Murasaki

HE fell sick of an ague, and when numerous charms and spells had been tried in vain, the illness many times returning, someone said that in a certain temple on the Northern Hills there lived a wise and holy man who in the summer of the year before (the ague was then rife and the usual spells were giving no relief) was able to work many signal cures: ‘Lose no time in consulting him, for while you try one useless means after another the disease gains greater hold upon you.’ At once he sent a messenger to fetch the holy man, who however replied that the infirmities of old age no longer permitted him to go abroad. ‘What is to be done?’ said Genji; ‘I must go secretly to visit him’; and taking only four or five trusted servants he set out long before dawn. The place lay somewhat deep into the hills. It was the last day of the third month and in the Capital the blossoms had all fallen. The hill-cherry was not yet out; but as he approached the open country, the mists began to assume strange and lovely forms, which pleased him the more because, being one whose movements were tethered by many proprieties, he had seldom seen such sights before. The temples too delighted him. The holy man lived in a deep cave hollowed out of a high wall of rock. Genji did not send in his name and was in close disguise, but his face was well known and the priest at once recognized him.

He fell ill with a recurring fever. Many charms and spells were tried, but none worked, and the fever kept returning. Then someone told him about a wise and holy man who lived in a temple in the Northern Hills. The previous summer, the fever had been widespread, and the usual spells had given no relief. Yet the holy man had brought about many remarkable cures. ‘Lose no time in consulting him. While you try one useless remedy after another, the disease is gaining a stronger hold on you.’ Genji sent a messenger at once to fetch the holy man. But the man replied that the frailty of old age no longer allowed him to travel. ‘What is to be done?’ said Genji. ‘I must go secretly to visit him.’ Taking only four or five trusted servants, he set out long before dawn. The temple lay some distance into the hills. It was the last day of the third month, and in the Capital all the blossoms had fallen. The mountain cherry trees had not yet bloomed. But as he approached the open country, the mists began to take strange and lovely shapes. He was especially pleased by the sight because the rules governing his movements had seldom allowed him to see such things. The temples delighted him too. The holy man lived in a deep cave carved into a high rock face. Genji did not send in his name and was carefully disguised, but his face was well known. The priest recognized him at once.

‘Forgive me’ he said; ‘it was you, was it not, who sent for me the other day? Alas, I think no longer of the things of this world and I am afraid I have forgotten how to work my cures. I am very sorry indeed that you have come so far,’ and pretending to be very much upset, he looked at Genji, laughing. But it was soon apparent that he was a man of very great piety and learning. He wrote out certain talismans and administered them, and read certain spells. By the time this was over, the sun had risen, and Genji went a little way outside the cave and looked around him. From the high ground where he was standing he looked down on a number of scattered hermitages. A winding track led down to a hut which, though it was hedged with the same small brushwood as the rest, was more spaciously planned, having a pleasant roofed alley running out from it, and there were trim copses set around. He asked whose house it was and was told by one of his men that a certain abbot had been living there in retirement for two years. ‘I know him well’ said Genji on hearing the abbot’s name; ‘I should not like to meet him dressed and attended as I am. I hope he will not hear....’ Just then a party of nicely dressed children came out of the house and began to pluck such flowers as are used for the decoration of altars and holy images. ‘There are some girls with them’ said one of Genji’s men. ‘We cannot suppose that His Reverence keeps them. Who then can they be?’ and to satisfy his curiosity he went a little way down the hill and watched them. ‘Yes, there are some very pretty girls, some of them grown up and others quite children,’ he came back and reported.

‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘Was it not you who sent for me the other day? Alas, I no longer think of worldly things, and I fear I have forgotten how to cure people. I am very sorry indeed that you have come so far.’ Pretending to be very upset, he looked at Genji and laughed. But it soon became clear that he was a very devout and learned man. He wrote out and administered certain talismans, and read certain spells. By the time he finished, the sun had risen. Genji went a little way outside the cave and looked around. From the high ground where he stood, he looked down on several scattered hermitages. A winding path led down to a hut. Like the others, it was surrounded by a hedge of small brushwood, but it was more spaciously laid out. A pleasant roofed passage led out from it, and neat groves stood around it. He asked whose house it was. One of his men told him that an abbot had been living there in retirement for two years. When Genji heard the abbot’s name, he said, ‘I know him well. I would not like to meet him dressed as I am and with attendants. I hope he will not hear....’ Just then, a group of nicely dressed children came out of the house. They began picking flowers used to decorate altars and holy images. ‘There are some girls with them,’ said one of Genji’s men. ‘We cannot suppose that His Reverence keeps them. Who can they be?’ To satisfy his curiosity, he went a little way down the hill and watched them. He came back and reported, ‘Yes, there are some very pretty girls. Some are grown up, and others are still quite young.’

During a great part of the morning Genji was busy with his cure. When at last the ceremony was completed his attendants, dreading the hour at which the fever usually returned, strove to distract his attention by taking him a little way across the mountain to a point from which the Capital could be seen. ‘How lovely’ cried Genji ‘are those distances half lost in haze, and that blur of shimmering woods that stretches out on every side. How could anyone be unhappy for a single instant who lived in such a place?’ ‘This is nothing,’ said one of his men. ‘If I could but show you the lakes and mountains of other provinces, you would soon see how far they excel all that you here admire’; and he began to tell him first of Mount Fuji and many another famous peak, and then of the West Country with all its pleasant bays and shores, till he quite forgot that it was the hour of his fever. ‘Yonder, nearest to us’ the man continued, pointing to the sea ‘is the bay of Akashi in Harima. Note it well; for though it is not a very out-of-the-way place, yet the feeling one has there of being shut off from everything save one huge waste of sea makes it the strangest and most desolate spot I know. And there it is that the daughter of a lay priest who was once governor of the province presides over a mansion of quite disproportionate and unexpected magnificence. He is the descendant of a Prime Minister and was expected to cut a great figure in the world. But he is a man of very singular disposition and is averse to all society. For a time he was an officer in the Palace Guard, but he gave this up and accepted the province of Harima. However he soon quarrelled with the local people and, announcing that he had been badly treated and was going back to the Capital, he did nothing of the sort, but shaved his head and became a lay priest. Then instead of settling, as is usually done, on some secluded hillside, he built himself a house on the seashore, which may seem to you a very strange thing to do; but as a matter of fact, whereas in that province in one place or another a good many recluses have taken up their abode, the mountain-country is far more dull and lonely and would sorely have tried the patience of his young wife and child; and so as a compromise he chose the seashore. Once when I was travelling in the province of Harima I took occasion to visit his house and noted that, though at the Capital he had lived in a very modest style, here he had built on the most magnificent and lavish scale; as though determined in spite of what had happened (now that he was free from the bother of governing the province) to spend the rest of his days in the greatest comfort imaginable. But all the while he was making great preparations for the life to come and no ordained priest could have led a more austere and pious life.’

Genji spent much of the morning undergoing his treatment. When the ceremony was finally over, his attendants feared his fever would soon return, as it usually did. To distract him, they took him a short way across the mountain to a place overlooking the Capital. ‘How lovely!’ cried Genji. ‘The distant views are half lost in haze, and shimmering woods stretch out in a blur on every side. How could anyone who lived in such a place be unhappy for even a moment?’ ‘This is nothing,’ said one of his men. ‘If only I could show you the lakes and mountains of other provinces. You would soon see how much finer they are than everything you admire here.’ He began by describing Mount Fuji and many other famous peaks. Then he spoke of the West Country and all its pleasant bays and shores. Genji became so absorbed that he forgot it was time for his fever. ‘Over there, closest to us,’ the man continued, pointing to the sea, ‘is the bay of Akashi in Harima. Take a good look. It is not very remote, but there you feel cut off from everything except one vast expanse of sea. That makes it the strangest and most desolate place I know. ‘The daughter of a lay priest lives there and presides over a mansion of unexpected and quite extraordinary grandeur. Her father was once governor of the province. He is descended from a Prime Minister, and people expected him to become a great figure in the world. But he is a very unusual man who dislikes all company. ‘For a time he was an officer in the Palace Guard. He gave that up and accepted the governorship of Harima. Soon, however, he quarreled with the local people. He announced that he had been badly treated and was returning to the Capital. Instead, he shaved his head and became a lay priest. ‘Rather than settle on a secluded hillside, as people usually do, he built a house on the seashore. That may seem very strange to you. But quite a few recluses have settled in various places in the province. The mountains are much duller and lonelier, and life there would have sorely tested his young wife and child. So he chose the seashore as a compromise. ‘Once, while traveling in Harima, I visited his house. I noticed that, although he had lived very modestly in the Capital, he had built this house on a magnificent and lavish scale. He seemed determined, despite what had happened, to spend the rest of his days in the greatest imaginable comfort. He was now free from the trouble of governing the province. ‘Yet all the while he was making great preparations for the life to come. No ordained priest could have led a more austere or pious life.’

‘But you spoke of his daughter?’ said Genji. ‘She is passably good-looking,’ he answered, ‘and not by any means stupid. Several governors and officers of the province have set their hearts upon her and pressed their suit most urgently; but her father has sent them all away. It seems that though in his own person so indifferent to worldly glory, he is determined that this one child, his only object of care, should make amends for his obscurity, and has sworn that if ever she chooses against his will, and when he is gone flouts his set purpose and injunction to satisfy some idle fancy of her own, his ghost will rise and call upon the sea to cover her.’

‘But you mentioned his daughter?’ said Genji. ‘She is reasonably good-looking,’ he answered, ‘and by no means stupid. Several governors and provincial officers have fallen in love with her and urged her to marry them. But her father has turned them all away. Though he cares little for worldly glory himself, he seems determined that she should make up for his obscurity. She is his only child and the only person he cares about. He has sworn that she must not choose against his wishes. If, after his death, she defies his express purpose and instructions to satisfy some idle fancy, his ghost will rise and call on the sea to cover her.’

Genji listened with great attention. ‘Why, she is like the vestal virgin who may know no husband but the King-Dragon of the Sea,’ and they laughed at the old ex-Governor’s absurd ambitions. The teller of the story was a son of the present Governor of Harima, who from being a clerk in the Treasury had last year been capped an officer of the Fifth Rank. He was famous for his love-adventures and the others whispered to one another that it was with every intention of persuading the lady to disobey her father’s injunctions that he had gone out of his way to visit the shore of Akashi.

Genji listened closely. ‘Why, she is like the vestal virgin who can have no husband but the King-Dragon of the Sea.’ They laughed at the former Governor’s absurd ambitions. The storyteller was a son of the current Governor of Harima. He had been a Treasury clerk, but last year he had been appointed an officer of the Fifth Rank. He was famous for his love affairs. The others whispered that he had gone out of his way to visit the shore of Akashi. They said he fully intended to persuade the lady to disobey her father’s orders.

‘I fear her breeding must be somewhat countrified,’ said one; ‘it cannot well be otherwise, seeing that she has grown up with no other company than that of her old-fashioned parents,—though indeed it appears that her mother was a person of some consequence.’ ‘Why, yes’ said Yoshikiyo, the Governor’s son, ‘and for this reason she was able to secure little girls and boys from all the best houses in the Capital, persuading them to pay visits to the sea-side and be playmates to her own little girl, who thus acquired the most polished breeding.’ ‘If an unscrupulous person were to find himself in that quarter,’ said another, ‘I fear that despite the dead father’s curse he might not find it easy to resist her.’

‘I’m afraid her manners must be somewhat provincial,’ said one. ‘That’s hardly surprising, since she grew up with no company but her old-fashioned parents. Though it seems her mother was a woman of some standing.’ ‘Yes, indeed,’ said Yoshikiyo, the Governor’s son. ‘That was why she could persuade little boys and girls from all the best families in the Capital to visit the seaside. They played with her own little girl, who learned the most polished manners from them.’ ‘If an unscrupulous person found himself in that part of the country,’ said another, ‘I’m afraid he might find her hard to resist, despite her dead father’s curse.’

The story made a deep impression upon Genji’s imagination. As his gentlemen well knew, whatever was fantastic or grotesque both in people and situations at once strongly attracted him. They were therefore not surprised to see him listen with so much attention. ‘It is now well past noon,’ said one of them, ‘and I think we may reckon that you will get safely through the day without a return of your complaint. So let us soon be starting for home.’ But the priest persuaded him to stay a little longer: ‘The sinister influences are not yet wholly banished,’ he said; ‘it would be well that a further ritual should continue quietly during the night. By to-morrow morning, I think you will be able to proceed.’ His gentlemen all urged him to stay; nor was he at all unwilling, for the novelty of such a lodging amused him. ‘Very well then, at dawn’ he said, and having nothing to do till bed-time which was still a long way off, he went out on to the hill-side, and under cover of the heavy evening mist loitered near the brushwood hedge. His attendants had gone back to the hermit’s cave and only Koremitsu was with him. In the western wing, opposite which he was standing, was a nun at her devotions. The blind was partly raised. He thought she seemed to be dedicating flowers to an image. Sitting near the middle pillar, a sutra-book propped upon a stool by her side, was another nun. She was reading aloud; there was a look of great unhappiness in her face. She seemed to be about forty; not a woman of the common people. Her skin was white and very fine, and though she was much emaciated, there was a certain roundness and fulness in her cheeks, and her hair, clipped short on a level with her eyes, hung in so delicate a fringe across her brow that she looked, thought Genji, more elegant and even fashionable in this convent guise, than if her hair had been long. Two very well-conditioned maids waited upon her. Several little girls came running in and out of the room at play. Among them was one who seemed to be about ten years old. She came running into the room dressed in a rather worn white frock lined with stuff of a deep saffron colour. Never had he seen a child like this. What an astonishing creature she would grow into! Her hair, thick and wavy, stood out fan-wise about her head. She was very flushed and her lips were trembling. ‘What is it? Have you quarrelled with one of the other little girls?’ The nun raised her head as she spoke and Genji fancied that there was some resemblance between her and the child. No doubt she was its mother. ‘Inu has let out my sparrow—the little one that I kept in the clothes-basket,’ she said, looking very unhappy. ‘What a tiresome boy that Inu is!’ said one of the two maids. ‘He deserves a good scolding for playing such a stupid 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,⁶⁴ and at the resemblance he secretly wept.

The story made a deep impression on Genji. His gentlemen knew how strongly he was drawn to anything fantastic or grotesque, whether in people or situations. They were not surprised, then, to see him listening so intently. ‘It is well past noon,’ one of them said, ‘and I think we can count on your getting through the day without another attack. So let us start for home soon.’ But the priest persuaded Genji to stay a little longer. ‘The sinister influences have not yet been completely driven away,’ he said. ‘It would be wise to continue another ritual quietly through the night. By tomorrow morning, I think you will be able to leave.’ All his gentlemen urged him to stay. Genji was quite willing, for he enjoyed the novelty of staying in such a place. ‘Very well, then, at dawn,’ he said. There was still a long time before bed, and he had nothing to do. So he went out onto the hillside and lingered near the brushwood hedge, hidden by the thick evening mist. His attendants had returned to the hermit’s cave, and only Koremitsu was with him. In the western wing, across from where he stood, a nun was praying. The blind was partly raised, and he thought she seemed to be offering flowers to an image. Another nun sat near the central pillar, with a sutra book propped on a stool beside her. She was reading aloud, and her face looked deeply unhappy. She seemed to be about forty and was not a woman of the common people. Her skin was white and very fine. Though she was very thin, her cheeks had a certain roundness and fullness. Her hair was cut short at eye level and fell in such a delicate fringe across her forehead that Genji thought she looked more elegant, even fashionable, as a nun than she would have with long hair. Two well-groomed maids attended her. Several little girls ran in and out of the room at play. Among them was one who seemed to be about ten. She ran into the room wearing a rather worn white dress lined with deep saffron-colored fabric. Genji had never seen a child like her. What an astonishing woman she would become! Her thick, wavy hair spread out like a fan around her head. She was flushed, and her lips trembled. ‘What is it? Have you quarreled with one of the other little girls?’ The nun raised her head as she spoke, and Genji thought she looked somewhat like the child. No doubt she was the child’s mother. ‘Inu let my sparrow out, the little one I kept in the clothes basket,’ the girl said, looking very unhappy. ‘What a tiresome boy that Inu is!’ said one of the two maids. ‘He deserves a good scolding for playing such a stupid trick. Where can the sparrow have gone? And this after we took so much trouble to tame it! I only hope the crows haven’t found it.’ With that, 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,’ the nun said to the little girl, ‘you must not be such a baby. You spend all your time thinking about things that don’t matter at all. Just imagine! Even now, when I am so ill that I may be taken from you any day, you don’t worry about me, but grieve over a sparrow. It is very unkind, especially since I have told you I don’t know how many times that it is wrong to shut living things in cages. Come over here!’ The child sat down beside her. Her features were exquisite. But what struck Genji as marvelously beautiful, above all, was the way her hair grew. It fell in cloudy masses over her temples, but was pushed back from her forehead in a childlike way. As he watched her and wondered what she would be like when she grew up, he suddenly realized that she looked very much like someone he had loved with all his being.⁶⁴ The resemblance made him weep in secret.

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.’

The nun stroked the child’s hair and said, ‘It’s beautiful hair, though you are so naughty about having it combed. But it worries me very much that you’re still so babyish. Some children your age are very different. Your dear mother was only twelve when her father died, yet she proved quite capable of managing her own affairs. But if I were taken from you now, I don’t know what would become of you. I really don’t.’ And she began to weep. Even Genji, watching the scene from a distance, found himself quite distressed. The girl had been watching the nun’s face with a strange intensity, unlike a child’s. Now she bowed her head sadly, and her hair fell across her cheeks in two great black waves. Looking at her fondly, the nun recited the poem: ‘The dewdrop is so reluctant to vanish in the warm air. It does not know if anyone will come to care for the tender leaf on which it rests.’ The waiting-woman replied with a sigh: ‘O dewdrop, surely you will stay until the young budding leaf has shown what beautiful form it will take.’

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....’

At that moment, the priest who owned the house entered the room from the other side. ‘Ladies,’ he said, ‘aren’t you exposing yourselves too much? You have chosen a bad day to sit so close to the window. I have just heard that Prince Genji has come to the hermit over there to be cured of a fever. But he was disguised in such humble clothes that I did not recognize him. I have been so close to him all day without going to pay my respects.’ The nun recoiled in horror. ‘How distressing! He may even have passed by and seen us ...’ She hurried to lower the folding blind. ‘I am very glad to have a chance to visit this Prince Genji, whom one hears so much about. He is said to be very handsome. Even stern old priests like me forget the sins and sorrows of the life we have left behind when we see him. We take heart and want to live a little longer in a world where such beauty exists. 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.

Before the old priest could leave the house, Genji was already on his way back to the hermit’s cave. What an enchanting creature he had found! His friends had been right that rainy night. They had told him that beauty might be found in unexpected places on strange outings like this one. How delightful to have gone out by chance and made such an astonishing discovery! Whose exquisite child could she be? He longed to have her near him always. Then he could turn to her for comfort and distraction whenever he wished, as he once had 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....’

He was already lying down in the hermit’s cave when he heard the old priest’s disciple calling for Koremitsu. The quarters were very close together. ‘My master has just learned that you were staying so nearby,’ the disciple said. ‘He is sorry that you did not honor him with a visit as you passed. He would have come at once to pay his respects to the Prince. But he thought Lord Genji must know he was near this hermitage. He thought Lord Genji might perhaps have stayed away because he did not wish to reveal why he had come. But my master would remind you,’ the man continued, ‘that we too can offer you straw beds in our humble hut. We would be sorry if you left without honoring us with a visit....’

‘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.

‘For ten days,’ Genji answered from inside, ‘I have suffered from a fever that kept returning. I was in despair when someone advised me to consult the hermit of this mountain, so I visited him. I thought it would be very unpleasant for a sage of his reputation if his failure to treat me became known. So I took greater care to conceal myself than I would have with an ordinary miracle worker. Please ask your master to accept this excuse and invite him into the cave.’ Thus encouraged, the priest came in. Genji was rather afraid of him. Though a priest, he was a man of exceptional talent and was highly respected in the secular world. Genji felt it was quite improper to receive him in the shabby old clothes he had worn as a disguise. The priest told Genji something of his life since leaving the Capital to live in retirement on the mountain. Then he begged Genji to return with him and see the cold spring in his hut’s garden. Here was a chance to see again the people who had interested him so much. But the thought of all the stories the old priest might have told them about him made Genji uncomfortable. What did it matter? He had to see that lovely child again, whatever the cost, and he followed the priest back to his hut. In the garden, the natural plants of the hillside had been used with skill. There was no moon. Torches had been lit along the sides of the moat, and fairy lanterns hung from the trees. The front sitting room was very nicely arranged. A rich perfume of costly, exotic scents drifted from hidden incense burners, filling the room with a delicious fragrance. Genji did not recognize the perfumes. He supposed they must have been prepared by the ladies in the inner room, who seemed to have shown considerable ingenuity.

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.’

The priest began telling stories about the uncertainty of life and the punishments that awaited people in the next. Genji was appalled to think how grave his own sins already were. It was bad enough to think he would have them on his conscience for the rest of his life. But there was also the next life. What terrible punishments awaited him! All the while the priest spoke, Genji thought of his own wickedness. What a good idea it would be to become a hermit and live somewhere like this.... But his thoughts immediately drifted to the lovely face he had seen that afternoon. Eager to know more about her, he asked, ‘Who lives here with you? I’m interested because I once saw this place in a dream. I was astonished to recognize it when I came here today.’ The priest laughed. ‘Your dream seems to have come up rather suddenly,’ he said. ‘But I’m afraid that if you keep asking, your expectations will be sadly disappointed. You’ve probably never heard of Azechi no Dainagon. He died so long ago. He married my sister, who turned her back on the world after his death. Just then, I was having some difficulties and couldn’t visit the Capital. So she came to join me here in my retreat for company.’

‘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.’

‘I have heard that Aseji no Dainagon had a daughter. Is that true?’ Genji asked, taking a chance. ‘I trust you will not think I ask with any improper intention....’ ‘He had one daughter, who died about ten years ago. Her father had always wanted to present her at Court. But she would not listen. After he died, only my sister, the nun, was left to look after her. She let a wretched go-between introduce her to Prince Hyōbukyō, and she became his mistress. His wife was a proud, relentless woman. From the start, she constantly harassed and insulted her. This relentless persecution went on day after day, until she finally died of heartbreak. They say that unkindness cannot kill. But I will never say so, for I saw my kinswoman fall ill and die from that cause alone.’

‘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.⁶⁵ 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 low, delicate tapping. It seemed to come from quite close. He opened a small space between the screens which divided the living-room from the inner chamber and rustled his fan. He had the impression that someone in the inner room after a little hesitation had come towards the screen as though saying to herself ‘It cannot be so, yet I could have sworn I heard ...,’ and then retreated a little, as though thinking ‘Well, it was only my fancy after all!’ Now she seemed to be feeling her way in the dark, and Genji said aloud ‘Follow the Lord Buddha and though your way lie in darkness yet shall you not go astray.’ Suddenly hearing his clear young voice in the darkness, the woman had not at first the courage to reply. But at last she managed to answer: ‘In which direction, please, is He leading me? I am afraid I do not quite understand.’ ‘I am sorry to have startled you,’ said Genji. ‘I have only this small request to make: that you will carry to your mistress the following poem: ‘Since first he saw the green leaf of the tender bush, never for a moment has the dew of longing dried from the traveller’s sleeve.’ ‘Surely you must know that there is no one here who understands messages of that kind,’ said the woman; ‘I wonder whom you mean?’ ‘I have a particular reason for wishing your mistress to receive the message,’ said Genji, ‘and I should be obliged if you would contrive to deliver it.’ The nun at once perceived that the poem referred to her grandchild and supposed that Genji, having been wrongly informed about her age, was intending to make love to her. But how had he discovered her grand-daughter’s existence? For some while she pondered in great annoyance and perplexity, and at last answered prudently with a poem in which she said that ‘he who was but spending a night upon a traveller’s dewy bed could know little of those whose home was forever upon the cold moss of the hill-side.’ Thus she turned his poem to a harmless meaning. ‘Tell her,’ said Genji when the message was brought back, ‘that I am not accustomed to carry on conversations in this indirect manner. However shy she may be, I must ask her on this occasion to dispense with formalities and discuss this matter with me seriously!’ ‘How can he have been thus misinformed?’ said the nun, still thinking that Genji imagined her grand-daughter to be a grown-up woman. She was terrified at being suddenly commanded to appear before this illustrious personage and was wondering what excuse she would make. Her maids, however, were convinced that Genji would be grievously offended if she did not appear, and at last, coming out from the women’s chamber, she said to him: ‘Though I am no longer a young woman, I very much doubt whether I ought to come like this. But since you sent word that you have serious business to discuss with me, I could not refuse....’ ‘Perhaps’ said Genji, ‘you will think my proposal both ill-timed and frivolous. I can only assure you that I mean it very seriously. Let Buddha judge....’ But here he broke off, intimidated by her age and gravity. ‘You have certainly chosen a very strange manner of communicating this proposal to me. But though you have not yet said what it is, I am sure you are quite in earnest about it.’ Thus encouraged, Genji continued: ‘I was deeply touched by the story of your long widowhood and of your daughter’s death. I too, like this poor child, was deprived in earliest infancy of the one being who tenderly loved me, and in my childhood suffered long years of loneliness and misery. Thus we are both in like case, and this has given me so deep a sympathy for the child that I long to make amends for what she has lost. It was, then, to ask if you would consent to let me play a mother’s part that at this strange and inconvenient hour I trespassed so inconsiderately upon your patience.’ ‘I am sure that you are meaning to be very kind,’ said the nun, ‘but—forgive me—you have evidently been misinformed. There is indeed a girl living here under my charge; but she is a mere infant and could not be of the slightest interest to you in any way, so that I cannot consent to your proposal.’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Genji, ‘I am perfectly conversant with every detail concerning this child; but if you think my sympathy for her exaggerated or misplaced, pray pardon me for having mentioned it.’ It was evident that he did not in the least realize the absurdity of what he had proposed, and she saw no use in explaining herself any further. The priest was now returning and Genji, saying that he had not expected she would at once fall in with his idea and was confident that she would soon see the matter in a different light, closed the screen behind her.

‘Then the little girl must be this lady’s child,’ Genji finally realized. That explained her resemblance to the lady in the Palace.⁶⁵ He felt more drawn to her than ever. She came from a good family, which was never a disadvantage. And her somewhat rustic simplicity would be a real advantage when she became his pupil. He was now determined that she should, because her simplicity would make it easier to shape her developing tastes to match his own. ‘And did the lady whose sad story you have told me leave no child behind?’ Genji asked. He was still hoping to turn the conversation to the girl herself. ‘She died only a short while after her child was born. The child was a girl too. My sister took charge of her, but her health is failing. She feels quite unable to bear such a responsibility.’ Everything was clear now. ‘You will think it a very strange proposal,’ said Genji, ‘but I would like to adopt this child. Perhaps you would mention it to your sister? Other people arranged my marriage when I was young, but I found their choice distasteful. I seem to have little taste for society, and now I live entirely alone. I do realize that she is only a child, and I am not proposing....’ Here he paused, and the priest answered: ‘I am very grateful for your offer. But I am afraid it is clear that you do not realize that the child is a mere infant. You would not even find her entertaining as a passing distraction. But it is true that a girl needs powerful friends as she grows up, if she is to make her way in the world. I cannot promise that anything will come of it, but I certainly ought to mention the matter to her grandmother.’ His manner had suddenly grown rather cool and stern. Genji felt that he had been indiscreet and remained silent with embarrassment. ‘There is something I ought to do in the Hall of Our Lord Amida,’ the priest continued after a while. ‘So I must leave you for a time. I must also read my vespers, but I will join you again afterwards.’ Then he set out up the hill. Genji felt miserable. It had begun to rain, and a cold wind blew across the hill, carrying the sound of a waterfall. Until then it had been a gentle, occasional splash, but now it was a mighty roar. With it came the steady chanting of the scriptures, rising and falling sleepily. Even someone who was not easily moved would have felt melancholy in such surroundings. How much more so Prince Genji, lying sleepless on his bed, making and revising plans over and over! The priest had spoken of ‘vespers,’ but the hour was very late indeed. Still, it was clear that the nun was awake. Though she was making as little noise as possible, her rosary occasionally clicked faintly against the praying stool. There was something alluring about the soft, delicate tapping. It seemed to come from very close by. He opened a small gap between the screens separating the living room from the inner chamber and rustled his fan. He had the impression that someone in the inner room hesitated, then came toward the screen. It was as though she were saying to herself, ‘It cannot be so, yet I could have sworn I heard ...’ Then she drew back a little, as though thinking, ‘Well, it was only my fancy after all!’ Now she seemed to be feeling her way in the dark. Genji said aloud, ‘Follow the Lord Buddha, and though your way lies in darkness, you will not go astray.’ Hearing his clear young voice suddenly in the darkness, the woman did not at first dare to reply. But at last she managed to answer: ‘Which way, please, is he leading me? I am afraid I do not quite understand.’ ‘I am sorry to have startled you,’ said Genji. ‘I have only one small request. Please take your mistress this poem: ‘Since first he saw the green leaf of the tender bush, never for a moment has the dew of longing dried from the traveller’s sleeve.’’ ‘Surely you know that no one here understands messages like that,’ said the woman. ‘I wonder whom you mean?’ ‘I have a particular reason for wanting your mistress to receive the message,’ said Genji. ‘I would be grateful if you could find a way to deliver it.’ The nun immediately understood that the poem referred to her grandchild. She assumed Genji had been wrongly told her age and meant to court her. But how had he learned that her granddaughter existed? She thought about it for some time, greatly annoyed and puzzled. At last she answered cautiously with a poem. It said that ‘he who was only spending a night on a traveller’s dewy bed could know little of those whose home was forever on the cold moss of the hillside.’ In this way she gave his poem a harmless meaning. ‘Tell her,’ said Genji when her reply was brought back, ‘that I am not used to conducting conversations so indirectly. However shy she may be, I must ask her to set aside formalities this once and discuss the matter seriously with me!’ ‘How could he have been so badly informed?’ said the nun. She still thought Genji imagined her granddaughter was a grown woman. Terrified at being suddenly ordered to appear before such an illustrious person, she wondered what excuse she could make. Her maids, however, were convinced that Genji would be deeply offended if she did not appear. At last she came out from the women’s chamber and said to him, ‘Though I am no longer a young woman, I very much doubt that I should come like this. But you sent word that you had serious business to discuss with me, so I could not refuse....’ ‘Perhaps,’ said Genji, ‘you will think my proposal both badly timed and frivolous. I can only assure you that I mean it very seriously. Let Buddha judge....’ But here he stopped, intimidated by her age and solemn manner. ‘You have certainly chosen a very strange way to communicate this proposal to me. But though you have not yet said what it is, I am sure you are quite serious about it.’ Encouraged, Genji continued: ‘I was deeply moved by the story of your long widowhood and your daughter’s death. Like this poor child, I lost the one person who loved me tenderly when I was very young. I suffered many years of loneliness and misery as a child. We are in the same position, and I feel such deep sympathy for her that I long to make up for what she has lost. That is why I have troubled you so thoughtlessly at this strange and inconvenient hour. I wanted to ask whether you would let me play a mother’s part.’ ‘I am sure you mean to be very kind,’ said the nun. ‘But forgive me, you have clearly been misinformed. There is indeed a girl living here in my care, but she is a mere infant. She could not possibly be of the slightest interest to you, so I cannot agree to your proposal.’ ‘On the contrary,’ said Genji, ‘I know every detail about this child. But if you think my sympathy for her is exaggerated or misplaced, please forgive me for mentioning it.’ It was clear that he did not see how absurd his proposal was, and she saw no point in explaining herself further. The priest was now returning. Genji said he had not expected her to agree to his idea at once. He was confident that she would soon see the matter differently. Then he closed the screen behind her.

The night was almost over. In a chapel near by, the Four Meditations of the Law Flower were being practised. The voices of the ministrants who were now chanting the Litany of Atonement came floating on the gusty mountain-wind, and with this solemn sound was mingled the roar of hurrying waters. ‘Startled from my dream by a wandering gust of the mountain gale, I heard the waterfall, and at the beauty of its music wept.’ So Genji greeted the priest; and he in turn replied with the poem ‘At the noise of a torrent wherein I daily fill my bowl I am scarce likely to start back in wonder and delight.’ ‘I get so used to it,’ he added apologetically. A heavy mist covered the morning sky, and even the chirruping of the mountain-birds sounded muffled and dim. Such a variety of flowers and blossoming trees (he did not know their names) grew upon the hill-side, that the rocks seemed to be spread with a many-coloured embroidery. Above all he marvelled at the exquisite stepping of the deer who moved across the slope, now treading daintily, now suddenly pausing; and as he watched them the last remnants of his sickness were dispelled by sheer delight. Though the hermit had little use of his limbs, he managed by hook or crook to perform the mystic motions of the Guardian Spell,⁶⁶ and though his aged voice was husky and faltering, he read the sacred text with great dignity and fervour. Several of Genji’s friends now arrived to congratulate him upon his recovery, among them a messenger from the Palace. The priest from the hut below brought a present of strange-looking roots for which he had gone deep into the ravine. He begged to be excused from accompanying Genji on his way. ‘Till the end of the year,’ he said, ‘I am bound by a vow which must deprive me of what would have been a great pleasure,’ and he handed Genji the stirrup-cup. ‘Were I but able to follow my own desires,’ said Genji taking the cup, ‘I would not leave these hills and streams. But I hear that my father the Emperor is making anxious enquiry after me. I will come back before the blossom is over.’ And he recited the verse ‘I will go back to the men of the City and tell them to come quickly, lest the wild wind outstripping them should toss these blossoms from the cherry bough.’ The old priest, flattered by Genji’s politeness and captivated by the charm of his voice, answered with the poem: ‘Like one who finds the aloe-tree in bloom, to the flower of the mountain-cherry I no longer turn my gaze.’ ‘I am not after all quite so great a rarity as the aloe-flower,’ said Genji smiling.

The night was almost over. In a nearby chapel, worshippers were practicing the Four Meditations of the Law Flower. Their voices drifted on the gusty mountain wind as they chanted the Litany of Atonement. The roar of rushing water mingled with the solemn sound. Genji greeted the priest with a poem: ‘A wandering gust of mountain wind woke me from my dream. I heard the waterfall and wept at the beauty of its music.’ The priest replied with a poem of his own: ‘I hear the torrent every day as I fill my bowl. I can hardly be startled by wonder and delight at its sound.’ ‘I have grown so used to it,’ he added apologetically. A heavy mist covered the morning sky. Even the chirping of the mountain birds sounded muffled and faint. So many flowers and blossoming trees grew on the hillside that the rocks seemed covered in colorful embroidery. Genji did not know their names. Most of all, he marveled at the graceful steps of the deer crossing the slope. They stepped delicately, then suddenly stopped. As he watched them, his delight drove away the last traces of his illness. Although the hermit had little use of his limbs, he somehow managed to perform the mystic motions of the Guardian Spell.⁶⁶ His aged voice was husky and unsteady, but he read the sacred text with great dignity and devotion. Several of Genji’s friends now arrived to congratulate him on his recovery. Among them was a messenger from the Palace. The priest from the hut below brought a gift of strange-looking roots. He had gone deep into the ravine to find them. The priest begged to be excused from accompanying Genji on his journey. ‘Until the end of the year,’ he said, ‘I am bound by a vow. It prevents me from doing what would have been a great pleasure.’ He handed Genji the stirrup-cup. Genji took it and said, ‘If I could follow my own wishes, I would not leave these hills and streams. But I hear that my father the Emperor is anxiously asking after me. I will return before the blossoms are gone.’ He recited a verse: ‘I will return to the people of the City and tell them to come quickly. Otherwise, the wild wind may beat them here and scatter the blossoms from the cherry bough.’ The old priest was flattered by Genji’s politeness and captivated by the charm of his voice. He answered with a poem: ‘Like someone who finds the aloe-tree in bloom, I no longer look at the mountain-cherry blossom.’ ‘After all, I am not quite as rare as the aloe-flower,’ Genji said with a smile.

Next the hermit handed him a parting-cup, with the poem ‘Though seldom I open the pine-tree door of my mountain-cell, yet have I now seen face to face the flower few live to see,’ and as he looked up at Genji, his eyes filled with tears. He gave him, to keep him safe in future from all harm, a magical wand; and seeing this the nun’s brother in his turn presented a rosary brought back from Korea by Prince Shōtoku. It was ornamented with jade and was still in the same Chinese-looking box in which it had been brought from that country. The box was in an open-work bag, and a five-leafed pine-branch was with it. He also gave him some little vases of blue crystal to keep his medicines in, with sprays of cherry-blossom and wistaria along with them, and such other presents as the place could supply. Genji had sent to the Capital for gifts with which to repay his reception in the mountain. First he gave a reward to the hermit, then distributed alms to the priests who had chanted liturgies on his behalf, and finally he gave useful presents to the poor villagers of the neighbourhood. While he was reading a short passage from the scriptures in preparation for his departure, the old priest went into his house and asked his sister the nun whether she had any message for the Prince. ‘It is very hard to say anything at present,’ she said. ‘Perhaps if he still felt the same inclination four, or five years hence, we might begin to consider it.’ ‘That is just what I think,’ said the priest.

Next, the hermit handed Genji a farewell cup, with a poem: ‘Though I seldom open the pine door of my mountain cell, I have now seen face to face the flower few live to see.’ As he looked up at Genji, his eyes filled with tears. He gave Genji a magic wand to protect him from all harm in the future. Seeing this, the nun’s brother presented Genji with a rosary Prince Shōtoku had brought back from Korea. It was decorated with jade and was still in the same Chinese-style box in which it had been brought back. The box was in an openwork bag, with a branch of five-needled pine. He also gave Genji small blue crystal vases for his medicines, along with sprays of cherry blossom and wisteria. He added other gifts the place could provide. Genji had sent to the Capital for gifts to repay the hospitality he had received in the mountains. First, he rewarded the hermit. Then he gave alms to the priests who had chanted liturgies for him. Finally, he gave useful gifts to the poor villagers nearby. As Genji read a short passage from the scriptures before leaving, the old priest went into his house. He asked his sister, the nun, whether she had a message for the Prince. ‘It is very hard to say anything now,’ she said. ‘Perhaps if he still felt the same way four or five years from now, we might begin to consider it.’ ‘That is just what I think,’ said the priest.

Genji saw to his regret that he had made no progress whatever. In answer to the nun’s message he sent a small boy who belonged to the priest’s household with the following poem: ‘Last night indeed, though in the greyness of twilight only, I saw the lovely flower. But to-day a hateful mist has hidden it utterly from my sight.’ The nun replied: ‘That I may know whether indeed it pains you so deeply to leave this flower, I shall watch intently the motions of this hazy sky.’ It was written in a noteworthy and very aristocratic hand, but quite without the graces of deliberate artistry. While his carriage was being got ready, a great company of young lords arrived from the Great Hall, saying that they had been hard put to it to discover what had become of him and now desired to give him their escort. Among them were Tō no Chūjō, Sachū Ben, and other lesser lords, who had come out of affection for the Prince. ‘We like nothing better than waiting upon you,’ they said, rather aggrieved, ‘it was not kind of you to leave us behind.’ ‘But having come so far,’ said another, ‘it would be a pity to go away without resting for a while under the shadow of these flowering trees’; whereupon they all sat down in a row upon the moss under a tall rock and passed a rough earthenware wine-jar from hand to hand. Close by them the stream leaped over the rocks in a magnificent cascade. Tō no Chūjō pulled out a flute from the folds of his dress and played a few trills upon it. Sachū Ben, tapping idly with his fan, began to sing ‘The Temple of Toyora.’ The young lords who had come to fetch him were all persons of great distinction; but so striking was Genji’s appearance as he sat leaning disconsolately against the rock that no eye was likely to be turned in any other direction. One of his attendants now performed upon the reed-pipe; someone else turned out to be a skilful shō⁶⁷ player. Presently the old priest came out of his house carrying a zithern, and putting it into Genji’s hands begged him to play something, ‘that the birds of the mountain may rejoice.’ He protested that he was not feeling at all in the mood to play; but yielding to the priest’s persuasion, he gave what was really not at all a contemptible performance. After that, they all got up and started for home. Everyone on the mountain, down to the humblest priest and youngest neophyte, was bitterly disappointed at the shortness of his stay, and there were many tears shed; while the old nun within doors was sorry to think that she had had but that one brief glimpse of him and might never see him again. The priest declared that for his part he thought the Land of the Rising Sun in her last degenerate days ill-deserved that such a Prince should be born to her, and he wiped his eyes. The little girl too was very much pleased with him and said he was a prettier gentleman than her own father. ‘If you think so, you had better become his little girl instead,’ said her nurse. At which the child nodded, thinking that it would be a very good plan indeed; and in future the best-dressed person in the pictures she painted was called ‘Prince Genji’ and so was her handsomest doll.

Genji saw with regret that he had made no progress at all. In reply to the nun’s message, he sent a young boy from the priest’s household with this poem: ‘Last night I saw the lovely flower, though only in the gray twilight. But today a hateful mist has hidden it completely from my sight.’ The nun replied: ‘To see whether leaving this flower really pains you so deeply, I shall watch the movements of this hazy sky closely.’ Her handwriting was striking and very aristocratic, but showed no attempt at artistic flourishes. While his carriage was being prepared, a large group of young lords arrived from the Great Hall. They said they had struggled to find out what had become of him and now wished to escort him home. Among them were Tō no Chūjō, Sachū Ben, and other lesser lords who had come out of affection for the Prince. ‘We love nothing better than attending you,’ they said, rather hurt. ‘It was unkind of you to leave us behind.’ ‘But now that we have come so far,’ said another, ‘it would be a pity to leave without resting awhile in the shade of these flowering trees.’ So they all sat in a row on the moss beneath a tall rock and passed a rough earthenware wine jar from hand to hand. Nearby, the stream leaped over the rocks in a magnificent cascade. Tō no Chūjō took a flute from the folds of his clothing and played a few trills. Sachū Ben tapped idly with his fan and began to sing ‘The Temple of Toyora.’ The young lords who had come for Genji were all men of great distinction. But Genji looked so striking as he sat sadly leaning against the rock that no one was likely to look anywhere else. One of his attendants now played the reed pipe. Someone else proved to be a skilled shō⁶⁷ player. Soon the old priest came out of his house carrying a zithern. He placed it in Genji’s hands and begged him to play something, ‘so that the mountain birds may rejoice.’ Genji protested that he was not at all in the mood to play. But the priest persuaded him, and his performance was really quite good. After that, they all got up and set off for home. Everyone on the mountain was bitterly disappointed that his stay had been so short. Even the humblest priest and youngest novice were disappointed, and many tears were shed. Inside, the old nun was sorry that she had caught only one brief glimpse of him and might never see him again. The priest said that, in his view, the Land of the Rising Sun was in its last degenerate days. It did not deserve to have such a Prince born to it, he said, wiping his eyes. The little girl was also very taken with Genji and said he was a prettier gentleman than her own father. ‘If you think so, you had better become his little girl instead,’ said her nurse. The child nodded, thinking it a very good plan indeed. From then on, she called the best-dressed person in her pictures ‘Prince Genji’, and gave her handsomest doll the same name.

On his return to the Capital he went straight to the Palace and described to his father the experiences of the last two days. The Emperor thought him looking very haggard and was much concerned. He asked many questions about the hermit’s magical powers, to all of which Genji replied in great detail. ‘He ought certainly to have been made Master Magician long ago,’ said His Majesty. ‘His ministrations have repeatedly been attended with great success, but for some reason his services have escaped public acknowledgment,’ and he issued a proclamation to this effect. The Minister of the Left came to meet him on his way from the Presence and apologized for not having come with his sons to bring him back from the mountain. ‘I thought,’ he said, ‘that as you had gone there secretly, you would dislike being fetched; but I very much hope that you will now come and spend a few days with us quietly; after which I shall esteem it a privilege to escort you to your palace.’ He did not in the least want to go, but there was no escape. His father-in-law drove him to the Great Hall in his own carriage, and when the bullocks had been unyoked dragged it in at the gate with his own hands. Such treatment was certainly meant to be very friendly; but Genji found the Minister’s attentions merely irritating.

When Genji returned to the Capital, he went straight to the Palace. He told his father what had happened over the past two days. The Emperor was concerned to see how exhausted he looked. He asked many questions about the hermit’s magical powers, and Genji answered them all in great detail. ‘He certainly should have been made Master Magician long ago,’ said His Majesty. ‘His services have repeatedly been very successful, but for some reason they have never been publicly recognized.’ The Emperor issued a proclamation saying so. As Genji was leaving the Emperor’s presence, the Minister of the Left came to meet him. He apologized for not coming with his sons to bring Genji back from the mountain. ‘I thought you would dislike being fetched, since you had gone there secretly,’ he said. ‘But I very much hope you will come and spend a few quiet days with us now. Afterward, I would consider it a privilege to escort you to your palace.’ Genji did not want to go at all, but there was no way out. His father-in-law drove him to the Great Hall in his own carriage. Once the oxen had been unyoked, he dragged the carriage through the gate with his own hands. The Minister certainly meant to be friendly, but Genji found his attentions merely irritating.

Aoi’s quarters had, in anticipation of Genji’s coming, just been put thoroughly to rights. In the long interval since he last visited her many changes had been made; among other improvements, a handsome terrace had been built. Not a thing was out of its right place in this supremely well-ordered house. Aoi, as usual, was nowhere to be seen. It was only after repeated entreaties by her father that she at last consented to appear in her husband’s presence. Posed like a princess in a picture she sat almost motionless. Beautiful she certainly was. ‘I should like to tell you about my visit to the mountain, if only I thought that it would interest you at all or draw an answer from you. I hate to go on always like this. Why are you so cold and distant and proud? Year after year we fail to reach an understanding and you cut yourself off from me more completely than before. Can we not manage for a little while to be on ordinary terms? It seems rather strange, considering how ill I have been, that you should not attempt to enquire after my health. Or rather, it is exactly what I should expect; but nevertheless I find it extremely painful.’ ‘Yes,’ said Aoi, ‘it is extremely painful when people do not care what becomes of one.’ She glanced back over her shoulder as she spoke, her face full of scorn and pride, looking uncommonly handsome as she did so. ‘You hardly ever speak,’ said Genji, ‘and when you do, it is only to say unkind things and twist one’s harmless words so that they seem to be insults. And when I try to find some way of helping you for a while at least to be a little less disagreeable, you become more hopelessly unapproachable than ever. Shall I one day succeed in making you understand...?’ and so saying he went into their bedroom. She did not follow him. He lay for a while in a state of great annoyance and distress. But, probably because he did not really care about her very much one way or the other, he soon became drowsy and all sorts of quite different matters drifted through his head. He wanted as much as ever to have the little girl in his keeping and watch her grow to womanhood. But the grandmother was right; the child was too absurdly young, and it would be very difficult to broach the matter again. Would it not however be possible to contrive that she should be brought to the Capital? It would be easy then to find excuses for fetching her and she might, even through some such arrangement as that, become a source of constant delight to him. The father, Prince Hyōbukyō, was of course a man of very distinguished manners; but he was not at all handsome. How was it that the child resembled one of her aunts and was so unlike all the rest? He had an idea that Fujitsubo and Prince Hyōbukyō were children of the same mother, while the others were only half-sisters. The fact that the little girl was closely related to the lady whom he had loved for so long made him all the more set upon securing her, and he began again to puzzle his head for some means of bringing this about.

Aoi’s rooms had just been thoroughly tidied in anticipation of Genji’s arrival. Many changes had been made during the long time since his last visit. Among other improvements, a handsome terrace had been built. Nothing was out of place in this perfectly ordered house. As usual, Aoi was nowhere to be seen. Only after her father begged her repeatedly did she agree to appear before her husband. She sat almost motionless, posed like a princess in a picture. She was certainly beautiful. ‘I’d like to tell you about my visit to the mountain, if I thought it would interest you or draw a response. I hate going on like this all the time. Why are you so cold, distant, and proud? Year after year, we fail to understand each other, and you shut me out more completely than before. Can’t we be on ordinary terms for a little while? Considering how ill I’ve been, it seems strange that you haven’t asked about my health. Or rather, it’s exactly what I’d expect. But I still find it extremely painful.’ ‘Yes,’ said Aoi, ‘it’s extremely painful when people don’t care what happens to you.’ She glanced back over her shoulder as she spoke. Her face was full of scorn and pride, and she looked exceptionally beautiful. ‘You hardly ever speak,’ said Genji, ‘and when you do, you only say unkind things. You twist my harmless words until they seem like insults. I try to find some way to help you be a little less unpleasant, at least for a while. But you become even more hopelessly unapproachable. Will I ever succeed in making you understand...?’ With that, he went into their bedroom. She did not follow him. For a while, he lay there, deeply annoyed and distressed. But he soon grew drowsy, probably because he didn’t really care much about her one way or the other. All sorts of different thoughts drifted through his mind. He still wanted just as much to have the little girl in his care and watch her grow into a woman. But her grandmother was right. The child was absurdly young, and it would be very difficult to bring up the matter again. Still, couldn’t he somehow arrange for her to be brought to the Capital? Then it would be easy to find excuses to fetch her. Even through an arrangement like that, she might become a constant source of delight to him. Her father, Prince Hyōbukyō, was of course a man of very distinguished manners, but he was not at all handsome. How was it that the child looked like one of her aunts and so unlike all the others? He believed that Fujitsubo and Prince Hyōbukyō had the same mother, while the others were only half-sisters. The little girl was closely related to the lady he had loved for so long. That made him all the more determined to secure her, and he began again to puzzle over how to do it.

Next day he wrote his letter of thanks to the priest. No doubt it contained some allusion to his project. To the nun he wrote: ‘Seeing you so resolutely averse to what I had proposed, I refrained from justifying my intentions so fully as I could have wished. But should it prove that, even by the few words I ventured to speak, I was able to convince you that this is no mere whim or common fancy, how happy would such news make me.’ On a slip of paper folded small and tucked into the letter he wrote the poem: ‘Though with all my heart I tried to leave it behind me, never for a moment has it left me,—the fair face of that mountain-flower!’ Though she had long passed the zenith of her years the nun could not but be pleased and flattered by the elegance of the note; for it was not only written in an exquisite hand, but was folded with a careless dexterity which she greatly admired. She felt very sorry for him, and would have been glad, had it been in her conscience, to have sent him a more favourable reply. ‘We were delighted,’ she wrote, ‘that being in the neighbourhood you took occasion to pay us a visit. But I fear that when (as I very much hope you will) you come here purposely to visit us, I shall not be able to add anything to what I have said already. As for the poem which you enclose, do not expect her to answer it, for she cannot yet write her “Naniwa Zu”⁶⁸ properly, even letter by letter. Let me then answer it for her: “For as long as the cherry-blossoms remain unscattered upon the shore of Onoe where wild storms blow,—so long have you till now been constant!” For my part, I am very uneasy about the matter.’

The next day, he wrote a letter to thank the priest. No doubt he mentioned his plan. To the nun he wrote: ‘Seeing how firmly you opposed my proposal, I held back from explaining my intentions as fully as I wished. But perhaps even the few words I ventured to say convinced you that this is no passing whim or ordinary fancy. How happy I would be to hear that they had.’ On a small, folded slip of paper tucked into the letter, he wrote a poem: ‘Though I tried with all my heart to leave it behind me, the lovely face of that mountain-flower has never left me for a moment!’ Though the nun was well past the prime of her life, she could not help feeling pleased and flattered by the elegant note. It was written in exquisite handwriting and folded with a casual skill she greatly admired. She felt very sorry for him. If her conscience had allowed it, she would gladly have sent him a more favorable reply. ‘We were delighted,’ she wrote, ‘that you took the opportunity to visit us while you were in the neighborhood. I very much hope you will come here specifically to visit us. But when you do, I fear I will not be able to add anything to what I have already said. As for the poem you enclosed, do not expect her to answer it. She cannot yet write her “Naniwa Zu”⁶⁸ properly, even letter by letter. So let me answer for her: “You have been constant only as long as the cherry blossoms remain unscattered on the shore of Onoe, where wild storms blow!” For my part, I am very uneasy about the matter.’

The priest replied to the same effect. Genji was very much disappointed and after two or three days he sent for Koremitsu and gave him a letter for the nun, telling him at the same time to find out whatever he could from Shōnagon, the child’s nurse. ‘What an impressionable character he is,’ thought Koremitsu. He had only had a glimpse of the child; but that had sufficed to convince him that she was a mere baby, though he remembered thinking her quite pretty. What trick would his master’s heart be playing upon him next?

The priest gave a similar reply. Genji was deeply disappointed. Two or three days later, he sent for Koremitsu and gave him a letter for the nun. He also told him to find out whatever he could from Shōnagon, the child’s nurse. ‘How easily he is moved,’ thought Koremitsu. He had only glimpsed the child, but that was enough to convince him she was just a baby. He did remember thinking her quite pretty, though. What trick would his master’s heart play on him next?

The old priest was deeply impressed by the arrival of a letter in the hands of so special and confidential a messenger. After delivering it, Koremitsu sought out the nurse. He repeated all that Genji had told him to say and added a great deal of general information about his master. Being a man of many words he talked on and on, continually introducing some new topic which had suddenly occurred to him as relevant. But at the end of it all Shōnagon was just as puzzled as everyone else had been to account for Genji’s interest in a child so ridiculously young. His letter was very deferential. In it he said that he longed to see a specimen of her childish writing done letter by letter, as the nun had described. As before, he enclosed a poem: ‘Was it the shadows in the mountain well that told you my purpose was but jest?’⁶⁹ To which she answered ‘Some perhaps that have drawn in that well now bitterly repent. Can the shadows tell me if again it will be so?’ and Koremitsu brought a spoken message to the same effect, together with the assurance that so soon as the nun’s health improved, she intended to visit the Capital and would then communicate with him again. The prospect of her visit was very exciting.

The old priest was deeply impressed that a letter had arrived with such a special and trusted messenger. After delivering it, Koremitsu sought out the nurse. He repeated everything Genji had told him to say and added a great deal of general information about his master. Koremitsu was a talkative man, and he went on and on. He kept bringing up new topics that suddenly seemed relevant to him. But in the end, Shōnagon was just as puzzled as everyone else. She could not explain Genji’s interest in a child so ridiculously young. His letter was very respectful. In it, he said he longed to see a sample of her childish writing, formed letter by letter, as the nun had described. As before, he enclosed a poem: ‘Was it the shadows in the mountain well that told you I was only joking?’⁶⁹ She answered, ‘Some who have drawn from that well perhaps now bitterly regret it. Can the shadows tell me if it will happen again?’ Koremitsu also brought a spoken message to the same effect. He brought her assurance that she intended to visit the Capital as soon as her health improved. She would then contact Genji again. The prospect of her visit was very exciting.

About this time Lady Fujitsubo fell ill and retired for a while from the Palace. The sight of the Emperor’s grief and anxiety moved Genji’s pity. But he could not help thinking that this was an opportunity which must not be missed. He spent the whole of that day in a state of great agitation, unable whether in his own house or at the Palace to think of anything else or call upon anyone. When at last the day was over, he succeeded in persuading her maid Ōmyōbu to take a message. The girl, though she regarded any communication between them as most imprudent, seeing a strange look in his face like that of one who walks in a dream, took pity on him and went. The Princess looked back upon their former relationship as something wicked and horrible and the memory of it was a continual torment to her. She had determined that such a thing must never happen again.

Around this time, Lady Fujitsubo fell ill and left the Palace for a while. Genji pitied the Emperor when he saw his grief and anxiety. But he could not help thinking that he must not miss this opportunity. He spent the whole day in great distress. Whether at home or at the Palace, he could think of nothing else or visit anyone. When the day finally ended, he persuaded her maid Ōmyōbu to take a message to her. Ōmyōbu thought any communication between them was very unwise. But she saw a strange look on his face, as if he were walking in a dream. She took pity on him and went. The Princess looked back on their earlier relationship as wicked and horrible. The memory of it tormented her constantly. She had decided that it must never happen again.

She met him with a stern and sorrowful countenance, but this did not disguise her charm, and as though conscious that he was unduly admiring her she began to treat him with great coldness and disdain. He longed to find some blemish in her, to think that he had been mistaken, and be at peace.

She greeted him with a stern, sad expression, but she was still charming. As if aware that he admired her too much, she began to treat him with coldness and contempt. He longed to find some flaw in her, to believe he had been mistaken, and to find peace.

I need not tell all that happened. The night passed only too quickly. He whispered in her ear the poem: ‘Now that at last we have met, would that we might vanish forever into the dream we dreamed to-night!’ But she, still conscience-stricken: ‘Though I were to hide in the darkness of eternal sleep, yet would my shame run through the world from tongue to tongue.’ And indeed, as Genji knew, it was not without good cause that she had suddenly fallen into this fit of apprehension and remorse. As he left, Ōmyōbu came running after him with his cloak and other belongings which he had left behind. He lay all day upon his bed in great torment. He sent a letter, but it was returned unopened. This had happened many times in the past, but now it filled him with such consternation that for two or three days he was completely prostrate and kept his room. All this while he was in constant dread lest his father, full of solicitude, should begin enquiring what new trouble had overtaken him. Fujitsubo, convinced that her ruin was accomplished, fell into a profound melancholy and her health grew daily worse. Messengers arrived constantly from the Court begging her to return without delay; but she could not bring herself to go. Her disorder had now taken a turn which filled her with secret foreboding, and she did nothing all day long but sit distractedly wondering what would become of her. When the hot weather set in she ceased to leave her bed at all. Three months had now passed and there was no mistaking her condition. Soon it would be known and everywhere discussed. She was appalled at the calamity which had overtaken her. Not knowing that there was any cause for secrecy, her people were astonished that she had not long ago informed the Emperor of her condition. Speculations were rife, but the question was one which only the Princess herself was in a position definitely to solve. Ōmyōbu and her old nurse’s daughter who waited upon her at her toilet and in the bath-house had at once noted the change and were somewhat taken aback. But Ōmyōbu was unwilling to discuss the matter. She had an uncomfortable suspicion that it was the meeting which she arranged that had now taken effect with cruel promptness and precision. It was announced in the Palace that other disorders had misled those about her and prevented them from recognizing the true nature of her condition. This explanation was accepted by everyone.

I need not tell everything that happened. The night passed all too quickly. He whispered a poem in her ear: ‘Now that we have finally met, if only we could vanish forever into the dream we dreamed tonight!’ But she was still overcome with guilt: ‘Even if I hid in the darkness of eternal sleep, my shame would still spread from person to person throughout the world.’ And, as Genji knew, she had good reason for her sudden fear and remorse. As he left, Ōmyōbu ran after him with his cloak and the other belongings he had left behind. He lay on his bed all day in great torment. He sent a letter, but it was returned unopened. This had happened many times before. But now it so alarmed him that he was completely overcome and stayed in his room for two or three days. All the while, he feared that his concerned father would begin asking what new trouble had come over him. Fujitsubo, convinced that she was ruined, fell into a deep depression. Her health grew worse every day. Messengers kept arriving from the Court, begging her to return at once. But she could not bring herself to go. Her illness had taken a turn that filled her with secret dread. All day she sat in distress, wondering what would become of her. When the hot weather began, she stopped getting out of bed altogether. Three months had now passed, and there was no mistaking that she was pregnant. Soon everyone would know and talk about it. She was horrified by the disaster that had befallen her. Her attendants knew of no reason for secrecy. They were astonished that she had not told the Emperor about her condition long ago. Everyone was speculating, but only the Princess herself could settle the question. Ōmyōbu and her old nurse’s daughter, who attended her while she dressed and bathed, had noticed the change at once. They were somewhat taken aback. But Ōmyōbu would not discuss it. She had an uneasy suspicion that the meeting she had arranged had produced this result with cruel speed and precision. The Palace announced that other illnesses had misled Fujitsubo’s attendants and kept them from recognizing her pregnancy. Everyone accepted this explanation.

The Emperor himself was full of tender concern, and though messengers kept him constantly informed, the gloomiest doubts and fancies passed continually through his mind. Genji was at this time visited by a most terrifying and extraordinary dream. He sent for interpreters, but they could make little of it. There were indeed certain passages to which they could assign no meaning at all; but this much was clear: the dreamer had made a false step and must be on his guard. ‘It was not my dream’ said Genji, feeling somewhat alarmed. ‘I am consulting you on behalf of someone else,’ and he was wondering what this ‘false step’ could have been when news reached him of the Princess’s condition. This then was the disaster which his dream had portended! At once he wrote her an immense letter full of passionate self-reproaches and exhortations. But Ōmyōbu, thinking that it would only increase her agitation, refused to deliver it, and he could trust no other messenger. Even the few wretched lines which she had been in the habit of sending to him now and again had for some while utterly ceased.

The Emperor himself was deeply concerned. Although messengers kept him constantly informed, his mind was filled with dark doubts and fears. At this time, Genji had a terrifying and extraordinary dream. He sent for dream interpreters, but they could make little of it. There were parts of the dream they could not explain at all. But one thing was clear: the dreamer had made a false step and had to be on guard. ‘It was not my dream,’ Genji said, feeling somewhat alarmed. ‘I am consulting you on behalf of someone else.’ He was wondering what this ‘false step’ could have been when news reached him of the Princess’s condition. This was the disaster his dream had foretold! He immediately wrote her a very long letter, full of passionate self-reproach and urging her to be strong. But Ōmyōbu refused to deliver it, thinking it would only upset her more. Genji could trust no other messenger. Even the few unhappy lines the Princess had sent him from time to time had stopped altogether for some while.

In her seventh month she again appeared at Court. Overjoyed at her return, the Emperor lavished boundless affection upon her. The added fulness of her figure, the unwonted pallor and thinness of her face gave her, he thought, a new and incomparable charm. As before, all his leisure was spent in her company. During this time several Court festivals took place and Genji’s presence was constantly required; sometimes he was called upon to play the koto or flute, sometimes to serve his father in other ways. On such occasions, strive as he might to show no trace of embarrassment or agitation, he feared more than once that he had betrayed himself; while to her such confrontations were one long torment.

In her seventh month, she returned to Court. The Emperor was overjoyed to see her and showered her with affection. Her fuller figure and her unusually pale, thin face gave her a new and incomparable charm, he thought. As before, he spent all his free time with her. Several Court festivals took place during this time, and Genji was constantly required to attend. Sometimes he was asked to play the koto or flute, and sometimes to serve his father in other ways. On these occasions, he tried hard to hide his embarrassment and agitation. But more than once, he feared he had betrayed himself. For her, these encounters were a constant torment.

The nun had somewhat improved in health and was now living in the Capital. He had enquired where she was lodging and sent messages from time to time, receiving (which indeed was all he expected) as little encouragement as before. In the last months his longing for the child had increased rather than diminished, but day after day went by without his finding any means to change the situation. As the autumn drew to its close, he fell into a state of great despondency. One fine moonlit night when he had decided, against his own inclination, to pay a certain secret visit,⁷⁰ a shower came on. As he had started from the Palace and the place to which he was going was in the suburbs of the Sixth Ward, it occurred to him that it would be disagreeable to go so far in the rain. He was considering what he should do when he noticed a tumbled-down house surrounded by very ancient trees. He asked whose this gloomy and desolate mansion might be, and Koremitsu, who, as usual, was with him replied: ‘Why that is the late Azechi no Dainagon’s house. A day or two ago I took occasion to call there and was told that my Lady the nun has grown very weak and does not now know what goes on about her.’ ‘Why did you not tell me this before? ‘said Genji deeply concerned; ‘I should have called at once to convey my sympathy to her household. Pray go in at once and ask for news.’ Koremitsu accordingly sent one of the lesser attendants to the house, instructing him to give the impression that Genji had come on purpose to enquire. When the man announced that Prince Genji had sent him for news and was himself waiting outside, great excitement and consternation prevailed in the house. Their mistress, the servants said, had for several days been lying in a very parlous condition and could not possibly receive a visit. But they dared not simply send so distinguished a visitor away, and hastily tidying the southern parlour, they bustled him into it, saying, ‘You must forgive us for showing you into this untidy room. We have done our best to make it presentable. Perhaps, on a surprise visit, you will forgive us for conducting you to such an out-of-the-way closet....’ It was indeed not at all the kind of room that he was used to. ‘I have been meaning for a long while to visit this house,’ said Genji; ‘but time after time the proposals which I made in writing concerning a certain project of mine were summarily rejected and this discouraged me. Had I but known that your mistress’s health had taken this turn for the worse....’ ‘Tell him that at this moment my mind is clear, though it may soon be darkened again. I am deeply sensible of the kindness he has shown in thus visiting my death-bed, and regret that I cannot speak with him face to face. Tell him that if by any chance he has not altered his mind with regard to the matter that he has discussed with me before, by all means let him, when the time has come, number her among the ladies of his household. It is with great anxiety that I leave her behind me and I fear that such a bond with earth may hinder me from reaching the life for which I have prayed.’

The nun’s health had improved somewhat, and she was now living in the Capital. Genji had asked where she was staying and sent messages from time to time. But he received as little encouragement as before, which was all he expected. In recent months, his longing for the child had grown rather than faded. Yet day after day passed, and he could find no way to change the situation. As autumn drew to a close, he became deeply despondent. One fine moonlit night, he decided, though he did not want to, to make a certain secret visit.⁷⁰ Then a shower began. He had set out from the Palace, and his destination was in the suburbs of the Sixth Ward. He thought it would be unpleasant to travel so far in the rain. As he considered what to do, he noticed a dilapidated house surrounded by very old trees. He asked who owned the gloomy, deserted mansion. Koremitsu, who was with him as usual, replied, “Why, that is the late Azechi no Dainagon’s house. I happened to call there a day or two ago. I was told that my lady the nun has grown very weak and no longer knows what is happening around her.” “Why didn’t you tell me before?” Genji asked, deeply concerned. “I would have called at once to express my sympathy to her household. Please go in at once and ask for news.” Koremitsu sent one of the junior attendants to the house. He told the man to give the impression that Genji had come specifically to ask after the nun. The man announced that Prince Genji had sent him for news and was waiting outside. This caused great excitement and alarm in the house. The servants said their mistress had been gravely ill for several days and could not possibly receive a visitor. But they did not dare simply send such a distinguished visitor away. They hurriedly tidied the southern parlor and ushered Genji inside. “You must forgive us for showing you into this untidy room,” they said. “We have done our best to make it presentable. Perhaps you will forgive us for taking you to such a remote little room when you have come unexpectedly....” It was certainly not the kind of room he was used to. “I have been meaning to visit this house for a long time,” Genji said. “But time after time, the proposals I made in writing about a certain plan of mine were promptly rejected. That discouraged me. If only I had known that your mistress’s health had taken such a turn for the worse....” “Tell him that my mind is clear at this moment, though it may soon become clouded again. I am deeply grateful for his kindness in visiting me on my deathbed. I regret that I cannot speak with him face to face. Tell him that if he has not changed his mind about the matter he discussed with me before, then by all means, when the time comes, let him include her among the ladies of his household. I leave her behind with great anxiety. I fear that such a tie to this world may keep me from reaching the life I have prayed for.”

Her room was so near and the partition so thin that as she gave Shōnagon her message he could hear now and again the sound of her sad, quavering voice. Presently he heard her saying to someone ‘How kind, how very kind of him to come. If only the child were old enough to thank him nicely!’ ‘It is indeed no question of kindness,’ said Genji to Shōnagon. ‘Surely it is evident that only some very deep feeling would have driven me to display so zealous a persistency! Since first I saw this child, a feeling of strange tenderness towards her possessed me, and it has grown to such a love as cannot be of this world only.⁷¹ Though it is but an idle fancy, I have a longing to hear her voice. Could you not send for her before I go?’ ‘Poor little thing,’ said Shōnagon. ‘She is fast asleep in her room and knows nothing of all our troubles.’ But as she spoke there was a sound of someone moving in the women’s quarters and a voice suddenly was heard saying: ‘Grandmother, Grandmother! Prince Genji who came to see us in the mountains is here, paying a visit. Why do you not let him come and talk to you?’ ‘Hush, child, hush!’ cried all the gentlewomen, scandalized. ‘No, no,’ said the child; ‘Grandmother said that when she saw this prince it made her feel better at once. I was not being silly at all.’ This speech delighted Genji; but the gentlewomen of the household thought the child’s incursion painful and unseemly, and pretended not to hear her last remark. Genji gave up the idea of paying a real visit and drove back to his house, thinking as he went that her behaviour was indeed still that of a mere infant. Yet how easy and delightful it would be to teach her!

Her room was so close and the partition so thin that he could sometimes hear her sad, trembling voice as she gave Shōnagon her message. Soon he heard her say to someone, ‘How kind, how very kind of him to come. If only the child were old enough to thank him properly!’ ‘It is not a question of kindness at all,’ Genji said to Shōnagon. ‘Surely you can see that only a very deep feeling could have made me so eager and persistent! From the moment I first saw this child, I felt a strange tenderness toward her. It has grown into a love that cannot belong to this world alone.⁷¹ Though it is only a passing fancy, I long to hear her voice. Could you send for her before I go?’ ‘Poor little thing,’ said Shōnagon. ‘She is fast asleep in her room and knows nothing of all our troubles.’ But as she spoke, someone stirred in the women’s quarters. Suddenly a voice called out, ‘Grandmother, Grandmother! Prince Genji, who came to see us in the mountains, is here on a visit. Why don’t you let him come and talk to you?’ ‘Hush, child, hush!’ cried all the gentlewomen, shocked. ‘No, no,’ said the child. ‘Grandmother said that seeing this prince made her feel better at once. I wasn’t being silly at all.’ Genji was delighted by what she said. But the gentlewomen of the household found the child’s interruption awkward and improper. They pretended not to hear her last remark. Genji gave up the idea of a proper visit and rode back to his house. On the way, he thought that she did indeed still behave like a mere infant. Yet how easy and delightful it would be to teach her!

Next day he paid a proper visit. On his arrival he sent in a poem written on his usual tiny slip of paper: ‘Since first I heard the voice of the young crane, my boat shows a strange tendency to stick among the reeds!’ It was meant for the little girl and was written in a large, childish hand, but very beautifully, so that the ladies of the house said as soon as they saw it ‘This will have to go into the child’s copy-book.’

The next day he paid a proper visit. When he arrived, he sent in a poem on his usual tiny slip of paper: ‘Ever since I first heard the young crane’s voice, my boat has been strangely inclined to stick among the reeds!’ The poem was meant for the little girl. He had written it in large, childlike letters, but so beautifully that the ladies of the house said at once, ‘This will have to go into the child’s copybook.’

Shōnagon sent him the following note: ‘My mistress, feeling that she might not live through the day, asked us to have her moved to the temple in the hills, and she is already on her way. I shall see to it that she learns of your enquiry, if I can but send word to her before it is too late.’ The letter touched him deeply.

Shōnagon sent him this note: ‘My mistress fears she may not live through the day. She asked us to move her to the temple in the hills, and she is already on her way. I will make sure she hears that you asked about her, if I can send her word before it is too late.’ The letter moved him deeply.

During these autumn evenings his heart was in a continual ferment. But though all his thoughts were occupied in a different quarter, yet owing to the curious relationship in which the child stood to the being who thus obsessed his mind, the desire to make the girl his own throughout this stormy time grew daily stronger. He remembered the evening when he had first seen her and the nun’s poem, ‘Not knowing if any will come to nurture the tender leaf....’ She would always be delightful; but in some respects she might not fulfil her early promise. One must take risks. And he made the poem: ‘When shall I see it lying in my hand, the young grass of the moor-side that springs from purple⁷² roots?’ In the tenth month the Emperor was to visit the Suzaku-in for the Festival of Red Leaves. The dancers were all to be sons of the noblest houses. The most accomplished among the princes, courtiers and other great gentlemen had been chosen for their parts by the Emperor himself, and from the Royal Princes and State Ministers downward everyone was busy with continual practices and rehearsals. Genji suddenly realized that for a long while he had not enquired after his friends on the mountain. He at once sent a special messenger who brought back this letter from the priest: ‘The end came on the twentieth day of last month. It is the common lot of mankind; yet her loss is very grievous to me!’ This and more he wrote, and Genji, reading the letter was filled with a bitter sense of life’s briefness and futility. And what of the child concerning whose future the dead woman had shown such anxiety? He could not remember his own mother’s death at all distinctly; but some dim recollection still floated in his mind and gave to his letter of condolence an added warmth of feeling. It was answered, not without a certain self-importance, by the nurse Shōnagon.

During those autumn evenings, his heart was in constant turmoil. His thoughts were entirely elsewhere, occupied by another woman. But the child’s curious relationship to the woman who obsessed him made him increasingly eager to make the girl his own. His desire grew stronger each day throughout that stormy time. He remembered the evening he had first seen her and the nun’s poem, ‘Not knowing if anyone will come to nurture the tender leaf....’ The girl would always be delightful, though in some ways she might not live up to her early promise. One must take risks. He wrote a poem: ‘When shall I see it lying in my hand, the young grass of the moor-side that springs from purple⁷² roots?’ In the tenth month, the Emperor was to visit the Suzaku-in for the Festival of Red Leaves. The dancers were all to be sons of the noblest families. The Emperor himself had chosen the most accomplished princes, courtiers, and other great gentlemen for the roles. Everyone, from the Royal Princes and State Ministers down, was busy practicing and rehearsing. Genji suddenly realized that he had not asked after his friends on the mountain for a long time. He immediately sent a special messenger, who brought back this letter from the priest: ‘The end came on the twentieth day of last month. It is the common fate of humankind, yet her loss is very painful to me!’ The priest wrote more, and as Genji read the letter, he felt bitterly how brief and futile life was. And what of the child whose future the dead woman had worried about so deeply? He could not remember his own mother’s death clearly. But he still had some dim memory of it, which lent added warmth to his letter of condolence. The nurse Shōnagon replied, with a certain air of self-importance.

After the funeral and mourning were over, the child was brought back to the Capital. Hearing of this he allowed a short while to elapse and then one fine, still night went to the house of his own accord. This gloomy, decaying, half-deserted mansion must, he thought, have a most depressing effect upon the child who lived there. He was shown into the same small room as before. Here Shōnagon told him between her sobs the whole tale of their bereavement, at which he too found himself strangely moved. ‘I would send my little mistress to His Highness her father’s,’ she continued, ‘did I not remember how cruelly her poor mother was used in that house. And I would do it still if my little lady were a child in arms who would not know where she had been taken to nor what the people there were feeling towards her. But she is now too big a girl to go among a lot of strange children who might not treat her kindly. So her poor dead grandmother was always saying down to her last day. You, Sir, have been very good to us, and it would be a great weight off my mind to know that she was coming to you even if it were only for a little while; and I would not worry you with asking what was to become of her afterwards. Only for her sake I am sorry indeed that she is not some years older, so that you might make a match of it. But the way she has been brought up has made her young even for her age.’ ‘You need not so constantly remind me of her childishness,’ said Genji. ‘Though it is indeed her youth and helplessness which move my compassion, yet I realize (and why should I hide it from myself or from you?) that a far closer bond unites our souls. Let me tell her myself what we have just now decided,’ and he recited a poem in which he asked if ‘like the waves that lap the shore where young reeds grow he must advance only to recede again.’ ‘Will she be too much surprised?’ he added. Shōnagon, saying that the little girl should by all means be fetched, answered his poem with another in which she warned him that he must not expect her to ‘drift seaweed-like with the waves,’ before she understood his intention. ‘Now, what made you think I should send you away without letting her see you?’ she asked, speaking in an off-hand, familiar tone which he found it easy to pardon. His appearance, which the gentlewomen of the house studied with great care while he sat waiting for the child and singing to himself a verse of the song Why so hard to cross the hill? made a deep impression upon them, and they did not forget that moment for a long while after.

After the funeral and mourning were over, the child was brought back to the Capital. When Genji heard this, he waited a short while. Then, on a fine, still night, he went to the house of his own accord. He thought the gloomy, decaying, half deserted mansion must be terribly depressing for the child who lived there. He was shown into the same small room as before. There, Shōnagon told him the whole story of their loss between sobs. He too found himself strangely moved. ‘I would send my little mistress to her father, His Highness,’ she continued, ‘if I did not remember how cruelly her poor mother was treated in that house. I would still do it if my little lady were a baby. Then she would not know where she had been taken or how the people there felt about her. But she is too old now to go among strange children who might not treat her kindly. Her poor dead grandmother kept saying so until her last day. You, Sir, have been very good to us. It would be a great relief to know she was coming to you, even for a little while. I would not trouble you by asking what would become of her afterward. For her sake, though, I am truly sorry she is not a few years older, so you could marry her. But the way she has been raised has made her young even for her age.’ ‘You need not keep reminding me how childish she is,’ said Genji. ‘It is true that her youth and helplessness make me feel sorry for her. Yet I know that a far closer bond joins our souls. Why should I hide it from myself or from you? Let me tell her myself what we have just decided.’ He recited a poem asking if he must ‘like the waves that lap the shore where young reeds grow, advance only to recede again.’ ‘Will she be too surprised?’ he added. Shōnagon said that the little girl should certainly be fetched. She answered his poem with one of her own. In it, she warned him not to expect the girl to ‘drift seaweed-like with the waves’ before she understood his intention. ‘Now, what made you think I would send you away without letting her see you?’ she asked. She spoke in a casual, familiar tone that he found easy to forgive. While he waited for the child, Genji sang to himself a verse from the song Why so hard to cross the hill? The gentlewomen of the house studied him closely as he sat there. His appearance made a deep impression on them, and they did not forget that moment for a long time afterward.

The child was lying on her bed weeping for her grandmother. ‘A gentleman in a big cloak has come to play with you,’ said one of the women who were waiting upon her; ‘I wonder if it is your father.’ At this she jumped up and cried out: ‘Nurse, where is the gentleman in a 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.’

The child lay on her bed, weeping for her grandmother. ‘A gentleman in a big cloak has come to play with you,’ said one of the women attending her. ‘I wonder if it is your father.’ The child jumped up and cried, ‘Nurse, where is the gentleman in a cloak? Is he my father?’ Then she ran 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....’ From the way people talked about Prince Genji, she had learned that he was very important. She thought he must be very angry with her for calling him the ‘gentleman in a cloak’. So she went straight to her nurse and whispered, ‘Please, I am sleepy.’ ‘You must not be shy of me anymore,’ said Genji. ‘If you are sleepy, come here and lie on my knee. Won’t you even come and talk to me?’ ‘There,’ said Shōnagon, ‘you see what a little savage she is,’ and pushed the child toward him. She stood listlessly beside him. She ran her hand under her hair, letting it fall in waves over her soft dress. Then she clasped a great bunch of it where it hung thick around her shoulders. After a while, he took her hand. But she was terrified by such close contact with someone she was not used to. She cried, ‘I said I wanted to go to bed,’ and snatched her hand away. Then she ran into the women’s quarters. He followed her, crying, ‘Dear one, don’t 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 say such a wicked thing to the poor child? And it’s not much use telling people to be fond of you, is it?’ ‘For the moment, it may not be,’ said Genji. ‘But you will see that strange things happen when one’s heart is set on something 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.

Hail was falling. It was a wild and terrible night. The thought of leaving her in the gloomy, half-deserted mansion depressed him deeply. He seized on the storm as an excuse to stay near her. ‘Shut the partition door!’ he cried. ‘I’ll stay for a while and keep watch here on this terrible night. Come close to me, all of you!’ Then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, he picked up the child and carried her to bed. The gentlewomen were far too astonished and confused to move from their seats. Shōnagon was deeply upset and alarmed by his forceful behavior. Still, she had to admit to herself that there was no real reason to interfere. She could only sit moaning in her corner. At first, the little girl was terribly frightened. She did not know what he was going to do with her, and she shuddered violently. When he drew her close, even the feel of his delicate, cool skin gave her goosebumps. He saw this, but he gently and carefully removed her outer clothes and laid her down. He knew she was still afraid of him, but he began speaking to her softly and tenderly. ‘How would you like to come with me one day to a place with lots of lovely pictures, dolls, and toys?’ He went on to speak so warmly about everything that interested her most that she soon felt almost at home with him. But she remained restless for a long time and did not sleep properly. The storm was still raging. ‘What would we have done if this gentleman hadn’t been here?’ one of the women whispered. ‘I know I would have been terribly frightened. If only our little lady were closer to his age!’ Shōnagon was still mistrustful and sat very close to Genji the whole time.

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.

At last the wind began to die down. It was very late, but no one would be surprised if Genji returned at that hour. ‘She has become so dear to me,’ Genji said, ‘that I hate to leave her, even for a few hours. Especially now, at such a sad time in her life. I think I shall put her somewhere I can see her whenever I wish. I wonder she is not afraid to live in a place like this.’ ‘I think her father spoke of coming to fetch her,’ said Shōnagon. ‘But that probably will not be until the Forty-nine Days are over.’ ‘Of course, under ordinary circumstances, it would be natural for her father to look after her,’ Genji admitted. ‘But someone else has brought her up entirely, so she has no more reason to care for him than for me. And though I have known her for such a short time, I am certainly much fonder of her than her father could possibly be.’ He stroked the child’s hair, then left the room reluctantly, looking back many times. A thick white fog had settled, and frost covered the grass. Suddenly he wished it were a real love affair, and he became very depressed. He remembered that on his way home he would pass a house he had once often visited. He knocked at the door, but no one answered. He then ordered one of his servants, who had a strong voice, to recite these lines: ‘At my Sister’s gate, though morning fog keeps all the world as dark as night, I could not pass without stopping.’ After the servant had sung this twice, the lady sent a rude, conceited valet to the door. The valet recited this poem: ‘If you disliked the hedge of fog around this place, a flimsy wicker gate would not keep you standing in the street.’ Then he went straight back into the house. Genji waited, but no one else came to the door. It was now broad daylight, and he was in no mood to go home with nothing to do, but what else could he do? At his palace, he lay for a long time, smiling with pleasure as he remembered the child’s pretty words and ways. Around noon he got up and began to write her a letter. But he could not find the right words, and after putting down his brush many times, he finally decided 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 quarter⁷³ 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.’

That day Prince Hyōbukyō made his long-promised visit to the late nun’s house. It seemed even more dilapidated, sprawling and old-fashioned than he remembered from years before. How depressing it must be for a handful of people to live in these crumbling halls! He looked around and said to the nurse, ‘No child should live in a place like this, even briefly. I must take her away at once. There’s plenty of room in my house.’ He turned to Shōnagon. ‘You can have a position there as a Lady-in-Waiting. The child will be very well looked after. There are several other young people for her to play with.’ He called the little girl over. He noticed the rich perfume that had clung to her dress since Genji held her in his arms. ‘Your dress smells lovely,’ the Prince said. ‘But isn’t it rather dull?’ As soon as he said it, he remembered that she was in mourning and felt slightly uncomfortable. ‘I used to tell her grandmother that she should let the girl visit me and grow used to our ways,’ he continued. ‘It was a strange upbringing, living year after year with one whose health and spirits were steadily declining. But for some reason her grandmother was very unfriendly toward me. There was reluctance in another quarter⁷³ too, and I fear that even now it may not be entirely overcome....’ ‘If that’s so,’ said Shōnagon, ‘dull as it is for her here, I don’t think she should be moved yet. She should wait until she is a little better able to look after 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.

For days, the child had been overcome with grief. She had not eaten a bite and had grown very thin, but she was no less lovely. He looked at her tenderly and said: ‘You must not cry anymore. When people die, nothing can be done, 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 leave, he saw that the child was crying bitterly again. The thought of being in his care had not comforted her at all. The Prince shed a few tears himself and did his best to comfort her: ‘Do not grieve so. Today or tomorrow I will send for you to come and live with me.’ With that, he left. Still, the child wept, and no one could find a way to distract her. She was not worried about her own future, of course. She had not yet begun to think about such things. She had lost the companion from whom she had never been separated for a moment in all those years. Though she was so young, she suffered terribly and gave up all her usual games. Sometimes her spirits improved a little during the day. But as night drew near, she became so sad that Shōnagon wondered how much longer it would go on. In despair at being unable to comfort her, Shōnagon would burst into tears herself.

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.

Soon Koremitsu arrived with a message. Genji had intended to visit them, but a sudden command from the Palace had prevented him. Deeply troubled by the little girl’s grave condition, he had sent Koremitsu to ask for news. After delivering the message, Koremitsu brought in some of Genji’s servants. Genji had sent them to guard the house that night. ‘This kindness is really misplaced,’ said Shōnagon. ‘He may not think it matters much to have his gentlemen stationed here. But if the child’s father hears of it, we servants will get all the blame. He will blame us for giving the little lady away to a married gentleman. He will say, “You were the ones who let it all begin.” Now be careful,’ she said, turning to her fellow servants. ‘Do not let her even mention these guards to her father.’ But alas, the child was quite incapable of understanding such a warning. After pouring out many complaints to Koremitsu, Shōnagon continued: ‘I have no doubt that someday she will somehow become his wife. That seems to be their fate. But there can be no talk of such a thing now, or for a long time to come. He has told me plainly that he knows this as well as the rest of us. So I cannot imagine what he is after. Only today, when Prince Hyōbukyō was here, he told me to keep a close eye on her. He said I must not let anyone treat her indiscreetly. I confess that his words reminded me, to my dismay, of certain liberties I have allowed your master to take. I thought little of them at the time.’ As soon as she said this, she feared that Koremitsu would take her words to mean something worse than she intended. She shook her head sadly and fell silent. And she was not far wrong, for Koremitsu was indeed wondering what sort of misbehavior Genji had been guilty of.

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.

When Koremitsu reported back, Genji was filled with pity for the child and wanted to visit her at once. But he feared that people who did not know better would misunderstand his frequent visits. They might think the girl was older than she was and spread foolish rumors. It would be much simpler to bring her to his Palace and keep her there. He sent many letters throughout the day. At dusk, Koremitsu went to the house again. He said that urgent business had once more prevented Genji from visiting and that Genji apologized for neglecting them. Shōnagon replied curtly that the girl’s father had suddenly decided to take her away the next day. They were too busy to receive visitors. ‘The servants are all upset about leaving this shabby old house where they have lived so long. They are going to a strange, grand place....’ She answered Koremitsu’s further questions so briefly and seemed so focused on her sewing that he 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?’⁷⁴

Genji was at the Great Hall, but as usual, he had been unable to get Aoi to speak. In a gloomy mood, he plucked his zither and sang, ‘Why did you hurry across fields and hills So fast on this rainy night?’⁷⁴

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 Hall. Genji sent for him at once and bade him tell his story. Koremitsu’s news was very disquieting. Once she was in her father’s palace it would look very odd that Genji should fetch her away, even if she came willingly. It would inevitably be rumoured abroad that he had made off with her like a child-snatcher, a thief. Far better to anticipate his rival and exacting a promise of silence from the people about her, carry her off to his own palace immediately. ‘I shall go there at daybreak,’ he said to Koremitsu; ‘Order the carriage that I came here in, it can be used just as it is, and see to it that one or two attendants are ready to go with me.’ Koremitsu bowed and retired.

The song’s words were meant for Aoi, and Genji sang them with great feeling. He was still singing when Koremitsu arrived at the Great Hall. Genji sent for him at once and asked him to tell his story. Koremitsu’s news was very troubling. Once she was in her father’s palace, it would look very odd for Genji to take her away, even if she came willingly. People would inevitably spread rumors that he had stolen her away like a child-snatcher, a thief. It would be far better to act before his rival did. He should make the people around her promise to keep silent, then take her to his own palace at once. ‘I shall go there at daybreak,’ he told Koremitsu. ‘Order the carriage I came here in. It can be used just as it is. Make sure one or two attendants are ready to go with me.’ Koremitsu bowed and left.

Genji knew that whichever course he chose, there was bound to be a scandal so soon as the thing became known. Inevitably gossips would spread the report that, young though she was, the child by this time knew well enough why she had been invited to live with Prince Genji in his palace. Let them draw their own conclusions. That did not matter. There was a much worse possibility. What if Hyōbukyō found out where she was? His conduct in abducting another man’s child would appear in the highest degree outrageous and discreditable. He was sorely puzzled, but he knew that if he let this opportunity slip he would afterwards bitterly repent it, and long before daybreak he started on his way. Aoi was cold and sullen as ever. ‘I have just remembered something very important which I must see about at home,’ he said; ‘I shall not be away long,’ and he slipped out so quietly that the servants of the house did not know that he was gone. His cloak was brought to him from his own apartments and he drove off attended only by Koremitsu who followed on horseback. After much knocking they succeeded in getting the gate opened, but by a servant who was not in the secret. Koremitsu ordered the man to pull in Genji’s carriage as quietly as he could and himself went straight to the front door, which he rattled, coughing as he did so that Shōnagon might know who was there. ‘My lord is waiting,’ he said when she came to the door. ‘But the young lady is fast asleep,’ said Shōnagon; ‘his Highness has no business to be up and about at this time of night.’ She said this thinking that he was returning from some nocturnal escapade and had only called there in passing. ‘I hear,’ said Genji now coming forward, ‘that the child is to be moved to her father’s and I have something of importance which I must say to her before she goes.’ ‘Whatever business you have to transact with her, I am sure she will give the matter her closest attention,’ scoffed Shōnagon. Matters of importance indeed, with a child of ten! Genji entered the women’s quarters. ‘You cannot go in there,’ cried Shōnagon in horror; ‘several aged ladies are lying all undressed....’ ‘They are all fast asleep,’ said Genji. ‘See, I am only rousing the child,’ and bending over her: ‘The morning mist is rising,’ he cried, ‘it is time to wake!’ And before Shōnagon had time to utter a sound, he had taken the child in his arms and begun gently to rouse her. Still half-dreaming, she thought it was the prince her father who had come to fetch her. ‘Come,’ said Genji while he put her hair to rights, ‘your father has sent me to bring you back with me to his palace.’ For a moment she was dazed to find that it was not her father and shrank from him in fright. ‘Never mind whether it is your father or I,’ he cried; ‘it is all the same,’ and so saying he picked her up in his arms and carried her out of the inner room. ‘Well!’ cried out Koremitsu and Shōnagon in astonishment. What would he do next? ‘It seems,’ said Genji, ‘that you were disquieted at my telling you I could not visit her here as often as I wished and would make arrangements for her to go to a more convenient place. I hear that you are sending her where it will be even more difficult for me to see her. Therefore ... make ready one or the other of you to come with me.’

Genji knew that whatever he chose, there would be a scandal as soon as it became known. Gossips would surely say that, young as she was, the child understood why she had been invited to live in Prince Genji’s palace. Let them draw their own conclusions. That did not matter. There was a much worse possibility. What if Hyōbukyō found out where she was? Genji’s abduction of another man’s child would seem utterly outrageous and disgraceful. He was deeply troubled. But he knew that if he missed this opportunity, he would bitterly regret it later. Long before daybreak, he set out. Aoi was as cold and sullen as ever. ‘I have just remembered something very important I must attend to at home,’ he said. ‘I won’t be away long.’ He slipped out so quietly that the household servants did not know he had gone. His cloak was brought from his own rooms, and he drove off accompanied only by Koremitsu, who followed on horseback. After much knocking, they managed to get the gate opened. But the servant who opened it knew nothing of their secret. Koremitsu told the man to pull Genji’s carriage inside as quietly as he could. Then he went straight to the front door and rattled it, coughing so that Shōnagon would recognize him. ‘My lord is waiting,’ he said when she came to the door. ‘But the young lady is fast asleep,’ said Shōnagon. ‘His Highness has no business being out at this hour.’ She thought he was returning from a night of adventure and had merely stopped by on his way. ‘I hear,’ said Genji, coming forward, ‘that the child is to be moved to her father’s home. There is something important I must say to her before she goes.’ ‘Whatever business you have with her, I’m sure she’ll give it her closest attention,’ Shōnagon said mockingly. Important business indeed, with a child of ten! Genji entered the women’s quarters. ‘You can’t go in there,’ Shōnagon cried in horror. ‘Several elderly ladies are lying there without any clothes on....’ ‘They’re all fast asleep,’ said Genji. ‘See, I’m only waking the child.’ He bent over her. ‘The morning mist is rising,’ he cried. ‘It’s time to wake up!’ Before Shōnagon could make a sound, he had taken the child in his arms and begun gently waking her. Still half-dreaming, she thought her father, the prince, had come to fetch her. ‘Come,’ said Genji, smoothing her hair. ‘Your father has sent me to take you back with me to his palace.’ For a moment she was bewildered to find that he was not her father, and she drew back in fright. ‘Never mind whether it’s your father or me,’ he cried. ‘It’s all the same.’ With that, he picked her up and carried her out of the inner room. ‘Well!’ cried Koremitsu and Shōnagon in astonishment. What would he do next? ‘It seems,’ said Genji, ‘that you were upset when I told you I couldn’t visit her here as often as I wished. I also said I would arrange for her to go somewhere more convenient. I hear you’re sending her somewhere it will be even harder for me to see her. Therefore ... one of you must get ready to come with me.’

Shōnagon, who now realized that he was going to make off with the child, fell into a terrible fluster. ‘O Sir,’ she said, ‘you could not have chosen a worse time. To-day her father is coming to fetch her, and whatever shall I say to him? If only you would wait, I am sure it would all come right in the end. But by acting so hastily you will do yourself no good and leave the poor servants here in a sad pickle.’ ‘If that is all,’ cried Genji, ‘let them follow as soon as they choose,’ and to Shōnagon’s despair he had the carriage brought in. The child stood by weeping and bewildered. There seemed no way of preventing him from carrying out his purpose and gathering together the child’s clothes that she had been sewing the night before, the nurse put on her own best dress and stepped into the carriage. Genji’s house was not far off and they arrived before daylight. They drew up in front of the western wing and Genji alighted. Taking the child lightly in his arms he set her on the ground. Shōnagon, to whom these strange events seemed like a dream, hesitated as though still uncertain whether she should enter the house or no. ‘There is no need for you to come in if you do not want to,’ said Genji. ‘Now that the child herself is safely here I am quite content. If you had rather go back, you have only to say so and I will escort you.’

Shōnagon now realized that Genji was going to take the child away, and she became terribly flustered. ‘Oh, sir,’ she said, ‘you could not have chosen a worse time. Her father is coming to fetch her today. Whatever shall I say to him? If only you would wait, I am sure everything would come right in the end. But by acting so hastily, you will do yourself no good. And you will leave the poor servants here in a terrible predicament.’ ‘If that is all,’ cried Genji, ‘let them follow whenever they choose.’ To Shōnagon’s despair, he had the carriage brought in. The child stood there, weeping and bewildered. There seemed to be no way to stop Genji from carrying out his plan. So the nurse gathered the child’s clothes, which she had been sewing the night before. She put on her own best dress and stepped into the carriage. Genji’s house was not far away, and they arrived before daylight. They stopped in front of the western wing, and Genji got out. He lifted the child gently in his arms and set her on the ground. To Shōnagon, these strange events seemed like a dream. She hesitated, as if still unsure whether to enter the house. ‘You do not need to come in if you do not want to,’ said Genji. ‘Now that the child herself is safely here, I am quite content. If you would rather go back, you only have to say so, and I will escort you.’

Reluctantly she left the carriage. The suddenness of the move was in itself enough to have upset her; but she was also worrying about what Prince Hyōbukyō would think when he found that his child had vanished. And indeed what was going to become of her? One way or another all her mistresses seemed to be taken from her and it was only when she became frightened of having wept for so long on end that she at last dried her eyes and began to pray.

She reluctantly got out of the carriage. The sudden move alone was enough to upset her. But she also worried about what Prince Hyōbukyō would think when he found his child gone. And what was going to happen to her? One way or another, all her mistresses seemed to be taken from her. Only when she became frightened by how long she had been crying did she finally dry her eyes and begin to pray.

The western wing had long been uninhabited and was not completely furnished; but Koremitsu had soon fitted up screens and curtains where they were required. For Genji makeshift quarters were soon contrived by letting down the side-wings of his screen-of-honour. He sent to the other part of the house for his night things and went to sleep. The child, who had been put to bed not far off, was still very apprehensive and ill at ease in these new surroundings. Her lips were trembling, but she dared not cry out loud. ‘I want to sleep with Shōnagon,’ she said at last in a tearful, babyish voice. ‘You are getting too big to sleep with a nurse,’ said Genji, who had heard her. ‘You must try and go to sleep nicely where you are.’ She felt very lonely and lay weeping for a long while. The nurse was far too much upset to think of going to bed and sat up for the rest of the night in the servants’ quarters crying so bitterly that she was unconscious of all that went on around her.

The west wing had been empty for a long time and was not fully furnished. But Koremitsu quickly put up screens and curtains where they were needed. He made temporary quarters for Genji by lowering the side panels of his screen of honor. Genji sent for his nightclothes from the other part of the house and went to sleep. The child had been put to bed nearby. She was still frightened and uneasy in her new surroundings. Her lips trembled, but she did not dare cry aloud. ‘I want to sleep with Shōnagon,’ she said at last, in a tearful, babyish voice. Genji heard her. ‘You are getting too big to sleep with a nurse,’ he said. ‘You must try to go to sleep nicely where you are.’ She felt very lonely and lay crying for a long time. The nurse was too upset to think of going to bed. She sat up for the rest of the night in the servants’ quarters. She cried so bitterly that she was unaware of everything happening around her.

But when it grew light she began to look about her a little. Not only this great palace with its marvellous pillars and carvings, but the sand in the courtyard outside which seemed to her like a carpet of jewels made so dazzling an impression upon her that at first she felt somewhat overawed. However, the fact that she was now no longer in a household of women gave her an agreeable sense of security.

But when daylight came, she began to look around. The great palace, with its marvelous pillars and carvings, dazzled her. Even the sand in the courtyard outside seemed like a carpet of jewels. At first, she felt somewhat overwhelmed. However, she found it reassuring that she was no longer in a household of women.

It was the hour at which business brought various strangers to the house. There were several men walking just outside her window and she heard one of them whisper to another: ‘They say that someone new has come to live here. Who can it be, I wonder? A lady of note, I’ll warrant you.’

It was the time of day when business brought various strangers to the house. Several men were walking just outside her window. She heard one whisper to another: ‘They say someone new has come to live here. I wonder who it is. I bet she’s an important lady.’

Bath water was brought from the other wing, and steamed rice for breakfast. Genji did not rise till far on into the morning. ‘It is not good for the child to be alone,’ he said to Shōnagon, ‘so last night before I came to you I arranged for some little people to come and stay here,’ and so saying he sent a servant to ‘fetch the little girls from the eastern wing.’ He had given special orders that they were to be as small as possible and now four of the tiniest and prettiest creatures imaginable arrived upon the scene.

Bath water and steamed rice for breakfast were brought from the other wing. Genji did not get up until late in the morning. ‘It isn’t good for the child to be alone,’ he told Shōnagon. ‘So last night, before I came to you, I arranged for some little people to come and stay here.’ He then sent a servant to ‘fetch the little girls from the eastern wing.’ He had given special orders that they should be as small as possible. Now four of the tiniest and prettiest creatures imaginable arrived.

Murasaki was still asleep, lying wrapped in Genji’s own coat. It was with difficulty that he roused her. ‘You must not be sad any more,’ he said; ‘If I were not very fond of you, should I be looking after you like this? Little girls ought to be very gentle and obedient in their ways.’ And thus her education was begun.

Murasaki was still asleep, wrapped in Genji’s own coat. He had trouble waking her. ‘You must not be sad anymore,’ he said. ‘If I weren’t very fond of you, would I be taking care of you like this? Little girls should be very gentle and obedient.’ And so her education began.

She seemed to him, now that he could study her at leisure, even more lovely than he had realized and they were soon engaged in an affectionate conversation. He sent for delightful pictures and toys to show her and set to work to amuse her in every way he could. Gradually he persuaded her to get up and look about her. In her shabby dress made of some dark grey material she looked so charming now that she was laughing and playing, with all her woes forgotten, that Genji too laughed with pleasure as he watched her. When at last he retired to the eastern wing, she went out of doors to look at the garden. As she picked her way among the trees and along the side of the lake, and gazed with delight upon the frosty flower-beds that glittered gay as a picture, while a many-coloured throng of unknown people passed constantly in and out of the house, she began to think that this was a very nice place indeed. Then she looked at the wonderful pictures that were painted on all the panels and screens and quite lost her heart to them.

Now that he could study her at his leisure, she seemed even lovelier than he had realized. Soon they were talking affectionately. He sent for delightful pictures and toys to show her, and did everything he could to amuse her. Gradually, he persuaded her to get up and look around. She wore a shabby dress made of dark gray material. But as she laughed and played, forgetting all her troubles, she looked so charming that Genji laughed with pleasure too. When Genji finally went to the eastern wing, she went outside to look at the garden. She made her way among the trees and along the lake. She gazed with delight at the frosty flower beds, which glittered as brightly as a picture. A colorful crowd of strangers came and went from the house. She began to think that this was a very nice place indeed. Then she looked at the wonderful pictures painted on all the panels and screens, and fell completely in love with them.

For two or three days Genji did not go to the Palace, but spent all his time amusing the little girl. Finally he drew all sorts of pictures for her to put into her copy-book, showing them to her one by one as he did so. She thought them the loveliest set of pictures she had ever seen. Then he wrote part of the Musashi-no poem.⁷⁵ She was delighted by the way it was written in bold ink-strokes on a background stained with purple. In a smaller hand was the poem: ‘Though the parent-root⁷⁶ I cannot see, yet tenderly I love its off-shoot,⁷⁷—the dewy plant that grows upon Musashi Moor.’ ‘Come’ said Genji while she was admiring it, ‘you must write something too.’ ‘I cannot write properly yet’ she answered, looking up at him with a witchery so wholly unconscious that Genji laughed. ‘Even if you cannot write properly it will never do for us to let you off altogether. Let me give you a lesson.’ With many timid glances towards him she began to write. Even the childish manner in which she grasped the brush gave him a thrill of delight which he was at a loss to explain. ‘Oh, I have spoiled it’ she suddenly cried out and blushing hid from him what she had written. But he forced her to let him see it and found the poem: ‘I do not know what put Musashi into your head and am very puzzled. What plant is it that you say is a relative of mine?’ It was written in a large childish hand which was indeed very undeveloped, but was nevertheless full of promise. It showed a strong resemblance to the late nun’s writing. He felt certain that if she were given up-to-date copy-books she would soon write very nicely.

For two or three days, Genji did not go to the Palace. He spent all his time entertaining the little girl. At last, he drew all sorts of pictures for her copybook, showing them to her one by one as he drew them. She thought they were the loveliest pictures she had ever seen. Then he wrote part of the Musashi-no poem.⁷⁵ She loved the bold strokes of ink against the purple-stained paper. In smaller writing was the poem: ‘Though I cannot see the parent-root,⁷⁶ I dearly love its off-shoot,⁷⁷ the dewy plant that grows on Musashi Moor.’ ‘Come,’ said Genji, as she admired it, ‘you must write something too.’ ‘I cannot write properly yet,’ she answered. She looked up at him with such unconscious charm that Genji laughed. ‘Even if you cannot write properly, we cannot let you off entirely. Let me give you a lesson.’ She began to write, glancing timidly at him again and again. Even the childish way she held the brush gave him a thrill of delight he could not explain. ‘Oh, I have spoiled it,’ she suddenly cried. Blushing, she hid what she had written from him. But he made her show it to him and found this poem: ‘I do not know what made you think of Musashi, and I am very puzzled. What plant is it that you say is a relative of mine?’ She had written it in a large, childish hand. Her writing was still very unformed, but it showed great promise. It closely resembled the late nun’s writing. He felt sure that if she were given modern copybooks, she would soon write very nicely.

Next they built houses for the dolls and played so long at this game together that Genji forgot for a while the great anxiety⁷⁸ which was at that time preying upon his mind.

Next they built houses for the dolls and played together for a long time. For a while, Genji forgot the great anxiety⁷⁸ that had been weighing on his mind.

The servants who had been left behind at Murasaki’s house were extremely embarrassed when Prince Hyōbukyō came to fetch her. Genji had made them promise for a time at any rate to tell no one of what had happened and Shōnagon had seemed to agree that this was best. Accordingly he could get nothing out of them save that Shōnagon had taken the child away with her without saying anything about where she was going. The Prince felt completely baffled. Perhaps the grandmother had instilled into the nurse’s mind the idea that things would not go smoothly for the child at his palace. In that case the nurse with an 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.

The servants left at Murasaki’s house were deeply embarrassed when Prince Hyōbukyō came to fetch her. Genji had made them promise not to tell anyone what had happened, at least for a while. Shōnagon had seemed to agree that this was best. So the Prince could learn only that Shōnagon had taken the child away without saying where she was going. The Prince was completely baffled. Perhaps the grandmother had convinced the nurse that things would not go smoothly for the child at his palace. If so, the nurse might have been too clever for her own good. Instead of openly saying she feared the child would not be treated well in his home, she might have thought it wiser to take her away when she had the chance. He went home feeling very depressed. He asked the servants to let him know immediately if they had any news, which embarrassed them again. He also asked the priest at the temple in the hills, but learned nothing. He had found the child lovable and delightful, and it was very disappointing to lose sight of her this way. His wife, the princess, had long since overcome her dislike of the child’s mother. She was indignant at the idea that she could not be trusted to do her duty by the child.

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.

Gradually, the servants from Murasaki’s house gathered at her new home. The little girls brought to play with her were delighted with their new companion. Soon they were all playing happily together.

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.

When her prince was away or busy, she sometimes missed her grandmother the nun on gloomy evenings and cried a little. But she never thought about her father, whom she had only rarely seen. Now she had ‘a new father,’ and she grew fonder of him every day. Whenever he returned, she was the first to greet him. Then they began wonderful games and conversations. All the while, she sat on his lap without any shyness or restraint. No more charming companion could have been imagined. When she grew older, she might not always be so trusting. Other sides of her character might appear. For example, if she suspected that he cared for someone else, she might resent it. In such cases, all sorts of unexpected things can happen. But for now, she was a delightful plaything. If she had really been his daughter, convention would not have allowed him to remain so close to her much longer. But in a case like this, he felt no such scruples applied.