The tale of Genji
have seen all this for yourself.’
Yes, this was all just as Tō no Chūjō had described. ‘I think there
was some mention of a child that Chūjō was vexed to have lost sight
of’ said Genji more interested than ever; ‘am I right?’ ‘Yes, indeed,’
she answered ‘it was born in the spring of last year, a girl, and a
fine child it was.’ ‘Where is it now?’ asked Genji. ‘Could you get
hold of it and bring it to me here without letting anyone know where
you were taking it? It would be a great comfort to me in my present
misery to have some remembrance of her near me;’ and he added, ‘I
ought of course to tell Chūjō, but that would lead to useless and
painful discussions about what has happened. Somehow or other I will
manage to bring her up here in my palace. I think there can be no harm
in that. And you will easily enough find some story to tell to
whatever people are now looking after her.’ ‘I am very glad that
this has entered your head,’ said Ukon, ‘it would be a poor look-out
for her to grow up in the quarter where she is now living. With no one
properly belonging to her and in such a part of the town....’
In the stillness of the evening, under a sky of exquisite beauty, here
and there along the borders in front of his palace some insect croaked
its song; the leaves were just beginning to turn. And as he looked
upon this pleasant picture he felt ashamed at the contrast between his
surroundings and the little house where Yūgao had lived. Suddenly
somewhere among the bamboo groves the bird called iyebato uttered its
sharp note. He remembered just how she had looked when in the gardens
of that fatal house the same bird had startled her by its cry, and
turning to Ukon, ‘How old was she?’ he suddenly asked; ‘for though she
seemed childlike in her diffidence and helplessness, that may only
have been a sign that she was not long for this world.’ ‘She must have
been nineteen’ said Ukon. ‘When my mother, who was her first
wet-nurse, died and left me an orphan, my lady’s father was pleased to
notice me and reared me at my lady’s side. Ah Sir, when I think of it,
I do not know how I shall live without her; for kind as people here
may be I do not seem to get used to them. I suppose it is that I knew
her ways, poor lady, she having been my mistress for so many years.’
To Genji even the din of the cloth-beaters’ mallets had become dear
through recollection, and as he lay in bed he repeated those verses of
Po Chü-i.
_In the eighth month and ninth month when the nights are growing long
A thousand times, ten thousand times the fuller’s stick beats._
The young brother still waited upon him, but he no longer brought with
him the letters which he had been used to bring. Utsusemi thought he
had at last decided that her treatment of him was too unfriendly to be
borne, and was vexed that he should feel so. Then suddenly she
heard of his illness, and all her vexation turned to consternation and
anxiety. She was soon to set out upon her long journey, but this did
not much interest her; and to see whether Genji had quite forgotten
her she sent him a message saying that she had been able to find no
words in which to express her grief at hearing the news of his
illness. With it she sent the poem: ‘I did not ask for news and you
did not ask why I was silent; so the days wore on and I remained in
sorrow and dismay.’ He had not forgotten her, no, not in all his
trouble; and his answer came: ‘Of this life, fragile as the
utsusemi’s[19] shell, already I was weary, when your word came, and
gave me strength to live anew.’ The poem was written in a very
tremulous and confused hand; but she thought the writing very
beautiful and it delighted her that he had not forgotten how,
cicada-like, she had shed her scarf. There could be no harm in this
interchange of notes, but she had no intention of arranging a meeting.
She thought that at last even he had seen that there could be no sense
in that.
As for Utsusemi’s companion, she was not yet married, and Genji heard
that she had become the mistress of Tō no Chūjō’s brother Kurōdo no
Shōshō; and though he feared that Shōshō might already have taken very
ill the discovery that he was not first in the field, and did not at
all wish to offend him, yet he had a certain curiosity about the girl
and sent Utsusemi’s little brother with a message asking if she had
heard of his illness and the poem: ‘Had I not once gathered for my
pillow a handful of the sedge that grows upon the eaves,[20] not a
dewdrop of pretext could my present message find.’ It was an acrostic
with many hidden meanings. He tied the letter to a tall reed and
bade him deliver it secretly; but was afterwards very uneasy at the
thought that it might go astray. ‘If it falls into Shōshō’s hands’ he
thought ‘he will at once guess that it was I who was before him.’ But
after all Shōshō would probably not take that so very hard, Genji had
vanity enough to think.
The boy delivered the message when Shōshō was at a safe distance. She
could not help feeling a little hurt; but it was something that he had
remembered her at all, and justifying it to herself with the excuse
that she had had no time to do anything better, she sent the boy
straight back with the verse: ‘The faint wind of your favour, that but
for a moment blew, with grief has part befrosted the small sedge of
the eaves.’ It was very ill-written, with all sorts of ornamental but
misleading strokes and flourishes; indeed with a complete lack of
style. However, it served to remind him of the face he had first seen
that evening by the lamplight. As for the other who on that occasion
had sat so stiffly facing her, what determination there had been in
her face, what a steady resolution to give no quarter!
The affair with the lady of the sedge was so unintentional and so
insignificant that though he regarded it as rather frivolous and
indiscreet, he saw no great harm in it. But if he did not take himself
in hand before it was too late he would soon again be involved in some
entanglement which might finally ruin his reputation.
On the forty-ninth day after Yūgao’s death a service in her memory was
by his orders secretly held in the Hokedō on Mount Hiyei. The ritual
performed was of the most elaborate kind, everything that was required
being supplied from the Prince’s own store; and even the decoration of
the service books and images was carried out with the utmost
attention. Koremitsu’s brother, a man of great piety, was
entrusted with the direction of the ceremony, and all went well. Next
Genji sent for his old writing-master, a doctor of letters for whom he
had a great liking and bade him write the prayer for the dead.[21]
‘Say that I commit to Amida the Buddha one not named whom I loved, but
lost disastrously,’ and he wrote out a rough draft for the learned man
to amend. ‘There is nothing to add or alter,’ said the master, deeply
moved. Who could it be, he wondered, at whose death the prince was so
distressed? (For Genji, try as he might, could not hide his tears.)
When he was secretly looking through his store for largesse to give to
the Hokedō priests, he came upon a certain dress and as he folded it
made the poem: ‘The girdle that to-day with tears I knot, shall we
ever in some new life untie?’
Till now her spirit had wandered in the void.[22]
But already she must be setting out on her new life-path, and in great
solicitude, he prayed continually for her safety.
He met Tō no Chūjō and his heart beat violently, for he had longed to
tell him about Yūgao’s child and how it was to be reared. But he
feared that the rest of the story would needlessly anger and distress
him, and he did not mention the matter. Meanwhile the servants of
Yūgao’s house were surprised that they had had no news from her nor
even from Ukon, and had begun to be seriously disquieted. They had
still no proof that it was Genji who was her lover, but several of
them thought that they had recognized him and his name was whispered
among them. They would have it that Koremitsu knew the secret, but he
pretended to know nothing whatever about Yūgao’s lover and found a
way to put off all their questions; and as he was still frequenting
the house for his own purposes, it was easy for them to believe that
he was not really concerned in their mistress’s affairs. Perhaps after
all it was some blackguard of a Zuryō’s son who, frightened of Tō no
Chūjō’s interference, had carried her off to his province. The real
owner of the house was a daughter of Yūgao’s second wet-nurse, who had
three children of her own. Ukon had been brought up with them, but
they thought that it was perhaps because she was not their own sister
that Ukon sent them no news of their mistress, and they were in great
distress.
Ukon who knew that they would assail her with questions which her
promise to Genji forbade her to answer, dared not go to the house, not
even to get news of her lady’s child. It had been put out somewhere to
nurse, but to her great sorrow she had quite lost sight of it.
Longing all the while to see her face once more though only in a
dream, upon the night after the ceremony on Mount Hiyei, he had a
vision very different from that for which he prayed. There appeared to
him once more, just as on that fatal night, the figure of a woman in
menacing posture, and he was dismayed at the thought that some demon
which haunted the desolate spot might on the occasion when it did that
terrible thing, also have entered into him and possessed him.
Iyo no Suke was to start early in the Godless Month and had announced
that his wife would go with him. Genji sent very handsome parting
presents and among them with special intent he put many very exquisite
combs and fans. With them were silk strips to offer to the God of
Journeys and, above all, the scarf which she had dropped, and, tied to
it, a poem in which he said that he had kept it in remembrance of her
while there was still hope of their meeting, but now returned it wet
with tears shed in vain. There was a long letter with the poem,
but this was of no particular interest and is here omitted. She sent
no answer by the man who had brought the presents, but gave her
brother the poem: ‘That to the changed cicada you should return her
summer dress shows that you too have changed and fills an insect heart
with woe.’
He thought long about her. Though she had with so strange and
inexplicable a resolution steeled her heart against him to the end,
yet each time he remembered that she had gone forever it filled him
with depression.
It was the first day of the tenth month, and as though in sign that
winter had indeed begun heavy rain fell. All day long Genji watched
the stormy sky. Autumn had hideously bereaved him and winter already
was taking from him one whom he dearly loved:
Now like a traveller who has tried two ways in vain
I stand perplexed where these sad seasons meet.
Now at least we must suppose he was convinced that such secret
adventures led only to misery.
I should indeed be very loth to recount in all their detail matters
which he took so much trouble to conceal, did I not know that if you
found I had omitted anything you would at once ask why, just because
he was supposed to be an Emperor’s son, I must needs put a favourable
showing on his conduct by leaving out all his indiscretions; and you
would soon be saying that this was no history but a mere made-up tale
designed to influence the judgment of posterity. As it is I shall be
called a scandal-monger; but that I cannot help.
[1] Lady Rokujō. Who she was gradually becomes apparent in the course
of the story.
[2] Lady Rokujō’s house.
[3] Rokujō.
[4] Genji was now seventeen; Rokujō twenty-four.
[5] The god of bridges. He built in a single night the stone causeway