They arrived; but, as usual, his bride did not appear, and only presented herself at last at the earnest request of her father. She was one of those model princesses whom one may see in a picture--very formal and very sedate--and it was very difficult to draw her into conversation. She was very uninteresting to Genji. He thought that it would only lead to a very unpleasant state of affairs, as years grew on, if they were to be as cool and reserved to each other as they had been hitherto. Turning to her, he said, with some reproachfulness in his accents, "Surely you should sometimes show me a little of the ordinary affection of people in our position!"

She made no reply; but, glancing coolly upon him, murmured with modest, yet dignified, tone--

"When you cease to care for me, What can I then do for thee?"

"Your words are few; but they have a sting in them. You say I cease to care for you; but you do me wrong in saying so. May the time come when you will no longer pain me thus," said Genji; and he made every effort to conciliate her. But she was not easily appeased. He was unsuccessful in his effort, and presently they retired to their apartment, where he soon relapsed into sleepy indifference. His thoughts began to wander back into other regions, and hopes of the future growth and charms of the young mountain-violet again occupied his mind. "Oh! how difficult it is to secure a prize," thought he.

"How can I do so? Her father, Prince Hiobkio, is a man of rank, and affable, but he is not of prepossessing appearance. Why does his daughter resemble so much, in her personal attractions, the lovely one in the chamber of Wistaria. Is it that the mother of her father and of Wistaria is the same person? How charming is the resemblance between them! How can I make her mine?"

Some days afterwards he sent a letter to the mountain home, and also a communication--perhaps with some hint in it--to the priest. In his letter to the nun he said that her indifference made it desirable to refrain from urging his wishes; but, nevertheless, that he should be deeply gratified if she would think more favorably of the idea which was now so deeply rooted in his mind. Inside the letter he enclosed a small folded slip of paper, on which was written:--

"The mountain flower I left behind I strive but vainly to forget, Those lovely traits still rise to mind And fill my heart with sad regret."

This ludicrous effusion caused the nun to be partly amused and partly vexed. She wrote an answer as follows:--

"When you came into our neighborhood your visit was very pleasing to us, and your special message does us honor. I am, however, at a loss how to express myself with regard to the little one, as yet she cannot even manage the naniwadz."[63]

Enclosed in the note were the following lines, in which she hinted as to her doubts of the steadfastness of Genji's character:

"Your heart admires the lowly flower That dwells within our mountain bower.

Not long, alas! that flower may last Torn by the mountain's angry blast."

The tenor of the priest's answer was much the same, and it caused Genji some vexation.

About this time the Lady Wistaria, in consequence of an attack of illness, had retired from the palace to her private residence, and Genji, while sympathizing with the anxiety of the Emperor about her, longed greatly for an opportunity of seeing her, ill though she was.

Hence at this time he went nowhere, but kept himself in his mansion at Nijio, and became thoughtful and preoccupied. At length he endeavored to cajole o Miobu, Wistaria's attendant, into arranging an opportunity for him to see her. On Wistaria's part there were strong doubts as to the propriety of complying with his request, but at last the earnestness of the Prince overcame her scruples, and o Miobu managed eventually to bring about a meeting between them.[64]

Genji gave vent to his feelings to the Princess, as follows:--

"Though now we meet, and not again We e'er may meet, I seem As though to die, I were full fain Lost in this blissful dream."

Then the Princess replied to him, full of sadness:--

"We might dream on but fear the name, The envious world to us may give, Forgetful of the darkened fame, That lives when we no longer live."

For some time after this meeting had taken place, Genji found himself too timid to appear at his father's palace, and remained in his mansion. The Princess, too, experienced a strong feeling of remorse.

She had, moreover, a cause of anxiety special in its nature and peculiar to herself as a woman, for which she alone felt some uneasiness of conscience.

Three months of the summer had pa.s.sed away, and her secret began to betray itself externally. The Emperor was naturally anxious about the health of his favorite, and kind inquiries were sent from time to time to her. But the kinder he was to her the more conscience-stricken she felt.

Genji at this time was often visited by strange dreams. When he consulted a diviner about them, he was told that something remarkable and extraordinary might happen to him, and that it behooved him to be cautious and prudent.

"Here is a pretty source of embarra.s.sment," thought Genji.

He cautioned the diviner to be discreet about it, especially because he said the dreams were not his own but another person's. When at last he heard authentically about the condition of the Princess, he was extremely anxious to communicate with her, but she now peremptorily objected to any kind of correspondence between them, and o Miobu too refused any longer to a.s.sist him.

In July Wistaria returned to the palace. There she was received by the Emperor with great rejoicing, and he thought that her condition did but add to her attractiveness.

It was now autumn, the season when agreeable receptions were often held by the Emperor in Court, and it was awkward when Genji and the Princess happened to face each other on these occasions, as neither of them could be free from their tender recollections.

During these autumn evenings the thoughts of Genji were often directed to the granddaughter of the nun, especially because she resembled the Princess so much. His desire to possess her was considerably increased, and the recollection of the first evening when he heard the nun intoning to herself the verses about the tender gra.s.s, recurred to his mind. "What," thought he, "if I pluck this tender gra.s.s, would it then be, would it then grow up, as fair as now."

"When will be mine this lovely flower Of tender grace and purple hue?

Like the Wistaria of the bower, Its charms are lovely to my view."

The Emperor's visit to the Palace Suzak-in was now announced to take place in October, and dancers and musicians were selected from among the young n.o.bles who were accomplished in these arts, and Royal Princes and officers of State were fully engaged in preparation for the _fete_. After the Royal festivities, a separate account of which will be given hereafter, he sent again a letter to the mountain. The answer, however, came only from the priest, who said that his sister had died on the twentieth day of the last month; and added that though death is inevitable to all of us, still he painfully felt her loss.

Genji pondered first on the precariousness of human life, and then thought how that little one who had depended on her must be afflicted, and gradually the memory of his own childhood, during which he too had lost his mother, came back to his mind.

When the time of full mourning was over, Shionagon, together with the young girl, returned to their house in the capital. There one evening Genji paid them a visit. The house was rather a gloomy one, and was tenanted by fewer inmates than usual.

"How timid the little girl must feel!" thought Genji, as he was shown in. Shionagon now told him with tearful eyes every circ.u.mstance which had taken place since she had seen him. She also said that the girl might be handed over to her father, who told her that she must do so, but his present wife was said to be very austere. The girl is not young enough to be without ideas and wishes of her own, but yet not old enough to form them sensibly; so were she to be taken to her father's house and be placed with several other children, much misery would be the result. Her grandmother suffered much on this account.

"Your kindness is great," continued she, "and we ought not, perhaps, to think too anxiously about the future. Still she is young, too young, and we cannot think of it without pity."

"Why do you recur to that so often?" said Genji, "it is her very youthfulness which moves my sympathy. I am anxious to talk to her,

Say, can the wave that rolls to land, Return to ocean's heaving breast, Nor greet the weed upon the strand With one wild kiss, all softly pressed.

How sweet it would be!"

"That is very beautifully put, sir," said Shionagon, "but,

Half trembling at the coming tide That rolls about the sea-beat sand, Say, can the tender weed untried, Be trusted to its boisterous hand?"

Meanwhile the girl, who was with her companions in her apartment, and who was told that a gentleman in Court dress had arrived, and that perhaps it was the Prince, her father, came running in, saying, "Shionagon, where is the gentleman in Court dress; has the Prince, my father, arrived?"

"Not the Prince, your father," uttered Genji, "but I am here, and I too am your friend. Come here!"

The girl, glancing with shy timidity at Genji, for whom she already had some liking, and thinking that perhaps there was impropriety in what she had spoken, went over to her nurse, and said, "Oh! I am very sleepy, and wish to lie down!"

"See how childish she still is," remarked Shionagon.

"Why are you so timid, little one, come here and sleep on my knees,"

said Genji.

"Go, my child, as you are asked," observed Shionagon, and she pushed her towards Genji.

Half-unconsciously she took her place by his side. He pushed aside a small shawl which covered her hair, and played with her long tresses, and then he took her small hand in his. "Ah, my hand!" cried she, and drawing it back, she ran into a neighboring room. Genji followed her, and tried to coax her out of her shyness, telling her that he was one of her best friends, and that she was not to be so timid.

By this time darkness had succeeded to the beautiful evening, and hail began to fall.

"Close the cas.e.m.e.nt, it is too fearful, I will watch over you this evening," said Genji, as he led the girl away, to the great surprise of Shionagon and others who wondered at his ease in doing this.

By and by she became sleepy, and Genji, as skilfully as any nurse could, removed all her outer clothing, and placed her on the couch to sleep, telling her as he sat beside her, "some day you must come with me to some beautiful palace, and there you shall have as many pictures and playthings as you like." Many other similar remarks he added to arrest her attention and to please her.

Her fears gradually subsided, and as she kept looking on the handsome face of Genji, and taking notice of his kindness, she did not fall asleep for some time.

When the night was advanced, and the hailstorm had pa.s.sed away, Genji at last took his departure. The temperature now suddenly changed, and the hail was lying white upon the gra.s.s. "Can it be," thought he, "that I am leaving this place as a lover?" At that moment he remembered that the house of a maiden with whom he had had an acquaintance was on his road home. When he came near to it he ordered one of his attendants to knock at the door. No one, however, came forth. Thereupon Genji turned to another, who had a remarkably good voice, and ordered him to sing the following lines:--

"Though wandering in the morning gray, This gate is one I cannot pa.s.s, A tender memory bids me stay To see once more a pretty la.s.s."