She lived for two years more in the old palace, at the end of which time she moved into the new Eastern Wing that Prince Genji had been building. He did not spend much time in her company, but she was well content merely to feel that they inhabited the same domain, and whenever he had occasion to visit that part of the house he would look in upon her for a few minutes, that she might not feel she was wholly neglected. Her aunt’s astonishment when in due time she returned to the Capital—Jijū’s delight at her mistress’s good fortune and shame at the thought that she had not held out a little longer in the princess’s service—all this remains yet to be told. I would indeed have been glad to carry my story a little further, but at this moment my head is aching and I am feeling very tired and depressed. Provided a favourable opportunity presents itself and I do not forget to, I promise I will tell you all about it on some future occasion.
[1] Suyetsumuhana. See vol. i, ch. vi. I shall henceforward call her Suyetsumu.
[2] Such a term must only be taken as a rough equivalent.
[3] Of these three romances the first is quite unknown; the second must have been a Taoist fairy story, for ‘Hakoya’ is the ‘Miao-ku-shē’ of Chuang Tzŭ, Chapter I,—a divine mountain inhabited by mysterious sages. The third is either identical with the Taketori Monogatari (‘The Bamboo-cutter’s Story’) or at any rate treated the same theme.
[4] Kanya River (‘Paper-makers’ River’) is between Hirano and Kitano, near Kyōto. Michinoku paper, from the province of that name, was made of spindle-wood. These stout Japanese papers become thick and fluffy with age.
[5] The Saddharmapundarika Sūtra.
[6] The sovereign divinity of the Chinese Taoists.
[7] Eleventh month.
[8] ‘I knew it not, but an old man must I be indeed; the pine-tree that with my hands I planted spreads its boughs so high.’