He returned to his mansion late in the night.

Early in the morning he sent a letter to o Miobu, the nurse of the Heir-apparent, in which he said: "I at last leave the capital, to-day.

I know not when I may come and see the Prince again. On him my thoughts and anxieties are concentrated, above all else. Realize these feelings in your own mind, and tell them to him." He also sent the following, fastened to a bough of cherry flowers, already becoming thin:--

"When shall I see these scenes again, And view the flowers of spring in bloom, Like rustic from his mountain home, A mere spectator shall I come?"

These were carefully read by o Miobu to the Prince, and when he was asked what she should write in answer, he said: "Write that I said that since I feel every longing to see him, when I do not see him for a long time, how shall I feel when he goes away altogether?" Thereupon she wrote an answer, in which she indefinitely stated that she had shown the letter to the Prince, whose answer was simple, yet very affectionate, and so on, with the following:--

"'Tis sad that fair blossoms so soon fade away, In the darkness of winter no flower remains, But let spring return with its sunshiny ray, Then once more the flowers we look on again."

Now, with regard to the recent disgrace of Genji, the public in general did not approve of the severity which the Court had shown to him. Moreover, he had been constantly with the Emperor, his father, since the age of seven, and his requests had been always cheerfully listened to by the latter; hence there were very many, especially among public servants of the ordinary cla.s.s, who were much indebted to him. However, none of them now came to pay their respects to him. It seems that in a world of intrigue none dares do what is right for fear of risking his own interests. Such being the state of things, Genji, during the whole day, was unoccupied, and the time was entirely spent with Violet. Then, at his usual late hour in the evening, he, in a travelling dress of incognito, at length left the capital, where he had pa.s.sed five-and-twenty years of his life.

His attendants, Koremitz and Yoshikiyo being among them, were seven or eight in number. He took with him but little luggage. All ostentatious robes, all unnecessary articles of luxury were dispensed with. Among things taken, was a box containing the works of Hak-rak-ten (a famous Chinese poet), with other books, and besides these a _kin-koto_ for his amus.e.m.e.nt. They embarked in a boat and sailed down the river.

Early the next morning they arrived at the sea-coast of Naniwa. They noticed the oye Palace standing lonely amidst the group of pine trees.

The sight of this palace gave a thrill of sadness to Genji, who was now leaving, and not returning, home. He saw the waves rolling on the coast and again sweep back. He hummed, as he saw them:--

"The waves roll back, but unlike me, They come again."

From Naniwa they continued their voyage, sailing in the bay. As they proceeded they looked back on the scenes they had left. They saw all the mountains veiled in haze, growing more and more distant, while the rowers gently pulled against the rippling waves. It seemed to them as if they were really going "three thousand miles' distance."[107]

"Our home is lost in the mist of the mountain, Let us gaze on the sky which is ever the same."

The day was long and the wind was fair, so they soon arrived at the coast of Suma.[108] The place was near the spot where the exiled Yukihira had lived, and had watched the beautiful smoke rising from the salt ovens. There was a thatched house in which the party temporarily took up their residence. It was a very different home from what they had been used to, and it might have appeared even novel, had the circ.u.mstances of their coming there been different. The authorities of the neighborhood were sent for, and a lodge was built under the direction of Yoshikiyo, in accordance with Genji's wishes.

The work was hurried on, and the building was soon completed. In the garden, several trees, cherries and others, were planted, and water was also conducted into it. Here Genji soon took up his abode. The Governor of the province, who had been at Court, secretly paid attention to the Prince, with as much respect as was possible.

For some time Genji did not feel settled in his new residence. When he had become in some degree accustomed to it, the season of continuous rain had arrived (May); his thoughts more than ever reverted to the old capital.

The thoughtful expression of Violet's face, the childish affection of the Heir-apparent, and the innocent playfulness of his little son, became the objects of his reveries and anxiety, nor did he forget his old companions and acquaintances. He, therefore, sent a special messenger to the capital bearing his letters, so that speedy answers might be returned from every quarter. He also sent a messenger to Ise to make inquiry after the lady, who also sent one to him in return.

Now the young daughter of Udaijin had been remaining repentingly in the mansion of her father since the events of the stormy evening. Her father felt much for her, and interceded with the Empress-mother in her behalf, and also with her son, that is, the Emperor, thus getting permission to introduce her once more into Court, an event which took place in the month of July.

To return to Suma. The rainy season had pa.s.sed, and autumn arrived.

The sea was at some distance from the residence of Genji, but the dash of its waves sounded close to their ears as the winds pa.s.sed by, of which Yukihira sang,

"The autumn wind which pa.s.ses the barrier of Suma."

The autumn winds are, it seems, in such a place as this, far more plaintive than elsewhere.

It happened one evening that when all the attendants were fast asleep Genji was awake and alone. He raised his head and rested his arms on his pillow and listened to the sound of the waves which reached his ear from a distance. They seemed nearer than ever, as though they were coming to flood his pillows. He drew his _koto_ towards him and struck a melancholy air, as he hummed a verse of a poem in a low tone. With this every one awoke and responded with a sigh.

Such was a common occurrence in the evening, and Genji always felt saddened whenever he came to think that all his attendants had accompanied him, having left their families and homes simply for his sake. In the daytime, however, there were changes. He would then enjoy pleasant conversations. He also joined several papers into long rolls on which he might practise penmanship. He spent a good deal of time in drawing and sketching. He remembered how Yoshikiyo, on one occasion in Mount Kurama, had described the beautiful scenery of the place on which he was now gazing. He sketched every beautiful landscape of the neighborhood, and collected them in alb.u.ms, thinking how nice it would be if he could send for Tsunenori, a renowned contemporary artist, and get him to paint the sketches which he had made.

Out of all the attendants of Genji there were four or five who had been more especially his favorites, and who had constantly attended on him. One evening they were all sitting together in a corridor which commanded a full view of the sea. They perceived the island of Awaji lying in the distance, as if it were floating on the horizon, and also several boats with sailors, singing as they rowed to the sh.o.r.e over the calm surface of the water, like waterfowl in their native element.

Over their heads flocks of wild geese rustled on their way homeward with their plaintive cry, which made the thoughts of the spectators revert to their homes. Genji hummed this verse:--

"Those wandering birds above us flying, Do they our far-off friends resemble.

With their voice of plaintive crying Make us full of thoughtful sighing."

Yoshikiyo took up the idea and replied:--

"Though these birds no friends of ours Are, and we to them are nought, Yet their voice in these still hours Bring those old friends to our thought."

Then Koremitz continued:--

"Before to-day I always thought They flew on pleasure's wing alone, But now their fate to me is fraught With some resemblance to our own."

Ukon-no-Jio added:--

"Though we, like them, have left our home To wander forth, yet still for me There's joy to think where'er I roam My faithful friends are still with me."

Ukon-no-Jio was the brother of Ki-no-Kami. His father, Iyo-no-Kami, had now been promoted to be Hitachi-no-Kami (Governor of Hitachi), and had gone down to that province, but Ukon-no-Jio did not join his father, who would have gladly taken him, and faithfully followed Genji.

This evening happened to be the fifteenth of August, on which day a pleasant reunion is generally held at the Imperial Palace. Genji looked at the silvery pale sky, and as he did so the affectionate face of the Emperor, his brother, whose expression strikingly resembled their father's, presented itself to his mind. After a deep and long sigh, he returned to his couch, humming as he went:--

"Here is still a robe His Majesty gave to me."

It should be here noticed that he had been presented by the Emperor on a certain occasion with a robe, and this robe he had never parted with, even in his exile.

About this time Daini (the senior Secretary of the Lord-Lieutenant of Kiusiu) returned to the capital with his family, having completed his official term. His daughter had been a virgin dancer, and was known to Genji. They preferred to travel by water, and slowly sailed up along the beautiful coast. When they arrived at Suma, the distant sound of a _kin_[109] was heard, mingled with the sea-coast wind, and they were told that Genji was there in exile. Daini therefore sent his son Chikzen-no-Kami to the Prince with these words: "Coming back from a distant quarter I expected as soon as I should arrive in the capital to have had the pleasure of visiting you and listening to your pleasant voice, and talking of events which have taken place there, but little did I think that you had taken up your residence in this part of the country. How greatly do I sympathize with you! I ought to land and see you at once, but there are too many people in the same boat, therefore I think it better to avoid the slightest grounds which may cause them to talk. However, possibly I shall pay you a visit soon."

This Chikzen-no-Kami had been for some time previously a Kurand (a sort of equerry) to Genji, therefore his visit was especially welcome to him. He said that since he had left the capital it had become difficult to see any of his acquaintances, and that therefore this especial visit was a great pleasure to him. His reply to the message of Daini was to the same effect. Chikzen-no-Kami soon took his leave, and returning to the boat, reported to his father and others all he had seen. His sister also wrote to Genji privately thus: "Pray excuse me if I am too bold.

Know you not the mind is swayed Like the tow-rope of our boat, At the sounds your Kin has made, Which around us sweetly float."

When Genji received this, his pleasure was expressed by his placid smile, and he sent back the following:--

"If this music moves the mind So greatly as you say, No one would care to leave behind These lonely waves of Suma's bay."

This recalls to our mind that there was in the olden time an exile who gave a stanza even to the postmaster of a village.[110] Why then should not Genji have sent to her whom he knew this stanza?

In the meantime, as time went on, more sympathizers with Genji were found in the capital, including no less a personage than the Emperor himself. True it is that before Genji left, many even of his relatives and most intimate friends refrained from paying their respects to him, but in the course of time not a few began to correspond with him, and sometimes they communicated their ideas to each other in pathetic poetry. These things reached the ears of the Empress-mother, who was greatly irritated by them. She said: "The only thing a man who has offended the Court should do is to keep himself as quiet as possible.

It is most unpardonable that such a man should haughtily cause scandal to the Court from his humble dwelling. Does he intend to imitate the treacherous example of one who made a deer pa.s.s for a horse?[111]

Those who intrigue with such a man are equally blamable." These spiteful remarks once more put a stop to the correspondence.

Meanwhile, at Suma, the autumn pa.s.sed away and winter succeeded, with all its dreariness of scene, and with occasional falls of snow. Genji often spent the evening in playing upon the Kin, being accompanied by Koremitz's flute and the singing of Yoshikiyo. It was on one of these evenings that the story of a young Chinese Court lady, who had been sent to the frozen land of barbarians, occurred to Genji's mind. He thought what a great trial it would be if one were obliged to send away one whom he loved, like the lady in the tale, and as he reflected on this, with some melancholy feelings, it appeared to him as vividly as if it were only an event of yesterday, and he hummed:--

"The sound of the piper's distant strain Broke on her dreams in the frozen eve."

He then tried to sleep, but could not do so, and as he lay the distant cry of Chidori reached his ears.[112] He hummed again as he heard them:--

"Although on lonely couch I lie Without a mate, yet still so near, At dawn the cries of Chidori, With their fond mates, 'tis sweet to hear."

Having washed his hands, he spent some time in reading a Kio (Sutra), and in this manner the winter-time pa.s.sed away.

Towards the end of February the young cherry-trees which Genji had planted in his garden blossomed, and this brought to his memory the well-known cherry-tree in the Southern Palace, and the _fete_ in which he had taken part. The n.o.ble countenance of the late ex-Emperor, and that of the present one, the then Heir-apparent, which had struck him much at that time, returned to his recollection with the scene where he had read out his poem.

"While on the lordly crowd I muse, Which haunts the Royal festive hours, The day has come when I've put on The crown of fairest cherry flowers."