Japanese Literature
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Title: Japanese Literature
Editor: Epiphanius Wilson
Release date: September 13, 2006 [eBook #19264]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/19264
Credits: Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sankar Viswanathan, and the
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JAPANESE LITERATURE ***
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Sankar Viswanathan, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
The accenting of the Japanese names is not consistent throughout the
book. The accents are preserved as given in the book.
Japanese Literature
INCLUDING SELECTIONS FROM
GENJI MONOGATARI
AND
CLASSICAL POETRY AND DRAMA
OF JAPAN
WITH CRITICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES BY
EPIPHANIUS WILSON, A.M.
REVISED EDITION
COPYRIGHT, 1900
BY THE COLONIAL PRESS
* * * * *
CONTENTS
GENJI MONOGATARI
Introduction
CHAPTER
I.--The Chamber of Kiri
II.--The Broom-like Tree
III.--Beautiful Cicada
IV.--Evening Glory
V.--Young Violet
VI.--Saffron Flower
VII.--Maple Fête
VIII.--Flower-Feast
IX.--Hollyhock
X.--Divine Tree
XI.--Villa of Falling Flowers
XII.--Exile at Suma
XIII.--Exile at Akashi
XIV.--The Beacon
XV.--Overgrown Mugwort
XVI.--Barrier House
XVII.--Competitive Show of Pictures
CLASSICAL POETRY OF JAPAN
Introduction
BALLADS--
The Fisher-Boy Urashima
On Seeing a Dead Body
The Maiden of Unáhi
The Grave of the Maiden of Unáhi
The Maiden of Katsushika
The Beggar's Complaint
A Soldier's Regrets on Leaving Home
LOVE SONGS--
On Beholding the Mountain
Love is Pain
Hitomaro to His Mistress
No Tidings
Homeward
The Maiden and the Dog
Love is All
Husband and Wife
He Comes Not
He and She
The Pearls
A Damsel Crossing a Bridge
Secret Love
The Omen
A Maiden's Lament
Rain and Snow
Mount Mikash
Evening
ELEGIES--
On the Death of the Mikado Tenji
On the Death of the Poet's Mistress
Elegy on the Poet's Wife
On the Death of Prince Hinami
On the Death of the Nun Riguwañ
On the Poet's Son, Furubi
Short Stanza on the Same Occasion
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS--
View from Mount Kago
The Mikado's Bow
Spring and Autumn
Spring
Recollections of My Children
The Brook of Hatsúse
Lines to a Friend
A Very Ancient Ode
The Bridge to Heaven
Ode to the Cuckoo
The Ascent of Mount Tsukúba
Couplet
SHORT STANZAS
THE DRAMA OF JAPAN
Nakamitsu
Abstraction
* * * * *
GENJI MONOGATARI
BY
MURASAKI SHIKIB
[_Translated into English by Suyematz Kenchio_]
INTRODUCTION
BY THE TRANSLATOR
Genji Monogatari,[1] the original of this translation, is one of the
standard works of Japanese literature. It has been regarded for
centuries as a national treasure. The title of the work is by no means
unknown to those Europeans who take an interest in Japanese matters,
for it is mentioned or alluded to in almost every European work
relating to our country. It was written by a lady, who, from her
writings, is considered one of the most talented women that Japan has
ever produced.
She was the daughter of Fujiwara Tametoki, a petty Court noble,
remotely connected with the great family of Fujiwara, in the tenth
century after Christ, and was generally called Murasaki Shikib. About
these names a few remarks are necessary. The word "Shikib" means
"ceremonies," and is more properly a name adopted, with the addition
of certain suffixes, to designate special Court offices. Thus the term
"Shikib-Kiô" is synonymous with "master of the ceremonies," and
"Shikib-no-Jiô" with "secretary to the master of the ceremonies."
Hence it might at first sight appear rather peculiar if such an
appellation should happen to be used as the name of a woman. It was,
however, a custom of the period for noble ladies and their attendants
to be often called after such offices, generally with the suffix
"No-Kata," indicating the female sex, and somewhat corresponding to
the word "madam." This probably originated in the same way as the
practice in America of calling ladies by their husbands' official
titles, such as Mrs. Captain, Mrs. Judge, etc., only that in the case
of the Japanese custom the official title came in time to be used
without any immediate association with the offices themselves, and
often even as a maiden name. From this custom our authoress came to
be called "Shikib," a name which did not originally apply to a person.
To this another name, Murasaki, was added, in order to distinguish her
from other ladies who may also have been called Shikib. "Murasaki"
means "violet," whether the flower or the color. Concerning the origin
of this appellation there exist two different opinions. Those holding
one, derive it from her family name, Fujiwara; for "Fujiwara"
literally means "the field of Wistaria," and the color of the Wistaria
blossom is violet. Those holding the other, trace it to the fact that
out of several persons introduced into the story, Violet (Murasaki in
the text) is a most modest and gentle woman, whence it is thought that
the admirers of the work transferred the name to the authoress
herself. In her youth she was maid of honor to a daughter of the then
prime minister, who became eventually the wife of the Emperor Ichijiô,
better known by her surname, Jiôtô-Monin, and who is especially famous
as having been the patroness of our authoress. Murasaki Shikib married
a noble, named Nobtaka, to whom she bore a daughter, who, herself,
wrote a work of fiction, called "Sagoromo" (narrow sleeves). She
survived her husband, Nobtaka, some years, and spent her latter days
in quiet retirement, dying in the year 992 after Christ. The diary
which she wrote during her retirement is still in existence, and her
tomb may yet be seen in a Buddhist temple in Kiôto, the old capital
where the principal scenes of her story are laid.
The exact date when her story was written is not given in the work,
but her diary proves that it was evidently composed before she arrived
at old age.
The traditional account given of the circumstances which preceded the
writing of the story is this: when the above-mentioned Empress was
asked by the Saigû (the sacred virgin of the temple of Ise) if her
Majesty could not procure an interesting romance for her, because the
older fictions had become too familiar, she requested Shikib to write
a new one, and the result of this request was this story.
The tradition goes on to say that when this request was made Shikib
retired to the Buddhist temple in Ishiyama, situated on hilly ground
at the head of the picturesque river Wooji, looking down on Lake Biwa.
There she betook herself to undergo the "Tooya" (confinement in a
temple throughout the night), a solemn religious observance for the
purpose of obtaining divine help and good success in her undertaking.
It was the evening of the fifteenth of August. Before her eyes the
view extended for miles. In the silver lake below, the pale face of
the full moon was reflected in the calm, mirror-like waters,
displaying itself in indescribable beauty. Her mind became more and
more serene as she gazed on the prospect before her, while her
imagination became more and more lively as she grew calmer and calmer.
The ideas and incidents of the story, which she was about to write,
stole into her mind as if by divine influence. The first topic which
struck her most strongly was that given in the chapters on exile.
These she wrote down immediately, in order not to allow the
inspiration of the moment to be lost, on the back of a roll of
Daihannia (the Chinese translation of Mahâprajñâpâramitâ, one of the
Buddhist Sûtras), and formed subsequently two chapters in the text,
the Suma and Akashi, all the remaining parts of the work having been
added one by one. It is said that this idea of exile came naturally to
her mind, because a prince who had been known to her from her
childhood had been an exile at Kiûsiû, a little before this period.
It is also said that the authoress afterwards copied the roll of
Daihannia with her own hand, in expiation of her having profanely used
it as a notebook, and that she dedicated it to the Temple, in which
there is still a room where she is alleged to have written down the
story. A roll of Daihannia is there also, which is asserted to be the
very same one copied by her.
How far these traditions are in accordance with fact may be a matter
of question, but thus they have come down to us, and are popularly
believed.
Many Europeans, I daresay, have noticed on our lacquer work and other
art objects, the representation of a lady seated at a writing-desk,
with a pen held in her tiny fingers, gazing at the moon reflected in a
lake. This lady is no other than our authoress.
The number of chapters in the modern text of the story is fifty-four,
one of these having the title only and nothing else. There is some
reason to believe that there might have existed a few additional
chapters.
Of these fifty-four chapters, the first forty-one relate to the life
and adventures of Prince Genji; and those which come after refer
principally to one of his sons. The last ten are supposed to have
been added by another hand, generally presumed to have been that of
her daughter. This is conjectured because the style of these final
chapters is somewhat dissimilar to that of those which precede. The
period of time covered by the entire story is some sixty years, and
this volume of translation comprises the first seventeen chapters.
The aims which the authoress seems always to have kept in view are
revealed to us at some length by the mouth of her hero: "ordinary
histories," he is made to say, "are the mere records of events, and
are generally treated in a one-sided manner. They give no insight into
the true state of society. This, however, is the very sphere on which
romances principally dwell. Romances," he continues, "are indeed
fictions, but they are by no means always pure inventions; their only
peculiarities being these, that in them the writers often trace out,
among numerous real characters, the best, when they wish to represent
the good, and the oddest, when they wish to amuse."
From these remarks we can plainly see that our authoress fully
understood the true vocation of a romance writer, and has successfully
realized the conception in her writings.
The period to which her story relates is supposed to be the earlier
part of the tenth century after Christ, a time contemporary with her
own life. For some centuries before this period, our country had made
a signal progress in civilization by its own internal development, and
by the external influence of the enlightenment of China, with whom we
had had for some time considerable intercourse. No country could have
been happier than was ours at this epoch. It enjoyed perfect
tranquillity, being alike free from all fears of foreign invasion and
domestic commotions. Such a state of things, however, could not
continue long without producing some evils; and we can hardly be
surprised to find that the Imperial capital became a sort of centre of
comparative luxury and idleness. Society lost sight, to a great
extent, of true morality, and the effeminacy of the people constituted
the chief feature of the age. Men were ever ready to carry on
sentimental adventures whenever they found opportunities, and the
ladies of the time were not disposed to disencourage them altogether.
The Court was the focus of society, and the utmost ambition of ladies
of some birth was to be introduced there. As to the state of politics,
the Emperor, it is true, reigned; but all the real power was
monopolized by members of the Fujiwara families. These, again, vied
among themselves for the possession of this power, and their daughters
were generally used as political instruments, since almost all the
Royal consorts were taken from some of these families. The abdication
of an emperor was a common event, and arose chiefly from the intrigues
of these same families, although partly from the prevailing influence
of Buddhism over the public mind.
Such, then, was the condition of society at the time when the
authoress, Murasaki Shikib, lived; and such was the sphere of her
labors, a description of which she was destined to hand down to
posterity by her writings. In fact, there is no better history than
her story, which so vividly illustrates the society of her time. True
it is that she openly declares in one passage of her story that
politics are not matters which women are supposed to understand; yet,
when we carefully study her writings, we can scarcely fail to
recognize her work as a partly political one. This fact becomes more
vividly interesting when we consider that the unsatisfactory
conditions of both the state and society soon brought about a grievous
weakening of the Imperial authority, and opened wide the gate for the
ascendency of the military class. This was followed by the systematic
formation of feudalism, which, for some seven centuries, totally
changed the face of Japan. For from the first ascendency of this
military system down to our own days everything in society--ambitions,
honors, the very temperament and daily pursuits of men, and political
institutes themselves--became thoroughly unlike those of which our
authoress was an eye-witness. I may almost say that for several
centuries Japan never recovered the ancient civilization which she had
once attained and lost.
Another merit of the work consists in its having been written in pure
classical Japanese; and here it may be mentioned that we had once made
a remarkable progress in our own language quite independently of any
foreign influence, and that when the native literature was at first
founded, its language was identical with that spoken. Though the
predominance of Chinese studies had arrested the progress of the
native literature, it was still extant at the time, and even for some
time after the date of our authoress. But with the ascendency of the
military class, the neglect of all literature became for centuries
universal. The little that has been preserved is an almost unreadable
chaos of mixed Chinese and Japanese. Thus a gulf gradually opened
between the spoken and the written language. It has been only during
the last two hundred and fifty years that our country has once more
enjoyed a long continuance of peace, and has once more renewed its
interest in literature. Still Chinese has occupied the front rank, and
almost monopolized attention. It is true that within the last sixty or
seventy years numerous works of fiction of different schools have been
produced, mostly in the native language, and that these, when judged
as stories, generally excel in their plots those of the classical
period. The status, however, of these writers has never been
recognized by the public, nor have they enjoyed the same degree of
honor as scholars of a different description. Their style of
composition, moreover, has never reached the same degree of refinement
which distinguished the ancient works. This last is a strong reason
for our appreciation of true classical works such as that of our
authoress.
Again, the concise description of scenery, the elegance of which it is
almost impossible to render with due force in another language, and
the true and delicate touches of human nature which everywhere abound
in the work, especially in the long dialogue in Chapter II, are almost
marvellous when we consider the sex of the writer, and the early
period when she wrote.
Yet this work affords fair ground for criticism. The thread of her
story is often diffuse and somewhat disjointed, a fault probably due
to the fact that she had more flights of imagination than power of
equal and systematic condensation: she having been often carried away
by that imagination from points where she ought to have rested. But,
on the other hand, in most parts the dialogue is scanty, which might
have been prolonged to considerable advantage, if it had been framed
on models of modern composition. The work, also, is too voluminous.
In translating I have cut out several passages which appeared
superfluous, though nothing has been added to the original.
The authoress has been by no means exact in following the order of
dates, though this appears to have proceeded from her endeavor to
complete each distinctive group of ideas in each particular chapter.
In fact she had even left the chapters unnumbered, simply contenting
herself with a brief heading, after which each is now called, such as
"Chapter Kiri-Tsubo," etc., so that the numbering has been undertaken
by the translator for the convenience of the reader. It has no
extraordinarily intricate plot like those which excite the readers of
the sensational romances of the modern western style. It has many
heroines, but only one hero, and this comes no doubt from the peculiar
purpose of the writer to portray different varieties and shades of
female characters at once, as is shadowed in Chapter II, and also to
display the intense fickleness and selfishness of man.
I notice these points beforehand in order to prepare the reader for
the more salient faults of the work. On the whole my principal object
is not so much to amuse my readers as to present them with a study of
human nature, and to give them information on the history of the
social and political condition of my native country nearly a thousand
years ago. They will be able to compare it with the condition of
mediæval and modern Europe.
Another peculiarity of the work to which I would draw attention is
that, with few exceptions, it does not give proper names to the
personages introduced; for the male characters official titles are
generally employed, and to the principal female ones some appellation
taken from an incident belonging to the history of each; for instance,
a girl is named Violet because the hero once compared her to that
flower, while another is called Yûgao because she was found in a
humble dwelling where the flowers of the Yûgao covered the hedges with
a mantle of blossom.
I have now only to add that the translation is, perhaps, not always
idiomatic, though in this matter I have availed myself of some
valuable assistance, for which I feel most thankful.
SUYEMATZ KENCHIO.
_Tokyo, Japan._
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 1: Which means, "The Romance of Genji."]
GENJI MONOGATARI
CHAPTER I
THE CHAMBER OF KIRI[2]
In the reign of a certain Emperor, whose name is unknown to us, there
was, among the Niogo[76] and Kôyi[3] of the Imperial Court, one who,
though she was not of high birth, enjoyed the full tide of Royal
favor. Hence her superiors, each one of whom had always been
thinking--"I shall be the _one_," gazed upon her disdainfully with
malignant eyes, and her equals and inferiors were more indignant
still.
Such being the state of affairs, the anxiety which she had to endure
was great and constant, and this was probably the reason why her
health was at last so much affected, that she was often compelled to
absent herself from Court, and to retire to the residence of her
mother.
Her father, who was a Dainagon,[4] was dead; but her mother, being a
woman of good sense, gave her every possible guidance in the due
performance of Court ceremony, so that in this respect she seemed but
little different from those whose fathers and mothers were still alive
to bring them before public notice, yet, nevertheless, her
friendliness made her oftentimes feel very diffident from the want of
any patron of influence.
These circumstances, however, only tended to make the favor shown to
her by the Emperor wax warmer and warmer, and it was even shown to
such an extent as to become a warning to after-generations. There had
been instances in China in which favoritism such as this had caused
national disturbance and disaster; and thus the matter became a
subject of public animadversion, and it seemed not improbable that
people would begin to allude even to the example of Yô-ki-hi.[5]
In due course, and in consequence, we may suppose, of the Divine
blessing on the sincerity of their affection, a jewel of a little
prince was born to her. The first prince who had been born to the
Emperor was the child of Koki-den-Niogo,[6] the daughter of the
Udaijin (a great officer of State). Not only was he first in point of
age, but his influence on his mother's side was so great that public
opinion had almost unanimously fixed upon him as heir-apparent. Of
this the Emperor was fully conscious, and he only regarded the
new-born child with that affection which one lavishes on a domestic
favorite. Nevertheless, the mother of the first prince had, not
unnaturally, a foreboding that unless matters were managed adroitly
her child might be superseded by the younger one. She, we may observe,
had been established at Court before any other lady, and had more
children than one. The Emperor, therefore, was obliged to treat her
with due respect, and reproaches from her always affected him more
keenly than those of any others.
To return to her rival. Her constitution was extremely delicate, as we
have seen already, and she was surrounded by those who would fain lay
bare, so to say, her hidden scars. Her apartments in the palace were
Kiri-Tsubo (the chamber of Kiri); so called from the trees that were
planted around. In visiting her there the Emperor had to pass before
several other chambers, whose occupants universally chafed when they
saw it. And again, when it was her turn to attend upon the Emperor, it
often happened that they played off mischievous pranks upon her, at
different points in the corridor, which leads to the Imperial
quarters. Sometimes they would soil the skirts of her attendants,
sometimes they would shut against her the door of the covered portico,
where no other passage existed; and thus, in every possible way, they
one and all combined to annoy her.
The Emperor at length became aware of this, and gave her, for her
special chamber, another apartment, which was in the Kôrô-Den, and
which was quite close to those in which he himself resided. It had
been originally occupied by another lady who was now removed, and thus
fresh resentment was aroused.
When the young Prince was three years old the Hakamagi[7] took place.
It was celebrated with a pomp scarcely inferior to that which adorned
the investiture of the first Prince. In fact, all available treasures
were exhausted on the occasion. And again the public manifested its
disapprobation. In the summer of the same year the Kiri-Tsubo-Kôyi
became ill, and wished to retire from the palace. The Emperor,
however, who was accustomed to see her indisposed, strove to induce
her to remain. But her illness increased day by day; and she had
drooped and pined away until she was now but a shadow of her former
self. She made scarcely any response to the affectionate words and
expressions of tenderness which her Royal lover caressingly bestowed
upon her. Her eyes were half-closed: she lay like a fading flower in
the last stage of exhaustion, and she became so much enfeebled that
her mother appeared before the Emperor and entreated with tears that
she might be allowed to leave. Distracted by his vain endeavors to
devise means to aid her, the Emperor at length ordered a Te-gruma[8]
to be in readiness to convey her to her own home, but even then he
went to her apartment and cried despairingly: "Did not we vow that we
would neither of us be either before or after the other even in
travelling the last long journey of life? And can you find it in your
heart to leave me now?" Sadly and tenderly looking up, she thus
replied, with almost failing breath:--
"Since my departure for this dark journey,
Makes you so sad and lonely,
Fain would I stay though weak and weary,
And live for your sake only!"
"Had I but known this before--"
She appeared to have much more to say, but was too weak to continue.
Overpowered with grief, the Emperor at one moment would fain accompany
her himself, and at another moment would have her remain to the end
where she then was.
At the last, her departure was hurried, because the exorcism for the
sick had been appointed to take place on that evening at her home, and
she went. The child Prince, however, had been left in the Palace, as
his mother wished, even at that time, to make her withdrawal as
privately as possible, so as to avoid any invidious observations on
the part of her rivals. To the Emperor the night now became black with
gloom. He sent messenger after messenger to make inquiries, and could
not await their return with patience. Midnight came, and with it the
sound of lamentation. The messenger, who could do nothing else,
hurried back with the sad tidings of the truth. From that moment the
mind of the Emperor was darkened, and he confined himself to his
private apartments.
He would still have kept with himself the young Prince now motherless,
but there was no precedent for this, and it was arranged that he
should be sent to his grandmother for the mourning. The child, who
understood nothing, looked with amazement at the sad countenances of
the Emperor, and of those around him. All separations have their
sting, but sharp indeed was the sting in a case like this.
Now the funeral took place. The weeping and wailing mother, who might
have longed to mingle in the same flames,[9] entered a carriage,
accompanied by female mourners. The procession arrived at the cemetery
of Otagi, and the solemn rites commenced. What were then the thoughts
of the desolate mother? The image of her dead daughter was still
vividly present to her--still seemed animated with life. She must see
her remains become ashes to convince herself that she was really dead.
During the ceremony, an Imperial messenger came from the Palace, and
invested the dead with the title of Sammi. The letters patent were
read, and listened to in solemn silence. The Emperor conferred this
title now in regret that during her lifetime he had not even promoted
her position from a Kôyi to a Niogo, and wishing at this last moment
to raise her title at least one step higher. Once more several tokens
of disapprobation were manifested against the proceeding. But, in
other respects, the beauty of the departed, and her gracious bearing,
which had ever commanded admiration, made people begin to think of her
with sympathy. It was the excess of the Emperor's favor which had
created so many detractors during her lifetime; but now even rivals
felt pity for her; and if any did not, it was in the Koki-den. "When
one is no more, the memory becomes so dear," may be an illustration of
a case such as this.
Some days passed, and due requiem services were carefully performed.
The Emperor was still plunged in thought, and no society had
attractions for him. His constant consolation was to send messengers
to the grandmother of the child, and to make inquiries after them. It
was now autumn, and the evening winds blew chill and cold. The
Emperor--who, when he saw the first Prince, could not refrain from
thinking of the younger one--became more thoughtful than ever; and, on
this evening, he sent Yugei-no Miôbu[10] to repeat his inquiries. She
went as the new moon just rose, and the Emperor stood and contemplated
from his veranda the prospect spread before him. At such moments he
had usually been surrounded by a few chosen friends, one of whom was
almost invariably his lost love. Now she was no more. The thrilling
notes of her music, the touching strains of her melodies, stole over
him in his dark and dreary reverie.
The Miôbu arrived at her destination; and, as she drove in, a sense of
sadness seized upon her.
The owner of the house had long been a widow; but the residence, in
former times, had been made beautiful for the pleasure of her only
daughter. Now, bereaved of this daughter, she dwelt alone; and the
grounds were overgrown with weeds, which here and there lay prostrated
by the violence of the winds; while over them, fair as elsewhere,
gleamed the mild lustre of the impartial moon. The Miôbu entered, and
was led into a front room in the southern part of the building. At
first the hostess and the messenger were equally at a loss for words.
At length the silence was broken by the hostess, who said:--
"Already have I felt that I have lived too long, but doubly do I feel
it now that I am visited by such a messenger as you." Here she paused,
and seemed unable to contend with her emotion.
"When Naishi-no-Ske returned from you," said the Miôbu, "she reported
to the Emperor that when she saw you, face to face, her sympathy for
you was irresistible. I, too, see now how true it is!" A moment's
hesitation, and she proceeded to deliver the Imperial message:--
"The Emperor commanded me to say that for some time he had wandered in
his fancy, and imagined he was but in a dream; and that, though he was
now more tranquil, he could not find that it was only a dream. Again,
that there is no one who can really sympathize with him; and he hopes
that you will come to the Palace, and talk with him. His Majesty said
also that the absence of the Prince made him anxious, and that he is
desirous that you should speedily make up your mind. In giving me this
message, he did not speak with readiness. He seemed to fear to be
considered unmanly, and strove to exercise reserve. I could not help
experiencing sympathy with him, and hurried away here, almost fearing
that, perhaps, I had not quite caught his full meaning."
So saying, she presented to her a letter from the Emperor. The lady's
sight was dim and indistinct. Taking it, therefore, to the lamp, she
said, "Perhaps the light will help me to decipher," and then read as
follows, much in unison with the oral message: "I thought that time
only would assuage my grief; but time only brings before me more
vividly my recollection of the lost one. Yet, it is inevitable. How is
my boy? Of him, too, I am always thinking. Time once was when we both
hoped to bring him up together. May he still be to you a memento of
his mother!"
Such was the brief outline of the letter, and it contained the
following:--
"The sound of the wind is dull and drear
Across Miyagi's[11] dewy lea,
And makes me mourn for the motherless deer
That sleeps beneath the Hagi tree."
She put gently the letter aside, and said, "Life and the world are
irksome to me; and you can see, then, how reluctantly I should present
myself at the Palace. I cannot go myself, though it is painful to me
to seem to neglect the honored command. As for the little Prince, I
know not why he thought of it, but he seems quite willing to go. This
is very natural. Please to inform his Majesty that this is our
position. Very possibly, when one remembers the birth of the young
Prince, it would not be well for him to spend too much of his time as
he does now."
Then she wrote quickly a short answer, and handed it to the Miôbu. At
this time her grandson was sleeping soundly.
"I should like to see the boy awake, and to tell the Emperor all about
him, but he will already be impatiently awaiting my return," said the
messenger. And she prepared to depart.
"It would be a relief to me to tell you how a mother laments over her
departed child. Visit me, then, sometimes, if you can, as a friend,
when you are not engaged or pressed for time. Formerly, when you came
here, your visit was ever glad and welcome; now I see in you the
messenger of woe. More and more my life seems aimless to me. From the
time of my child's birth, her father always looked forward to her
being presented at Court, and when dying he repeatedly enjoined me to
carry out that wish. You know that my daughter had no patron to watch
over her, and I well knew how difficult would be her position among
her fellow-maidens. Yet, I did not disobey her father's request, and
she went to Court. There the Emperor showed her a kindness beyond our
hopes. For the sake of that kindness she uncomplainingly endured all
the cruel taunts of envious companions. But their envy ever deepening,
and her troubles ever increasing, at last she passed away, worn out,
as it were, with care. When I think of the matter in that light, the
kindest favors seem to me fraught with misfortune. Ah! that the blind
affection of a mother should make me talk in this way!"
"The thoughts of his Majesty may be even as your own," said the Miôbu.
"Often when he alluded to his overpowering affection for her, he said
that perhaps all this might have been because their love was destined
not to last long. And that though he ever strove not to injure any
subject, yet for Kiri-Tsubo, and for her alone, he had sometimes
caused the ill-will of others; that when all this has been done, she
was no more! All this he told me in deep gloom, and added that it made
him ponder on their previous existence."
The night was now far advanced, and again the Miôbu rose to take
leave. The moon was sailing down westward and the cool breeze was
waving the herbage to and fro, in which numerous _mushi_ were
plaintively singing.[12] The messenger, being still somehow unready to
start, hummed--
"Fain would one weep the whole night long,
As weeps the Sudu-Mushi's song,
Who chants her melancholy lay,
Till night and darkness pass away."
As she still lingered, the lady took up the refrain--
"To the heath where the Sudu-Mushi sings,
From beyond the clouds[13] one comes from on high
And more dews on the grass around she flings,
And adds her own, to the night wind's sigh."
A Court dress and a set of beautiful ornamental hairpins, which had
belonged to Kiri-Tsubo, were presented to the Miôbu by her hostess,
who thought that these things, which her daughter had left to be
available on such occasions, would be a more suitable gift, under
present circumstances, than any other.
On the return of the Miôbu she found that the Emperor had not yet
retired to rest. He was really awaiting her return, but was apparently
engaged in admiring the Tsubo-Senzai--or stands of flowers--which were
placed in front of the palaces, and in which the flowers were in full
bloom. With him were four or five ladies, his intimate friends, with
whom he was conversing. In these days his favorite topic of
conversation was the "Long Regret."[14] Nothing pleased him more than
to gaze upon the picture of that poem, which had been painted by
Prince Teishi-In, or to talk about the native poems on the same
subject, which had been composed, at the Royal command, by Ise, the
poetess, and by Tsurayuki, the poet. And it was in this way that he
was engaged on this particular evening.
To him the Miôbu now went immediately, and she faithfully reported to
him all that she had seen, and she gave to him also the answer to his
letter. That letter stated that the mother of Kiri-Tsubo felt honored
by his gracious inquiries, and that she was so truly grateful that she
scarcely knew how to express herself. She proceeded to say that his
condescension made her feel at liberty to offer to him the
following:--
"Since now no fostering love is found,
And the Hagi tree is dead and sere,
The motherless deer lies on the ground,
Helpless and weak, no shelter near."
The Emperor strove in vain to repress his own emotion; and old
memories, dating from the time when he first saw his favorite, rose up
before him fast and thick. "How precious has been each moment to me,
but yet what a long time has elapsed since then," thought he, and he
said to the Miôbu, "How often have I, too, desired to see the daughter
of the Dainagon in such a position as her father would have desired to
see her. 'Tis in vain to speak of that now!"
A pause, and he continued, "The child, however, may survive, and
fortune may have some boon in store for him; and his grandmother's
prayer should rather be for long life."
The presents were then shown to him. "Ah," thought he, "could they be
the souvenirs sent by the once lost love," as he murmured--
"Oh, could I find some wizard sprite,
To bear my words to her I love,
Beyond the shades of envious night,
To where she dwells in realms above!"
Now the picture of beautiful Yô-ki-hi, however skilful the painter may
have been, is after all only a picture. It lacks life and animation.
Her features may have been worthily compared to the lotus and to the
willow of the Imperial gardens, but the style after all was Chinese,
and to the Emperor his lost love was all in all, nor, in his eyes, was
any other object comparable to her. Who doubts that they, too, had
vowed to unite wings, and intertwine branches! But to what end? The
murmur of winds, the music of insects, now only served to cause him
melancholy.
In the meantime, in the Koki-Den was heard the sound of music. She who
dwelt there, and who had not now for a long time been with the
Emperor, was heedlessly protracting her strains until this late hour
of the evening.
How painfully must these have sounded to the Emperor!
"Moonlight is gone, and darkness reigns
E'en in the realms 'above the clouds,'
Ah! how can light, or tranquil peace,
Shine o'er that lone and lowly home!"
Thus thought the Emperor, and he did not retire until "the lamps were
trimmed to the end!" The sound of the night watch of the right
guard[15] was now heard. It was five o'clock in the morning. So, to
avoid notice, he withdrew to his bedroom, but calm slumber hardly
visited his eyes. This now became a common occurrence.
When he rose in the morning he would reflect on the time gone by when
"they knew not even that the casement was bright." But now, too, he
would neglect "Morning Court." His appetite failed him. The delicacies
of the so-called "great table" had no temptation for him. Men pitied
him much. "There must have been some divine mystery that predetermined
the course of their love," said they, "for in matters in which she is
concerned he is powerless to reason, and wisdom deserts him. The
welfare of the State ceases to interest him." And now people actually
began to quote instances that had occurred in a foreign Court.
Weeks and months had elapsed, and the son of Kiri-Tsubo was again at
the Palace. In the spring of the following year the first Prince was
proclaimed heir-apparent to the throne. Had the Emperor consulted his
private feelings, he would have substituted the younger Prince for the
elder one. But this was not possible, and, especially for this
reason:--There was no influential party to support him, and, moreover,
public opinion would also have been strongly opposed to such a
measure, which, if effected by arbitrary power, would have become a
source of danger. The Emperor, therefore, betrayed no such desire, and
repressed all outward appearance of it. And now the public expressed
its satisfaction at the self-restraint of the Emperor, and the mother
of the first Prince felt at ease.
In this year, the mother of Kiri-Tsubo departed this life. She may not
improbably have longed to follow her daughter at an earlier period;
and the only regret to which she gave utterance, was that she was
forced to leave her grandson, whom she had so tenderly loved.
From this time the young Prince took up his residence in the Imperial
palace; and next year, at the age of seven, he began to learn to read
and write under the personal superintendence of the Emperor. He now
began to take him into the private apartments, among others, of the
Koki-den, saying, "The mother is gone! now at least, let the child be
received with better feeling." And if even stony-hearted warriors, or
bitter enemies, if any such there were, smiled when they saw the boy,
the mother of the heir-apparent, too, could not entirely exclude him
from her sympathies. This lady had two daughters, and they found in
their half-brother a pleasant playmate. Every one was pleased to greet
him, and there was already a winning coquetry in his manners, which
amused people, and made them like to play with him. We need not allude
to his studies in detail, but on musical instruments, such as the
flute and the _koto_,[16] he also showed great proficiency.
About this time there arrived an embassy from Corea, and among them
was an excellent physiognomist. When the Emperor heard of this, he
wished to have the Prince examined by him. It was, however, contrary
to the warnings of the Emperor Wuda, to call in foreigners to the
Palace. The Prince was, therefore, disguised as the son of one
Udaiben, his instructor, with whom he was sent to the Kôro-Kwan, where
foreign embassies are entertained.
When the physiognomist saw him, he was amazed, and, turning his own
head from side to side, seemed at first to be unable to comprehend the
lines of his features, and then said, "His physiognomy argues that he
might ascend to the highest position in the State, but, in that case,
his reign will be disturbed, and many misfortunes will ensue. If,
however, his position should only be that of a great personage in the
country, his fortune may be different."
This Udaiben was a clever scholar. He had with the Corean pleasant
conversations, and they also interchanged with one another some
Chinese poems, in one of which the Corean said what great pleasure it
had given him to have seen before his departure, which was now
imminent, a youth of such remarkable promise. The Coreans made some
valuable presents to the Prince, who had also composed a few lines,
and to them, too, many costly gifts were offered from the Imperial
treasures.
In spite of all the precautions which were taken to keep all this
rigidly secret, it did, somehow or other, become known to others, and
among those to the Udaijin, who, not unnaturally, viewed it with
suspicion, and began to entertain doubts of the Emperor's intentions.
The latter, however, acted with great prudence. It must be remembered
that, as yet, he had not even created the boy a Royal Prince. He now
sent for a native physiognomist, who approved of his delay in doing
so, and whose observations to this effect, the Emperor did not receive
unfavorably. He wisely thought to be a Royal Prince, without having
any influential support on the mother's side, would be of no real
advantage to his son. Moreover, his own tenure of power seemed
precarious, and he, therefore, thought it better for his own dynasty,
as well as for the Prince, to keep him in a private station, and to
constitute him an outside supporter of the Royal cause.
And now he took more and more pains with his education in different
branches of learning; and the more the boy studied, the more talent
did he evince--talent almost too great for one destined to remain in a
private station. Nevertheless, as we have said, suspicions would have
been aroused had Royal rank been conferred upon him, and the
astrologists, whom also the Emperor consulted, having expressed their
disapproval of such a measure, the Emperor finally made up his mind to
create a new family. To this family he assigned the name of Gen, and
he made the young Prince the founder of it.[17]
Some time had now elapsed since the death of the Emperor's favorite,
but he was still often haunted by her image. Ladies were introduced
into his presence, in order, if possible, to divert his attention, but
without success.
There was, however, living at this time a young Princess, the fourth
child of a late Emperor. She had great promise of beauty, and was
guarded with jealous care by her mother, the Empress-Dowager. The
Naishi-no-Ske, who had been at the Court from the time of the said
Emperor, was intimately acquainted with the Empress and familiar with
the Princess, her daughter, from her very childhood. This person now
recommended the Emperor to see the Princess, because her features
closely resembled those of Kiri-Tsubo.
"I have now fulfilled," she said, "the duties of my office under three
reigns, and, as yet, I have seen but one person who resembles the
departed. The daughter of the Empress-Dowager does resemble her, and
she is singularly beautiful."
"There may be some truth in this," thought the Emperor, and he began
to regard her with awakening interest.
This was related to the Empress-Dowager. She, however, gave no
encouragement whatever to the idea, "How terrible!" she said. "Do we
not remember the cruel harshness of the mother of the Heir-apparent,
which hastened the fate of Kiri-Tsubo!"
While thus discountenancing any intimacy between her daughter and the
Emperor, she too died, and the princess was left parentless. The
Emperor acted with great kindness, and intimated his wish to regard
her as his own daughter. In consequence of this her guardian, and her
brother, Prince Hiôb-Kiô, considering that life at Court would be
better for her and more attractive for her than the quiet of her own
home, obtained for her an introduction there.
She was styled the Princess Fuji-Tsubo (of the Chamber of Wistaria),
from the name of the chamber which was assigned to her.
There was, indeed, both in features and manners a strange resemblance
between her and Kiri-Tsubo. The rivals of the latter constantly caused
pain both to herself and to the Emperor; but the illustrious birth of
the Princess prevented any one from ever daring to humiliate her, and
she uniformly maintained the dignity of her position. And to her alas!
the Emperor's thoughts were now gradually drawn, though he could not
yet be said to have forgotten Kiri-Tsubo.
The young Prince, whom we now style Genji (the Gen), was still with
the Emperor, and passed his time pleasantly enough in visiting the
various apartments where the inmates of the palace resided. He found
the companionship of all of them sufficiently agreeable; but beside
the many who were now of maturer years, there was one who was still in
the bloom of her youthful beauty, and who more particularly caught his
fancy, the Princess Wistaria. He had no recollection of his mother,
but he had been told by Naishi-no-Ske that this lady was exceedingly
like her; and for this reason he often yearned to see her and to be
with her.
The Emperor showed equal affection to both of them, and he sometimes
told her that he hoped she would not treat the boy with coldness or
think him forward. He said that his affection for the one made him
feel the same for the other too, and that the mutual resemblance of
her own and of his mother's face easily accounted for Genji's
partiality to her. And thus as a result of this generous feeling on
the part of the Emperor, a warmer tinge was gradually imparted both to
the boyish humor and to the awakening sentiment of the young Prince.
The mother of the Heir-apparent was not unnaturally averse to the
Princess, and this revived her old antipathy to Genji also. The beauty
of her son, the Heir-apparent, though remarkable, could not be
compared to his, and so bright and radiant was his face that Genji was
called by the public Hikal-Genji-no-Kimi (the shining Prince Gen).
When he attained the age of twelve the ceremony of Gembuk[18] (or
crowning) took place. This was also performed with all possible
magnificence. Various _fêtes_, which were to take place in public,
were arranged by special order by responsible officers of the
Household. The Royal chair was placed in the Eastern wing of the
Seiriô-Den, where the Emperor dwells, and in front of it were the
seats of the hero of the ceremony and of the Sadaijin, who was to
crown him and to regulate the ceremonial.
About ten o'clock in the forenoon Genji appeared on the scene. The
boyish style of his hair and dress excellently became his features;
and it almost seemed matter for regret that it should be altered. The
Okura-Kiô-Kurahito, whose office it was to rearrange the hair of
Genji, faltered as he did so. As to the Emperor, a sudden thought
stole into his mind. "Ah! could his mother but have lived to have seen
him now!" This thought, however, he at once suppressed. After he had
been crowned the Prince withdrew to a dressing-room, where he attired
himself in the full robes of manhood. Then descending to the
Court-yard he performed a measured dance in grateful acknowledgment.
This he did with so much grace and skill that all present were filled
with admiration; and his beauty, which some feared might be lessened,
seemed only more remarkable from the change. And the Emperor, who had
before tried to resist them, now found old memories irresistible.
Sadaijin had by his wife, who was a Royal Princess, an only daughter.
The Heir-apparent had taken some notice of her, but her father did not
encourage him. He had, on the other hand, some idea of Genji, and had
sounded the Emperor on the subject. He regarded the idea with favor,
and especially on the ground that such a union would be of advantage
to Genji, who had not yet any influential supporters.
Now all the Court and the distinguished visitors were assembled in the
palace, where a great festival was held; Genji occupied a seat next to
that of the Royal Princess. During the entertainment Sadaijin
whispered something several times into his ear, but he was too young
and diffident to make any answer.
Sadaijin was now summoned before the daïs of the Emperor, and,
according to custom, an Imperial gift, a white Ô-Uchiki (grand robe),
and a suit of silk vestments were presented to him by a lady. Then
proffering his own wine-cup, the Emperor addressed him thus:--
"In the first hair-knot[19] of youth,
Let love that lasts for age be bound!"
This evidently implied an idea of matrimony. Sadaijin feigned surprise
and responded:--
"Aye! if the purple[20] of the cord,
I bound so anxiously, endure!"
He then descended into the Court-yard, and gave expression to his
thanks in the same manner in which Genji had previously done. A horse
from the Imperial stables and a falcon from the Kurand-Dokoro[21] were
on view in the yard, and were now presented to him. The princes and
nobles were all gathered together in front of the grand staircase, and
appropriate gifts were also presented to each one of them. Among the
crowd baskets and trays of fruits and delicacies were distributed by
the Emperor's order, under the direction of Udaiben; and more
rice-cakes and other things were given away now than at the Gembuk of
the Heir-apparent.
In the evening the young Prince went to the mansion of the Sadaijin,
where the espousal with the young daughter of the latter was
celebrated with much splendor. The youthfulness of the beautiful boy
was well pleasing to Sadaijin; but the bride, who was some years older
than he was, and who considered the disparity in their age to be
unsuitable, blushed when she thought of it.
Not only was this Sadaijin himself a distinguished personage in the
State, but his wife was also the sister of the Emperor by the same
mother, the late Empress; and her rank therefore was unequivocal. When
to this we add the union of their daughter with Genji, it was easy to
understand that the influence of Udaijin, the grandfather of the
Heir-apparent, and who therefore seemed likely to attain great power,
was not after all of very much moment.
Sadaijin had several children. One of them, who was the issue of his
Royal wife, was the Kurand Shiôshiô.
Udaijin was not, for political reasons, on good terms with this
family; but nevertheless he did not wish to estrange the youthful
Kurand. On the contrary, he endeavored to establish friendly relations
with him, as was indeed desirable, and he went so far as to introduce
him to his fourth daughter, the younger sister of the Koki-Den.
Genji still resided in the palace, where his society was a source of
much pleasure to the Emperor, and he did not take up his abode in a
private house. Indeed, his bride, Lady Aoi (Lady Hollyhock), though
her position insured her every attention from others, had few charms
for him, and the Princess Wistaria much more frequently occupied his
thoughts. "How pleasant her society, and how few like her!" he was
always thinking; and a hidden bitterness blended with his constant
reveries.
The years rolled on, and Genji being now older was no longer allowed
to continue his visits to the private rooms of the Princess as before.
But the pleasure of overhearing her sweet voice, as its strains flowed
occasionally through the curtained casement, and blended with the
music of the flute and _koto_, made him still glad to reside in the
Palace. Under these circumstances he seldom visited the home of his
bride, sometimes only for a day or two after an absence of five or six
at Court.
His father-in-law, however, did not attach much importance to this, on
account of his youth; and whenever they did receive a visit from him,
pleasant companions were invited to meet him, and various games likely
to suit his taste were provided for his entertainment.
In the Palace, Shigeisa, his late mother's quarters, was allotted to
him, and those who had waited on her waited on him. The private house,
where his grandmother had resided, was beautifully repaired for him by
the Shuri Takmi--the Imperial Repairing Committee--in obedience to the
wishes of the Emperor. In addition to the original loveliness of the
landscape and the noble forest ranges, the basin of the lake was now
enlarged, and similar improvements were effected throughout with the
greatest pains. "Oh, how delightful would it not be to be in a place
like that which such an one as one might choose!" thought Genji within
himself.
We may here also note that the name Hikal Genji is said to have been
originated by the Corean who examined his physiognomy.
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 2: The beautiful tree, called Kiri, has been named Paulownia
Imperialis, by botanists.]
[Footnote 3: Official titles held by Court ladies.]
[Footnote 4: The name of a Court office.]
[Footnote 5: A celebrated and beautiful favorite of an Emperor of the
Thang dynasty in China, whose administration was disturbed by a
rebellion, said to have been caused by the neglect of his duties for
her sake.]
[Footnote 6: A Niogo who resided in a part of the Imperial palace
called "Koki-den."]
[Footnote 7: The Hakamagi is the investiture of boys with trousers,
when they pass from childhood to boyhood. In ordinary cases, this is
done when about five years old, but in the Royal Family, it usually
takes place earlier.]
[Footnote 8: A carriage drawn by hands. Its use in the Court-yard of
the Palace was only allowed to persons of distinction.]
[Footnote 9: Cremation was very common in these days.]
[Footnote 10: A Court lady, whose name was Yugei, holding an office
called "Miôbu."]
[Footnote 11: Miyagi is the name of a field which is famous for the
Hagi or Lespedeza, a small and pretty shrub, which blooms in the
Autumn. In poetry it is associated with deer, and a male and female
deer are often compared to a lover and his love, and their young to
their children.]
[Footnote 12: In Japan there is a great number of "mushi" or insects,
which sing in herbage grass, especially in the evenings of Autumn.
They are constantly alluded to in poetry.]
[Footnote 13: In Japanese poetry, persons connected with the Court,
are spoken of as "the people above the clouds."]
[Footnote 14: A famous Chinese poem, by Hak-rak-ten. The heroine of
the poem was Yô-ki-hi, to whom we have made reference before. The
story is, that after death she became a fairy, and the Emperor sent a
magician to find her. The works of the poet Peh-lo-tien, as it is
pronounced by modern Chinese, were the only poems in vogue at that
time. Hence, perhaps, the reason of its being frequently quoted.]
[Footnote 15: There were two divisions of the Imperial guard, right
and left.]
[Footnote 16: The general name for a species of musical instrument
resembling the zither, but longer.]
[Footnote 17: In these days Imperial Princes were often created
founders of new families, and with some given name, the Gen being one
most frequently used. These Princes had no longer a claim to the
throne.]
[Footnote 18: The ceremony of placing a crown or coronet upon the head
of a boy. This was an ancient custom observed by the upper and middle
classes both in Japan and China, to mark the transition from boyhood
to youth.]
[Footnote 19: Before the crown was placed upon the head at the Gembuk,
the hair was gathered up in a conical form from all sides of the head,
and then fastened securely in that form with a knot of silken cords of
which the color was always purple.]
[Footnote 20: The color of purple typifies, and is emblematical of,
love.]
[Footnote 21: A body of men who resembled "Gentlemen-at-arms," and a
part of whose duty it was to attend to the falcons.]
CHAPTER II
THE BROOM-LIKE TREE
Hikal Genji--the name is singularly well known, and is the subject of
innumerable remarks and censures. Indeed, he had many intrigues in his
lifetime, and most of them are vividly preserved in our memories. He
had always striven to keep all these intrigues in the utmost secrecy,
and had to appear constantly virtuous. This caution was observed to
such an extent that he scarcely accomplished anything really romantic,
a fact which Katano-no-Shiôshiô[22] would have ridiculed.
Even with such jealous watchfulness, secrets easily transpire from one
to another; so loquacious is man! Moreover, he had unfortunately from
nature a disposition of not appreciating anything within easy reach,
but of directing his thought in undesirable quarters, hence sundry
improprieties in his career.
Now, it was the season of continuous rain (namely, the month of May),
and the Court was keeping a strict Monoimi.[23] Genji, who had now
been made a Chiûjiô,[24] and who was still continuing his residence in
the Imperial Palace, was also confined to his apartments for a
considerable length of time. His father-in-law naturally felt for him,
and his sons were sent to bear him company. Among these, Kurand
Shiôshiô, who was now elevated to the post of Tô-no-Chiûjiô, proved to
be the most intimate and interesting companion. He was married to the
fourth daughter of the Udaijin, but being a man of lively disposition,
he, too, like Genji, did not often resort to the mansion of the bride.
When Genji went to the Sadaijin's he was always his favorite
associate; they were together in their studies and in their sports,
and accompanied each other everywhere. And so all stiffness and
formality were dispensed with, and they did not scruple to reveal
their secrets to each other.
It was on an evening in the above-mentioned season. Rain was falling
drearily. The inhabitants of the Palace had almost all retired, and
the apartment of Genji was more than usually still. He was engaged in
reading near a lamp, but at length mechanically put his book aside,
and began to take out some letters and writings from a bureau which
stood on one side of the room. Tô-no-Chiûjiô happened to be present,
and Genji soon gathered from his countenance that he was anxious to
look over them.
"Yes," said Genji; "some you may see, but there may be others!"
"Those others," retorted Tô-no-Chiûjiô, "are precisely those which I
wish to see; ordinary ones, even your humble servant may have
received. I only long to look upon those which may have been written
by fair hands, when the tender writer had something to complain of, or
when in twilight hour she was outpouring all her yearning!"
Being so pressed, Genji allowed his brother-in-law to see them all. It
is, however, highly probable that any very sacred letters would not
have been loosely deposited in an ordinary bureau; and these would
therefore seem, after all, to have been of second-rate importance.
"What a variety," said Tô-no-Chiûjiô, as he turned them over, and he
asked several questions guessingly about this or that. About some he
guessed correctly, about others he was puzzled and suspicious.[25]
Genji smiled and spoke little, only making some obscure remark, and
continuing as he took the letters: "but _you_, surely, must have
collected many. Will not you show me some? And then my bureau also may
open more easily."
"You do not suppose that I have any worth reading, do you?" replied
Tô-no-Chiûjiô. "I have only just now discovered," continued he, "how
difficult it is to meet with a fair creature, of whom one can say,
'This is, indeed, _the_ one; here is, at last, perfection.' There are,
indeed, many who fascinate; many who are ready with their pens, and
who, when occasion may require, are quick at repartee. But how often
such girls as these are conceited about their own accomplishments, and
endeavor unduly to disparage those of others! There are again some who
are special pets of their parents, and most jealously watched over at
home. Often, no doubt, they are pretty, often graceful; and frequently
they will apply themselves with effect to music and to poetry, in
which they may even attain to special excellence. But then, their
friends will keep their drawbacks in the dark, and eulogize their
merits to the utmost. If we were to give full credence to this
exaggerated praise, we could not but fail in every single instance to
be more or less disappointed."
So saying Tô-no-Chiûjiô paused, and appeared as if he were ashamed of
having such an experience, when Genji smilingly remarked, "Can any one
of them, however, exist without at least one good point?"
"Nay, were there any so little favored as that, no one would ever be
misled at all!" replied Tô-no-Chiûjiô, and he continued, "In my
opinion, the most and the least favored are in the same proportion. I
mean, they are both not many. Their birth, also, divides them into
three classes. Those, however, who are especially well born, are often
too jealously guarded, and are, for the most part, kept secluded from
the outside gaze, which frequently tends to make their deportment shy
and timid. It is those of the middle class, who are much more
frequently seen by us, who afford us most chance of studying their
character. As for the lower class, it would be almost useless to
trouble ourselves with them."
Thus Tô-no-Chiûjiô appeared to be thoroughly at home in his
description of the merits of the fair sex, which made Genji amused,
and he said: "But how do you define the classes you have referred to,
and classify them into three? Those who are of high birth sink
sometimes in the social scale until the distinction of their rank is
forgotten in the abjectness of their present position. Others, again,
of low origin, rise to a high position, and, with self-important faces
and in ostentatious residences, regard themselves as inferior to none.
Into what class will you allot _these_?"
Just at this moment the Sama-no-Kami[26] and Tô Shikib-no-Jiô[27]
joined the party. They came to pay their respects to Genji, and both
of them were gay and light-hearted talkers. So Tô-no-Chiûjiô now made
over the discussion to them, and it was carried to rather questionable
lengths.
"However exalted a lady's position may be," said Sama-no-Kami, "if her
origin is an unenviable one, the estimation of the public for her
would be widely different from that which it shows to those who are
naturally entitled to it. If, again, adverse fortune assails one whose
birth is high, so that she becomes friendless and helpless,
degradation here will meet our eyes, though her heart may still remain
as noble as ever. Examples of both of these are very common. After
much reflection, I can only come to the conclusion that both of them
should be included in the middle class. In this class, too, must be
included many daughters of the Duriô,[28] who occupy themselves with
local administration. These ladies are often very attractive, and are
not seldom introduced at Court and enjoy high favor."
"And successes depend pretty much upon the state of one's fortune, I
fancy," interrupted Genji, with a placid smile.
"That is a remark very unlikely to fall from the lips of a champion of
romance," chimed in Tô-no-Chiûjiô.
"There may be some," resumed Sama-no-Kami, "who are of high birth, and
to whom public respect is duly paid, yet whose domestic education has
been much neglected. Of a lady such as this we may simply remark,
'Why, and how, is it that she is so brought up?' and she would only
cause discredit to her class. There are, of course, some who combine
in themselves every perfection befitting their position. These best of
the best are, however, not within every one's reach. But, listen!
Within an old dilapidated gateway, almost unknown to the world, and
overgrown with wild vegetation, perchance we might find, shut up, a
maiden charming beyond imagination. Her father might be an aged man,
corpulent in person, and stern in mien, and her brothers of repulsive
countenance; but there, in an uninviting room, she lives, full of
delicacy and sentiment, and fairly skilled in the arts of poetry or
music, which she may have acquired by her own exertions alone,
unaided. If there were such a case, surely she deserves our
attention, save that of those of us who themselves are highly exalted
in position."
So saying, Sama-no-Kami winked slyly at Shikib-no-Jiô. The latter was
silent: perhaps he fancied that Sama-no-Kami was speaking in the above
strain, with a hidden reference to his (Shikib's) sisters, who, he
imagined, answered the description.
Meantime, Genji may have thought, "If it is so difficult to choose one
even from the best class, how can--Ah!" and he began to close his eyes
and doze. His dress was of soft white silk, partly covered by the
_naoshi_,[29] worn carelessly, with its cord left loose and untied.
His appearance and bearing formed quite a picture.
Meanwhile, the conversation went on about different persons and
characters, and Sama-no-Kami proceeded: "It is unquestionable that
though at first glance many women appear to be without defects, yet
when we come to the actual selection of any one of them, we should
seriously hesitate in our choice.
"Let me illustrate my meaning by reference to the numerous public men
who may be aspiring to fulfil the duties of several important posts.
You will at once recognize the great difficulty there would be in
fixing upon the individual statesman under whose guardianship the
empire could best repose. And supposing that, if at last, by good
fortune, the most able man were designated, even then we must bear in
mind that it is not in the power of one or two individuals, however
gifted they may be, to carry on the whole administration of the
kingdom alone. Public business can only be tranquilly conducted when
the superior receives the assistance of subordinates, and when the
subordinate yields a becoming respect and loyalty to his superior, and
affairs are thus conducted in a spirit of mutual conciliation. So,
too, it is in the narrow range of the domestic circle. To make a good
mistress of that circle, one must possess, if our ideal is to be fully
realized, many important qualifications. Were we to be constantly
indulging in the severity of criticism, always objecting to this or
that, a perfect character would be almost unattainable. Men should
therefore bear with patience any trifling dissatisfaction which they
may feel, and strive constantly to keep alive, to augment, and to
cherish, the warmth of their early love. Only such a man as this can
be called faithful, and the partner of such a man alone can enjoy the
real happiness of affection. How unsatisfactory to us, however, seems
the actual world if we look round upon it. Still more difficult must
it be to satisfy such as you who seek your companions but from among
the best!
"How varied are the characters and the dispositions of women! Some who
are youthful and favored by Nature strive almost selfishly to keep
themselves with the utmost reserve. If they write, they write
harmlessly and innocently; yet, at the same time, they are choice in
their expressions, which have delicate touches of bewitching
sentiment. This might possibly make us entertain a suddenly conceived
fancy for them; yet they would give us but slight encouragement. They
may allow us just to hear their voices, but when we approach them they
will speak with subdued breath, and almost inaudibly. Beware, however,
lest among these you chance to encounter some astute artiste, who,
under a surface that is smooth, conceals a current that is deep. This
sort of lady, it is true, generally appears quite modest; but often
proves, when we come closer, to be of a very different temperament
from what we anticipated. Here is one drawback to be guarded against.
"Among characters differing from the above, some are too full of
sentimental sweetness--whenever occasion offers them romance they
become spoilt. Such would be decidedly better if they had less
sentiment, and more sense.
"Others, again, are singularly earnest--too earnest, indeed--in the
performance of their domestic duty; and such, with their hair pushed
back,[30] devote themselves like household drudges to household
affairs. Man, whose duties generally call him from home all the day,
naturally hears and sees the social movements both of public and
private life, and notices different things, both good and bad. Of such
things he would not like to talk freely with strangers, but only with
some one closely allied to him. Indeed, a man may have many things in
his mind which cause him to smile or to grieve. Occasionally something
of a political nature may irritate him beyond endurance. These matters
he would like to talk over with his fair companion, that she might
soothe him, and sympathize with him. But a woman as above described is
often unable to understand him, or does not endeavor to do so; and
this only makes him more miserable. At another time he may brood over
his hopes and aspirations; but he has no hope of solace. She is not
only incapable of sharing these with him, but might carelessly remark,
'What ails you?' How severely would this try the temper of a man!
"If, then, we clearly see all these, the only suggestion I can make is
that the best thing to do is to choose one who is gentle and modest,
and strive to guide and educate her according to the best ideal we may
think of. This is the best plan; and why should we not do so? Our
efforts would not be surely all in vain. But no! A girl whom we thus
educate, and who proves to be competent to bear us company, often
disappoints us when she is left alone. She may then show her
incapability, and her occasional actions may be done in such an
unbecoming manner that both good and bad are equally displeasing. Are
not all these against us men?--Remember, however, that there are some
who may not be very agreeable at ordinary times, yet who flash
occasionally upon us with a potent and almost irresistible charm."
Thus Sama-no-Kami, though eloquent, not having come to one point or
another, remained thoughtful for some minutes, and again resumed:--
"After all, as I have once observed, I can only make this suggestion:
That we should not too much consider either birth or beauty, but
select one who is gentle and tranquil, and consider her to be best
suited for our last haven of rest. If, in addition, she is of fair
position, and is blessed with sweetness of temper, we should be
delighted with her, and not trouble ourselves to search or notice any
trifling deficiency. And the more so as, if her conscience is clear
and pure, calmness and serenity of features can naturally be looked
for.
"There are women who are too diffident, and too reserved, and carry
their generosity to such an extent as to pretend not to be aware even
of such annoyances as afford them just grounds of complaint. A time
arrives when their sorrows and anxieties become greater than they can
bear. Even then, however, they cannot resort to plain speaking, and
complain. But, instead thereof, they will fly away to some remote
retreat among the mountain hamlets, or to some secluded spot by the
seaside, leaving behind them some painful letter or despairing verses,
and making themselves mere sad memories of the past. Often when a boy
I heard such stories read by ladies, and the sad pathos of them even
caused my tears to flow; but now I can only declare such deeds to be
acts of mere folly. For what does it all amount to? Simply to this:
That the woman, in spite of the pain which it causes her, and
discarding a heart which may be still lingering towards her, takes to
flight, regardless of the feelings of others--of the anguish, and of
the anxiety, which those who are dearest to her suffer with her. Nay,
this act of folly may even be committed simply to test the sincerity
of her lover's affection for her. What pitiable subtlety!
"Worse than this, the woman thus led astray, perhaps by ill advice,
may even be beguiled into more serious errors. In the depth of her
despairing melancholy she will become a nun. Her conscience, when she
takes the fatal vow, may be pure and unsullied, and nothing may seem
able to call her back again to the world which she forsook. But, as
time rolls on, some household servant or aged nurse brings her tidings
of the lover who has been unable to cast her out of his heart, and
whose tears drop silently when he hears aught about her. Then, when
she hears of his affections still living, and his heart still
yearning, and thinks of the uselessness of the sacrifice she has made
voluntarily, she touches the hair[31] on her forehead, and she becomes
regretful. She may, indeed, do her best to persevere in her resolve,
but if one single tear bedews her cheek, she is no longer strong in
the sanctity of her vow. Weakness of this kind would be in the eyes of
Buddha more sinful than those offences which are committed by those
who never leave the lay circle at all, and she would eventually wander
about in the 'wrong passage.'[32]
"But there are also women, who are too self-confident and obtrusive.
These, if they discover some slight inconsistency in men, fiercely
betray their indignation and behave with arrogance. A man may show a
little inconsistency occasionally, but yet his affection may remain;
then matters will in time become right again, and they will pass
their lives happily together. If, therefore, the woman cannot show a
tolerable amount of patience, this will but add to her unhappiness.
She should, above all things, strive not to give way to excitement;
and when she experiences any unpleasantness, she should speak of it
frankly but with moderation. And if there should be anything worse
than unpleasantness she should even then complain of it in such a way
as not to irritate the men. If she guides her conduct on principles
such as these, even her very words, her very demeanor, may in all
probability increase his sympathy and consideration for her. One's
self-denial and the restraint which one imposes upon one's self, often
depend on the way in which another behaves to us. The woman who is too
indifferent and too forgiving is also inconsiderate. Remember 'the
unmoored boat floats about.' Is it not so?"
Tô-no-Chiûjiô quickly nodded assent, as he said, "Quite true! A woman
who has no strength of emotion, no passion of sorrow or of joy, can
never be holders of us. Nay even jealousy, if not carried to the
extent of undue suspicion, is not undesirable. If we ourselves are not
in fault, and leave the matter alone, such jealousy may easily be kept
within due bounds. But stop"--added he suddenly--"Some women have to
bear, and do bear, every grief that they may encounter with
unmurmuring and suffering patience."
So said Tô-no-Chiûjiô, who implied by this allusion that his sister
was a woman so circumstanced. But Genji was still dozing, and no
remark came from his lips.
Sama-no-Kami had been recently made a doctor of literature, and (like
a bird) was inflating his feathers, so Tô-no-Chiûjiô, willing to draw
him out as much as possible, gave him every encouragement to proceed
with his discourse.
Again, therefore, he took up the conversation, and said, "Call to your
mind affairs in general, and judge of them. Is it not always true that
reality and sincerity are to be preferred to merely artificial
excellence? Artisans, for instance, make different sorts of articles,
as their talents serve them. Some of them are keen and expert, and
cleverly manufacture objects of temporary fashion, which have no fixed
or traditional style, and which are only intended to strike the
momentary fancy. These, however, are not the true artisans. The real
excellence of the true artisan is tested by those who make, without
defects or sensational peculiarities, articles to decorate, we will
say, some particular building, in conformity with correct taste and
high æsthetic principles. Look for another instance at the eminence
which has been attained by several of the artists of the Imperial
College of Painting. Take the case of draughtsmen in black ink.
Pictures, indeed, such as those of Mount Horai,[33] which has never
been beheld by mortal eye, or of some raging monstrous fish in a rough
sea, or of a wild animal of some far-off country, or of the imaginary
face of the demon, are often drawn with such striking vividness that
people are startled at the sight of them. These pictures, however, are
neither real nor true. On the other hand, ordinary scenery, of
familiar mountains, of calm streams of water, and of dwellings just
before our eyes, may be sketched with an irregularity so charming, and
with such excellent skill, as almost to rival Nature. In pictures such
as these, the perspective of gentle mountain slopes, and sequestered
nooks surrounded by leafy trees, are drawn with such admirable
fidelity to Nature that they carry the spectator in imagination to
something beyond them. These are the pictures in which is mostly
evinced the spirit and effectiveness of the superior hand of a master;
and in these an inferior artist would only show dulness and
inefficiency.
"Similar observations are applicable to handwriting.[34] Some people
boldly dash away with great freedom and endless flourishes, and appear
at the first glance to be elegant and skilful. But that which is
written with scrupulous neatness, in accordance with the true rules of
penmanship, constitutes a very different handwriting from the above.
If perchance the upstrokes and downstrokes do not, at first sight,
appear to be fully formed, yet when we take it up and critically
compare it with writing in which dashes and flourishes predominate, we
shall at once see how much more of real and sterling merit it
possesses.
"Such then is the nature of the case in painting, in penmanship, and
in the arts generally. And how much more then are those women
undeserving of our admiration, who though they are rich in outward and
in fashionable display, attempting to dazzle our eyes, are yet
lacking in the solid foundations of reality, fidelity, and truth! Do
not, my friends, consider me going too far, but let me proceed to
illustrate these observations by my own experience."
So saying, Sama-no-Kami advanced his seat, and Genji awoke.
Tô-no-Chiûjiô was quite interested in the conversation, and was
keeping his eye upon the speaker, leaning his cheek upon his hand.
This long discourse of Sama-no-Kami reminds us of the preacher's
sermon, and amuses us. And it seems that, on occasions like these, one
may easily be carried away by circumstances, until he is willing to
communicate even his own private affairs.
"It was at a time," continued Sama-no-Kami, "when I was in a still
more humble position, that there was a girl to whom I had taken a
fancy. She was like one of those whom I described in the process of my
discourse; not a regular beauty. Although for this reason my youthful
vanity did not allow me to pledge myself to her forever, I still
considered her a pleasant companion. Nevertheless, from occasional
fits of restlessness, I roamed often here and there. This she always
resented fiercely, and with so much indignation that I sighed for a
sweeter temper and more moderation. Indeed, there were times when her
suspicion and spitefulness were more than I could endure. But my
irritation was generally calmed down, and I even felt sorry myself,
when I reflected how strong and devoted her affection for me was, in
spite of the mean state of my circumstances. As to her general
character, her only endeavor seemed to be to do everything for my
sake, even what was beyond her powers, while she struggled to perfect
herself in anything in which she might be deficient, and took the most
faithful care of all my interests, striving constantly and earnestly
to please me. She appeared at first even too zealous, but in time
became more moderate. She seemed as if she felt uneasy lest her plain
face should cause me displeasure, and she even denied herself the
sight of other people, in order to avoid unbecoming comment.
"As time went by, the more I became accustomed to observe how really
simple-hearted she was, the more I sympathized with her. The one thing
that I could not bear, however, was that jealousy of hers. Sincere and
devoted as she is, thought I, is there no means of ridding her of this
jealous weakness? Could I but do that, it would not matter even if I
were to alarm her a little. And I also thought that since she was
devoted to me, if I showed any symptoms of getting tired of her, she
would, in all probability, be warned by it. Therefore, I purposely
behaved to her with great coolness and heartlessness. This she
resented as usual. I then said to her, that though our affection had
been of old date, I should not see her again; 'if you wish to sever
from me you may suspect me as much as you like. If you prefer to enjoy
long happiness with me in future, be modest and patient in trifling
matters. If you can only be so, how can I do otherwise than love you?
My position also may in time be improved, and then we may enjoy
greater happiness!'
"In saying this, I thought I had managed matters very ingeniously.
Without meaning it, however, I had in fact spoken a little too
harshly. She replied, with a bitter smile, that 'to put up with a life
of undistinguished condition, even though with faint hopes of future
promotion, was not a thing about which we ought to trouble ourselves,
but that it was indeed a hard task to pass long wearisome days in
waiting until a man's mind should be restored to a sense of propriety.
And that for this reason we had, perhaps, better separate at once.'
"This she said with such sarcastic bitterness that I was irritated and
stung to the quick, and overwhelmed her with a fresh torrent of
reproaches. At this juncture she gave way to an uncontrollable fit of
passion, and snatching up my hand, she thrust my little finger into
her mouth and bit off the end of it. Then, notwithstanding my pain, I
became quite cool and collected, and calmly said, 'insulted and maimed
as I have now been, it is most fitting that I should absent myself for
the future from polite society. Office and title would ill become me
now. Your spite has now left me without spirit to face the world in
which I should be ridiculed, and has left me no alternative but to
withdraw my maimed person from the public gaze!' After I had alarmed
her by speaking in this exalted strain, I added, 'to-day we meet for
the last time,' and bending these fingers (pointing to them as she
spoke) I made the farewell remark:--
When on my fingers, I must say
I count the hours I spent with thee,
Is this, and this alone, I pray
The only pang you've caused to me?
You are now quits with me,' At the instant I said so, she burst into
tears and without premeditation, poured forth the following:--
'From me, who long bore grievous harms,
From that cold hand and wandering heart,
You now withdraw your sheltering arms,
And coolly tell me, we must part.'
"To speak the truth, I had no real intention of separating from her
altogether. For some time, however, I sent her no communication, and
was passing rather an unsettled life. Well! I was once returning from
the palace late one evening in November, after an experimental
practice of music for a special festival in the Temple of Kamo. Sleet
was falling heavily. The wind blew cold, and my road was dark and
muddy. There was no house near where I could make myself at home. To
return and spend a lonely night in the palace was not to be thought
of. At this moment a reflection flashed across my mind. 'How cold must
she feel whom I have treated so coldly,' thought I, and suddenly
became very anxious to know what she felt and what she was about. This
made me turn my steps towards her dwelling, and brushing away the snow
that had gathered on my shoulders I trudged on: at one moment shyly
biting my nails, at another thinking that on such a night at least all
her enmity towards me might be all melted away. I approached the
house. The curtains were not drawn, and I saw the dim light of a lamp
reflected on the windows. It was even perceivable that a soft quilt
was being warmed and thrown over the large couch. The scene was such
as to give you the notion that she was really anticipating that I
might come at least on such an evening. This gave me encouragement,
but alas! she whom I hoped to see was not at home. I was told she had
gone to her parents that very evening. Previous to that time, she had
sent me no sad verses, no conciliatory letter, and this had already
given birth to unpleasant feelings on my part. And at this moment,
when I was told that she had gone away, all these things seemed to
have been done almost purposely, and I involuntarily began to suspect
that her very jealousy had only been assumed by her on purpose to
cause me to become tired of her.
"As I reflected what our future might be after such an estrangement as
this, I was truly depressed. I did not, however, give up all hope,
thinking that she would not be so determined as to abandon me forever.
I had even carefully selected some stuff for a dress for her. Some
time, however, passed away without anything particularly occurring.
She neither accepted nor refused the offers of reconciliation which I
made to her. She did not, it is true, hide herself away like any of
those of whom I have spoken before. But, nevertheless, she did not
evince the slightest symptom of regret for her previous conduct.
"At last, after a considerable interval, she intimated to me that her
final resolve was not to forgive me any more if I intended in future
to behave as I had done before; but that, on the other hand, she
should be glad to see me again if I would thoroughly change my habits,
and treat her with the kindness which was her due. From this I became
more convinced that she still entertained longings for me. Hence, with
the hope of warning her a little more, I made no expressions of any
intention to make a change in my habits, and I tried to find out which
of us had the most patience.
"While matters were in this state, she, to my great surprise, suddenly
died, perhaps broken-hearted.
"I must now frankly confess that she certainly was a woman in whom a
man might place his confidence. Often, too, I had talked with her on
music and on poetry, as well as on the more important business of
life, and I found her to be by no means wanting in intellect and
capability. She had too the clever hands of Tatyta-himè[35] and
Tanabata.[36]
"When I recall these pleasant memories my heart still clings to her
endearingly."
"Clever in weaving, she may have been like Tanabata, that is but a
small matter," interposed Tô-no-Chiûjiô, "we should have preferred to
have seen your love as enduring as Tanabata's.[37] Nothing is so
beautiful as the brilliant dyes spread over the face of Nature, yet
the red tints of autumn are often not dyed to a color so deep as we
desire, because of the early drying of the dew, so we say, 'such is
the uncertain fate of this world,'" and so saying, he made a sign to
Sama-no-Kami to go on with his story. He went on accordingly.
"About that time I knew another lady. She was on the whole a superior
kind of person. A fair poetess, a good musician, and a fluent speaker,
with good enunciation, and graceful in her movements. All these
admirable qualities I noticed myself, and heard them spoken of by
others. As my acquaintance with her commenced at the time when I was
not on the best of terms with my former companion, I was glad to enjoy
her society. The more I associated with her the more fascinating she
became.
"Meanwhile my first friend died, at which I felt truly sorry, still I
could not help it, and I therefore paid frequent visits to this one.
In the course of my attentions to her, however, I discovered many
unpleasant traits. She was not very modest, and did not appear to be
one whom a man could trust. On this account, I became somewhat
disappointed, and visited her less often. While matters were on this
footing I accidentally found out that she had another lover to whom
she gave a share of her heart.
"It happened that one inviting moonlight evening in October, I was
driving out from home on my way to a certain Dainagon. On the road I
met with a young noble who was going in the same direction. We
therefore drove together, and as we were journeying on, he told me
that 'some one might be waiting for him, and he was anxious to see
her'; well! by and by we arrived at the house of my lady-love. The
bright reflection of the waters of an ornamental lake was seen through
crevices in the walls; and the pale moon, as she shed her full
radiance over the shimmering waves, seemed to be charmed with the
beauty of the scene. It would have been heartless to pass by with
indifference, and we both descended from the carriage, without knowing
each other's intention.
"This youth seems to have been 'the other one'; he was rather shy. He
sat down on a mat of reeds that was spread beside a corridor near the
gateway; and, gazing up at the sky, meditated for some moments in
silence. The chrysanthemums in the gardens were in full bloom, whose
sweet perfume soothed us with its gentle influence; and round about us
the scarlet leaves of the maple were falling, as ever and anon they
were shaken by the breeze. The scene was altogether romantic.
"Presently, he took a flute out of his bosom and played. He then
whispered, 'Its shade is refreshing.'
"In a few minutes the fair one struck up responsively on a sweet-toned
_wagon_ (a species of _koto_).
"The melody was soft and exquisite, in charming strains of modern
music, and admirably adapted to the lovely evening. No wonder that he
was fascinated; he advanced towards the casement from which the sounds
proceeded, and glancing at the leaves scattered on the ground,
whispered in invidious tones, 'Sure no strange footsteps would ever
dare to press these leaves.' He then culled a chrysanthemum, humming,
as he did so:--
'Even this spot, so fair to view
With moon, and Koto's gentle strain,
Could make no other lover true,
As me, thy fond, thy only swain.'
"'Wretched!' he exclaimed, alluding to his poetry; and then added,
'One tune more! Stay not your hand when one is near, who so ardently
longs to hear you.' Thus he began to flatter the lady, who, having
heard his whispers, replied thus, in a tender, hesitating voice:--
'Sorry I am my voice too low
To match thy flute's far sweeter sound;
Which mingles with the winds that blow
The Autumn leaves upon the ground.'
"Ah! she little thought I was a silent and vexed spectator of all this
flirtation. She then took up a _soh_ (another kind of _koto_ with
thirteen strings) and tuned it to a Banjiki key (a winter tune), and
played on it still more excellently. Though an admirer of music, I
cannot say that these bewitching melodies gave me any pleasure under
the peculiar circumstances I stood in.
"Now, romantic interludes, such as this, might be pleasant enough in
the case of maidens who are kept strictly in Court service, and whom
we have very little opportunity of meeting with, but even there we
should hesitate to make such a one our life companion. How much less
could one ever entertain such an idea in a case like my own? Making,
therefore, that evening's experience a ground of dissatisfaction I
never saw her more.
"Now, gentlemen, let us take into consideration these two instances
which have occurred to myself and see how equally unsatisfactory they
are. The one too jealous, the other too forward. Thus, early in life,
I found out how little reliance was to be placed on such characters.
And now I think so still more; and this opinion applies more
especially to the latter of the two. Dewdrops on the 'Hagi flower' of
beauty so delicate that they disappear as soon as we touch
them--hailstones on the bamboo grass that melt in our hand as soon as
we prick them--appear at a distance extremely tempting and attractive.
Take my humble advice, however, and go not near them. If you do not
appreciate this advice now, the lapse of another seven years will
render you well able to understand that such adventures will only
bring a tarnished fame."
Thus Sama-no-Kami admonished them, and Tô-no-Chiûjiô nodded as usual.
Genji slightly smiled; perhaps he thought it was all very true, and he
said, "Your twofold experience was indeed disastrous and irritating!"
"Now," said Tô-no-Chiûjiô, "I will tell you a story concerning myself.
It was the evil fortune of Sama-no-Kami to meet with too much jealousy
in one of the ladies to whom he might otherwise have given his heart;
while he could feel no confidence in another owing to flirtations. It
was my hard lot to encounter an instance of excessive diffidence. I
once knew a girl whose person was altogether pleasing, and although I,
too, had no intention, as Sama-no-Kami said, of forming an everlasting
connection with her, I nevertheless took a great fancy to her. As our
acquaintance was prolonged, our mutual affection grew warmer. My
thoughts were always of her, and she placed entire confidence in me.
Now, when complete confidence is placed by one person in another, does
not Nature teach us to expect resentment when that confidence is
abused? No such resentment, however, seemed under any circumstances to
trouble her. When I very seldom visited her, she showed no excitement
or indignation, but behaved and looked as if we had never been
separated from each other. This patient silence was more trying to me
than reproaches. She was parentless and friendless. For this reason
responsibility weighed more heavily on me. Abusing her gentle nature,
however, I frequently neglected her. About this time, moreover, a
certain person who lived near her, discovered our friendship, and
frightened her by sending, through some channel, mischief-making
messages to her. This I did not become aware of till afterwards, and,
it seems, she was quite cast down and helpless. She had a little one
for whose sake, it appears, she was additionally sad. One day I
unexpectedly received a bunch of Nadeshiko[38] flowers. They were from
her."
At this point Tô-no-Chiûjiô became gloomy.
"And what," inquired Genji, "were the words of her message?"
"Sir! nothing but the verse,
Forgot may be the lowly bed
From which these darling flowerets spring,
Still let a kindly dew be shed,
Upon their early nurturing.
"No sooner had I read this than I went to her at once. She was gentle
and sedate as usual, but evidently absent and preoccupied. Her eyes
rested on the dew lying on the grass in the garden, and her ears were
intent upon the melancholy singing of the autumn insects. It was as if
we were in a real romance. I said to her:--
When with confused gaze we view
The mingled flowers on gay parterre,
Amid their blooms of radiant hue
The Tokonatz,[39] my love, is there.
And avoiding all allusion to the Nadeshiko flowers, I repeatedly
endeavored to comfort the mother's heart. She murmured in reply:--
'Ah! Flower already bent with dew,
The winds of autumn cold and chill
Will wither all thy beauteous hue,
And soon, alas, unpitying kill.'
Thus she spoke sadly. But she reproached me no further. The tears came
involuntarily into her eyes. She was, however, apparently sorry for
this, and tried to conceal them. On the whole she behaved as if she
meant to show that she was quite accustomed to such sorrows. I
certainly deeply sympathized with her, yet still further abusing her
patience. I did not visit her again for some time; but I was
punished. When I did so she had flown, leaving no traces behind her.
If she is still living she must needs be passing a miserable
existence.
"Now, if she had been free from this excessive diffidence, this apathy
of calmness, if she had complained when it was necessary, with
becoming warmth and spirit, she need never have been a wanderer, and I
would never have abused her confidence. But, as I said before, a woman
who has no strength of emotion, no passionate bursts of sorrow or of
joy, can never retain a dominion over us.
"I loved this woman without understanding her nature; and I am
constantly, but in vain, trying to find her and her little darling,
who was also very lovely; and often I think with grief and pain that,
though I may succeed in forgetting her, she may possibly not be able
to forget me, and, surely, there must be many an evening when she is
disquieted by sad memories of the past.
"Let us now sum up our experiences, and reflect on the lessons which
they teach us. One who bites your finger will easily estrange your
affection by her violence. Falseness and forwardness will be the
reproach of some other, in spite of her melodious music and the
sweetness of her songs. A third, too self-contained and too gentle, is
open to the charge of a cold silence, which oppresses one, and cannot
be understood.
"Whom, then, are we to choose? All this variety, and this perplexing
difficulty of choice, seems to be the common lot of humanity. Where,
again, I say, are we to go to find the one who will realize our
desires? Shall we fix our aspirations on the beautiful goddess, the
heavenly Kichijiô?[40] Ah! this would be but superstitious and
impracticable."
So mournfully finished Tô-no-Chiûjiô; and all his companions, who had
been attentively listening, burst simultaneously into laughter at his
last allusion.
"And now, Shikib, it is your turn. Tell us your story," exclaimed
Tô-no-Chiûjiô, turning to him.
"What worth hearing can your humble servant tell you?"
"Go on; be quick; don't be shy; let us hear!"
Shikib-no-Jiô, after a little meditation, thus began:--
"When I was a student at the University, I met there with a woman of
very unusual intelligence. She was in every respect one with whom, as
Sama-no-Kami has said, you could discuss affairs, both public and
private. Her dashing genius and eloquence were such that all ordinary
scholars would find themselves unable to cope with her, and would be
at once reduced to silence. Now, my story is as follows:--
"I was taking lessons from a certain professor, who had several
daughters, and she was one of them. It happened by some chance or
other I fell much into her society. The professor, who noticed this,
once took up a wine-cup in his hand, and said to me, 'Hear what I sing
about two choices.'[41]
"This was a plain offer put before me, and thenceforward I endeavored,
for the sake of his tuition, to make myself as agreeable as possible
to his daughter. I tell you frankly, however, that I had no particular
affection for her, though she seemed already to regard me as her
victim. She seized every opportunity of pointing out to me the way in
which we should have to steer, both in public and private life. When
she wrote to me she never employed the effeminate style of the
Kana,[42] but wrote, oh! so magnificently! The great interest which
she took in me induced me to pay frequent visits to her; and, by
making her my tutor, I learned how to compose ordinary Chinese poems.
However, though I do not forget all these benefits, and though it is
no doubt true that our wife or daughter should not lack intelligence,
yet, for the life of me, I cannot bring myself to approve of a woman
like this. And still less likely is it that such could be of any use
to the wives of high personages like yourselves. Give me a lovable
nature in lieu of sharpness! I quite agree with Sama-no-Kami on this
point."
"What an interesting woman she must have been," exclaimed
Tô-no-Chiûjiô, with the intention of making Shikib go on with his
story.
This he fully understood, and, making a grimace, he thus proceeded:--
"Once when I went to her after a long absence--a way we all have, you
know--she did not receive me openly as usual, but spoke to me from
behind a screen. I surmised that this arose from chagrin at my
negligence, and I intended to avail myself of this opportunity to
break with her. But the sagacious woman was a woman of the world, and
not like those who easily lose their temper or keep silence about
their grief. She was quite as open and frank as Sama-no-Kami would
approve of. She told me, in a low clear voice, 'I am suffering from
heartburn, and I cannot, therefore, see you face to face; yet, if you
have anything important to say to me, I will listen to you.' This was,
no doubt, a plain truth; but what answer could I give to such a
terribly frank avowal? 'Thank you,' said I, simply; and I was just on
the point of leaving, when, relenting, perhaps, a little, she said
aloud, 'Come again soon, and I shall be all right.' To pass this
unnoticed would have been impolite; yet I did not like to remain there
any longer, especially under such circumstances: so, looking askance,
I said--
Here I am, then why excuse me, is my visit all in vain:
And my consolation is, you tell me, come again?
No sooner had I said this than she dashed out as follows with a
brilliancy of repartee which became a woman of her genius:--
'If we fond lovers were, and meeting every night,
I should not be ashamed, were it even in the light!'
"Nonsense, nonsense!" cried Genji and the others, who either were, or
pretended to be, quite shocked. "Where can there be such a woman as
that? She must have been a devil! Fearful! fearful!" And, snapping
their fingers with disapproving glances, they said, "Do tell us
something better--do give us a better story than that."
Shikib-no-Jiô, however, quietly remarked: "I have nothing else to
relate," and remained silent.
Hereupon a conversation took place to the following effect:--
"It is a characteristic of thoughtless people--and that, without
distinction of sex--that they try to show off their small
accomplishments. This is, in the highest degree, unpleasant. As for
ladies, it may not, indeed, be necessary to be thorough master of the
three great histories, and the five classical texts; yet they ought
not to be destitute of some knowledge of both public and private
affairs, and this knowledge can be imperceptibly acquired without any
regular study of them, which, though superficial, will yet be amply
sufficient to enable them to talk pleasantly about them with their
friends. But how contemptible they would seem if this made them vain
of it! The Manna[43] style and pedantic phrases were not meant for
them; and, if they use them, the public will only say, 'would that
they would remember that they are women and not men,' and they would
only incur the reproach of being pedants, as many ladies, especially
among the aristocracy, do. Again, while they should not be altogether
unversed in poetical compositions, they should never be slaves to
them, or allow themselves to be betrayed into using strange
quotations, the only consequence of which would be that they would
appear to be bold when they ought to be reserved, and abstracted when
very likely they have practical duties to attend to. How utterly
inappropriate, for instance, it would be on the May festival[44] if,
while the attention of all present was concentrated on the solemnity
of the occasion, the thoughts of these ladies were wandering on their
own poetical imaginations about 'sweet flags;' or if, again, on the
Ninth-day festival,[45] when all the nobles present were exercising
their inventive faculties on the subject of Chinese poems, they were
to volunteer to pour forth their grand ideas on the dew-laid flowers
of the chrysanthemum, thus endeavoring to rival their opponents of the
stronger sex. There is a time for everything; and all people, but more
especially women, should be constantly careful to watch circumstances,
and not to air their accomplishments at a time when nobody cares for
them. They should practise a sparing economy in displaying their
learning and eloquence, and should even, if circumstances require,
plead ignorance on subjects with which they are familiar."
As to Genji, even these last observations seemed only to encourage his
reverie still to run upon a certain one, whom he considered to be the
happy medium between the too much and the too little; and, no definite
conclusion having been arrived at through the conversation, the
evening passed away.
The long-continued rainy weather had now cleared up bright and fine,
and the Prince Genji proceeded to the mansion of his father-in-law,
where Lady Aoi, his bride, still resided with him. She was in her
private suite of apartments, and he soon joined her there. She was
dignified and stately, both in manners and demeanor, and everything
about her bore traces of scrupulous neatness.
"Such may be one of those described by Sama-no-Kami, in whom we may
place confidence," he thought, as he approached her. At the same time,
her lofty queenliness caused him to feel a momentary embarrassment,
which he at once tried to hide by chatting with the attendant maid.
The air was close and heavy, and he was somewhat oppressed by it. His
father-in-law happened to pass by the apartment. He stopped and
uttered a few words from behind the curtain which overhung the door.
"In this hot weather," said Genji, in a low tone, "what makes him come
here?" and did not give the slightest encouragement to induce his
father-in-law to enter the room; so he passed along. All present
smiled significantly, and tittered. "How indiscreet!" exclaimed Genji,
glancing at them reprovingly, and throwing himself back on a _kiô-sok_
(arm-stool), where he remained calm and silent.
It was, by no means, becoming behavior on the part of the Prince.
The day was drawing to an end when it was announced that the mansion
was closed in the certain celestial direction of the Naka-gami
(central God).[46] His own mansion in Nijiô (the one mentioned as
being repaired in a previous chapter) was also in the same line of
direction.
"Where shall I go then?" said Genji, and without troubling himself any
further, went off into a doze. All present expressed in different
words their surprise at his unusual apathy. Thereupon some one
reported that the residence of Ki-no-Kami, who was in waiting on the
Prince, on the banks of the middle river (the River Kiôgok) had lately
been irrigated by bringing the stream into its gardens, making them
cool and refreshing.
"That's very good, especially on such a close evening," exclaimed
Genji, rousing himself, and he at once intimated to Ki-no-Kami his
desire of visiting his house. To which the latter answered simply,
"Yes." He did not, however, really like the Prince's visit, and was
reluctantly telling his fellow attendants that, owing to a certain
circumstance which had taken place at Iyo-no-Kami's[47] residence, his
wife (Ki-no-Kami's stepmother) had taken up her abode with him that
very evening, and that the rooms were all in confusion.
Genji heard all this distinctly, but he would not change his mind, and
said, "That is all the better! I don't care to stay in a place where
no fair statue dwells; it is slow work."
Being thus pressed, no alternative remained for the Ki-no-Kami, and a
messenger was despatched to order the preparation of apartments for
the Prince. Not long after this messenger had gone, Genji started on
his way to the house of Ki-no-Kami, whose mild objections against this
quick proceeding were not listened to.
He left the mansion as quietly as possible, even without taking formal
leave of its master, and his escort consisted of a few favorite
attendants.
The "eastern front room" in the "dwelling quarters" was wide open, and
a temporary arrangement was made for the reception of the Prince, who
arrived there very quickly. The scene of the garden struck him before
anything else. The surface of the lake sparkled with its glittering
waters. The hedges surrounded it in rustic beauty, and luxuriant
shrubs grew in pleasing order. Over all the fair scene the breeze of
evening swept softly, summer insects sang distinctly here and there,
and the fireflies hovered about in mazy dances.
The escort took up its quarters in a position which overlooked the
stream of water which ran beneath the corridor, and here began to take
cups of _saké_. The host hastened to order also some refreshment to be
prepared for Genji.
The latter was meanwhile gazing abstractedly about him, thinking such
a place might belong to the class which Sama-no-Kami fairly placed in
the middle category. He knew that the lady who was under the same roof
was a young beauty of whom he had heard something before, and he was
looking forward to a chance of seeing her.
He then noticed the rustling of a silken dress escaping from a small
boudoir to the right, and some youthful voices, not without charm,
were also heard, mingled with occasional sounds of suppressed
laughter. The casement of the boudoir had been, until a short time
before, open, but was pulled down by order of Ki-no-Kami, who,
perhaps, doubted the propriety of its being as it was, and now only
allowed a struggling light to issue through the paper of the "sliding
screen!" He proceeded to one side of his room that he might see what
could be seen, but there was no chance. He still stood there that he
might be able, at least, to catch some part of the conversation. It
seems that this boudoir adjoined the general family room of the female
inmates, and his ears were greeted by some faint talking. He inclined
his head attentively, and heard them whispering probably about
himself.
"Is it not a pity that the fate of so fine a prince should be already
fixed?" said one voice.
"Yet he loses no opportunity of availing himself of the favors of
fortune," added another.
These remarks may have been made with no serious intention, but as to
Genji, he, even in hearing them, could not help thinking of a certain
fair image of which he so fondly dreamt. At the same time feeling a
thrill on reflecting that, if this kind of secret were to be
discovered and discussed in such a manner, what could be done.
He then heard an observation in delicate allusion to his verse which
he had presented to the Princess Momo-zono (peach-gardens) with the
flowers of Asagao (morning-glory, or convolvulus).
"What _cautious_ beauties they are to talk in that way! But I wonder
if their forms when seen will answer to the pictures of my fancy,"
thought Genji, as he retired to his original position, for he could
hear nothing more interesting.
Ki-no-Kami presently entered the room, brought in some fruits, trimmed
the lamp, and the visitor and host now began to enjoy a pleasant
leisure.
"What has become of the ladies? Without some of them no society is
cheerful," observed Genji.
"Who can there be to meet such wishes?" said the Ki-no-Kami to
himself, but took no notice of Genji's remark.
There were several boys in the house who had followed Ki-no-Kami into
the room. They were the sons and brothers of Ki-no-Kami. Among them
there was one about twelve or thirteen, who was nicer-looking than the
others. Genji, of course, did not know who they all were, and
accordingly made inquiries. When he came to the last-mentioned boy,
Ki-no-Kami replied:--
"He is the youngest son of the late Lord Yemon, now an orphan, and,
from his sister's connections, he is now staying here. He is shrewd
and unlike ordinary boys. His desire is to take Court service, but he
has as yet no patron."
"What a pity! Is, then, the sister you mentioned your stepmother?"
"Yes, sir, it is so."
"What a good mother you have got. I once overheard the Emperor, to
whom, I believe, a private application had been some time made in her
behalf, referring to her, said, 'What has become of her?' Is she here
now?" said Genji; and lowering his voice, added, "How changeable are
the fortunes of the world!"
"It is her present state, sir. But, as you may perceive, it differs
from her original expectation. Changeable indeed are the fortunes of
this world, especially so the fortunes of women!"
"Does Iyo respect her? Perhaps he idolizes her, as his master."
"That is a question, perhaps, as a _private_ master. I am the foremost
to disapprove of this infatuation on his part."
"Are you? Nevertheless he trusts her to such a one as you. He is a
kind father! But where are they all?"
"All in their private apartments."
Genji by this time apparently desired to be alone, and Ki-no-Kami now
retired with the boys. All the escort were already slumbering
comfortably, each on his own cool rush mat, under the pleasant
persuasion of _saké_.
Genji was now alone. He tried to doze, but could not. It was late in
the evening, and all was still around. His sharpened senses made him
aware that the room next but one to his own was occupied, which led
him to imagine that the lady of whom he had been speaking might be
there. He rose softly, and once more proceeded to the other side of
the room to listen to what he might overhear. He heard a tender voice,
probably that of Kokimi, the boy spoken of before, who appeared to
have just entered the room, saying:--
"Are you here?"
To which a female voice replied, "Yes, dear, but has the visitor yet
retired?" And the same voice added--
"Ah! so near, and yet so far!"
"Yes, I should think so, he is so nice-looking, as they say."
"Were it daytime I would see him, too," said the lady in a drowsy
voice.
"I shall go to bed, too! But what a bad light," said the boy, and
Genji conjectured that he had been trimming the lamp.
The lady presently clapped her hands for a servant, and said, "Where
is Chiûjiô, I feel lonely, I wish to see her."
"Madam, she is in the bath now, she will be here soon," replied the
servant.
"Suppose I pay my visit to her, too? What harm! no harm, perhaps,"
said Genji to himself. He withdrew the fastening of the intervening
door, on the other side there was none, and it opened. The entrance to
the room where the lady was sitting was only screened by a curtain,
with a glimmering light inside. By the reflection of this light he saw
travelling trunks and bags all scattered about; through these he
groped his way and approached the curtain. He saw, leaning on a
cushion, the small and pretty figure of a lady, who did not seem to
notice his approach, probably thinking it was Chiûjiô, for whom she
had sent. Genji felt nervous, but struggling against the feeling,
startled the lady by saying:--
"Chiûjiô was called for, I thought it might mean myself, and I come to
offer you my devoted services."
This was really an unexpected surprise, and the lady was at a loss.
"It is, of course, natural," he said, "you should be astonished at my
boldness, but pray excuse me. It is solely from my earnest desire to
show at such an opportunity the great respect for you which I have
felt for a very long time."
He was clever enough to know how to speak, and what to say, under all
circumstances, and made the above speech in such an extremely humble
and insinuating manner that the demon himself could not have taken
offence, so she forbore to show any sudden resentment. She had,
however, grave doubts as to the propriety of his conduct, and felt
somewhat uncomfortable, saying shyly, "Perhaps you have made a
mistake!"
"No, certainly not," he replied. "What mistake can I have made? On the
other hand, I have no wish to offend you. The evening, however, is
very irksome, and I should feel obliged if you would permit me to
converse with you." Then gently taking her hand he pressed her to
return with him to his lonely apartment.
She was still young and weak, and did not know what was most proper to
do under these circumstances, so half yielding, half reluctantly was
induced to be led there by him.
At this juncture Chiûjiô, for whom she had sent previously, entered
the room. Upon which Genji exclaimed "Ha!"
Chiûjiô stared with astonishment at him, whom she at once recognized
as the Prince, by the rich perfume which he carried about him.
"What does this mean?" thought Chiûjiô. She could still do nothing.
Had he been an ordinary personage she would have immediately seized
him. Even in that case, however, there was enough room to doubt
whether it would not have been better to avoid any violent steps lest
it might have given rise to a disagreeable family scandal, hence
Chiûjiô was completely perplexed and mechanically followed them.
Genji was too bold to fear bystanders, a common fault with high
personages, and coolly closed the door upon her saying, "She will soon
return to you."
The lady being placed in such an awkward position, and not knowing
what Chiûjiô might imagine, became, as it were, bewildered. Genji was,
however, as artful and insinuating as might be expected in consoling
her, though we do not know where he had learnt his eloquence. This was
really trying for her, and she said, "Your condescension is beyond my
merit. I cannot disregard it. It is, however, absolutely necessary to
know 'Who is who.'"
"But such ignorance," he a little abashed, rejoined "as not to know
'Who is who,' is the very proof of my inexperience. Were I supposed to
understand too well, I should indeed be sorry. You have very likely
heard how little I mix in the world. This perhaps is the very reason
why you distrust me. The excess of the blindness of my mind seems
strange even to myself."
He spoke thus insinuatingly. She, on her part, feared that if his
fascinating address should assume a warmer tone it would be still
more trying for her and more difficult to withstand, so she
determined, however hard she might appear, not to give any
encouragement to his feelings, and showed therefore a coolness of
manner. To her meek character there was thus added a firm resolution,
and it seemed like a young bamboo reed with its strength and
tenderness combined, difficult to bend! Still she felt the struggle
very keenly, and tears moistened her eyes.
Genji could not help feeling touched. Not knowing exactly how to
soothe her, he exclaimed, "What makes you treat me so coolly? It is
true we are not old acquaintances, but it does not follow that this
should prevent us from becoming good friends. Please don't discompose
yourself like one who does not know the world at all: it pierces my
heart."
This speech touched her, and her firmness began to waver.
"Were my position what it once was," said she, "and I received such
attention, I might, however unworthy, have been moved by your
affection, but as my position in life is now changed, its
unsatisfactory condition often makes me dream of a happiness I cannot
hope to enjoy." Hereupon she remained silent for some moments, and
looked as if she meant to say that she could no longer help thinking
of the line:--
Don't tell anyone you've seen my home.
But these few moments of silence agitated the pure waters of her
virtuous mind, and the sudden recollection of her aged husband, whom
she did not generally think much about, occurred tenderly to her
memory. She shuddered at the idea of his seeing her in such a dilemma
as this, even in a dream, and without a word fled back to her
apartment, and Genji was once more alone.
Now the chanticleer began to proclaim the coming day, and the
attendants rose from their couches, some exclaiming "How soundly we
have slept," others, "Let us get the carriage ready."
Ki-no-Kami also came out saying, "Why so early, no need of such hurry
for the Prince."
Genji also arose, and putting on his _naoshi_, went out on a balcony
on the southern side of the house, where he leaned upon the wooden
balustrade and meditated as he looked round him.
It appears that people were peeping out of the casement on the western
side, probably being anxious to catch a glimpse of the Prince, whose
figure was indistinctly to be seen by them from the top of a short
screen standing within the trellis. Among these spectators there was
one who perhaps might have felt a thrill run through her frame as she
beheld him. It was the very moment when the sky was being tinted by
the glowing streaks of morn, and the moon's pale light was still
lingering in the far distance. The aspect of the passionless heavens
becomes radiant or gloomy in response to the heart of him who looks
upon it. And to Genji, whose thoughts were secretly occupied with the
events of the evening, the scene could only have given rise to
sorrowful emotions.
Reflecting how he might on some future occasion convey a message to
the lady, and looking back several times, he presently quitted the
house and returned to the mansion of his father-in-law.
During some days succeeding the above events, he was staying at the
mansion with his bride. His thoughts, however, were now constantly
turning to the lady on the bank of the middle river. He therefore
summoned Ki-no-Kami before him, and thus addressed him:--
"Cannot you let me have the boy, the son of the late Chiûnagon[48]
whom I saw the other day? He is a nice lad, and I wish to have him
near at hand. I will also introduce him to the Emperor."
"I receive your commands. I will talk with his _sister_, and see if
she consents to it," replied Ki-no-Kami with a bow.
These last words alluding to the object which occupied his thoughts
caused Genji to start, but he said with apparent calmness--
"Has the lady presented you yet with a brother or a sister?"
"No, sir, not yet; she has been married now these two years, but it
seems she is always thinking she is not settled in the way her parents
desired, and is not quite contented with her position."
"What a pity! I heard, however, she was a very good lady. Is it so?"
"Yes, I quite believe so; but hitherto we have lived separately, and
were not very cordial, which, as all the world knows, is usual in such
relationship."
After the lapse of five or six days the boy Kokimi was brought to
him. He was not tall or handsome but very intelligent, and in manners
perfectly well-bred. Genji treated him with the greatest kindness, at
which, in his boyish mind, he was highly delighted. Genji now asked
him many questions about his sister, to which he gave such answers as
he could, but often with shyness and diffidence. Hence Genji was
unable to take him into his confidence, but by skilfully coaxing and
pleasing him, he ventured to hand him a letter to be taken to his
sister. The boy, though he possibly guessed at its meaning, did not
trouble himself much, but taking it, duly delivered it to his sister.
She became confused and thoughtful as she took it, and fearing what
the boy might think, opened the letter and held it before her face as
she read, in order to conceal the expression of her countenance.
It was a long one, and among other things contained the following
lines:--
I had a dream, a dream so sweet,
Ah! would that I could dream again;
Alas, no sleep these eyes will greet,
And so I strive to dream in vain!
It was beautifully written, and as her eyes fell upon the passionate
words, a mist gathered over them, and a momentary thought of her own
life and position once more flashed over her mind, and without a word
of comment to the boy, she retired to rest.
A few days afterwards Kokimi was again invited to join the Prince.
Thereupon he asked his sister to give him an answer to the Prince's
letter.
"Tell the Prince," she said, "there is no one _here_ who reads such
letters."
"But," said the boy, "he does not expect such an answer as this! How
can I tell him so?"
At first, she half-resolved to explain everything to Kokimi, and to
make him thoroughly understand why she ought not to receive such
letters, but the effort was too painful, so she simply said, "It is
all the better for you not to talk in that way. If you think it so
serious why should you go to him at all?"
"Yet, how can I disobey his commands to go back?" exclaimed the boy,
and so he returned to Genji without any written answer to him.
"I was weary of waiting for you. Perhaps you, too, had forgotten me,"
said Genji, when he saw the boy, who was, however, silent and blushed.
"And what answer have you brought me?" continued Genji, and then the
boy replied in the exact words which his sister had used.
"What?" cried Genji: and continued, "Perhaps you may not know, so I
will tell you. I knew your sister before she knew Iyo. But she likes
to treat me so because she thinks she has got a very good friend in
Iyo; but do you be like a brother to me. The days of Iyo will be
probably fewer than mine."
He now returned to the Palace taking Komini with him, and, going to
his dressing-room, attired him nicely in the Court style; in a word,
he treated him as a parent would do.
By the boy's assistance several more letters were conveyed to his
sister. Her resolution, however, remained unshaken.
"If one's heart were once to deviate from the path," she reflected,
"the only end we could expect would be a damaged reputation and misery
for life: the good and the bad result from one's self!"
Thus thinking, she resolved to return no answer. She might, indeed,
have admired the person of Genji, and probably did so, yet, whenever
such feelings came into her mind, the next thought that suggested
itself was, "What is the use of such idle admiration?"
Meanwhile, Genji was often thinking of paying a visit to the house
where she was staying, but he did not consider it becoming to do so,
without some reasonable pretext, more especially as he would have been
sorry, and for her sake more than his own, to draw a suspicion upon
her.
It happened, however, after a prolonged residence at the Court, that
another occasion of closing the Palace in the certain celestial line
of direction arrived. Catching at this opportunity he left the Palace,
and suddenly turning out of his road, went straight to Ki-no-Kami's
residence, with the excuse that he had just discovered the above fact
on his way. Ki-no-Kami surprised at this unexpected visit, had only to
bow before him, and acknowledge the honor of his presence. The boy,
Kokimi, was already there before him, having been secretly informed of
his intention beforehand, and he attended on him as usual in his
apartment on his arrival.
The lady, who had been told by her brother that the Prince earnestly
desired to see her, knew well how dangerous it was to approach an
inviting flower growing on the edge of a precipice. She was not, of
course, insensible to his coming in such a manner, with an excuse for
the sake of seeing her, but she did not wish to increase her dreamlike
inquietude by seeing him. And again, if he ventured to visit her
apartment, as he did before, it might be a serious compromise for her.
For these reasons she retired while her brother was with Genji, to a
private chamber of Chiûjiô, her companion, in the rear of the main
building, under the pretence that her own room was too near that of
the Prince, besides she was indisposed and required "Tataki,"[49]
which she desired to have done in a retired part of the house.
Genji sent his attendants very early to their own quarters, and then,
through Kokimi, requested an interview with the lady. Kokimi at first
was unable to find her, till after searching everywhere, he, at last,
came to the apartment of Chiûjiô, and with great earnestness
endeavored to persuade her to see Genji, in an anxious and half
trembling voice, while she replied in a tone slightly angry, "What
makes you so busy? Why do you trouble yourself? Boys carrying such
messages are highly blamable."
After thus daunting him, she added, more mildly, "Tell the Prince I am
somewhat indisposed, and also that some friends are with me, and I
cannot well leave them now." And she again cautioned the boy not to be
too officious, and sent him away from her at once.
Yet, at the bottom of her heart, different feelings might have been
struggling from those which her words seemed to express, and some such
thoughts as these shaped themselves to her mind: "Were I still a
maiden in the home of my beloved parents, and occasionally received
his visits there, how happy might I not be? How trying to act as if no
romantic sentiment belonged to my heart!"
Genji, who was anxiously waiting to know how the boy would succeed in
persuading his sister, was soon told that all his efforts were in
vain. Upon hearing this he remained for some moments silent, and then
relieved his feelings with a long-drawn sigh, and hummed:--
"The Hahaki-gi[50] distant tree
Spreads broom-like o'er the silent waste;
Approach, how changed its shape we see,
In vain we try its shade to taste."
The lady was unable to sleep, and her thoughts also took the following
poetic shape:--
Too like the Hahaki-gi tree,
Lonely and humble, I must dwell,
Nor dare to give a thought to thee,
But only sigh a long farewell.
All the other inmates of the house were now in a sound slumber, but
sleep came not to Genji's eyes. He did, indeed, admire her immovable
and chaste nature, but this only drew his heart more towards her. He
was agitated. At one moment he cried, "Well, then!" at another,
"However!" "Still!" At last, turning to the boy, he passionately
exclaimed, "Lead me to her at once!"
Kokimi calmly replied, "It is impossible, too many eyes are around
us!"
Genji with a sigh then threw himself back on the cushion, saying to
Kokimi, "You, at least, will be my friend, and shall share my
apartment!"
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 22: A hero of an older fiction, who is represented as the
perfect ideal of a gallant.]
[Footnote 23: A fast observed when some remarkable or supernatural
event took place, or on the anniversary of days of domestic
misfortune.]
[Footnote 24: A general of the Imperial Guards.]
[Footnote 25: Love letters generally are not signed or are signed with
a fancy name.]
[Footnote 26: Left Master of the Horse.]
[Footnote 27: Secretary to the Master of Ceremonies.]
[Footnote 28: Deputy-governors of provinces. In those days these
functionaries were greatly looked down upon by the Court nobles, and
this became one of the causes of the feudal system.]
[Footnote 29: The naoshi is an outer attire. It formed part of a loose
and unceremonious Court dress.]
[Footnote 30: This alludes to a common habit of women, who push back
their hair before commencing any task.]
[Footnote 31: Some kinds of nuns did not shave their heads, and this
remark seems to allude to the common practice of women who often
involuntarily smooth their hair before they see people, which practice
comes, no doubt, from the idea that the beauty of women often depends
on the tidiness of their hair.]
[Footnote 32: This means that her soul, which was sinful, would not go
at once to its final resting-place, but wander about in unknown
paths.]
[Footnote 33: A mountain spoken of in Chinese literature. It was said
to be in the Eastern Ocean, and people of extraordinary long lives,
called Sennin, were supposed to dwell there.]
[Footnote 34: In China and Japan handwriting is considered no less an
art than painting.]
[Footnote 35: An ideal woman patroness of the art of dyeing.]
[Footnote 36: The weaver, or star Vega. In the Chinese legend she is
personified as a woman always engaged in weaving.]
[Footnote 37: In the same legend, it is said that this weaver, who
dwells on one side of the Milky Way in the heavens, meets her
lover--another star called Hikoboshi, or the bull-driver--once every
year, on the evening of the seventh day of the seventh month. He dwelt
on the other side of the Milky Way, and their meeting took place on a
bridge, made by birds (jays), by the intertwining of their wings. It
was this which gave rise to the popular festival, which takes place on
this day, both in China and Japan.]
[Footnote 38: Little darlings--a kind of pink.]
[Footnote 39: The Tokonatz (everlasting summer) is another name for
the pink, and it is poetically applied to the lady whom we love.]
[Footnote 40: A female divinity in Indian mythology.]
[Footnote 41: From the Chinese poet Hak-rak-ten, who was mentioned
before. He says in one of his poems: "Once upon a time a certain host
invited to his abode a clever match-maker. When the guests were
assembled he poured forth wine into a beautiful jar, and said to all
present, 'drink not for a moment, but hear what I say about the two
choices, daughters of the rich get married soon, but snub their
husbands, daughters of the poor get married with difficulty but dearly
love their mothers-in-law.'"]
[Footnote 42: A soft style of Japanese writing commonly used by
ladies.]
[Footnote 43: A stiff and formal style of Japanese writing.]
[Footnote 44: The fifth of May is one of the five important national
festivals. A solemn celebration of this fête used to be performed at
Court. It is sometimes called the festival of the "Sweet
Flags,"--_calami aromatici_--because it was held at the season when
those beautiful water-plants were in the height of perfection.]
[Footnote 45: Another of the five above-mentioned. It was held on the
ninth of September, and it was customary on the occasion for rhymes to
be given out to those present, wherewith to compose Chinese poems. It
was sometimes called the "Chrysanthemum Festival," for the same reason
that the celebration of the fifth of May was termed the "Sweet Flag
Festival."]
[Footnote 46: This is an astrological superstition. It is said that
when this God is in any part of the compass, at the time being, it is
most unlucky to proceed towards it, and to remain in the same line of
its direction.]
[Footnote 47: The deputy governor of the province Iyo; he is supposed
to be in the province at this time, leaving his young wife and family
behind.]
[Footnote 48: The father of Kokimi seems to have been holding the
office Yemon-no-Kami as well as Chiûnagon.]
[Footnote 49: Tataki, or Amma, a sort of shampooing, a very common
medical treatment in Japan.]
[Footnote 50: Hahaki-gi, the broom-like tree, is said to have been a
certain tree growing in the plain of Sonohara, so called from its
shape, which, at a distance, looked like a spreading broom, but when
one comes near, its appearance was totally changed.]
CHAPTER III
BEAUTIFUL CICADA
Genji was still sleepless! "Never have I been so badly treated. I have
now discovered what the disappointment of the world means," he
murmured, while the boy Kokimi lay down beside him fast asleep. The
smallness of his stature, and the graceful waving of his short hair,
could not but recall to Genji the beautiful tresses of his sister, and
bring her image vividly before him; and, long before the daylight
appeared, he rose up, and returned to his residence with all speed.
For some time after this no communication took place between the lady
and himself. He could not, however, banish her from his thoughts, and
he said to Kokimi that "he felt his former experience too painful, and
that he strove to drive away his care; yet in vain; his thoughts would
not obey his wish, and he begged him, therefore, to seek some
favorable opportunity for him to see her." Kokimi, though he did not
quite like the task, felt proud of being made his confidant, and
thenceforward looked incessantly, with keen boyish eyes, for a chance
of obliging him.
Now, it happened that Ki-no-Kami went down to his official residence
in his province, and only the female members of his family were left
at home. "This is the time," said Kokimi to himself, and went to
Genji, and persuaded him to come with him. "What can the boy do?"
thought Genji; "I fear not very much, but I must not expect too much";
and they started at once, in Kokimi's carriage, so as to arrive in
good time.
The evening was darkening round them, and they drew up on one side of
the house, where few persons were likely to observe them. As it
happened to be Kokimi who had come, no fuss was made about his
arrival, nor any notice taken of it. He entered the house; and,
leaving the Prince in the Eastern Hall, proceeded first into the inner
room. The casement was closed.
"How is it the casement is closed?" he demanded of the servants. They
told him "That the Lady of the West (Ki-no-Kami's sister, so called by
the domestics from her living to the westward of the house) was there
on a visit since noon, and was playing Go with his sister." The door
by which the boy had entered the room was not entirely closed. Genji
softly came up to it, and the whole interior of the apartment was
visible. He stood facing the west. On one side of the room was a
folding screen, one end of which was pushed back, and there was
nothing besides to obstruct his view. His first glance fell on the
fair figure of her of whom he had so fondly dreamt, sitting by a lamp
near a central pillar. She wore a dress of dark purple, and a kind of
scarf thrown over her shoulders; her figure was slight and delicate,
and her face was partly turned aside, as if she did not like to expose
it even to her companions. Her hands were prettily shaped and tiny,
and she used them with a gentle reserve, half covering them. Another
lady, younger than herself, sat facing the east--that is, just
opposite Genji--and was, therefore, entirely visible to him. She was
dressed in a thin white silk, with a Ko-uchiki (outer vestment),
worked with red and blue flowers, thrown loosely over it, and a
crimson sash round her waist. Her bosom was partly revealed; her
complexion very fair; her figure rather stout and tall; the head and
neck in good proportions, and the lips and eyelids lovely. The hair
was not very long, but reached in wavy lines to her shoulders.
"If a man had such a daughter, he might be satisfied," thought Genji.
"But perhaps she may be a little deficient in quietness. No matter how
this may be, she has sufficient attractions."
The game was drawing to a close, and they paid very little attention
to Kokimi on his entrance. The principal interest in it was over; they
were hurrying to finish it. One was looking quietly at the board, and
said, "Let me see, that point must be Ji. Let me play the Kôh[51] of
this spot." The other saying, "I am beaten; let me calculate," began
to count on her fingers the number of spaces at each corner, at the
same time saying "Ten! twenty! thirty! forty!" When Genji came in this
way to see them together, he perceived that his idol, in the matter of
personal beauty, was somewhat inferior to her friend. He was not,
indeed, able to behold the full face of the former; yet, when he
shifted his position, and fixed his gaze steadfastly upon her, the
profile became distinct. He observed that her eyelids were a little
swollen, and the line of the nose was not very delicate. He still
admired her, and said to himself, "But perhaps she is more
sweet-tempered than the others"; but when he again turned his eyes to
the younger one, strange to say the calm and cheerful smile which
occasionally beamed in her face touched the heart of Genji; moreover,
his usual interviews with ladies generally took place in full
ceremony. He had never seen them in so familiar an attitude before,
without restraint or reserve, as on the present occasion, which made
him quite enjoy the scene. Kokimi now came out, and Genji retired
stealthily to one side of the door along the corridor. The former, who
saw him there, and supposed he had remained waiting in the place he
had left him all the while, apologized for keeping him so long, and
said: "A certain young lady is now staying here; I am sorry, but I did
not dare mention your visit."
"Do you mean to send me away again disappointed? How inglorious it
is," replied Genji.
"No; why so? The lady may leave shortly. I will then announce you."
Genji said no more. The ladies had by this time concluded their game,
and the servants, who were about to retire to their own apartments,
cried out, "Where is our young master? we must close this door."
"Now is the time; pray take me there; don't be too late. Go and ask,"
said Genji.
Kokimi knew very well how hard was his task to persuade his sister to
see the Prince, and was meditating taking him into her room, without
her permission, when she was alone. So he said, hesitatingly, "Please
wait a little longer, till the other lady, Ki-no-Kami's sister, goes
away."
"Is Ki-no's sister here? So much the better. Please introduce me to
her before she leaves," said Genji.
"But!"
"But what? Do you mean that she is not worth seeing?" retorted Genji;
and would fain have told the boy that he had already seen her, but
thought it better not to do so, and continued: "Were we to wait for
her to retire, it would become too late; we should have no chance."
Hereupon Kokimi determined to risk a little, and went back to his
sister's room, rolling up a curtain which hung in his way. "It is too
warm--let the air in!" he cried, as he passed through. After a few
minutes he returned, and led Genji to the apartment on his own
responsibility. The lady with the scarf (his sister), who had been for
some time fondly supposing that Genji had given up thinking about her,
appeared startled and embarrassed when she saw him; but, as a matter
of course, the usual courtesies were paid. The younger lady, however
(who was free from all such thoughts), was rather pleased at his
appearance. It happened that, when the eyes of the younger were turned
in another direction, Genji ventured to touch slightly the shoulder of
his favorite, who, startled at the action rose suddenly and left the
room, on pretence of seeking something she required, dropping her
scarf in her haste, as a cicada casts off its tender wingy shell, and
leaving her friend to converse with the Prince. He was chagrined, but
did not betray his vexation either by words or looks, and now began to
carry on a conversation with the lady who remained, whom he had
already admired. Here his usual bold flirtation followed. The young
lady, who was at first disturbed at his assurance, betrayed her
youthful inexperience in such matters; yet for an innocent maiden, she
was rather coquettish, and he went on flirting with her.
"Chance meetings like this," said he, "often arise from deeper causes
than those which take place in the usual routine of things, so at
least say the ancients. If I say I love you, you might not believe me;
and yet, indeed, it is so. Do think of me! True, we are not yet quite
free, and perhaps I might not be able to see you so often as I wish;
but I hope you will wait with patience, and not forget me."
"Truly, I also fear what people might suspect; and, therefore, I may
not be able to communicate with you at all," said she, innocently.
"Perhaps it might not be desirable to employ any other hand," he
rejoined. "If you only send your message, say through Kokimi, there
would not be any harm."
Genji now rose to depart, and slyly possessed himself of the scarf
which had been dropped by the other lady. Kokimi, who had been dozing
all the time, started up suddenly when Genji roused him. He then led
the latter to the door. At this moment, the tremulous voice of an
aged female domestic, who appeared quite unexpectedly, exclaimed--
"Who is there?"
To which Kokimi immediately replied, "It is I!"
"What brings you here so late?" asked the old woman, in a querulous
tone.
"How inquisitive! I am now going out. What harm?" retorted the boy,
rather scornfully; and, stepping up to the threshold, gave Genji a
push over it, when all at once the shadow of his tall figure was
projected on the moonlit floor.
"Who's that?" cried the old woman sharply, and in alarm; but the next
moment, without waiting for any reply, mumbled on: "Ah, ah! 'tis Miss
Mimb, no wonder so tall."
This remark seemed to allude to one of her fellow-servants, who must
have been a stalwart maiden, and the subject of remarks among her
companions. The old woman, quite satisfied in thinking that it was she
who was with Kokimi, added: "You, my young master, will soon be as
tall as she is; I will come out this way, too," and approached the
door. Genji could do nothing but stand silent and motionless. When she
came nearer she said, addressing the supposed Mimb, "Have you been
waiting on the young mistress this evening? I have been ill since the
day before yesterday, and kept myself to my room, but was sent for
this evening because my services were required. I cannot stand it." So
saying, and without waiting for any reply, she passed on, muttering as
she went, "Oh! my pain! my pain!" Genji and the boy now went forth,
and they drove back to the mansion in Nijiô. Talking over the events
of the evening, Genji ironically said to his companion, "Ah! you are a
nice boy!" and snapped his fingers with chagrin at the escape of his
favorite and her indifference. Kokimi said nothing. Genji then
murmured, "I was clearly slighted. Oh wretched me! I cannot rival the
happy Iyo!" Shortly after, he retired to rest, taking with him, almost
unconsciously, the scarf he had carried off, and again making Kokimi
share his apartment, for company's sake. He had still some hope that
the latter might be useful to him; and, with the intention of stirring
up his energies, observed, "You are a nice boy; but I am afraid the
coldness shown to me by your sister may at last weaken the friendship
between you and me."
Kokimi still made no reply. Genji closed his eyes but could not
sleep, so he started up and, taking writing materials, began to write,
apparently without any fixed purpose, and indited the following
distich:--
"Where the cicada casts her shell
In the shadows of the tree,
There is one whom I love well,
Though her heart is cold to me."
Casting away the piece of paper on which these words were
written--purposely or not, who knows?--he again leaned his head on his
hand. Kokimi slyly stretching out his hand, picked up the paper from
the floor, and hid it quickly in his dress. Genji soon fell into
profound slumber, in which he was speedily joined by Kokimi.
Some days passed away and Kokimi returned to his sister, who, on
seeing him, chided him severely, saying:--
"Though I managed with some difficulty, we must not forget what people
might say of us, _your_ officiousness is most unpardonable. Do you
know what the Prince himself will think of your childish trick?"
Thus was poor Kokimi, on the one hand, reproached by Genji for not
doing enough, and on the other by his sister for being too officious!
was he not in a very happy position! Yet, notwithstanding her words,
he ventured to draw from his dress the paper he had picked up in
Genji's apartment, and offered it to her. The lady hesitated a moment,
though somewhat inclined to read it, holding it in her hand for some
little time, undecided. At length she ventured to throw her eyes over
its contents. At once the loss of her scarf floated upon her mind as
she read, and, taking up her pen, wrote on part of the paper where
Genji had written his verses, the words of a song:--
"Amidst dark shadows of the tree,
Cicada's wing with dew is wet,
So in mine eyes unknown to thee,
Spring sweet tears of fond regret."
FOOTNOTES:
[Footnote 51: Ji and Kôh are the names of certain positions in the
game of "Go."]
CHAPTER IV
EVENING GLORY
It happened that when Genji was driving about in the Rokjiô quarter,
he was informed that his old nurse, Daini, was ill, and had become a
nun. Her residence was in Gojiô. He wished to visit her, and drove to
the house. The main gate was closed, so that his carriage could not
drive up; therefore, he sent in a servant to call out Koremitz, a son
of the nurse.
Meantime, while awaiting him, he looked round on the deserted terrace.
He noticed close by a small and rather dilapidated dwelling, with a
wooden fence round a newly-made enclosure. The upper part, for eight
or ten yards in length, was surrounded by a trellis-work, over which
some white reed blinds--rude, but new--were thrown. Through these
blinds the indistinct outline of some fair heads were faintly
delineated, and the owners were evidently peeping down the roadway
from their retreat. "Ah," thought Genji, "they can never be so tall as
to look over the blind. They must be standing on something within. But
whose residence is it? What sort of people are they?" His equipage was
strictly private and unostentatious. There were, of course, no
outriders; hence he had no fear of being recognized by them. And so he
still watched the house. The gate was also constructed of something
like trellis-work, and stood half open, revealing the loneliness of
the interior. The line: "Where do we seek our home?" came first into
his mind, and he then thought that "even this must be as comfortable
as golden palaces to its inmates."
A long wooden rail, covered with luxuriant creepers, which, fresh and
green, climbed over it in full vigor, arrested his eye; their white
blossoms, one after another disclosing their smiling lips in
unconscious beauty. Genji began humming to himself: "Ah! stranger
crossing there." When his attendant informed him that these lovely
white flowers were called "Yûgao" (evening-glory), adding, and at the
same time pointing to the flowers, "See the flowers _only_,
flourishing in that glorious state."
"What beautiful flowers they are," exclaimed Genji. "Go and beg a
bunch."
The attendant thereupon entered the half-opened gate and asked for
some of them, on which a young girl, dressed in a long tunic, came
out, taking an old fan in her hand, and saying, "Let us put them on
this, those with strong stems," plucked off a few stalks and laid them
on the fan.
These were given to the attendant, who walked slowly back. Just as he
came near to Genji, the gate of Koremitz's courtyard opened and
Koremitz himself appeared, who took the flowers from him and handed
them to Genji, at the same moment saying, "I am very sorry I could not
find the gate key, and that I made you wait so long in the public
road, though there is no one hereabouts to stare at, or recognize you,
I sincerely beg your pardon."
The carriage was now driven in, and Genji alighted. The Ajari,[52]
elder brother of Koremitz; Mikawa-no-Kami, his brother-in-law; and the
daughter of Daini, all assembled and greeted him. The nun also rose
from her couch to welcome him.
"How pleased I am to see you," she said, "but you see I have quite
altered, I have become a nun. I have given up the world. I had no
reluctance in doing this. If I had any uneasiness, it was on your
account alone. My health, however, is beginning to improve; evidently
the divine blessing on this sacrifice."
"I was so sorry," replied Genji, "to hear you were ill, and now still
more so to find you have given up the world. I hope that you may live
to witness my success and prosperity. It grieves me to think you were
compelled to make such a change; yet, I believe, this will secure your
enjoyment of happiness hereafter. It is said that when one leaves this
world without a single regret, one passes straight to Paradise." As he
said these words his eyes became moistened.
Now, it is common for nurses to regard their foster children with
blind affection, whatever may be their faults, thinking, so to speak,
that what is crooked is straight. So in Genji's case, who, in Daini's
eyes, was next door to perfection, this blindness was still more
strongly apparent, and she always regarded her office as his nurse, as
an honor, and while Genji was discoursing in the above manner, a tear
began to trickle from her eyes.
"You know," he continued, "at what an early age I was deprived of my
dearest ties; there were, indeed, several who looked after me, but you
were the one to whom I was most attached. In due course, after I grew
up, I ceased to see you regularly. I could not visit you as often as I
thought of you, yet, when I did not see you for a long time, I often
felt very lonely. Ah! if there were no such things as partings in the
world!"
He then enjoined them earnestly to persevere in prayer for their
mother's health, and said, "Good-by."
At the moment of quitting the house he remembered that something was
written on the fan that held the flowers. It was already twilight, and
he asked Koremitz to bring a taper, that he might see to read it. It
seemed to him as if the fragrance of some fair hand that had used it
still remained, and on it was written the following couplets:--
"The crystal dew at Evening's hour
Sleeps on the Yûgao's beauteous flower,
Will this please him, whose glances bright,
Gave to the flowers a dearer light?"
With apparent carelessness, without any indication to show who the
writer was, it bore, however, the marks of a certain excellence. Genji
thought, "this is singular, coming from whence it does," and turning
to Koremitz, he asked, "Who lives in this house to your right?" "Ah,"
exclaimed Koremitz mentally, "as usual, I see," but replied with
indifference, "Truly I have been here some days, but I have been so
busy in attending my mother that I neither know nor have asked about
the neighbors." "You may probably be surprised at my inquisitiveness,"
said Genji, "but I have reasons for asking this on account of this
fan. I request you to call on them, and make inquiries what sort of
people they are."
Koremitz thereupon proceeded to the house, and, calling out a servant,
sought from him the information he wanted, when he was told that,
"This is the house of Mr. Yômei-no-Ske. He is at present in the
country; his lady is still young; her brothers are in the Court
service, and often come here to see her. The whole history of the
family I am not acquainted with." With this answer Koremitz returned,
and repeated it to Genji, who thought, "Ah! the sending of this verse
may be a trick of these conceited Court fellows!" but he could not
entirely free his mind from the idea of its having been sent
especially to himself. This was consistent with the characteristic
vanity of his disposition. He, therefore, took out a paper, and
disguising his handwriting (lest it should be identified), indited the
following:--
"Were I the flower to see more near,
Which once at dusky eve I saw,
It might have charms for me more dear,
And look more beauteous than before."
And this he sent to the house by his servant, and set off on his way.
He saw a faint light through the chinks of the blinds of the house,
like the glimmer of the firefly. It gave him, as he passed, a silent
sort of longing. The mansion in Rokjiô, to which he was proceeding
this evening, was a handsome building, standing amidst fine woods of
rare growth and beauty, and all was of comfortable appearance. Its
mistress was altogether in good circumstances, and here Genji spent
the hours in full ease and comfort.
On his way home next morning he again passed the front of the house,
where grew the Yûgao flowers, and the recollection of flowers which he
had received the previous evening, made him anxious to ascertain who
the people were who lived there.
After the lapse of some time Koremitz came to pay him a visit,
excusing himself for not having come before, on account of his
mother's health being more unsatisfactory. He said, "In obedience to
your commands to make further inquiries, I called on some people who
know about my neighbors, but could not get much information. I was
told, however, that there is a lady who has been living there since
last May, but who she is even the people in the house do not know.
Sometimes I looked over the hedges between our gardens, and saw the
youthful figure of a lady, and a maiden attending her, in a style of
dress which betrayed a good origin. Yesterday evening, after sunset, I
saw the lady writing a letter, her face was very calm in expression,
but full of thought, and her attendant was often sobbing secretly, as
she waited on her. These things I saw distinctly."
Genji smiled. He seemed more anxious than before to know something
about them, and Koremitz continued: "Hoping to get some fuller
information, I took an opportunity which presented itself of sending a
communication to the house. To this a speedy answer was returned,
written by a skilful hand. I concluded from this and other
circumstances that there was something worth seeing and knowing
enclosed within those walls." Genji immediately exclaimed, "Do! do!
try again; not to be able to find out is too provoking," and he
thought to himself, "If in lowly life, which is often left unnoticed,
we find something attractive and fair, as Sama-no-Kami said, how
delightful it will be, and I think, perhaps, this may be such a one."
In the meantime his thoughts were occasionally reverting to Cicada.
His nature was not, perhaps, so perverted as to think about persons of
such condition and position in life as Cicada; but since he had heard
the discussion about women, and their several classifications, he had
somehow become speculative in his sentiments, and ambitious of testing
all those different varieties by his own experience. While matters
were in this state Iyo-no-Kami returned to the capital, and came in
haste to pay his respects to Genji. He was a swarthy, repulsive
looking man, bearing the traces of a long journey in his appearance,
and of advanced age. Still there was nothing unpleasant in his natural
character and manners. Genji was about to converse with him freely,
but somehow or another an awkward feeling arose in his mind, and threw
a restraint upon his cordiality. "Iyo is such an honest old man," he
reflected, "it is too bad to take advantage of him. What Sama-no-Kami
said is true, 'that to strive to carry out wrong desires is man's evil
failing!' Her hardheartedness to me is unpleasant, but from the other
side this deserves praise!"
It was announced after this that Iyo-no-Kami would return to his
province, and take his wife with him, and that his daughter would be
left behind to be soon married.
This intelligence was far from pleasing to Genji, and he longed once
more, only once more to behold the lady of the scarf, and he concerted
with Kokimi how to arrange a plan for obtaining an interview. The
lady, however, was quite deaf to such proposals, and the only
concession she vouchsafed was that she occasionally received a letter,
and sometimes answered it.
Autumn had now come; Genji was still thoughtful. Lady Aoi saw him but
seldom, and was constantly disquieted by his protracted absence from
her. There was, as we have before hinted, at Rokjiô, another person
whom he had won with great difficulty, and it would have been a little
inconsistent if he became too easily tired of her. He indeed had not
become cool towards her, but the violence of his passion had somewhat
abated. The cause of this seems to have been that this lady was rather
too zealous, or, we may say, jealous; besides, her age exceeded that
of Genji by some years. The following incident will illustrate the
state of matters between them:--
One morning early Genji was about to take his departure, with sleepy
eyes, listless and weary, from her mansion at Rokjiô. A slight mist
spread over the scene. A maiden attendant of the mistress opened the
door for his departure, and led him forth. The shrubbery of flowering
trees struck refreshingly on the sight, with interlacing branches in
rich confusion, among which was some Asagao in full blossom. Genji was
tempted to dally, and looked contemplatively over them. The maiden
still accompanied him. She wore a thin silk tunic of light green
colors, showing off her graceful waist and figure, which it covered.
Her appearance was attractive. Genji looked at her tenderly, and led
her to a seat in the garden, and sat down by her side. Her countenance
was modest and quiet; her wavy hair was neatly and prettily arranged.
Genji began humming in a low tone:--
"The heart that roams from flower to flower,
Would fain its wanderings not betray,
Yet 'Asagao,' in morning's hour,
Impels my tender wish to stray."
So saying, he gently took her hand; she, however, without appearing to
understand his real meaning, answered thus:--
"You stay not till the mist be o'er,
But hurry to depart,
Say can the flower you leave, no more
Detain your changeful heart?"
At this juncture a young attendant in Sasinuki[53] entered the garden,
brushing away the dewy mist from the flowers, and began to gather some
bunches of Asagao. The scene was one which we might desire to paint,
so full of quiet beauty, and Genji rose from his seat, and slowly
passed homeward. In those days Genji was becoming more and more an
object of popular admiration in society, and we might even attribute
the eccentricity of some of his adventures to the favor he enjoyed,
combined with his great personal attractions. Where beautiful flowers
expand their blossoms even the rugged mountaineer loves to rest under
their shade, so wherever Genji showed himself people sought his
notice.
Now with regard to the fair one about whom Koremitz was making
inquiries. After some still further investigations, he came to Genji
and told him that "there is some one who often visits there. Who he
was I could not at first find out, for he comes with the utmost
privacy. I made up my mind to discover him; so one evening I concealed
myself outside the house, and waited. Presently the sound of an
approaching carriage was heard, and the inmates of the house began to
peep out. The lady I mentioned before was also to be seen; I could not
see her very plainly, but I can tell you so much: she looked charming.
The carriage itself was now seen approaching, and it apparently
belonged to some one of rank. A little girl who was peeping out
exclaimed, "Ukon, look here, quick, Chiûjiô is coming." Then one older
came forward rubbing her hands and saying to the child, 'Don't be so
foolish, don't be excited.' How could they tell, I wondered, that the
carriage was a Chiûjiô's. I stole forth cautiously and reconnoitred.
Near the house there is a small stream, over which a plank had been
thrown by way of a bridge. The visitor was rapidly approaching this
bridge when an amusing incident occurred: The elder girl came out in
haste to meet him, and was passing the bridge, when the skirt of her
dress caught in something, and she well-nigh fell into the water.
'Confound that bridge, what a bad Katzragi,'[54] she cried, and
suddenly turned pale. How amusing it was, you may imagine. The visitor
was dressed in plain style, he was followed by his page, whom I
recognized as belonging to Tô-no-Chiûjiô."
"I should like to see that same carriage," interrupted Genji eagerly,
as he thought to himself, "that house may be the home of the very girl
whom he (Tô-no-Chiûjiô) spoke about, perhaps he has discovered her
hiding-place."
"I have also made an acquaintance," Koremitz continued, "with a
certain person in this house, and it was through these means that I
made closer observations. The girl who nearly fell over the bridge is,
no doubt, the lady's attendant, but they pretend to be all on an
equality. Even when the little child said anything to betray them by
its remarks, they immediately turned it off." Koremitz laughed as he
told this, adding, "this was an amusing trick indeed."
"Oh," exclaimed Genji, "I must have a look at them when I go to visit
your mother; you must manage this," and with the words the picture of
the "Evening-Glory" rose pleasantly before his eyes.
Now Koremitz not only was always prompt in attending to the wishes of
Prince Genji, but also was by his own temperament fond of carrying on
such intrigues. He tried every means to favor his designs, and to
ingratiate himself with the lady, and at last succeeded in bringing
her and Genji together. The details of the plans by which all this was
brought about are too long to be given here. Genji visited her often,
but it was with the greatest caution and privacy; he never asked her
when they met any particulars about her past life, nor did he reveal
his own to her. He would not drive to her in his own carriage, and
Koremitz often lent him his own horse to ride. He took no attendant
with him except the one who had asked for the "Evening-Glory." He
would not even call on the nurse, lest it might lead to discoveries.
The lady was puzzled at his reticence. She would sometimes send her
servant to ascertain, if possible, what road he took, and where he
went. But somehow, by chance or design, he always became lost to her
watchful eye. His dress, also, was of the most ordinary description,
and his visits were always paid late in the evening. To her all this
seemed like the mysteries of old legends. True, she conjectured from
his demeanor and ways that he was a person of rank, but she never
ascertained exactly who he was. She sometimes reproached Koremitz for
bringing her into such strange circumstances. But he cunningly kept
himself aloof from such taunts.
Be this as it may, Genji still frequently visited her, though at the
same time he was not unmindful that this kind of adventure was
scarcely consistent with his position. The girl was simple and modest
in nature, not certainly manoeuvring, neither was she stately or
dignified in mien, but everything about her had a peculiar charm and
interest, impossible to describe, and in the full charm of youth not
altogether void of experience.
"But by what charm in her," thought Genji, "am I so strongly affected;
no matter, I am so," and thus his passion continued.
Her residence was only temporary, and this Genji soon became aware of.
"If she leaves this place," thought he, "and I lose sight of her--for
when this may happen is uncertain--what shall I do?" He at last
decided to carry her off secretly to his own mansion in Nijiô. True,
if this became known it would be an awkward business; but such are
love affairs; always some dangers to be risked! He therefore fondly
entreated her to accompany him to some place where they could be
freer.
Her answer, however, was "That such a proposal on his part only
alarmed her." Genji was amused at her girlish mode of expression, and
earnestly said, "Which of us is a fox?[55] I don't know, but anyhow be
persuaded by me." And after repeated conversations of the same nature,
she at last half-consented. He had much doubt of the propriety of
inducing her to take this step, nevertheless her final compliance
flattered his vanity. He recollected very well the Tokonatz (Pinks)
which Tô-no-Chiûjiô spoke of, but never betrayed that he had any
knowledge of that circumstance.
It was on the evening of the 15th of August when they were together.
The moonlight streamed through the crevices of the broken wall. To
Genji such a scene was novel and peculiar. The dawn at length began to
break, and from the surrounding houses the voices of the farmers might
be heard talking.
One remarked, "How cool it is." Another, "There is not much hope for
our crops this year." "My carrying business I do not expect to
answer," responded the first speaker. "But are our neighbors
listening!" Conversing in this way they proceeded to their work.
Had the lady been one to whom surrounding appearances were important,
she might have felt disturbed, but she was far from being so, and
seemed as if no outward circumstances could trouble her equanimity,
which appeared to him an admirable trait. The noise of the threshing
of the corn came indistinctly to their ears like distant thunder. The
beating of the bleacher's hammer was also heard faintly from afar off.
They were in the front of the house. They opened the window and looked
out on the dawn. In the small garden before their eyes was a pretty
bamboo grove; their leaves, wet with dew, shone brilliantly, even as
bright as in the gardens of the palace. The cricket sang cheerfully in
the old walls as if it was at their very ears, and the flight of wild
geese in the air rustled overhead. Everything spoke of rural scenes
and business, different from what Genji was in the habit of seeing and
hearing round him.
To him all these sights and sounds, from their novelty and variety,
combined with the affection he had for the girl beside him, had a
delightful charm. She wore a light dress of clear purple, not very
costly; her figure was slight and delicate; the tones of her voice
soft and insinuating. "If she were only a little more cultivated,"
thought he, but, in any case, he was determined to carry her off.
"Now is the time," said he, "let us go together, the place is not very
far off."
"Why so soon?" she replied, gently. As her implied consent to his
proposal was thus given without much thought, he, on his part, became
bolder. He summoned her maid, Ukon, and ordered the carriage to be got
ready. Dawn now fairly broke; the cocks had ceased to crow, and the
voice of an aged man was heard repeating his orisons, probably during
his fast. "His days will not be many," thought Genji, "what is he
praying for?" And while so thinking, the aged mortal muttered, "Nam
Tôrai no Dôshi" (Oh! the Divine guide of the future). "Do listen to
that prayer," said Genji, turning to the girl, "it shows our life is
not limited to this world," and he hummed:--
"Let us together, bind our soul
With vows that Woobasok[56] has given,
That when this world from sight shall roll
Unparted we shall wake in heaven."
And added, "By Mirok,[57] let us bind ourselves in love forever."
The girl, doubtful of the future, thus replied in a melancholy tone:--
"When in my present lonely lot,
I feel my past has not been free
From sins which I remember not,
I dread more, what to come, may be."
In the meantime a passing cloud had suddenly covered the sky, and made
its face quite gray. Availing himself of this obscurity, Genji hurried
her away and led her to the carriage, where Ukon also accompanied her.
They drove to an isolated mansion on the Rokjiô embankment, which was
at no great distance, and called out the steward who looked after it.
The grounds were in great solitude, and over them lay a thick mist.
The curtains of the carriage were not drawn close, so that the sleeves
of their dresses were almost moistened. "I have never experienced this
sort of trouble before," said Genji; "how painful are the sufferings
of love."
"Oh! were the ancients, tell me pray,
Thus led away, by love's keen smart,
I ne'er such morning's misty ray
Have felt before with beating heart.
Have you ever?"
The lady shyly averted her face and answered:--
"I, like the wandering moon, may roam,
Who knows not if her mountain love
Be true or false, without a home,
The mist below, the clouds above."
The steward presently came out and the carriage was driven inside the
gates, and was brought close to the entrance, while the rooms were
hurriedly prepared for their reception. They alighted just as the mist
was clearing away.
This steward was in the habit of going to the mansion of Sadaijin, and
was well acquainted with Genji.
"Oh!" he exclaimed, as they entered. "Without proper attendants!" And
approaching near to Genji said, "Shall I call in some more servants?"
Genji replied at once and impressively, "I purposely chose a place
where many people should not intrude. Don't trouble yourself, and be
discreet."
Rice broth was served up for their breakfast, but no regular meal had
been prepared.
The sun was now high in the heavens. Genji got up and opened the
window. The gardens had been uncared for, and had run wild. The forest
surrounding the mansion was dense and old, and the shrubberies were
ravaged and torn by the autumn gales, and the bosom of the lake was
hidden by rank weeds. The main part of the house had been for a long
time uninhabited, except the servants' quarter, where there were only
a few people living.
"How fearful the place looks; but let no demon molest us," thought
Genji, and endeavored to direct the girl's attention by fond and
caressing conversation. And now he began, little by little, to throw
off the mask, and told her who he was, and then began humming:--
"The flower that bloomed in evening's dew,
Was the bright guide that led to you."
She looked at him askance, replying:--
"The dew that on the Yûgao lay,
Was a false guide and led astray."
Thus a faint allusion was made to the circumstances which were the
cause of their acquaintance, and it became known that the verse and
the fan had been sent by her attendant mistaking Genji for her
mistress's former lover.
In the course of a few hours the girl became more at her ease, and
later on in the afternoon Koremitz came and presented some fruits. The
latter, however, stayed with them only a short time.
The mansion gradually became very quiet, and the evening rapidly
approached. The inner room was somewhat dark and gloomy. Yûgao was
nervous; she was too nervous to remain there alone, and Genji
therefore drew back the curtains to let the twilight in, staying there
with her. Here the lovers remained, enjoying each other's sight and
company, yet the more the evening advanced, the more timid and
restless she became, so he quickly closed the casement, and she drew
by degrees closer and closer to his side. At these moments he also
became distracted and thoughtful. How the Emperor would be asking
after him, and know not where he might be! What would the lady, the
jealous lady, in the neighboring mansion think or say if she
discovered their secret? How painful it would be if her jealous rage
should flash forth on him! Such were the reflections which made him
melancholy; and as his eyes fell upon the girl affectionately sitting
beside him, ignorant of all these matters, he could not but feel a
kind of pity for her.
Night was now advancing, and they unconsciously dropped off to sleep,
when suddenly over the pillow of Genji hovered the figure of a lady of
threatening aspect. It said fiercely, "You faithless one, wandering
astray with such a strange girl."
And then the apparition tried to pull away the sleeping girl near him.
Genji awoke much agitated. The lamp had burnt itself out. He drew his
sword, and placed it beside him, and called aloud for Ukon, and she
came to him also quite alarmed.
"Do call up the servants and procure a light," said Genji.
"How can I go, 'tis too dark," she replied, shaking with fear.
"How childish!" he exclaimed, with a false laugh, and clapped his
hands to call a servant. The sound echoed drearily through the empty
rooms, but no servant came. At this moment he found the girl beside
him was also strangely affected. Her brow was covered with great drops
of cold perspiration, and she appeared rapidly sinking into a state of
unconsciousness.
"Ah! she is often troubled with the nightmare," said Ukon, "and
perhaps this disturbs her now; but let us try and rouse her."
"Yes, very likely," said Genji; "she was very much fatigued, and since
noon her eyes have often been riveted upwards, like one suffering from
some inward malady. I will go myself and call the servants"--he
continued, "clapping one's hands is useless, besides it echoes
fearfully. Do come here, Ukon, for a little while, and look after your
mistress." So pulling Ukon near Yûgao, he advanced to the entrance of
the saloon. He saw all was dark in the adjoining chambers. The wind
was high, and blew gustily round the mansion. The few servants,
consisting of a son of the steward, footman, and page, were all buried
in profound slumber. Genji called to them loudly, and they awoke with
a start. "Come," said he, "bring a light. Valet, twang your
bow-string, and drive away the fiend. How can you sleep so soundly in
such a place? But has Koremitz come?"
"Sir, he came in the evening, but you had given no command, and so he
went away, saying he would return in the morning," answered one.
The one who gave this reply was an old knight, and he twanged his
bow-strings vigorously, "Hiyôjin! hiyôjin!" (Be careful of the fire!
be careful of the fire!) as he walked round the rooms.
The mind of Genji instinctively reverted at this moment to the comfort
of the palace. "At this hour of midnight," he thought, "the careful
knights are patrolling round its walls. How different it is here!"
He returned to the room he had left; it was still dark. He found Yûgao
lying half dead and unconscious as before, and Ukon rendered helpless
by fright.
"What is the matter? What does it mean? What foolish fear is this?"
exclaimed Genji, greatly alarmed. "Perhaps in lonely places like this
the fox, for instance, might try to exercise his sorcery to alarm us,
but I am here, there is no cause for fear," and he pulled Ukon's
sleeve as he spoke, to arouse her.
"I was so alarmed," she replied; "but my lady must be more so; pray
attend to her."
"Well," said Genji, and bending over his beloved, shook her gently,
but she neither spoke nor moved. She had apparently fainted, and he
became seriously alarmed.
At this juncture the lights were brought. Genji threw a mantle over
his mistress, and then called to the man to bring the light to him.
The servant remained standing at a distance (according to etiquette),
and would not approach.
"Come near," exclaimed Genji, testily. "Do act according to
circumstances," and taking the lamp from him threw its light full on
the face of the lady, and gazed upon it anxiously, when at this very
moment he beheld the apparition of the same woman he had seen before
in his terrible dream, float before his eyes and vanish. "Ah!" he
cried, "this is like the phantoms in old tales. What is the matter
with the girl?" His own fears were all forgotten in his anxiety on her
account. He leaned over and called upon her, but in vain. She answered
not, and her glance was fixed. What was to be done? There was no one
whom he could consult. The exorcisms of a priest, he thought, might do
some good, but there was no priest. He tried to compose himself with
all the resolution he could summon, but his anguish was too strong for
his nerves. He threw himself beside her, and embracing her
passionately, cried, "Come back! come back to me, my darling! Do not
let us suffer such dreadful events." But she was gone; her soul had
passed gently away.
The story of the mysterious power of the demon, who had threatened a
certain courtier possessed of considerable strength of mind, suddenly
occurred to Genji, who thought self-possession was the only remedy in
present circumstances, and recovering his composure a little, said to
Ukon, "She cannot be dead! She shall not die yet!" He then called the
servant, and told him. "Here is one who has been strangely frightened
by a vision. Go to Koremitz and tell him to come at once; and if his
brother, the priest, is there, ask him to come also. Tell them
cautiously; don't alarm their mother."
The midnight passed, and the wind blew louder, rushing amongst the
branches of the old pines, and making them moan more and more sadly.
The cries of strange weird birds were heard, probably the shrieks of
the ill-omened screech-owl, and the place seemed more and more remote
from all human sympathy. Genji could only helplessly repeat, "How
could I have chosen such a retreat." While Ukon, quite dismayed, cried
pitifully at his side. To him it seemed even that this girl might
become ill, might die! The light of the lamp flickered and burnt dim.
Each side of the walls seemed to his alarmed sight to present
numberless openings one after another (where the demon might rush in),
and the sound of mysterious footsteps seemed approaching along the
deserted passages behind them. "Ah! were Koremitz but here," was the
only thought of Genji; but it would seem that Koremitz was from home,
and the time Genji had to wait for him seemed an age. At last the
crowing cocks announced the coming day, and gave him new courage.
He said to himself, "I must now admit this to be a punishment for all
my inconsiderateness. However secretly we strive to conceal our
faults, eventually they are discovered. First of all, what might not
my father think! and then the general public? And what a subject for
scandal the story of my escapades will become."
Koremitz now arrived, and all at once the courage with which Genji had
fought against calamity gave way, and he burst into tears, and then
slowly spoke. "Here a sad and singular event has happened; I cannot
explain to you why. For such sudden afflictions prayers, I believe,
are the only resource. For this reason I wished your brother to
accompany you here."
"He returned to his monastery only yesterday," replied Koremitz. "But
tell me what has happened; any unusual event to the girl?"
"She is dead," returned Genji in a broken voice; "dead without any
apparent cause."
Koremitz, like the Prince, was but young. If he had had greater
experience he would have been more serviceable to Genji; indeed, they
both were equally perplexed to decide what were the best steps to be
taken under the trying circumstances of the case.
At last Koremitz said, "If the steward should learn this strange
misfortune it might be awkward; as to the man himself he might be
relied on, but his family, who probably would not be so discreet,
might hear of the matter. It would, therefore, be better to quit this
place at once."
"But where can we find a spot where there are fewer observers than
here?" replied Genji.
"That is true. Suppose the old lodgings of the deceased. No, there are
too many people there. I think a mountain convent would be better,
because there they are accustomed to receive the dead within their
walls, so that matters can be more easily concealed."
And after a little reflection, he continued, "There is a nun whom I
know living in a mountain convent in Higashi-Yama. Let us take the
corpse there. She was my father's nurse; she is living there in strict
seclusion. That is the best plan I can think of."
This proposal was decided on, and the carriage was summoned.
Presuming that Genji would not like to carry the dead body in his
arms, Koremitz covered it with a mantle, and lifted it into the
carriage. Over the features of the dead maiden a charming calmness was
still spread, unlike what usually happens, there being nothing
repulsive. Her wavy hair fell outside the mantle, and her small mouth,
still parted, wore a faint smile. The sight distressed both the eyes
and heart of Genji. He fain would have followed the body; but this
Koremitz would not permit.
"Do take my horse and ride back to Nijiô at once," he said, and
ordered the horse for him. Then taking Ukon away in the same carriage
with the dead, he, girding up his dress, followed it on foot. It was
by no means a pleasant task for Koremitz, but he put up with it
cheerfully.
Genji, sunk in apathy, now rode back to Nijiô; he was greatly
fatigued, and looked pale. The people of the mansion noticed his sad
and haggard appearance.
Genji said nothing, but hurried straight away to his own private
apartment.
"Why did I not go with her?" he still vainly exclaimed. "What would
she think of me were she to return to life?" And these thoughts
affected him so deeply that he became ill, his head ached, his pulse
beat high, and his body burned with fever. The sun rose high, but he
did not leave his couch. His domestics were all perplexed. Rice gruel
was served up to him, but he would not touch it. The news of his
indisposition soon found its way out of the mansion, and in no time a
messenger arrived from the Imperial Palace to make inquiries. His
brother-in-law also came, but Genji only allowed Tô-no-Chiûjiô to
enter his room, saying to him, "My aged nurse has been ill since last
May, and has been tonsured, and received consecration; it was,
perhaps, from this sacrifice that at one time she became better, but
lately she has had a relapse, and is again very bad. I was advised to
visit her, moreover, she was always most kind to me, and if she had
died without seeing me it would have pained her, so I went to see her.
At this time a servant of her house, who had been ill, died suddenly.
Being rendered 'unclean' by this event, I am passing the time
privately. Besides, since the morning, I have become ill, evidently
the effects of cold. By the bye, you must excuse me receiving you in
this way."
"Well, sir," replied Tô-no-Chiûjiô, "I will represent these
circumstances to his Majesty. Your absence last night has given much
inquietude to the Emperor. He caused inquiries to be made for you
everywhere, and his humor was not very good." And thereupon
Tô-no-Chiûjiô took his leave, thinking as he went, "What sort of
'uncleanness' can this really be. I cannot put perfect faith in what
he tells me."
Little did Tô-no-Chiûjiô imagine that the dead one was no other than
his own long-lost Tokonatz (Pinks).
In the evening came Koremitz from the mountain, and was secretly
introduced, though all general visitors were kept excluded on the
pretext of the "uncleanness."
"What has become of her?" cried Genji, passionately, when he saw him.
"Is she really gone?"
"Her end has come," replied Koremitz, in a tone of sadness; "and we
must not keep the dead too long. To-morrow we will place her in the
grave: to-morrow 'is a good day.' I know a faithful old priest. I have
consulted with him how to arrange all."
"And what has become of Ukon?" asked Genji. "How does she bear it?"
"That is, indeed, a question. She was really deeply affected, and she
foolishly said, 'I will die with my mistress.' She was actually going
to throw herself headlong from the cliff; but I warned, I advised, I
consoled her, and she became more pacified."
"The state of her feelings may be easily conceived. I am myself not
less deeply wounded than she. I do not even know what might become of
myself."
"Why do you grieve so uselessly? Every uncertainty is the result of a
certainty. There is nothing in this world really to be lamented. If
you do not wish the public to know anything of this matter, I,
Koremitz, will manage it."
"I, also, am aware that everything is fated. Still, I am deeply sorry
to have brought this misfortune on this poor girl by my own
inconsiderate rashness. The only thing I have now to ask you, is to
keep these events in the dark. Do not mention them to any one--nay,
not even to your mother."
"Even from the priests to whom it must necessarily be known, I will
conceal the reality," replied Koremitz.
"Do manage all this most skilfully!"
"Why, of course I shall manage it as secretly as possible," cried
Koremitz; and he was about to take his departure, but Genji stopped
him.
"I must see her once more," said Genji, sorrowfully. "I will go with
you to behold her, before she is lost to my sight forever." And he
insisted on accompanying him.
Koremitz, however, did not at all approve of this project; but his
resistance gave way to the earnest desire of Genji, and he said, "If
you think so much about it, I cannot help it."
"Let us hasten, then, and return before the night be far advanced."
"You shall have my horse to ride."
Genji rose, and dressed himself in the ordinary plain style he usually
adopted for his private expeditions, and started away with one
confidential servant, besides Koremitz.
They crossed the river Kamo, the torches carried before them burning
dimly. They passed the gloomy cemetery of Toribeno, and at last
reached the convent.
It was a rude wooden building, and adjoining was a small Buddha Hall,
through whose walls votive tapers mysteriously twinkled. Within,
nothing but the faint sound of a female's voice repeating prayers was
to be heard. Outside, and around, the evening services in the
surrounding temples were all finished, and all Nature was in silent
repose. In the direction of Kiyomidz alone some scattered lights
studding the dark scene betrayed human habitations.
They entered. Genji's heart was beating fast with emotion. He saw Ukon
reclining beside a screen, with her back to the lamp. He did not speak
to her, but proceeded straight to the body, and gently drew aside the
mantle which covered its face. It still wore a look of tranquil
calmness; no change had yet attacked the features. He took the cold
hand in his own, crying out as he did so:--
"Do let me hear thy voice once more! Why have you left me thus
bereaved?" But the silence of death was unbroken!
He then, half sobbing, began to talk with Ukon, and invited her to
come to his mansion, and help to console him. But Koremitz now
admonished him to consider that time was passing quickly.
On this Genji threw a long sad farewell glance at the face of the
dead, and rose to depart. He was so feeble and powerless that he could
not mount his horse without the help of Koremitz. The countenance of
the dead girl floated ever before his sight, with the look she wore
when living, and it seemed as if he were being led on by some
mysterious influence.
The banks of the river Kamo were reached, when Genji found himself too
weak to support himself on horseback, and so dismounted.
"I am afraid," he exclaimed, "I shall not be able to reach home."
Koremitz was a little alarmed. "If I had only been firm," he thought,
"and had prevented this journey, I should not have exposed him to such
a trial." He descended to the river, and bathing his hands,[58]
offered up a prayer to Kwannon of Kiyomidz, and again assisted Genji
to mount, who struggled to recover his energy, and managed somehow to
return to Nijiô, praying in silence as he rode along.
The people of the mansion entertained grave apprehensions about him;
and not unnaturally, seeing he had been unusually restless for some
days, and had become suddenly ill since the day before, and they could
never understand what urgency had called him out on that evening.
Genji now lay down on his couch, fatigued and exhausted, and continued
in the same state for some days, when he became quite weak.
The Emperor was greatly concerned, as was also Sadaijin. Numerous
prayers were offered, and exorcisms performed everywhere in his
behalf, all with the most careful zeal. The public was afraid he was
too beautiful to live long.
The only solace he had at this time was Ukon; he had sent for her, and
made her stay in his mansion.
And whenever he felt better he had her near him, and conversed with
her about her dead mistress.
In the meantime, it might have been the result of his own energetic
efforts to realize the ardent hopes of the Emperor and his
father-in-law, that his condition became better, after a heavy trial
of some three weeks; and towards the end of September he became
convalescent. He now felt as though he had been restored to the world
to which he had formerly belonged. He was, however, still thin and
weak, and, for consolation, still resorted to talk with Ukon.
"How strange," he said to her, as they were conversing together one
fine autumn evening. "Why did she not reveal to me all her past life?
If she had but known how deeply I loved her, she might have been a
little more frank with me."
"Ah! no," replied Ukon; "she would not intentionally have concealed
anything from you; but it was, I imagine, more because she had no
choice. You at first conducted yourself in such a mysterious manner;
and she, on her part, regarded her acquaintance with you as something
like a dream. That was the cause of her reticence."
"What a useless reticence it was," exclaimed Genji. "I was not so
frank as, perhaps, I ought to have been; but you may be sure that made
no difference in my affection towards her. Only, you must remember,
there is my father, the Emperor, besides many others, whose vigilant
admonitions I am bound to respect. That was the reason why I had to be
careful. Nevertheless, my love to your mistress was singularly deep;
too deep, perhaps, to last long. Do tell me now all you know about
her; I do not see any reason why you should conceal it. I have
carefully ordered the weekly requiem for the dead; but tell me in
whose behalf it is, and what was her origin?"
"I have no intention of concealing anything from you. Why should I? I
only thought it would be blamable if one should reveal after death
what another had thought best to reserve," replied Ukon. "Her parents
died when she was a mere girl. Her father was called Sammi-Chiûjiô,
and loved her very dearly. He was always aspiring to better his
position, and wore out his life in the struggle. After his death, she
was left helpless and poor. She was however, by chance, introduced to
Tô-no-Chiûjiô, when he was still Shiôshiô, and not Chiûjiô. During
three years they kept on very good terms, and he was very kind to
her. But some wind or other attacks every fair flower; and, in the
autumn of last year, she received a fearful menace from the house of
Udaijin, to whose daughter, as you know, Tô-no-Chiûjiô is married.
Poor girl, she was terrified at this. She knew not what to do, and hid
herself, with her nurse, in an obscure part of the capital. It was not
a very agreeable place, and she was about removing to a certain
mountain hamlet, but, as its 'celestial direction' was closed this
year, she was still hesitating, and while matters were in this state,
you appeared on the scene. To do her justice, she had no thought of
wandering from one to another; but circumstances often make things
appear as if we did so. She was, by nature, extremely reserved, so
that she did not like to speak out her feelings to others, but rather
suffered in silence by herself. This, perhaps, you also have noticed."
"Then it was so, after all. She was the Tokonatz of Tô-no-Chiûjiô,"
thought Genji; and now it also transpired that all that Koremitz had
stated about Tô-no-Chiûjiô's visiting her at the Yûgao house was a
pure invention, suggested by a slight acquaintance with the girl's
previous history.
"The Chiûjiô told me once," said Genji, "that she had a little one.
Was there any such?"
"Yes, she had one in the spring of the year before last--a girl, a
nice child," replied Ukon.
"Where is she now?" asked Genji, "perhaps you will bring her to me
some day. I should like to have her with me as a memento of her
mother. I should not mind mentioning it to her father, but if I did
so, I must reveal the whole sad story of her mother's fate, and this
would not be advisable at present; however, I do not see any harm if I
were to bring her up as my daughter. You might manage it somehow
without my name being mentioned to any one concerned."
"That would be a great happiness for the child," exclaimed Ukon,
delighted, "I do not much appreciate her being brought up where she
is."
"Well, I will do so, only let us wait for some better chance. For the
present be discreet."
"Yes, of course. I cannot yet take any steps towards that object; we
must not unfurl our sails before the storm is completely over."
The foliage of the ground, touched with autumnal tints, was beginning
to fade, and the sounds of insects (_mushi_) were growing faint, and
both Genji and Ukon were absorbed by the sad charm of the scene. As
they meditated, they heard doves cooing among the bamboo woods.
To Genji it brought back the cries of that strange bird, which cry he
had heard on that fearful night in Rokjiô, and the subject recurred to
his mind once more, and he said to Ukon, "How old was she?"
"Nineteen."
"And how came you to know her?"
"I was the daughter of her first nurse, and a great favorite of her
father's, who brought me up with her, and from that time I never left
her. When I come to think of those days I wonder how I can exist
without her. The poet says truly, 'The deeper the love, the more
bitter the parting.' Ah! how gentle and retiring she was. How much I
loved her!"
"That retiring and gentle temperament," said Genji, "gives far greater
beauty to women than all beside, for to have no natural pliability
makes women utterly worthless."
The sky by this time became covered, and the wind blew chilly. Genji
gazed intently on it and hummed:--
"When we regard the clouds above,
Our souls are filled with fond desire,
To me the smoke of my dead love,
Seems rising from the funeral pyre."
The distant sound of the bleacher's hammer reached their ears, and
reminded him of the sound he had heard in the Yûgao's house. He bade
"Good-night" to Ukon, and retired to rest, humming as he went:--
"In the long nights of August and September."
On the forty-ninth day (after the death of the Yûgao) he went to the
Hokke Hall in the Hiye mountain, and there had a service for the dead
performed, with full ceremony and rich offerings. The monk-brother of
Koremitz took every pains in its performance.
The composition of requiem prayers was made by Genji himself, and
revised by a professor of literature, one of his intimate friends. He
expressed in it the melancholy sentiment about the death of one whom
he had dearly loved, and whom he had yielded to Buddha. But who she
was was not stated. Among the offerings there was a dress. He took it
up in his hands and sorrowfully murmured,
"With tears to-day, the dress she wore
I fold together, when shall I
Bright Elysium's far-off shore
This robe of hers again untie?"
And the thought that the soul of the deceased might be still wandering
and unsettled to that very day, but that now the time had come when
her final destiny would be decided,[59] made him pray for her more
fervently.
So closed the sad event of Yûgao.
Now Genji was always thinking that he should wish to see his beloved
in a dream.
The evening after his visit to the Hokke Hall, he beheld her in his
slumbers, as he wished, but at the same moment the terrible face of
the woman that he had seen on that fearful evening in Rokjiô again
appeared before him; hence he concluded that the same mysterious being
who tenanted that dreary mansion had taken advantage of his fears and
had destroyed his beloved Yûgao.
A few words more about the house in which she had lived. After her
flight no communication had been sent to them even by Ukon, and they
had no idea of where she had gone to. The mistress of the house was a
daughter of the nurse of Yûgao. She with her two sisters lived there.
Ukon was a stranger to them, and they imagined that her being so was
the reason of her sending no intelligence to them. True they had
entertained some suspicions about the gay Prince, and pressed Koremitz
to confide the truth to them, but the latter, as he had done before,
kept himself skilfully aloof.
They then thought she might have been seduced and carried off by some
gallant son of a local Governor, who feared his intrigue might be
discovered by Tô-no-Chiûjiô.
During these days Kokimi, of Ki-no-Kami's house, still used to come
occasionally to Genji. But for some time past the latter had not sent
any letter to Cicada. W
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