The Tale of Genji

by Murasaki Shikibu

The child was lying on her bed weeping for her grandmother. ‘A gentleman in a big cloak has come to play with you,’ said one of the women who were waiting upon her; ‘I wonder if it is your father.’ At this she jumped up and cried out: ‘Nurse, where is the gentleman in a cloak? Is he my father?’ and she came running into the room. ‘No,’ said Genji, ‘it is not your father; but it is someone else who wants you to be very fond of him. Come....’ She had learnt from the way people talked about him that Prince Genji was someone very important, and feeling that he must really be very angry with her for speaking of him as the ‘gentleman in a cloak’ she went straight to her nurse and whispered ‘Please, I am sleepy.’ ‘You must not be shy of me any more,’ said Genji. ‘If you are sleepy, come here and lie on my knee. Will you not even come and talk to me?’ ‘There,’ said Shōnagon, ‘you see what a little savage she is,’ and pushed the child towards him. She stood listlessly by his side, passing her hand under her hair so that it fell in waves over her soft dress or clasping a great bunch of it where it stuck out thick around her shoulders. Presently he took her hand in his; but at once, in terror of this close contact with someone to whom she was not used, she cried out ‘I said I wanted to go to bed,’ and snatching her hand away she ran into the women’s quarters. He followed her crying ‘Dear one, do not run away from me! Now that your granny is gone, you must love me instead.’ ‘Well!’ gasped Shōnagon, deeply shocked. ‘No, that is too much! How can you bring yourself to say such a wicked thing to the poor child? And it is not much use telling people to be fond of one, is it?’ ‘For the moment, it may not be,’ said Genji. ‘But you will see that strange things happen if one’s heart is set upon a thing as mine is now.’

Hail was falling. It was a wild and terrible night. The thought of leaving her to pass it in this gloomy and half-deserted mansion immeasurably depressed him and snatching at this excuse for remaining near her: ‘Shut the partition-door!’ he cried. ‘I will stay for a while and play the watchman here on this terrible night. Draw near to me, all of you!’ and so saying, as though it were the most natural thing in the world, he picked up the child in his arms and carried her to her bed. The gentlewomen were far too astonished and confounded to budge from their seats; while Shōnagon, though his high-handed proceedings greatly agitated and alarmed her, had to confess to herself that there was no real reason to interfere, and could only sit moaning in her corner. The little girl was at first terribly frightened. She did not know what he was going to do with her and shuddered violently. Even the feel of his delicate, cool skin when he drew her to him, gave her goose-flesh. He saw this; but none the less he began gently and carefully to remove her outer garments, and laid her down. Then, though he knew quite well that she was still frightened of him, he began talking to her softly and tenderly: ‘How would you like to come with me one day to a place where there are lots of lovely pictures and dolls and toys?’ And he went on to speak so feelingly of all the things she was most interested in that soon she felt almost at home with him. But for a long while she was restless and did not go properly to sleep. The storm still raged. ‘Whatever should we have done if this gentleman had not been here,’ whispered one of the women; ‘I know that for my part I should have been in a terrible fright. If only our little lady were nearer to his age!’ Shōnagon, still mistrustful, sat quite close to Genji all the while.

At last the wind began to drop. The night was far spent; but his return at such an hour would cause no surprise! ‘She has become so dear to me,’ said Genji, ‘that, above all at this sad time in her life, I am loath to leave her even for a few short hours. I think I shall put her somewhere where I can see her whenever I wish. I wonder that she is not frightened to live in such a place as this.’ ‘I think her father spoke of coming to fetch her,’ said Shōnagon; ‘but that is not likely to be till the Forty-nine Days are up.’ ‘It would of course under ordinary circumstances be natural that her father should look after her,’ admitted Genji; ‘but as she has been brought up entirely by someone else she has no more reason to care for him than for me. And though I have known her so short a time, I am certainly far fonder of her than her father can possibly be.’ So saying he stroked the child’s hair and then reluctantly, with many backward glances, left the room. There was now a heavy white fog, and hoar-frost lay thick on the grass. Suddenly he found himself wishing that it were a real love-affair, and he became very depressed. It occurred to him that on his way home he would pass by a certain house which he had once familiarly frequented. He knocked at the door, but no one answered. He then ordered one of his servants who had a strong voice to recite the following lines: ‘By my Sister’s gate though morning fog makes all the world still dark as night, I could not fail to pause.’ When this had been sung twice, the lady sent an impertinent coxcomb of a valet to the door, who having recited the poem ‘If you disliked the hedge of fog that lies about this place, a gate of crazy wicker would not keep you standing in the street,’ at once went back again into the house. He waited; but no one else came to the door, and though he was in no mood to go dully home since it was now broad daylight, what else could be done? At his palace he lay for a long while smiling to himself with pleasure as he recollected the child’s pretty speeches and ways. Towards noon he rose and began to write a letter to her; but he could not find the right words, and after many times laying his brush aside he determined at last to send her some nice pictures instead.

That day Prince Hyōbukyō paid his long-promised visit to the late nun’s house. The place seemed to him even more ruinous, vast and antiquated than he remembered it years ago. How depressing it must be for a handful of persons to live in these decaying halls, and looking about him he said to the nurse: ‘No child ought to live in a place like this even for a little while. I must take her away at once; there is plenty of room in my house. You’ (turning to Shōnagon) ‘shall be found a place as a Lady-in-Waiting there. The child will be very well off, for there are several other young people for her to play with.’ He called the little girl to him and noticing the rich perfume that clung to her dress since Genji held her in his arms, the Prince said ‘How nicely your dress is scented. But isn’t it rather drab?’ No sooner had he said this than he remembered that she was in mourning, and felt slightly uncomfortable. ‘I used sometimes to tell her grandmother,’ he continued, ‘that she ought to let her come to see me and get used to our ways; for indeed it was a strange upbringing for her to live alone year in year out with one whose health and spirits steadily declined. But she for some reason was very unfriendly towards me, and there was in another quarter[10] too a reluctance which I fear even at such a time as this may not be wholly overcome....’ ‘If that is so,’ said Shōnagon, ‘dull as it is for her here, I do not think she should be moved till she is a little better able to shift for herself.’

For days on end the child had been in a terrible state of grief, and not having eaten the least bite of anything she was grown very thin, but was none the less lovely for that. He looked at her tenderly and said: ‘You must not cry any more now. When people die, there is no help for it and we must bear it bravely. But now all is well, for I have come instead....’ But it was getting late and he could not stay any longer. As he turned to go he saw that the child, by no means consoled at the prospect of falling under his care, was again crying bitterly. The Prince, himself shedding a few tears did his best to comfort her: ‘Do not grieve so,’ he said, ‘to-day or to-morrow I will send for you to come and live with me,’ and with that he departed. Still the child wept and no way could be found to distract her thoughts. It was not of course that she had any anxiety about her own future, for about such matters she had not yet begun to think at all; but only that she had lost the companion from whom for years on end she had never for a moment been separated. Young as she was, she suffered so cruelly that all her usual games were quite abandoned, and though sometimes during the day her spirits would a little improve, as night drew on she became so melancholy that Shōnagon began to wonder how much longer things would go on like this, and in despair at not being able to comfort her, would herself burst into tears.

Presently Koremitsu arrived with a message saying that Genji had intended to visit them, but owing to a sudden command from the Palace was unable to do so, and being very much perturbed at the little one’s grievous condition had sent for further news. Having delivered this message Koremitsu brought in some of Genji’s servants whom he had sent to mount guard over the house that night. ‘This kindness is indeed ill-placed,’ said Shōnagon. ‘It may not seem to him of much consequence that his gentlemen should be installed here; but if the child’s father hears of it, we servants shall get all the blame for the little lady’s being given away to a married gentleman. It was you who let it all begin, we shall be told. Now be careful,’ she said turning to her fellow-servants, ‘do not let her even mention these watchmen to her father.’ But alas, the child was quite incapable of understanding such a prohibition, and Shōnagon, after pouring out many lamentations to Koremitsu, continued: ‘I do not doubt but that in due time she will somehow become his wife, for so their fate seems to decree. But now and for a long while there can be no talk of any such thing, and this, as he has roundly told me, he knows as well as the rest of us. So what he is after I cannot for the life of me imagine. Only to-day when Prince Hyōbukyō was here he bade me keep a sharp eye upon her and not let her be treated with any indiscretion. I confess when he said it I remembered with vexation certain liberties which I have allowed your master to take, thinking little enough of them at the time.’ No sooner had she said this than she began to fear that Koremitsu would put a worse construction on her words than she intended, and shaking her head very dolefully she relapsed into silence. Nor was she far wrong, for Koremitsu was indeed wondering of what sort Genji’s misdemeanours could have been.

On hearing Koremitsu’s report Genji’s heart was filled with pity for the child’s state and he would like to have gone to her at once. But he feared that ignorant people would misunderstand these frequent visits and, thinking the girl older than she was, spread foolish scandals abroad. It would be far simpler to fetch her to his Palace and keep her there. All through the day he sent numerous letters, and at dusk Koremitsu again went to the house saying that urgent business had once more prevented Genji from visiting them, for which remissness he tendered his apologies. Shōnagon answered curtly that the girl’s father had suddenly decided to fetch her away next day and that they were too busy to receive visits: ‘The servants are all in a fluster at leaving this shabby old house where they have lived so long and going to a strange, grand place....’ She answered his further questions so briefly and seemed so intent upon her sewing, that Koremitsu went away.

Genji was at the Great Hall, but as usual he had been unable to get a word out of Aoi and in a gloomy mood he was plucking at his zithern and singing ‘Why sped you across field and hill So fast upon this rainy night?’[11]

The words of the song were aimed at Aoi and he sang them with much feeling. He was thus employed when Koremitsu arrived at the Great Hall. Genji sent for him at once and bade him tell his story. Koremitsu’s news was very disquieting. Once she was in her father’s palace it would look very odd that Genji should fetch her away, even if she came willingly. It would inevitably be rumoured abroad that he had made off with her like a child-snatcher, a thief. Far better to anticipate his rival and exacting a promise of silence from the people about her, carry her off to his own palace immediately. ‘I shall go there at daybreak,’ he said to Koremitsu; ‘Order the carriage that I came here in, it can be used just as it is, and see to it that one or two attendants are ready to go with me.’ Koremitsu bowed and retired.

Genji knew that whichever course he chose, there was bound to be a scandal so soon as the thing became known. Inevitably gossips would spread the report that, young though she was, the child by this time knew well enough why she had been invited to live with Prince Genji in his palace. Let them draw their own conclusions. That did not matter. There was a much worse possibility. What if Hyōbukyō found out where she was? His conduct in abducting another man’s child would appear in the highest degree outrageous and discreditable. He was sorely puzzled, but he knew that if he let this opportunity slip he would afterwards bitterly repent it, and long before daybreak he started on his way. Aoi was cold and sullen as ever. ‘I have just remembered something very important which I must see about at home,’ he said; ‘I shall not be away long,’ and he slipped out so quietly that the servants of the house did not know that he was gone. His cloak was brought to him from his own apartments and he drove off attended only by Koremitsu who followed on horseback. After much knocking they succeeded in getting the gate opened, but by a servant who was not in the secret. Koremitsu ordered the man to pull in Genji’s carriage as quietly as he could and himself went straight to the front door, which he rattled, coughing as he did so that Shōnagon might know who was there. ‘My lord is waiting,’ he said when she came to the door. ‘But the young lady is fast asleep,’ said Shōnagon; ‘his Highness has no business to be up and about at this time of night.’ She said this thinking that he was returning from some nocturnal escapade and had only called there in passing. ‘I hear,’ said Genji now coming forward, ‘that the child is to be moved to her father’s and I have something of importance which I must say to her before she goes.’ ‘Whatever business you have to transact with her, I am sure she will give the matter her closest attention,’ scoffed Shōnagon. Matters of importance indeed, with a child of ten! Genji entered the women’s quarters. ‘You cannot go in there,’ cried Shōnagon in horror; ‘several aged ladies are lying all undressed....’ ‘They are all fast asleep,’ said Genji. ‘See, I am only rousing the child,’ and bending over her: ‘The morning mist is rising,’ he cried, ‘it is time to wake!’ And before Shōnagon had time to utter a sound, he had taken the child in his arms and begun gently to rouse her. Still half-dreaming, she thought it was the prince her father who had come to fetch her. ‘Come,’ said Genji while he put her hair to rights, ‘your father has sent me to bring you back with me to his palace.’ For a moment she was dazed to find that it was not her father and shrank from him in fright. ‘Never mind whether it is your father or I,’ he cried; ‘it is all the same,’ and so saying he picked her up in his arms and carried her out of the inner room. ‘Well!’ cried out Koremitsu and Shōnagon in astonishment. What would he do next? ‘It seems,’ said Genji, ‘that you were disquieted at my telling you I could not visit her here as often as I wished and would make arrangements for her to go to a more convenient place. I hear that you are sending her where it will be even more difficult for me to see her. Therefore ... make ready one or the other of you to come with me.’