The tale of Genji
clear and lovely the moaning of the wind in the pine-tree branches
oppressed her with its melancholy, and growing weary of waiting she
was with many tears and sighs recounting to Myōbu stories of bygone
men and days.
Now was the time to convey Genji’s message, thought Myōbu. She sent
for him, and secretly as before he crept up to the palace. The moon
was just rising. He stood where the neglected bamboo-hedge grew
somewhat sparsely and watched. Persuaded by Myōbu the princess was
already at her zithern. So far as he could hear it at this
distance, he did not find the music displeasing; but Myōbu in her
anxiety and confusion thought the tune very dull and wished it would
occur to the princess to play something rather more up-to-date. The
place where Genji was waiting was well screened from view and he had
no difficulty in creeping unobserved into the house. Here he called
for Myōbu, who pretending that the visit was a complete surprise to
her said to the princess: ‘I am so sorry, here is Prince Genji come to
see me. I am always getting into trouble with him for failing to
secure him your favour. I have really done my best, but you do not
make it possible for me to give him any encouragement, so now I
imagine he has come to deal with the matter for himself. What am I to
say to him? I can answer for it that he will do nothing violent or
rash. I think that considering all the trouble he has taken you might
at least tell him that you will speak to him through a screen or
curtain.’ The idea filled the princess with consternation. ‘I should
not know what to say to him,’ she wailed and as she said the words
bolted towards the far side of the room with a bashfulness so
infantile that Myōbu could not help laughing. ‘Indeed, Madam,’ she
said, ‘it is childish of you to take the matter to heart in this way.
If you were an ordinary young lady under the eye of stern parents and
brothers, one could understand it; but for a person in your position
to go on for ever being afraid to face the world is fantastic.’ So
Myōbu admonished her and the princess, who could never think of any
argument against doing what she was told to do, said at last: ‘If I
have only to listen and need not say anything he may speak to me from
behind the lattice-door, so long as it is well locked.’ ‘I cannot ask
him to sit on the servant’s bench,’ said Myōbu. ‘You really need not
be afraid that he will do anything violent or sudden.’ Thus persuaded,
the princess went to a hatch which communicated between the
women’s quarters and the strangers’ dais and firmly locking it with
her own hand stuffed a mattress against it to make sure that no chink
was left unstopped. She was in such a terrible state of confusion that
she had not the least idea what she should say to her visitor, if she
had to speak to him, and had agreed to listen to him only because
Myōbu told her that she ought to.
Several elderly serving-women of the wet-nurse type had been lying
half-asleep in the inner room since dusk. There were however one or
two younger maids who had heard a great deal about this Prince Genji
and were ready to fall in love with him at a moment’s notice. They now
brought out their lady’s handsomest dress and persuaded her to let
them put her a little to rights; but she displayed no interest in
these preparations. Myōbu meanwhile was thinking how well Genji looked
in the picturesque disguise which he had elaborated for use on these
night excursions and wished it were being employed in some quarter
where it was more likely to be appreciated. Her only consolation was
that so mild a lady was not likely to make inordinate demands upon him
or pester him with jealousies and exactions. On the other hand, she
was rather worried about the princess. ‘What’ thought Myōbu, ‘if she
should fall in love with him and her heart be broken merely because I
was frightened of getting scolded?’
Remembering her rank and upbringing, he was far from expecting her to
behave with the lively pertness of an up-to-date miss. She would be
langorous; yes, langorous and passionate. When, half-pushed by Myōbu,
the princess at last took her stand near the partition where she was
to converse with her visitor, a delicious scent of sandal-wood[5]
invaded his nostrils, and this piece of coquetry at once raised
his hopes. He began to tell her with great earnestness and eloquence
how for almost a year she had continually occupied his thoughts. But
not a word did she answer; talking to her was no better than writing!
Irritated beyond measure he recited the verse: ‘If with a Vow of
Silence thus ten times and again my combat I renew, ’tis that against
me at least no sentence of muteness has been passed.’ ‘Speak at least
one word of dismissal,’ he continued; ‘do not leave me in this
bewilderment.’ There was among her ladies one called Jijū, the
daughter of her old nurse. Being a girl of great liveliness and
intelligence she could not bear to see her mistress cutting such a
figure as this and stepping to her side she answered with the poem:
‘The bell[6] had sounded and for a moment silence was imposed upon my
lips. To have kept you waiting grieves me, and there let the matter
rest.’ She said the words in such a way that Genji was completely
taken in and thought it was the princess who had thus readily answered
his poem. He had not expected such smartness from an aristocratic lady
of the old school; but the surprise was agreeable and he answered:
‘Madam, you have won the day,’ adding the verse: ‘Though well I know
that thoughts unspoken count more than thoughts expressed, yet
dumb-crambo is not a cheering game to play.’
He went on to speak of one trifle or another as it occurred to him,
doing his very best to entertain her; but it was no use. Thinking at
last that silence might after all in this strange creature be merely a
sign of deep emotion he could no longer restrain his curiosity and,
easily pushing back the bolted door, entered the room. Myōbu, seeing
with consternation that he had falsified all her assurances, thought
it better to know nothing of what followed and without turning her
head rushed away to her own apartments. Jijū and the other
ladies-in-waiting had heard so much about Genji and were so anxious to
catch sight of him that they were more than ready to forgive his
uncivil intrusion. Their only fear was that their mistress would be at
a loss how to deal with so unexpected a situation. He did indeed find
her in the last extremity of bashfulness and embarrassment, but under
the circumstances that, thought Genji, was natural. Much was to be
explained by the strict seclusion in which she had been brought up. He
must be patient with her....
As his eyes grew used to the dim light he began to see that she was
not at all beautiful. Had she then not one quality at all to justify
all these hopes and schemes? Apparently not one. It was late. What was
the use of staying? Bitterly disappointed he left the house. Myōbu,
intensely curious to know what would happen, had lain awake listening.
She wanted however to keep up the pretence that she had not witnessed
Genji’s intrusion and though she plainly heard him leaving the house
she did not go to see him off or utter a sound of any kind. Stealing
away as quietly as possible he returned to the Nijō-in and lay down
upon his bed. This time at least he thought he was on the right path.
What a disillusionment! And the worst of it was that she was a
princess, a great lady. What a mess he was in! So he lay thinking,
when Tō no Chūjō entered the room. ‘How late you are!’ he cried; ‘I
can easily guess the reason.’ Genji rose: ‘I was so comfortable
sleeping here all alone that I overslept myself,’ he said. ‘Have you
come here from the Palace?’ ‘Yes,’ said Chūjō, ‘I was on my way home.
I heard yesterday that to-day they are choosing the dancers and
musicians for the celebrations of the Emperor’s visit to the Suzaku-in
and I am going home to tell my father of this. I will look in here on
my way back.’ Seeing that Chūjō was in a hurry Genji said that he
would go with him to the Great Hall. He sent at once for his
breakfast, bidding them also serve the guest. Two carriages were drawn
up waiting for them, but they both got into the same one. ‘You still
seem very sleepy,’ said Chūjō in an aggrieved tone; ‘I am sure you
have been doing something interesting that you do not want to tell me
about.’
That day he had a number of important duties to perform and was hard
at work in the Palace till nightfall. It did not occur to him till a
very late hour that he ought at least to send the customary letter. It
was raining. Myōbu had only the day before reproached him for using
the princess’s palace as a ‘wayside refuge.’ To-day however he had no
inclination whatever to halt there.
When hour after hour went by and still no letter came Myōbu began to
feel very sorry for the princess whom she imagined to be suffering
acutely from Genji’s incivility. But in reality the poor lady was
still far too occupied with shame and horror at what had happened the
night before to think of anything else, and when late in the evening
Genji’s note at last arrived she could not understand in the least
what it meant. It began with the poem: ‘Scarce had the evening mist
lifted and revealed the prospect to my sight when the night rain
closed gloomily about me.’ ‘I shall watch with impatience for a sign
that the clouds are breaking,’ the letter continued. The ladies of the
household at once saw with consternation the meaning of this note:
Genji did not intend ever to come again. But they were all agreed that
an answer must be sent, and their mistress was for the time being in
far too overwrought a condition to put brush to paper; so Jijū
(pointing out that it was late and there was no time to be lost) again
came to the rescue: ‘Give a thought to the country folk who wait for
moonlight on this cloudy night, though, while they gaze, so different
their thoughts from yours!’ This she dictated to her mistress
who, under the joint direction of all her ladies, wrote it upon a
piece of paper which had once been purple but was now faded and
shabby. Her writing was coarse and stiff, very mediocre in style, the
upward and downward strokes being of the same thickness. Genji laid it
aside scarcely glancing at it; but he was very much worried by the
situation. How should he avoid hurting her feelings? Such an affair
was certain to get him into trouble of some kind. What was he to do?
He made up his mind that at all costs he must go on seeing her.
Meanwhile, knowing nothing of this decision, the poor lady was very
unhappy.
That night his father-in-law called for him on the way back from the
Palace and carried him off to the Great Hall.
Here in preparation for the coming festival all the young princes were
gathered together, and during the days which followed everyone was
busy practising the songs or dances which had been assigned to him.
Never had the Great Hall resounded with such a continual flow of
music. The recorder and the big flute were all the while in full
blast; and even the big drum was rolled out on to the verandah, the
younger princes amusing themselves by experimenting upon it. Genji was
so busy that he had barely time to pay an occasional surreptitious
visit even to his dearest friends, and the autumn passed without his
returning to the Hitachi Palace. The princess could not make it out.
Just at the time when the music-practices were at their height Myōbu
came to see him. Her account of the princess’s condition was very
distressing. ‘It is sad to witness day by day as I do how the poor
lady suffers from your unkind treatment,’ she said and almost wept as
she told him about it. He was doubly embarrassed. What must Myōbu be