The tale of Genji
excess of craftiness might, instead of openly saying that she feared
the child would not be well treated under his roof, have thought it
wiser to make off with her when opportunity offered. He went home
very depressed, asking them to let him know instantly if they had any
news, a request which again embarrassed them. He also made enquiries
of the priest at the temple in the hills, but could learn nothing. She
had seemed to him to be a most lovable and delightful child; it was
very disappointing to lose sight of her in this manner. The princess
his wife had long ago got over her dislike of the child’s mother and
was indignant at the idea that she was not to be trusted to do her
duty by the child properly.
Gradually the servants from Murasaki’s house assembled at her new
home. The little girls who had been brought to play with her were
delighted with their new companion and they were soon all playing
together very happily.
When her prince was away or busy, on dreary evenings she would still
sometimes long for her grandmother the nun and cry a little. But she
never thought about her father whom she had never been used to see
except at rare intervals. Now indeed she had ‘a new father’ of whom
she was growing every day more fond. When he came back from anywhere
she was the first to meet him and then wonderful games and
conversations began, she sitting all the while on his lap without the
least shyness or restraint. A more charming companion could not have
been imagined. It might be that when she grew older, she would not
always be so trustful. New aspects of her character might come into
play. If she suspected, for example, that he cared for someone else,
she might resent it, and in such a case all sorts of unexpected things
are apt to happen; but for the present she was a delightful plaything.
Had she really been his daughter, convention would not have allowed
him to go on much longer living with her on terms of such complete
intimacy; but in a case like this he felt that such scruples were not
applicable.
[1] Fujitsubo, who was indeed the child’s aunt.
[2] Fujitsubo, who was Hyōbukyō’s sister.
[3] The Guardian Spell (_goshin_) is practised as follows:
The ministrant holds the palms of his hands together with middle
fingers touching and extended, first fingers separated and bent,
tips of thumbs and little fingers bunched together, and third
fingers in line with middle fingers so as to be invisible from in
front. With hands in this sacred pose (_mudrā_) he touches the
worshipper on forehead, left and right shoulder, heart and throat.
At each contact he utters the spell
ON · BASARA GONJI HARAJŪBATA · SOHAKA
which is corrupt Sanskrit and means ‘I invoke thee, thou
diamond-fiery very majestic Star.’ The deity here invoked is
Vairocana, favourite Buddha of the Mystic Sect.
[4] A Chinese instrument; often translated ‘mouth-organ.’
[5] A song the words of which were used as a first writing lesson.
[6] There is here a pun, and a reference to poem 3807 in the _Manyōshū_.
[7] To Lady Rokujō.
[8] Arises out of some connection in a previous existence.
[9] Purple is _murasaki_ in Japanese. From this poem the child is
known as Murasaki; and hence the authoress derived the nickname by
which she too is known.
[10] His wife.
[11] The song is addressed by a girl to a suspicious lover; Genji
reverses the sense.
[12] ‘Though I know not the place, yet when they told me this was the
moor of Musashi, the thought flashed through my mind: “What else
indeed could it be, since all its grass is purple-dyed?”’
[13] Fujitsubo. The fuji flower is also purple (_murasaki_) in colour.
[14] The child Murasaki, who was Fujitsubo’s niece. Musashi was famous
for the purple dye extracted from the roots of a grass that grew there.
[15] The pregnancy of Fujitsubo.
CHAPTER VI
THE SAFFRON-FLOWER
Try as he might he could not dispel the melancholy into which Yūgao’s
sudden death[1] had cast him, and though many months had gone by he
longed for her passionately as ever. In other quarters where he had
looked for affection, coldness vied with coldness and pride with
pride. He longed to escape once more from the claims of these
passionate and exacting natures, and renew the life of tender intimacy
which for a while had given him so great a happiness. But alas, no
second Yūgao would he ever find. Despite his bitter experience he
still fancied that one day he might at least discover some beautiful
girl of humble origin whom he could meet without concealment, and he
listened eagerly to any hint that was likely to put him upon a
promising track. If the prospects seemed favourable he would follow up
his enquiries by writing a discreet letter which, as he knew from
experience, would seldom indeed meet with a wholly discouraging reply.
Even those who seemed bent on showing by the prim stiffness of their
answers that they placed virtue high above sensibility, and who at
first appeared hardly conversant with the usages of polite society,
would suddenly collapse into the wildest intimacy which would continue
until their marriage with some commonplace husband cut short the
correspondence.
There were vacant moments when he thought of Utsusemi with regret. And
there was her companion too; some time or other there would surely be
an opportunity of sending her a surprise message. If only he could see
her again as he had seen her that night sitting by the chess-board in
the dim lamplight. It was not indeed in his nature ever to forget
anyone of whom he had once been fond.
Among his old nurses there was one called Sayemon to whom, next after
Koremitsu’s mother, he was most deeply attached. She had a daughter
called Taifu no Myōbu who was in service at the Palace. This girl was
an illegitimate child of a certain member of the Imperial family who
was then Vice-minister of the Board of War. She was a young person of
very lively disposition and Genji often made use of her services. Her
mother, Genji’s nurse, had afterwards married the governor of Echizen
and had gone with him to his province, so the girl when she was not at
the Palace lived chiefly at her father’s.
She happened one day when she was talking with Genji to mention a
certain princess, daughter of the late Prince Hitachi. This lady, she
said, was born to the Prince when he was quite an old man and every
care had been lavished upon her upbringing. Since his death she had
lived alone and was very unhappy. Genji’s sympathy was aroused and he
began to question Myōbu about this unfortunate lady. ‘I do not really
know much either about her character or her appearance’ said Myōbu;
‘she is extremely seclusive in her habits. Sometimes I have talked to
her a little in the evening, but always with a curtain between us. I
believe her zithern is the only companion in whom she is willing to
confide.’ ‘Of the Three Friends[2] one at least would in her case be
unsuitable’ said Genji. ‘But I should like to hear her play; her
father was a great performer on this instrument and it is
unlikely that she has not inherited some of his skill.’ ‘Oh, I am
afraid she is not worth your coming to hear,’ said Myōbu. ‘You are
very discouraging,’ he answered, ‘but all the same I shall hide there
one of these nights when the full moon is behind the clouds and listen
to her playing; and you shall come with me.’ She was not best pleased;
but just then even upon the busy Palace a springtime quiet seemed to
have settled, and being quite at leisure she consented to accompany
him. Her father’s house was at some distance from the town and for
convenience he sometimes lodged in Prince Hitachi’s palace. Myōbo got
on badly with her step-mother, and taking a fancy to the lonely
princess’s quarters she kept a room there.
It was indeed on the night after the full moon, in just such a veiled
light as Genji had spoken of, that they visited the Hitachi palace. ‘I
am afraid,’ said Myōbu, ‘that it is not a very good night for
listening to music; sounds do not seem to carry very well.’ But he
would not be thus put off. ‘Go to her room’ he said, ‘and persuade her
to play a few notes; it would be a pity if I went away without hearing
her at all.’ Myōbu felt somewhat shy of leaving him like this in her
own little private room. She found the princess sitting by the window,
her shutters not yet closed for the night; she was enjoying the scent
of a blossoming plum-tree which stood in the garden just outside. It
did indeed seem just the right moment. ‘I thought how lovely your
zithern would sound on such a night as this,’ she said, ‘and could not
resist coming to see you. I am always in such a hurry, going to and
from the Palace, that do you know I have never had time to hear you
play. It is such a pity.’ ‘Music of this sort,’ she replied, ‘gives no
pleasure to those who have not studied it. What do they care for such
matters _who all day long run hither and thither in the City of a
Hundred Towers_?’[3] She sent for her zithern; but her heart beat fast.
What impression would her playing make upon this girl? Timidly she
sounded a few notes. The effect was very agreeable. True, she was not
a great performer; but the instrument was a particularly fine one and
Genji found her playing by no means unpleasant to listen to.
Living in this lonely and half-ruined palace after such an upbringing
(full no doubt of antiquated formalities and restrictions) as her
father was likely to have given her it would be strange indeed if her
life did not for the most part consist of memories and regrets. This
was just the sort of place which in an old tale would be chosen as the
scene for the most romantic happenings. His imagination thus stirred,
he thought of sending her a message. But perhaps she would think this
rather sudden. For some reason he felt shy, and hesitated.
‘It seems to be clouding over,’ said the astute Myōbu, who knew that
Genji would carry away a far deeper impression if he heard no more for
the present. ‘Someone was coming to see me’ she continued; ‘I must
not keep him waiting. Perhaps some other time when I am not in such a
hurry.... Let me close your window for you,’ and with that she
rejoined Genji, giving the princess no encouragement to play any more.
‘She stopped so soon,’ he complained, ‘that it was hardly worth
getting her to play at all. One had not time to catch the drift of
what she was playing. Really it was a pity!’ That the princess was
beautiful he made no doubt at all. ‘I should be very much obliged if
you would arrange for me to hear her at closer quarters.’ But Myōbu,
thinking that this would lead to disappointment, told him that the
princess who led so hermit-like an existence and seemed always so
depressed and subdued would hardly welcome the suggestion that
she should perform before a stranger. ‘Of course,’ said Genji, ‘a
thing of that kind could only be suggested between people who were on
familiar terms or to someone of very different rank. This lady’s rank,
as I am perfectly well aware, entitles her to be treated with every
consideration, and I would not ask you to do more than hint at my
desire.’ He had promised to meet someone else that night and carefully
disguising himself he was preparing to depart when Myōbu said laughing
‘It amuses me sometimes to think how the Emperor deplores the too
strict and domesticated life which he suffers you to lead. What would
he think if he could see you disguising yourself like this?’ Genji
laughed. ‘I am afraid,’ he said as he left the room, ‘that you are not
quite the right person to denounce me. Those who think such conduct
reprehensible in a man must find it even less excusable in a girl.’
She remembered that Genji had often been obliged to reproach her for