note-book.
Then came the New Year’s Day celebrations; and this year there was
also to be the New Year’s mumming, a band of young noblemen going
round dancing and singing in various parts of the Palace. After the
festival of the White Horse on the seventh day Genji left the
Emperor’s presence at nightfall and went to his own apartments in the
Palace as though intending to stay the night there. But later he
adjourned to the Hitachi Palace which had on this occasion a less
forbidding appearance than usual. Even the princess was rather more
ordinary and amenable. He was hoping that like the season she too had
begun anew, when he saw that sunlight was coming into the room. After
hesitating for a while, he got up and went out into the front room. The
double doors at the end of the eastern wing were wide open, and
the roof of the verandah having fallen in, the sunshine poured
straight into the house. A little snow was still falling and its
brightness made the morning light yet more exquisitely brilliant and
sparkling. She watched a servant helping him into his cloak. She was
lying half out of the bed, her head hanging a little downwards and her
hair falling in great waves to the floor. Pleased with the sight he
began to wonder whether she would not one day outgrow her plainness.
He began to close the door of the women’s apartments, but suddenly
feeling that he owed her amends for the harsh opinion of her
appearance which he had formed before, he did not quite shut the door,
but bringing a low stool towards it sat there putting his disordered
head-dress to rights. One of the maids brought him an incredibly
battered mirror-stand, Chinese combs, a box of toilet articles and
other things. It amused him to discover that in this household of
women a little male gear still survived, even in so decrepit a state.
He noticed that the princess, who was now up and dressed, was looking
quite fashionable. She was in fact wearing the clothes which he had
sent her before the New Year, but he did not at first recognize them.
He began however to have a vague idea that her mantle, with its rather
conspicuous pattern, was very like one of the things he had given her.
‘I do hope,’ he said presently, ‘that this year you will be a little
more conversational. I await the day when you will unbend a little
towards me more eagerly than the poet longs for the first nightingale.
If only like the year that has changed you too would begin anew!’ Her
face brightened. She had thought of a remark and trembling from head
to foot with a tremendous effort she brought out the quotation ‘When
plovers chirp and all things grow anew.’ ‘Splendid,’ said Genji, ‘This
is a sign that the new year has indeed begun’ and smiling
encouragingly at her he left the house, she following him with her
eyes from the couch on which she lay. Her face as usual was half
covered by her arm; but the unfortunate flower still bloomed
conspicuously. ‘Poor thing, she really _is_ very ugly,’ thought Genji
in despair.
When he returned to the Nijō-in he found Murasaki waiting for him. She
was growing up as handsome a girl as one could wish, and promised well
for the future. She was wearing a plain close-fitting dress of cherry
colour; above all, the unstudied grace and ease of her movements
charmed and delighted him as he watched her come to meet him. In
accordance with the wishes of her old-fashioned grandmother her teeth
were not blackened, but her eyebrows were delicately touched with
stain. ‘Why, when I might be playing with a beautiful child, do I
spend my time with an ugly woman? ‘Genji kept on asking himself in
bewilderment while they sat together playing with her dolls. Next she
began to draw pictures and colour them. After she had painted all
sorts of queer and amusing things, ‘Now I am going to do a picture for
you,’ said Genji and drawing a lady with very long hair he put a dab
of red on her nose. Even in a picture, he thought pausing to look at
the effect, it gave one a most uncomfortable feeling. He went and
looked at himself in the mirror and as though dissatisfied with his
own fresh complexion he suddenly put on his own nose a dab of red such
as he had given to the lady in the picture. He looked at himself in
the mirror. His handsome face had in an instant become ridiculous and
repulsive. At first the child laughed. ‘Should you go on liking me if
I were always as ugly as this?’ he asked. Suddenly she began to be
afraid that the paint would not come off. ‘Oh why did you do it?’ she
cried. ‘How horrible!’ He pretended to rub it without effect. ‘No,’ he
said ruefully, ‘it will not come off. What a sad end to our game! I
wonder what the Emperor will say when I go back to the Palace?’
He said it so seriously that she became very unhappy, and longing to
cure him dipped a piece of thick soft paper in the water-jug which
stood by his writing-things, and began scrubbing at his nose. ‘Take
care,’ he cried laughing, ‘that you do not serve me as Heichū[15] was
treated by his lady. I would rather have a red nose than a black one.’
So they passed their time, making the prettiest couple.
In the gentle spring sunshine the trees were already shimmering with a
haze of new-grown buds. Among them it was the plum-trees that gave the
surest promise, for already their blossoms were uncurling, like lips
parted in a faint smile. Earliest of them all was a red plum that grew
beside the covered steps. It was in full colour. ‘Though fair the tree
on which it blooms, this red flower fills me with a strange
misgiving,’[16] sang Genji with a deep sigh.
We shall see in the next chapter what happened in the end to all these
people.
[1] The events of this chapter are synchronous with those of the last.
[2] Wine, zithern and song—in allusion to a poem by Po Chü-i.
[3] Evidently a quotation.
[4] Chūjō’s child by Yūgao.
[5] Used to scent clothes with.
[6] The bell which the Zen-master strikes when it is time for his pupils
to fall into silent meditation.
[7] To Lady Rokujō.
[8] _Pi-sē_. See Hetherington, _Early Ceramic Wares of China_,
pp. 71–73.
[9] _Manyōshū_, 893.
[10]The Bodhisattva Samantabhadra rides on a white elephant with a red
trunk.
[11] _Suyetsumuhana_, by which name, the princess is subsequently
alluded to in the story.
[12] I.e. the redness of the princess’s nose.
[13] A popular song about a lady who suffered from the same defect as
the princess.
[14] Genji’s poem is an allusion to a well-known _uta_ which runs:
‘Must we who once would not allow even the thickness of a garment to
part us be now far from each other for whole nights on end?’
[15] He used to splash his cheeks with water from a little bottle in
order that she might think he was weeping at her unkindness. She
exposed this device by mixing ink with the water.
[16] The reference of course is to the princess. ‘Though fair the
tree’ refers to her high birth.