CHAPTER VI

THE SAFFRON-FLOWER

Try as he might he could not dispel the melancholy into which Yūgao’s sudden death[1] had cast him, and though many months had gone by he longed for her passionately as ever. In other quarters where he had looked for affection, coldness vied with coldness and pride with pride. He longed to escape once more from the claims of these passionate and exacting natures, and renew the life of tender intimacy which for a while had given him so great a happiness. But alas, no second Yūgao would he ever find. Despite his bitter experience he still fancied that one day he might at least discover some beautiful girl of humble origin whom he could meet without concealment, and he listened eagerly to any hint that was likely to put him upon a promising track. If the prospects seemed favourable he would follow up his enquiries by writing a discreet letter which, as he knew from experience, would seldom indeed meet with a wholly discouraging reply. Even those who seemed bent on showing by the prim stiffness of their answers that they placed virtue high above sensibility, and who at first appeared hardly conversant with the usages of polite society, would suddenly collapse into the wildest intimacy which would continue until their marriage with some commonplace husband cut short the correspondence.

There were vacant moments when he thought of Utsusemi with regret. And there was her companion too; some time or other there would surely be an opportunity of sending her a surprise message. If only he could see her again as he had seen her that night sitting by the chess-board in the dim lamplight. It was not indeed in his nature ever to forget anyone of whom he had once been fond.

Among his old nurses there was one called Sayemon to whom, next after Koremitsu’s mother, he was most deeply attached. She had a daughter called Taifu no Myōbu who was in service at the Palace. This girl was an illegitimate child of a certain member of the Imperial family who was then Vice-minister of the Board of War. She was a young person of very lively disposition and Genji often made use of her services. Her mother, Genji’s nurse, had afterwards married the governor of Echizen and had gone with him to his province, so the girl when she was not at the Palace lived chiefly at her father’s.

She happened one day when she was talking with Genji to mention a certain princess, daughter of the late Prince Hitachi. This lady, she said, was born to the Prince when he was quite an old man and every care had been lavished upon her upbringing. Since his death she had lived alone and was very unhappy. Genji’s sympathy was aroused and he began to question Myōbu about this unfortunate lady. ‘I do not really know much either about her character or her appearance’ said Myōbu; ‘she is extremely seclusive in her habits. Sometimes I have talked to her a little in the evening, but always with a curtain between us. I believe her zithern is the only companion in whom she is willing to confide.’ ‘Of the Three Friends[2] one at least would in her case be unsuitable’ said Genji. ‘But I should like to hear her play; her father was a great performer on this instrument and it is unlikely that she has not inherited some of his skill.’ ‘Oh, I am afraid she is not worth your coming to hear,’ said Myōbu. ‘You are very discouraging,’ he answered, ‘but all the same I shall hide there one of these nights when the full moon is behind the clouds and listen to her playing; and you shall come with me.’ She was not best pleased; but just then even upon the busy Palace a springtime quiet seemed to have settled, and being quite at leisure she consented to accompany him. Her father’s house was at some distance from the town and for convenience he sometimes lodged in Prince Hitachi’s palace. Myōbo got on badly with her step-mother, and taking a fancy to the lonely princess’s quarters she kept a room there.

It was indeed on the night after the full moon, in just such a veiled light as Genji had spoken of, that they visited the Hitachi palace. ‘I am afraid,’ said Myōbu, ‘that it is not a very good night for listening to music; sounds do not seem to carry very well.’ But he would not be thus put off. ‘Go to her room’ he said, ‘and persuade her to play a few notes; it would be a pity if I went away without hearing her at all.’ Myōbu felt somewhat shy of leaving him like this in her own little private room. She found the princess sitting by the window, her shutters not yet closed for the night; she was enjoying the scent of a blossoming plum-tree which stood in the garden just outside. It did indeed seem just the right moment. ‘I thought how lovely your zithern would sound on such a night as this,’ she said, ‘and could not resist coming to see you. I am always in such a hurry, going to and from the Palace, that do you know I have never had time to hear you play. It is such a pity.’ ‘Music of this sort,’ she replied, ‘gives no pleasure to those who have not studied it. What do they care for such matters _who all day long run hither and thither in the City of a Hundred Towers_?’[3] She sent for her zithern; but her heart beat fast. What impression would her playing make upon this girl? Timidly she sounded a few notes. The effect was very agreeable. True, she was not a great performer; but the instrument was a particularly fine one and Genji found her playing by no means unpleasant to listen to.

Living in this lonely and half-ruined palace after such an upbringing (full no doubt of antiquated formalities and restrictions) as her father was likely to have given her it would be strange indeed if her life did not for the most part consist of memories and regrets. This was just the sort of place which in an old tale would be chosen as the scene for the most romantic happenings. His imagination thus stirred, he thought of sending her a message. But perhaps she would think this rather sudden. For some reason he felt shy, and hesitated.

‘It seems to be clouding over,’ said the astute Myōbu, who knew that Genji would carry away a far deeper impression if he heard no more for the present. ‘Someone was coming to see me’ she continued; ‘I must not keep him waiting. Perhaps some other time when I am not in such a hurry.... Let me close your window for you,’ and with that she rejoined Genji, giving the princess no encouragement to play any more. ‘She stopped so soon,’ he complained, ‘that it was hardly worth getting her to play at all. One had not time to catch the drift of what she was playing. Really it was a pity!’ That the princess was beautiful he made no doubt at all. ‘I should be very much obliged if you would arrange for me to hear her at closer quarters.’ But Myōbu, thinking that this would lead to disappointment, told him that the princess who led so hermit-like an existence and seemed always so depressed and subdued would hardly welcome the suggestion that she should perform before a stranger. ‘Of course,’ said Genji, ‘a thing of that kind could only be suggested between people who were on familiar terms or to someone of very different rank. This lady’s rank, as I am perfectly well aware, entitles her to be treated with every consideration, and I would not ask you to do more than hint at my desire.’ He had promised to meet someone else that night and carefully disguising himself he was preparing to depart when Myōbu said laughing ‘It amuses me sometimes to think how the Emperor deplores the too strict and domesticated life which he suffers you to lead. What would he think if he could see you disguising yourself like this?’ Genji laughed. ‘I am afraid,’ he said as he left the room, ‘that you are not quite the right person to denounce me. Those who think such conduct reprehensible in a man must find it even less excusable in a girl.’ She remembered that Genji had often been obliged to reproach her for her reckless flirtations, and blushing made no reply.

Still hoping to catch a glimpse of the zithern-player he crept softly towards her window. He was about to hide at a point where the bamboo-fence was somewhat broken down when he perceived that a man was already ensconced there. Who could it be? No doubt it was one of the princess’s lovers and he stepped back to conceal himself in the darkness. The stranger followed him and turned out to be no other than Tō no Chūjō. That evening they had left the Palace together, but when they parted Genji (Chūjō had noticed) did not either go in the direction of the Great Hall nor back to his own palace. This aroused Chūjō’s curiosity and, despite the fact that he too had a secret appointment that night, he decided first to follow Genji and discover what was afoot. So riding upon a strange horse and wearing a hunting-cloak, he had got himself up altogether so villainously that he was able to follow Genji without being recognized upon the road. Seeing him enter so unexpected a place, Chūjō was trying to imagine what business his friend could possibly have in such a quarter when the music began and he secreted himself with a vague idea of waylaying Genji when he came out. But the prince, not knowing who the stranger was and frightened of being recognized, stole on tip-toe into the shadow. Chūjō suddenly accosted him: ‘Though you shook me off so uncivilly, I thought it my duty to keep an eye on you’ he said, and recited the poem: ‘Though together we left the great Palace hill, your setting-place you would not show me, Moon of the sixteenth night!’ Thus he remonstrated; and Genji, though at first he had been somewhat put out by finding that he was not alone, when he recognized Tō no Chūjō could not help being rather amused. ‘This is indeed an unexpected attention on your part’ he said, and expressed his slight annoyance in the answering verse: ‘Though wheresoever it shines men marvel at its light, who has before thought fit to follow the full moon to the hill whereon it sets?’

‘It is most unsafe for you to go about like this,’ said Chūjō. ‘I really mean it. You ought always to have a bodyguard; then you are all right whatever happens. I wish you would always let me come with you. I am afraid that these clandestine expeditions may one day get you into trouble,’ and he solemnly repeated the warning. What chiefly worried Genji was the thought that this might not be the first occasion upon which Chūjō had followed him; but if it had been his habit to do so it was certainly very tactful of him never to have questioned Genji about Yūgao’s child.[4]

Though each of them had an appointment elsewhere, they agreed not to part. Both of them got into Genji’s carriage and the moon having vanished behind a cloud, beguiled the way to the Great Hall by playing a duet upon their flutes. They did not send for torch-bearers to see them in at the gates, but creeping in very quietly stole to a portico where they could not be seen and had their ordinary clothes brought to them there. Having changed, they entered the house merrily blowing their flutes as though they had just come back from the Palace.

Chūjō’s father, who usually pretended not to hear them when they returned late at night, on this occasion brought out his flageolet, which was his favourite instrument, and began to play very agreeably. Aoi sent for her zithern and made all her ladies play on the instruments at which they excelled. Only Nakatsukasa, though she was known for her lute-playing, having thrown over Tō no Chūjō who had been her lover because of her infatuation for Genji with whom her sole intercourse was that she sometimes saw him casually when he visited the Great Hall,—only Nakatsukasa sat drooping listlessly; for her passion had become known to Aoi’s mother and the rest, and they were being very unpleasant about it. She was thinking in her despair that perhaps it would be better if she went and lived in some place where she would never see Genji at all; but the step was hard to take and she was very unhappy.

The young princes were thinking of the music they had heard earlier in the evening, of those romantic surroundings tinged with a peculiar and inexplicable beauty. Merely because it pleased him so to imagine her, Tō no Chūjō had already endowed the occupant of the lonely mansion with every charm. He had quite decided that Genji had been courting her for months or even years, and thought impatiently that he for his part, if like Genji he were violently in love with a lady of this kind, would have been willing to risk a few reproaches or even the loss of a little reputation. He could not however believe that his friend intended to let the matter rest as it was much longer and determined to amuse himself by a little rivalry. From that time onwards both of them sent letters to the lady, but neither ever received any answer. This both vexed and puzzled them. What could be the reason? Thinking that such images were suitable to a lady brought up in these rustic surroundings, in most of the poems which they sent her they alluded to delicate trees and flowers or other aspects of nature, hoping sooner or later to hit on some topic which would arouse her interest in their suit. Though she was of good birth and education, perhaps through being so long buried away in her vast mansion she had not any longer the wits to write a reply. And what indeed did it matter whether she answered or not, thought Tō no Chūjō, who none the less was somewhat piqued. With his usual frankness he said to Genji: ‘I wonder whether you have had any answer. I must confess that as an experiment I too sent a mild hint, but without any success, so I have not repeated it.’ ‘So he too has been trying his hand,’ thought Genji smiling to himself. ‘No,’ he answered aloud, ‘my