The tale of Genji
cloak? Is he my father?’ and she came running into the room. ‘No,’
said Genji, ‘it is not your father; but it is someone else who wants
you to be very fond of him. Come....’ She had learnt from the way
people talked about him that Prince Genji was someone very important,
and feeling that he must really be very angry with her for speaking of
him as the ‘gentleman in a cloak’ she went straight to her nurse and
whispered ‘Please, I am sleepy.’ ‘You must not be shy of me any more,’
said Genji. ‘If you are sleepy, come here and lie on my knee. Will you
not even come and talk to me?’ ‘There,’ said Shōnagon, ‘you see what a
little savage she is,’ and pushed the child towards him. She stood
listlessly by his side, passing her hand under her hair so that it
fell in waves over her soft dress or clasping a great bunch of it
where it stuck out thick around her shoulders. Presently he took her
hand in his; but at once, in terror of this close contact with someone
to whom she was not used, she cried out ‘I said I wanted to go to
bed,’ and snatching her hand away she ran into the women’s quarters.
He followed her crying ‘Dear one, do not run away from me! Now that
your granny is gone, you must love me instead.’ ‘Well!’ gasped
Shōnagon, deeply shocked. ‘No, that is too much! How can you bring
yourself to say such a wicked thing to the poor child? And it is
not much use _telling_ people to be fond of one, is it?’ ‘For the
moment, it may not be,’ said Genji. ‘But you will see that strange
things happen if one’s heart is set upon a thing as mine is now.’
Hail was falling. It was a wild and terrible night. The thought of
leaving her to pass it in this gloomy and half-deserted mansion
immeasurably depressed him and snatching at this excuse for remaining
near her: ‘Shut the partition-door!’ he cried. ‘I will stay for a
while and play the watchman here on this terrible night. Draw near to
me, all of you!’ and so saying, as though it were the most natural
thing in the world, he picked up the child in his arms and carried her
to her bed. The gentlewomen were far too astonished and confounded to
budge from their seats; while Shōnagon, though his high-handed
proceedings greatly agitated and alarmed her, had to confess to
herself that there was no real reason to interfere, and could only sit
moaning in her corner. The little girl was at first terribly
frightened. She did not know what he was going to do with her and
shuddered violently. Even the feel of his delicate, cool skin when he
drew her to him, gave her goose-flesh. He saw this; but none the less
he began gently and carefully to remove her outer garments, and laid
her down. Then, though he knew quite well that she was still
frightened of him, he began talking to her softly and tenderly: ‘How
would you like to come with me one day to a place where there are lots
of lovely pictures and dolls and toys?’ And he went on to speak so
feelingly of all the things she was most interested in that soon she
felt almost at home with him. But for a long while she was restless
and did not go properly to sleep. The storm still raged. ‘Whatever
should we have done if this gentleman had not been here,’ whispered
one of the women; ‘I know that for my part I should have been in
a terrible fright. If only our little lady were nearer to his age!’
Shōnagon, still mistrustful, sat quite close to Genji all the while.
At last the wind began to drop. The night was far spent; but his
return at such an hour would cause no surprise! ‘She has become so
dear to me,’ said Genji, ‘that, above all at this sad time in her
life, I am loath to leave her even for a few short hours. I think I
shall put her somewhere where I can see her whenever I wish. I wonder
that she is not frightened to live in such a place as this.’ ‘I think
her father spoke of coming to fetch her,’ said Shōnagon; ‘but that is
not likely to be till the Forty-nine Days are up.’ ‘It would of course
under ordinary circumstances be natural that her father should look
after her,’ admitted Genji; ‘but as she has been brought up entirely
by someone else she has no more reason to care for him than for me.
And though I have known her so short a time, I am certainly far fonder
of her than her father can possibly be.’ So saying he stroked the
child’s hair and then reluctantly, with many backward glances, left
the room. There was now a heavy white fog, and hoar-frost lay thick on
the grass. Suddenly he found himself wishing that it were a real
love-affair, and he became very depressed. It occurred to him that on
his way home he would pass by a certain house which he had once
familiarly frequented. He knocked at the door, but no one answered. He
then ordered one of his servants who had a strong voice to recite the
following lines: ‘By my Sister’s gate though morning fog makes all the
world still dark as night, I could not fail to pause.’ When this had
been sung twice, the lady sent an impertinent coxcomb of a valet to
the door, who having recited the poem ‘If you disliked the hedge of
fog that lies about this place, a gate of crazy wicker would not keep
you standing in the street,’ at once went back again into the
house. He waited; but no one else came to the door, and though he was
in no mood to go dully home since it was now broad daylight, what else
could be done? At his palace he lay for a long while smiling to
himself with pleasure as he recollected the child’s pretty speeches
and ways. Towards noon he rose and began to write a letter to her; but
he could not find the right words, and after many times laying his
brush aside he determined at last to send her some nice pictures
instead.
That day Prince Hyōbukyō paid his long-promised visit to the late
nun’s house. The place seemed to him even more ruinous, vast and
antiquated than he remembered it years ago. How depressing it must be
for a handful of persons to live in these decaying halls, and looking
about him he said to the nurse: ‘No child ought to live in a place
like this even for a little while. I must take her away at once; there
is plenty of room in my house. You’ (turning to Shōnagon) ‘shall be
found a place as a Lady-in-Waiting there. The child will be very well
off, for there are several other young people for her to play with.’
He called the little girl to him and noticing the rich perfume that
clung to her dress since Genji held her in his arms, the Prince said
‘How nicely your dress is scented. But isn’t it rather drab?’ No
sooner had he said this than he remembered that she was in mourning,
and felt slightly uncomfortable. ‘I used sometimes to tell her
grandmother,’ he continued, ‘that she ought to let her come to see me
and get used to our ways; for indeed it was a strange upbringing for
her to live alone year in year out with one whose health and spirits
steadily declined. But she for some reason was very unfriendly towards
me, and there was in another quarter[10] too a reluctance which I fear
even at such a time as this may not be wholly overcome....’ ‘If that is
so,’ said Shōnagon, ‘dull as it is for her here, I do not think
she should be moved till she is a little better able to shift for
herself.’
For days on end the child had been in a terrible state of grief, and
not having eaten the least bite of anything she was grown very thin,
but was none the less lovely for that. He looked at her tenderly and
said: ‘You must not cry any more now. When people die, there is no
help for it and we must bear it bravely. But now all is well, for I
have come instead....’ But it was getting late and he could not stay
any longer. As he turned to go he saw that the child, by no means
consoled at the prospect of falling under his care, was again crying
bitterly. The Prince, himself shedding a few tears did his best to
comfort her: ‘Do not grieve so,’ he said, ‘to-day or to-morrow I will
send for you to come and live with me,’ and with that he departed.
Still the child wept and no way could be found to distract her
thoughts. It was not of course that she had any anxiety about her own
future, for about such matters she had not yet begun to think at all;
but only that she had lost the companion from whom for years on end
she had never for a moment been separated. Young as she was, she
suffered so cruelly that all her usual games were quite abandoned, and
though sometimes during the day her spirits would a little improve, as
night drew on she became so melancholy that Shōnagon began to wonder
how much longer things would go on like this, and in despair at not
being able to comfort her, would herself burst into tears.
Presently Koremitsu arrived with a message saying that Genji had
intended to visit them, but owing to a sudden command from the Palace
was unable to do so, and being very much perturbed at the little one’s
grievous condition had sent for further news. Having delivered this
message Koremitsu brought in some of Genji’s servants whom he had
sent to mount guard over the house that night. ‘This kindness is
indeed ill-placed,’ said Shōnagon. ‘It may not seem to him of much
consequence that his gentlemen should be installed here; but if the
child’s father hears of it, we servants shall get all the blame for
the little lady’s being given away to a married gentleman. It was you
who let it all begin, we shall be told. Now be careful,’ she said
turning to her fellow-servants, ‘do not let her even mention these
watchmen to her father.’ But alas, the child was quite incapable of
understanding such a prohibition, and Shōnagon, after pouring out many
lamentations to Koremitsu, continued: ‘I do not doubt but that in due
time she will somehow become his wife, for so their fate seems to
decree. But now and for a long while there can be no talk of any such
thing, and this, as he has roundly told me, he knows as well as the
rest of us. So what he is after I cannot for the life of me imagine.
Only to-day when Prince Hyōbukyō was here he bade me keep a sharp eye
upon her and not let her be treated with any indiscretion. I confess
when he said it I remembered with vexation certain liberties which I
have allowed your master to take, thinking little enough of them at
the time.’ No sooner had she said this than she began to fear that
Koremitsu would put a worse construction on her words than she
intended, and shaking her head very dolefully she relapsed into
silence. Nor was she far wrong, for Koremitsu was indeed wondering of
what sort Genji’s misdemeanours could have been.
On hearing Koremitsu’s report Genji’s heart was filled with pity for
the child’s state and he would like to have gone to her at once. But
he feared that ignorant people would misunderstand these frequent
visits and, thinking the girl older than she was, spread foolish
scandals abroad. It would be far simpler to fetch her to his
Palace and keep her there. All through the day he sent numerous
letters, and at dusk Koremitsu again went to the house saying that
urgent business had once more prevented Genji from visiting them, for
which remissness he tendered his apologies. Shōnagon answered curtly
that the girl’s father had suddenly decided to fetch her away next day
and that they were too busy to receive visits: ‘The servants are all
in a fluster at leaving this shabby old house where they have lived so
long and going to a strange, grand place....’ She answered his further
questions so briefly and seemed so intent upon her sewing, that
Koremitsu went away.
Genji was at the Great Hall, but as usual he had been unable to get a
word out of Aoi and in a gloomy mood he was plucking at his zithern
and singing ‘Why sped you across field and hill So fast upon this
rainy night?’[11]
The words of the song were aimed at Aoi and he sang them with much
feeling. He was thus employed when Koremitsu arrived at the Great