The tale of Genji
trick. Where can it have got to? And this after we had taken so much
trouble to tame it nicely! I only hope the crows have not found
it,’ and so saying she left the room. She was a pleasant-looking
woman, with very long, wavy hair. The others called her Nurse
Shōnagon, and she seemed to be in charge of the child. ‘Come,’ said
the nun to the little girl, ‘you must not be such a baby. You are
thinking all the time of things that do not matter at all. Just fancy!
Even now when I am so ill that any day I may be taken from you, you do
not trouble your head about me, but are grieving about a sparrow. It
is very unkind, particularly as I have told you I don’t know how many
times that it is naughty to shut up live things in cages. Come over
here!’ and the child sat down beside her. Her features were very
exquisite; but it was above all the way her hair grew, in cloudy
masses over her temples, but thrust back in childish fashion from her
forehead, that struck him as marvellously beautiful. As he watched her
and wondered what she would be like when she grew up it suddenly
occurred to him that she bore no small resemblance to one whom he had
loved with all his being,[1] and at the resemblance he secretly wept.
The nun, stroking the child’s hair, now said to her: ‘It’s a lovely
mop, though you _are_ so naughty about having it combed. But it
worries me very much that you are still so babyish. Some children of
your age are very different. Your dear mother was only twelve when her
father died; yet she showed herself quite capable of managing her own
affairs. But if I were taken from you now, I do not know what would
become of you, I do not indeed,’ and she began to weep. Even Genji,
peeping at the scene from a distance, found himself becoming quite
distressed. The girl, who had been watching the nun’s face with a
strange unchildish intensity, now dropped her head disconsolately, and
as she did so her hair fell forward across her cheeks in two
great waves of black. Looking at her fondly the nun recited the poem:
‘Not knowing if any will come to nurture the tender leaf whereon it
lies, how loath is the dewdrop to vanish in the sunny air.’ To which
the waiting-woman replied with a sigh: ‘O dewdrop, surely you will
linger till the young budding leaf has shown in what fair form it
means to grow.’
At this moment the priest to whom the house belonged entered the room
from the other side: ‘Pray, ladies,’ he said, ‘are you not unduly
exposing yourselves? You have chosen a bad day to take up your stand
so close to the window. I have just heard that Prince Genji has come
to the hermit yonder to be cured of an ague. But he has disguised
himself in so mean a habit that I did not know him, and have been so
near all day without going to pay my respects to him.’ The nun started
back in horror; ‘How distressing! He may even have passed and seen
us ...’ and she hastened to let down the folding blind. ‘I am really
very glad that I am to have an opportunity of visiting this Prince
Genji of whom one hears so much. He is said to be so handsome that even
austere old priests like myself forget in his presence the sins and
sorrows of the life they have discarded and take heart to live a little
longer in a world where so much beauty dwells. But you shall hear all
about it....’
Before the old priest had time to leave the house Genji was on his way
back to the hermit’s cave. What an enchanting creature he had
discovered! How right too his friends had been on that rainy night
when they told him that on strange excursions such as this beauty
might well be found lurking in unexpected quarters! How delightful to
have strolled out by chance and at once made so astonishing a find!
Whose could this exquisite child be? He would dearly love to have her
always near him, to be able to turn to her at any moment for
comfort and distraction, as once he had turned to the lady in the
Palace.
He was already lying down in the hermit’s cave when (everything being
at very close quarters) he heard the voice of the old priest’s
disciple calling for Koremitsu. ‘My master has just learnt’ said this
disciple, ‘that you were lodged so near at hand; and though it grieves
him that you did not in passing honour him with a visit, he would at
once have paid his respects to the Prince, had he not thought that
Lord Genji could not be unaware of his presence in the neighbourhood
of this hermitage, and might perhaps have refrained from visiting him
only because he did not wish to disclose the motive of his present
pilgrimage. But my master would remind you’ continued the man, ‘that
we too in our poor hut could provide you with straw beds to lie on,
and should be sorry if you left without honouring us....’
‘For ten days,’ answered Genji from within, ‘I have been suffering
from an ague which returned so constantly that I was in despair, when
someone advised me to consult the hermit of this mountain, whom I
accordingly visited. But thinking that it would be very disagreeable
for a sage of his repute if in such a case as mine it became known
that his treatment had been unsuccessful, I was at greater pains to
conceal myself than I should have been if visiting an ordinary
wonder-worker. Pray ask your master to accept this excuse and bid him
enter the cave.’ Thus encouraged, the priest presented himself. Genji
was rather afraid of him, for though an ecclesiastic he was a man of
superior genius, very much respected in the secular world, and Genji
felt that it was not at all proper to receive him in the shabby old
clothes which he had used for his disguise. After giving some details
of his life since he had left the Capital and come to live in
retirement on this mountain, the priest begged Genji to come back
with him and visit the cold spring which flowed in the garden of his
hut. Here was an opportunity to see again the people who had so much
interested him. But the thought of all the stories that the old priest
might have told them about him made him feel rather uncomfortable.
What matter? At all costs he must see that lovely child again and he
followed the old priest back to his hut. In the garden the natural
vegetation of the hill-side had been turned to skilful use. There was
no moon, and torches had been lit along the sides of the moat, while
fairy lanterns hung on the trees. The front parlour was very nicely
arranged. A heavy perfume of costly and exotic scents stole from
hidden incense-burners and filled the room with a delicious fragrance.
These perfumes were quite unfamiliar to Genji and he supposed that
they must have been prepared by the ladies of the inner room, who
would seem to have spent considerable ingenuity in the task.
The priest began to tell stories about the uncertainty of this life
and the retributions of the life to come. Genji was appalled to think
how heavy his own sins had already been. It was bad enough to think
that he would have them on his conscience for the rest of his present
life. But then there was also the life to come. What terrible
punishments he had to look forward to! And all the while the priest
was speaking Genji thought of his own wickedness. What a good idea it
would be to turn hermit and live in some such place.... But
immediately his thoughts strayed to the lovely face which he had seen
that afternoon and longing to know more of her ‘Who lives with you
here?’ he asked. ‘It interests me to know, because I once saw this
place in a dream and was astonished to recognize it when I came here
to-day.’ At this the priest laughed: ‘Your dream seems to have come
rather suddenly into the conversation,’ he said, ‘but I fear that
if you pursue your enquiry, your expectations will be sadly
disappointed. You have probably never heard of Azechi no Dainagon, he
died so long ago. He married my sister, who after his death turned her
back upon the world. Just at that time I myself was in certain
difficulties and was unable to visit the Capital; so for company she
came to join me here in my retreat.’
‘I have heard that Aseji no Dainagon had a daughter. Is that so?’ said
Genji at a venture; ‘I am sure you will not think I ask the question
with any indiscreet intention....’ ‘He had an only daughter who died
about ten years ago. Her father had always wanted to present her at
Court. But she would not listen, and when he was dead and there was
only my sister the nun to look after her, she allowed some wretched
go-between to introduce her to Prince Hyōbukyō whose mistress she
became. His wife, a proud, relentless woman, from the first pursued
her with constant vexations and affronts; day in and day out this
obstinate persecution continued, till at last she died of heartbreak.
They say that unkindness cannot kill; but I shall never say so, for
from this cause alone I saw my kinswoman fall sick and perish.’
‘Then the little girl must be this lady’s child,’ Genji realized at
last. And that accounted for her resemblance to the lady in the
Palace.[2] He felt more drawn towards her than ever. She was of good
lineage, which is never amiss; and her rather rustic simplicity would
be an actual advantage when she became his pupil, as he was now
determined she should; for it would make it the easier for him to
mould her unformed tastes to the pattern of his own. ‘And did the lady
whose sad story you have told me leave no remembrance behind her?’
asked Genji, still hoping to turn the conversation on to the
child herself. ‘She died only a short while after her child was born,
and it too was a girl. The charge of it fell to my sister who is in
failing health and feels herself by no means equal to such a
responsibility.’ All was now clear. ‘You will think it a very strange
proposal,’ said Genji, ‘but I feel that I should like to adopt this
child. Perhaps you would mention this to your sister? Though others
early involved me in marriage, their choice proved distasteful to me
and having, as it seems, very little relish for society, I now live
entirely alone. She is, I quite realize, a mere child, and I am not
proposing....’ Here he paused and the priest answered: ‘I am very much
obliged to you for this offer; but I am afraid it is clear that you do
_not_ at all realize that the child in question is a mere infant. You
would not even find her amusing as a casual distraction. But it is
true that a girl as she grows up needs the backing of powerful friends
if she is to make her way in the world, and though I cannot promise
you that anything will come of it, I ought certainly to mention the
matter to her grandmother.’ His manner had suddenly become somewhat
cool and severe. Genji felt that he had been indiscreet and preserved
an embarrassed silence. ‘There is something which I ought to be doing
in the Hall of Our Lord Amida,’ the priest presently continued, ‘so I
must take leave of you for a while. I must also read my vespers; but I
will rejoin you afterwards,’ and he set out to climb the hill. Genji
felt very disconsolate. It had begun to rain; a cold wind blew across
the hill, carrying with it the sound of a waterfall,—audible till then
as a gentle intermittent plashing, but now a mighty roar; and with it,
somnolently rising and falling, mingled the monotonous chanting of the
scriptures. Even the most unimpressionable nature would have been
plunged into melancholy by such surroundings. How much the more so
Prince Genji, as he lay sleepless on his bed, continually
planning and counter-planning! The priest had spoken of ‘vespers,’ but
the hour was indeed very late. It was clear however that the nun was
still awake, for though she was making as little noise as possible,
every now and then her rosary would knock with a faint click against
the praying-stool. There was something alluring in the sound of this