The tale of Genji
her reckless flirtations, and blushing made no reply.
Still hoping to catch a glimpse of the zithern-player he crept softly
towards her window. He was about to hide at a point where the
bamboo-fence was somewhat broken down when he perceived that a man was
already ensconced there. Who could it be? No doubt it was one of the
princess’s lovers and he stepped back to conceal himself in the
darkness. The stranger followed him and turned out to be no other than
Tō no Chūjō. That evening they had left the Palace together, but when
they parted Genji (Chūjō had noticed) did not either go in the
direction of the Great Hall nor back to his own palace. This aroused
Chūjō’s curiosity and, despite the fact that he too had a secret
appointment that night, he decided first to follow Genji and discover
what was afoot. So riding upon a strange horse and wearing a
hunting-cloak, he had got himself up altogether so villainously
that he was able to follow Genji without being recognized upon the
road. Seeing him enter so unexpected a place, Chūjō was trying to
imagine what business his friend could possibly have in such a quarter
when the music began and he secreted himself with a vague idea of
waylaying Genji when he came out. But the prince, not knowing who the
stranger was and frightened of being recognized, stole on tip-toe into
the shadow. Chūjō suddenly accosted him: ‘Though you shook me off so
uncivilly, I thought it my duty to keep an eye on you’ he said, and
recited the poem: ‘Though together we left the great Palace hill, your
setting-place you would not show me, Moon of the sixteenth night!’
Thus he remonstrated; and Genji, though at first he had been somewhat
put out by finding that he was not alone, when he recognized Tō no
Chūjō could not help being rather amused. ‘This is indeed an
unexpected attention on your part’ he said, and expressed his slight
annoyance in the answering verse: ‘Though wheresoever it shines men
marvel at its light, who has before thought fit to follow the full
moon to the hill whereon it sets?’
‘It is most unsafe for you to go about like this,’ said Chūjō. ‘I
really mean it. You ought always to have a bodyguard; then you are all
right whatever happens. I wish you would always let me come with you.
I am afraid that these clandestine expeditions may one day get you
into trouble,’ and he solemnly repeated the warning. What chiefly
worried Genji was the thought that this might not be the first
occasion upon which Chūjō had followed him; but if it had been his
habit to do so it was certainly very tactful of him never to have
questioned Genji about Yūgao’s child.[4]
Though each of them had an appointment elsewhere, they agreed not
to part. Both of them got into Genji’s carriage and the moon having
vanished behind a cloud, beguiled the way to the Great Hall by playing
a duet upon their flutes. They did not send for torch-bearers to see
them in at the gates, but creeping in very quietly stole to a portico
where they could not be seen and had their ordinary clothes brought to
them there. Having changed, they entered the house merrily blowing
their flutes as though they had just come back from the Palace.
Chūjō’s father, who usually pretended not to hear them when they
returned late at night, on this occasion brought out his flageolet,
which was his favourite instrument, and began to play very agreeably.
Aoi sent for her zithern and made all her ladies play on the
instruments at which they excelled. Only Nakatsukasa, though she was
known for her lute-playing, having thrown over Tō no Chūjō who had
been her lover because of her infatuation for Genji with whom her sole
intercourse was that she sometimes saw him casually when he visited
the Great Hall,—only Nakatsukasa sat drooping listlessly; for her
passion had become known to Aoi’s mother and the rest, and they were
being very unpleasant about it. She was thinking in her despair that
perhaps it would be better if she went and lived in some place where
she would never see Genji at all; but the step was hard to take and
she was very unhappy.
The young princes were thinking of the music they had heard earlier in
the evening, of those romantic surroundings tinged with a peculiar and
inexplicable beauty. Merely because it pleased him so to imagine her,
Tō no Chūjō had already endowed the occupant of the lonely mansion
with every charm. He had quite decided that Genji had been courting
her for months or even years, and thought impatiently that he for his
part, if like Genji he were violently in love with a lady of this
kind, would have been willing to risk a few reproaches or even
the loss of a little reputation. He could not however believe that his
friend intended to let the matter rest as it was much longer and
determined to amuse himself by a little rivalry. From that time
onwards both of them sent letters to the lady, but neither ever
received any answer. This both vexed and puzzled them. What could be
the reason? Thinking that such images were suitable to a lady brought
up in these rustic surroundings, in most of the poems which they sent
her they alluded to delicate trees and flowers or other aspects of
nature, hoping sooner or later to hit on some topic which would arouse
her interest in their suit. Though she was of good birth and
education, perhaps through being so long buried away in her vast
mansion she had not any longer the wits to write a reply. And what
indeed did it matter whether she answered or not, thought Tō no Chūjō,
who none the less was somewhat piqued. With his usual frankness he
said to Genji: ‘I wonder whether you have had any answer. I must
confess that as an experiment I too sent a mild hint, but without any
success, so I have not repeated it.’ ‘So he too has been trying his
hand,’ thought Genji smiling to himself. ‘No,’ he answered aloud, ‘my
letter did not need an answer, which was perhaps the reason that I did
not receive one.’ From this enigmatic reply Chūjō deduced that Genji
had been in communication of some kind with the lady and he was
slightly piqued by the fact that she had shown a preference between
them. Genji’s deeper feelings were in no way involved, and though his
vanity was a little wounded he would not have pursued the matter
farther had he not known the persuasive power of Chūjō’s style, and
feared that even now she might overcome her scruples and send him a
reply. Chūjō would become insufferably cock-a-hoop if he got into his
head the idea that the princess had transferred her affections from
Genji to himself. He must see what Myōbu could be persuaded to
do. ‘I cannot understand,’ he said to her, ‘why the princess should
refuse to take any notice of my letters. It is really very uncivil of
her. I suppose she thinks I am a frivolous person who intends to amuse
himself a little in her company and then disappear. It is a strangely
false conception of my character. As you know, my affections never
alter, and if I have ever seemed to the world to be unfaithful it has
always been because in reality my suit had met with some unexpected
discouragement. But this lady is so placed that no opposition from
parents or brothers can interrupt our friendship, and if she will but
trust me she will find that her being alone in the world, so far from
exposing her to callous treatment, makes her the more attractive.’
‘Come,’ answered Myōbu, ‘it will never do for you to run away with the
idea that you can treat this great lady as a pleasant wayside
distraction; on the contrary she is extremely difficult of access and
her rank has accustomed her to be treated with deference and
ceremony.’ So spoke Myōbu, in accordance indeed with her own
experience of the princess. ‘She has evidently no desire to be thought
clever or dashing’ said Genji; ‘for some reason I imagine her as very
gentle and forgiving.’ He was thinking of Yūgao when he said this.
Soon after this he fell sick of his fever and after that was occupied
by a matter of great secrecy; so that spring and summer had both
passed away before he could again turn his attention to the lonely
lady. But in the autumn came a time of quiet meditation and reflexion.
Again the sound of the cloth-beaters’ mallets reached his ears,
tormenting him with memories and longings. He wrote many letters to
the zithern-player, but with no more success than before. Her
churlishness exasperated him. More than ever he was determined not to
give in, and sending for Myōbu he scolded her for having been of
so little assistance to him. ‘What can be going on in the princess’s
mind?’ he said; ‘such strange behaviour I have never met with before.’
If he was piqued and surprised, Myōbu for her part was vexed that the
affair had gone so badly. ‘No one can say that you have done anything
so very eccentric or indiscreet, and I do not think she feels so. If
she does not answer your letters it is only part of her general
unwillingness to face the outer world.’ ‘But such a way of behaving is
positively barbarous,’ said Genji; ‘if she were a girl in her ’teens
and under the care of parents or guardians, such timidity might be
pardoned; but in an independent woman it is inconceivable. I would
never have written had I not taken it for granted that she had some
experience of the world. I was merely hoping that I had found someone
who in moments of idleness or depression would respond to me
sympathetically. I did not address her in the language of gallantry,
but only begged for permission sometimes to converse with her in that
strange and lonely dwelling-place. But since she seems unable to
understand what it is I am asking of her, we must see what can be done
without waiting for her permission. If you will help me, you may be
sure I shall not disgrace you in any way.’
Myōbu had once been in the habit of describing to him the appearance
of people whom she had chanced to meet and he always listened to such
accounts with insatiable interest and curiosity; but for a long while
he had paid no attention to her reports. Now for no reason at all the
mere mention of the princess’s existence had aroused in him a fever of
excitement and activity. It was all very unaccountable. Probably he
would find the poor lady extremely unattractive when he saw her and
she would be doing her a very poor service in effecting the
introduction; but to give Genji no help in a matter to which he
evidently attached so much importance, would seem very ill-natured.
Even in Prince Hitachi’s life-time visitors to this stiff,
old-fashioned establishment had been very rare, and now no foot at all
ever made its way through the thickets which were closing in around
the house. It may be imagined then what the visit of so celebrated a
person as Genji would have meant to the ladies-in-waiting and lesser
persons of the household and with what urgency they begged their
mistress to send a favourable reply. But the same desperate shyness
still possessed her and Genji’s letters she would not even read.
Hearing this Myōbu determined to submit Genji’s request to her at some
suitable moment when she and the princess were carrying on one of
their usual uneasy conversations, with the princess’s screen-of-honour
planted between them. ‘If she seems displeased,’ thought Myōbu, ‘I
will positively have nothing more to do with the matter; but if she
receives him and some sort of an affair starts between them, there is
fortunately no one connected with her to scold me or get me into
trouble.’ As the result of these and other reflections, being quite at
home in matters of this kind, she sensibly decided to say nothing
about the business to anybody, not even to her father.
Late one night, soon after the twentieth day of the eighth month, the
princess sat waiting for the moon to rise. Though the star-light shone