“O never compare dews that gather for a night on your own pillow
to those that in these mountains wet many a mossy robe!29
Here, the dew never dries.”
“I am afraid I am a novice at conversing this way, through somebody else,” Genji replied. “I have something to discuss with you seriously, if you will forgive my presumption.”
“Surely he has been misled,” the nun said to her women. “It is so intimidating to have him here that I do not know how to answer.”
“But, my lady, you are making him uncomfortable.”
“Well, yes, I suppose it would be one thing if I were a young woman myself, but as it is, I really cannot ignore him when he is so much in earnest.” She came to Genji herself.
“You may imagine after my abrupt approach that I am only seeking my own amusement,” he began, “but as the Lord Buddha surely knows, I find no such feelings in my heart.” Restrained by the quiet circumspection in her manner, he could not at first get out what he had to say.
“Why, no, my lord, how could you assume that I make light of your feelings, now that you and I are so unexpectedly conversing with each other?”
“I have been pained to learn of the difficulties that your granddaughter faces, and I hope that you will kindly allow me to take the place of the mother whom I believe she has lost. I myself was very young when those who would have brought me up were taken from me, and the life I have led ever since has been a strangely rootless one. Her situation and mine are so alike that I have longed to beg you to recognize how much she and I share, and so I have seized this rare opportunity, even at the risk of offending you, to address you frankly.”
“Your words should make me glad, my lord, but caution restrains me, for I fear that in some things you may be misinformed. There is indeed here one for whom only I am responsible, however little I may deserve it, but she is still extremely young, and since I cannot imagine how you could overlook this difficulty, I see no way to take your proposition seriously.”
“I understand you perfectly, but I still urge you to take no narrow view of what I ask. Please consider instead the exceptional nature of my most sincere desire.”
However, she remained convinced that he simply did not understand the incongruity of his proposal, and her answers conceded nothing. Meanwhile, His Reverence had returned. Very well, Genji reflected as he once more closed the gap between the screens, it is a relief at least to have broached the subject.
Dawn was near, and the awesome voices chanting the Confession in the Lotus Meditation Hall came to them on the wind down the mountain, mingled with the noise of the waterfall.
“The wandering wind blowing down the mountain slopes sweeps away the dream,30
and then tears begin to flow at the clamor of the falls,”
Genji said, and His Reverence,
“The swift mountain stream that so much to your surprise has moistened your sleeves
stirs no trouble in a heart its waters have long washed clean.
I am just so used to it, I suppose.”
The lightening sky was thick with mist, and mountain birds were singing everywhere. Flowers Genji could not even name carpeted the ground with a many-colored brocade of petals, on which deer now stood or wandered past—a sight so wonderful that all thought of his fever melted away. The holy man managed to perform a protective rite for him, despite his difficulty in moving about. His hoarse voice was quite indistinct, but his chanting of the darani31 conveyed an impressive sanctity.
Single-pointed vajra
Those who had come from the City to escort Genji home now presented themselves before him, expressed their pleasure that his fever had abated, and conveyed as well His Majesty's wishes for Genji's health. His Reverence scoured the depths of the valley to entertain Genji with all sorts of fruits and nuts unknown to the world at large.
“Alas, my lord,” he remarked, offering Genji wine, “my solemn vow to remain on the mountain through this year prevents me from accompanying you as I should otherwise wish to do.”
“While my heart remains in these mountains, His Majesty's kind expressions of concern leave me no choice but to return,” Genji replied. “This year's blossoms shall not pass before I come again.
I shall go forth now and describe to all at court these mountain cherries,
that before the winds arrive they themselves should come and see.”
His manner of speaking and the sound of his voice were both utterly captivating.
“At last I have seen the udumbara flower: that is how I feel,
till I have no eyes at all for mountain cherry blossoms,”32
His Reverence courteously replied.
Genji smiled. “What you have before you cannot be the flower of which you speak, for surely that one blooms only once, and at its proper time.”
The holy man took up the wine cup in his turn.
“Having just for once opened deep in these mountains my lowly pine door,
I see the face of a flower I have never seen before!”33
he said, contemplating Genji with tears in his eyes. He gave Genji a single-pointed vajra34 to protect him.
His Reverence then gave Genji his own most appropriately selected gifts: a rosary of embellished bo tree seeds, obtained by Prince Shōtoku from Kudara, still in its original Chinese-style box and presented in a gauze bag attached to a branch of five-needled pine; and dark blue lapis lazuli jars containing diverse medicines and tied to sprays of wisteria or cherry blossoms.35 Genji had already sent for the varied gifts, formal and informal, with which to reward the holy man and the other monks who had chanted the scriptures for him, and he now distributed suitable presents to all, even the local woodcutters. At last he took his leave, after providing for further chanting of the scriptures.
His Reverence went into the house and repeated to the nun all that Genji had told him, but her only comment was “At any rate, we cannot answer him now. If in four or five years his wish remains unchanged, then perhaps…”
The reply Genji received therefore only confirmed the nun's opposition. Through a small boy in His Reverence's service, he sent,
“Now that I have seen faintly the flower's color through the gathering dusk,
I can hardly bear to leave while morning mists still rise”;36
to which the nun answered in a casual hand remarkable for its character and distinction,
“Whether it is true you would never wish to leave the flower you prize,
that we shall look to discern in the mists of future skies.”
Genji was entering his carriage when a crowd of young gentlemen from His Excellency's arrived to see him home, complaining that he had simply vanished from among them. The Secretary Captain, the Left Controller, and his other brothers-in-law had insisted on coming after him.
“We would have gladly accompanied you on a trip like this,” the Captain said reproachfully, “and it really was not very nice of you to leave us behind. Anyway, it would be a great shame if we were to turn round and start back again without a moment to rest beneath these magnificent blossoms.”
They all sat together on the moss, in the lee of a rock, and the wine cup went round. The tumbling stream beside them made a beautiful cascade. The Captain took a flute from the fold of his robe and played, while the Left Controller sang, “Westward from the Toyora Temple…,”37 lightly tapping out the rhythm with his fan. These young gentlemen were all certainly splendid, but Genji's peerless, indeed disturbing beauty as he sat leaning against a rock, quite unwell, made it impossible to have eyes for anyone else.
One of the Secretary Captain's company was as usual a hichiriki player, while another young man of taste had been entrusted with a shō.38 His Reverence brought Genji his own kin.39 “Do play a little, my lord,” he said. “If it please you, I should like to give the birds of these mountains a pleasant surprise.” Genji protested that he was not feeling himself, but he played enough not to be disobliging. Everyone then set out.
The very least of the monks and young servants wept to see him go, while of course the old nuns in the house, who had never seen his like before, assured each other that he could not possibly be of this world at all. His Reverence himself exclaimed, wiping tears from his eyes, “Ah, it is sad to think what karma can have got him born with such looks into these latter days, and into this poor land of ours!”40
To the little girl's childish eye, Genji was so splendid that she declared, “He is much better-looking than Father!”
“Then why not be his little girl instead?” a gentle-woman suggested. She nodded and seemed very pleased with the idea. Whenever she played with a doll or painted a picture, she pretended that the figure was Lord Genji, dressed it up nicely, and made a great fuss over it.
Genji first went to the palace and gave His Majesty an account of all that had happened. His Majesty was dismayed to see him so thin. He inquired about the quality of the holy man and was sufficiently impressed by Genji's long description to remark, “I believe he deserves elevation to Adept. How strange that he should have lived a life of practice for all these years without ever coming to his Sovereign's attention!”
Just then His Excellency arrived. “I had thought I should at least come out to meet you, but then I reflected that since you had gone so discreetly, I might do better to refrain. Do come and spend a few quiet days with us. I shall accompany you there straightaway.” Genji had little enthusiasm for this, but he let himself be dragged off. His Excellency invited him into his own carriage and modestly got in behind him. Genji was touched after all by his attentions.
The household was eagerly awaiting his arrival. His Excellency had had all sorts of things done since Genji's last visit, some time ago, to make the place grander than ever. His daughter slipped off as always to hide and refused to appear until her father persuaded her at last to come forth; and there she sat, precisely where her gentlewomen placed her, as still and as perfect as a lady in a painting.
I could try talking to her about whatever I have on my mind, or tell her about my trip to the mountains, and it would be so nice if only she would then give me some sort of decent response! Genji reflected; but no, she would not unbend, and she remained cold and forbidding. The gulf between them had widened over the years, until he felt provoked to say, “I do wish I might occasionally see you treat me in a normal way. For example, there I was, deathly ill, and you did not even ask after my health—not that this is anything new, I know, but I cannot help feeling hurt.”
At last she spoke. “Was it really ‘so painful to be ignored'?”41 She threw him sidelong a chilly glance that accented the stern character of her beauty.
“You so seldom speak, but when you do, you say the most extraordinary things! That is hardly our relationship to each other. What a way to talk! I keep trying this and that in the hope that you may change your mind and give up rejecting me all the time, but as far as I can tell, you only dislike me the more! Well, one day perhaps…”
He went into their curtained bed, but she did not immediately follow. At a loss for what else to say, he lay down unhappily and proceeded—for he was no doubt feeling thoroughly out of humor—to feign drowsiness, the better to turn over in his mind all the troubles that love had brought him.
He was still keen to watch the “little plant” grow up, but there was a good deal to be said for the nun's opinion that she was far too young. This is such a tricky business on which to approach anyone! he said to himself. What will I have to do to be able to take her home and enjoy her company always? His Highness of War is a decent enough gentleman, but he has nothing in particular to recommend him, so why is she so like her? Because they were both born to the same Empress, I suppose.42 This intimate tie to her made up his mind that he must have her for his own.
The next day he sent off letters to the Northern Hills. The one to His Reverence no doubt hinted at his wish. He wrote to the nun, “I felt constrained by your distant manner and unfortunately never managed to say all I wished. I should be glad if a note such as this were to convince you that there is nothing mild about my hopes…,” and so on. Inside the letter he placed a little knotted one:43
“That vision of you never, never leaves me now, O mountain cherry,
even though I left behind in your care all of my heart.
I worry so about you when the night winds blow!”44 His writing, of course, but even the casual way he had done up the letter dazzled the eyes of the aging nuns.45
How very difficult all this is! What reply can I possibly give him? She wrote, “I confess that I gave little weight to the kind words that I was privileged to have from you, and now that it has pleased you to return to the matter, I find it difficult to frame a reply. Surely there is no point in pursuing it, since she cannot even write her kana letters46 properly yet. After all,
Just that little while the blossoms cling to the bough on a windswept hill:
so long you have left your heart, and such times are quickly gone.
I worry about her more and more.” His Reverence answered in the same vein.
The disappointed Genji sent Koremitsu there two or three days later. ‘The woman they call Nurse Shōnagon should be in the house,” he said. “Find her and have a good talk with her.”
He never misses a single one, does he! Koremitsu remembered with amusement his own inadequate glimpse of the girl, and how very young she had been.
His Reverence professed deep gratification upon receiving yet another letter. Koremitsu asked to see Shōnagon and spent some time with her, telling her what Genji had to say and describing something of Genji's life. He was a great talker, and he made it all sound very convincing, but the little girl was so impossibly young that her guardians remained troubled about what Genji might have in mind.
Genji's letter itself was sincerely felt, and as before it contained a little note: “I should still like to see this broken writing47 of yours.
Ah, Mount Asaka! Shallow all my love for you cannot ever be—
but why does the face in the spring melt away when I draw near?”48
The nun replied,
“They tell of a spring such that one who draws from it knows only regret;
shallow as your waters are, how could they reveal her face?”49
Koremitsu conveyed the same message to Genji.
Nurse Shōnagon wrote in her own reply, “We are soon to move back to my lady's residence in the City, as long as her condition improves, and I expect that she will wish to communicate with you further from there.” Genji did not find this encouraging.
Princess Fujitsubo was not well and had withdrawn from the palace. Genji felt deep sympathy for His Majesty, whose anxious distress was evident, but he also anticipated feverishly now, at last, a chance for himself, and he no longer went out at all. At the palace or at home he spent the daylight hours daydreaming and those after dark hounding Ōmyōbu.50 How Ōmyōbu brought off their meeting is impossible to say, but to poor Genji even these stolen moments51 with her seemed quite unreal. To Her Highness the memory of that last, most unfortunate incident was a source of enduring suffering, and she had resolved that nothing of the kind should ever happen again; yet despite her obvious consternation she remained thoughtful and kind, even while she continued to resist him with a profound dignity so far beyond the reach of any other woman that Genji could not help wondering in anguish why it was never possible to find in her the slightest flaw.
How could he have told her all he had to say? He must have wished himself where darkness never ends,52 but alas, the nights were short now, and their time together had yielded after all nothing but pain.
“This much we have shared, but nights when we meet again will be very rare,
and now that we live this dream, O that it might swallow me!”
he said, sobbing; to which Her Highness compassionately replied,
“People soon enough will be passing on our tale, though I let our dream
Genji could not blame her for being in such torment, and he deeply regretted having caused it. Ōmyōbu gathered up his dress cloak and so on and brought it to him.
At home again, he lay down and wept all day. He gathered that she was refusing as usual to read any letter from him, and although this was indeed her normal practice, the pain of it now all but destroyed him. For two or three days he remained shut up without even calling at the palace, until His Majesty was moved yet again to a concern about what might be wrong that only filled Genji with terror.
Her Highness continued to lament the misery of her lot, and meanwhile she began feeling more and more unwell, so that she could not make up her mind to go straight back to the palace, despite a stream of messengers from there urging her to do so. No, she really did not feel herself, and her silent guesses at what this might mean reduced her to despair over what was to become of her.
She rose less and less during the summer heat. By the third month her condition was obvious enough that her women noticed it, and the horror of her fate overwhelmed her. Not knowing what had actually happened, they expressed surprise that she had not yet told His Majesty. She alone understood just what the matter was. Women like Ōmyōbu or her own foster sister, Ben, who attended her intimately when she bathed and therefore had before their eyes every clue to her condition, did not doubt that something was seriously wrong, but they could not very well discuss the matter, and Ōmyōbu was left to reflect in anguish that her mistress's fate had struck after all. To His Majesty, Ōmyōbu presumably reported that a malevolent spirit had obscured Her Highness's condition,53 so that at first it had gone unnoticed. This was at any rate what Her Highness's own women believed. His Majesty was deeply concerned about her, and the unbroken procession of messengers from him inspired mingled dread and despair.
The Tale of Genji: (Penguin Classics Deluxe Edition) (Junichiro Breakdown of Genji) Page 16