Not softlier pillowed is my head
That rests by thine, unloving bride,
Than were those jagged stones my bed
Through which the falls of Nuki stride.
At this moment Aoi’s father came by and began to discuss the unusual success of the recent festivities. ‘Old as I am,’ he said—‘and I may say that I have lived to see four illustrious sovereigns occupy the Throne, I have never taken part in a banquet which produced verses so spirited or dancing and music so admirably performed. Talent of every description seems at present to exist in abundance; but it is creditable to those in authority that they knew how to make good use of it. For my part I enjoyed myself so much that had I but been a few years younger I would positively have joined in the dancing!’ ‘No special steps were taken to discover the musicians,’ answered Genji. ‘We merely used those who were known to the government in one part of the country and another as capable performers. If I may say so, it was Chūjō’s Willow Dance that made the deepest impression and is likely always to be remembered as a remarkable performance. But if you, Sir, had indeed honoured us a new lustre would have been added to my Father’s reign.’ Aoi’s brothers now arrived and leaning against the balustrade gave a little concert, their various instruments blending delightfully.
Fugitive as their meeting had been it had sufficed to plunge the lady whose identity Prince Genji was now seeking to establish into the depths of despair; for in the fourth month she was to become the Heir Apparent’s wife. Turmoil filled her brain. Why had not Genji visited her again? He must surely know whose daughter she was. But how should he know which daughter? Besides, her sister Kōkiden’s house was not a place where, save under very strange circumstances, he was likely to feel at all at his ease. And so she waited in great impatience and distress; but of Genji there was no news.
About the twentieth day of the third month her father, the Minister of the Right, held an archery meeting at which most of the young noblemen and princes were present. It was followed by a wistaria feast. The cherry blossom was for the most part over, but two trees, which the Minister seemed somehow to have persuaded to flower later than all the rest, were still an enchanting sight. He had had his house rebuilt only a short time ago when celebrating the initiation of his grand-daughters, the children of Kōkiden. It was now a magnificent building and not a thing in it but was of the very latest fashion. He had invited Genji when he had met him at the Palace only a few days before and was extremely annoyed when he did not appear. Feeling that the party would be a failure if Genji did not come, he sent his son Shii no Shōshō to fetch him, with the poem: ‘Were my flowers as those of other gardens never should I have ventured to summon you.’ Genji was in attendance upon the Emperor and at once showed him the message. ‘He seems very pleased with himself and his flowers,’ said his Majesty with a smile; adding ‘as he has sent for you like this, I think you had better go. After all your half-sisters are being brought up at his house, and you ought not to treat him quite as a stranger.’ He went to his apartments and dressed. It was very late indeed when at last he made his appearance at the party. He was dressed in a cloak of thin Chinese fabric, white outside but lined with yellow. His robe was of a deep wine-red colour with a very long train. The dignity and grace with which he carried this fancifully regal[3] attire in a company where all were dressed in plain official robes were indeed remarkable, and in the end his presence perhaps contributed more to the success of the party than did the fragrance of the Minister’s boasted flowers. His entry was followed by some very agreeable music. It was already fairly late when Genji, on the plea that the wine had given him a head-ache, left his seat and went for a walk. He knew that his two step-sisters, the daughters of Kōkiden, were in the inner apartments of the palace. He went to the eastern portico and rested there. It was on this side of the house that the wistaria grew. The wooden blinds were raised and a number of ladies were leaning out of the window to enjoy the blossoms. They had hung bright-coloured robes and shawls over the window-sill just as is done at the time of the New Year dancing and other gala days and were behaving with a freedom of allure which contrasted very oddly with the sober decorum of Fujitsubo’s household. ‘I am feeling rather overpowered by all the noise and bustle of the flower-party’ Genji explained. ‘I am very sorry to disturb my sisters, but I can think of nowhere else to seek refuge ...’ and advancing towards the main door of the women’s apartments he pushed back the curtain with his shoulder. ‘Refuge indeed!’ cried one of the ladies laughing at him. ‘You ought to know by now that it is only poor relations who come to seek refuge with the more successful members of their family. What pray have you come to bother us for?’ ‘Impertinent creatures!’ he thought but nevertheless there was something in their manner which convinced him they were persons of some consequence in the house and not, as he at first supposed, mere waiting-women. A scent of costly perfumes pervaded the room; silken skirts rustled in the darkness. There could be little doubt that these were Kōkiden’s sisters and their friends. Deeply absorbed, as indeed was the whole of this family, in the fashionable gaieties of the moment, they had flouted decorum and posted themselves at the window that they might see what little they could of the banquet which was proceeding outside. Little thinking that his plan could succeed, yet led on by delightful recollections of his previous encounter he advanced towards them chanting in a careless undertone the song:
At Ishikawa, Ishikawa
A man from Koma[4] took my belt away....
But for ‘belt’ he substituted ‘fan’ and by this means he sought to discover which of the ladies was his friend. ‘Why, you have got it wrong! I never heard of that Korean’ one of them cried. Certainly it was not she. But there was another who though she remained silent seemed to him to be sighing softly to herself. He stole towards the curtain-of-state behind which she was sitting and taking her hand in his at a venture he whispered the poem: ‘If on this day of shooting my arrow went astray, ’twas that in dim morning twilight only the mark had glimmered in my view.’ And she, unable any longer to hide that she knew him, answered with the verse: ‘Had it been with the arrows of the heart that you had shot, though from the moon’s slim bow no brightness came would you have missed your mark?’ Yes, it was her voice. He was delighted, and yet....