It happened that when Genji was driving about in the Rokjiâ quarter, he was informed that his old nurse, Daini, was ill, and had become a nun. Her residence was in Gojiâ. He wished to visit her, and drove to the house. The main gate was closed, so that his carriage could not drive up; therefore, he sent in a servant to call out Koremitz, a son of the nurse.
Meantime, while awaiting him, he looked round on the deserted terrace. He noticed close by a small and rather dilapidated dwelling, with a wooden fence round a newly-made enclosure. The upper part, for eight or ten yards in length, was surrounded by a trellis-work, over which some white reed blinds—rude, but new—were thrown. Through these blinds the indistinct outline of some fair heads were faintly delineated, and the owners were evidently peeping down the roadway from their retreat. “Ah,” thought Genji, “they can never be so tall as to look over the blind. They must be standing on something within. But whose residence is it? What sort of people are they?” His equipage was strictly private and unostentatious. There were, of course, no outriders; hence he had no fear of being recognized by them. And so he still watched the house. The gate was also constructed of something like trellis-work, and stood half open, revealing the loneliness of the interior. The line: “Where do we seek our home?” came first into his mind, and he then thought that “even this must be as comfortable as golden palaces to its inmates.”
A long wooden rail, covered with luxuriant creepers, which, fresh and green, climbed over it in full vigor, arrested his eye; their white blossoms, one after another disclosing their smiling lips in unconscious beauty. Genji began humming to himself: “Ah! stranger crossing there.” When his attendant informed him that these lovely white flowers were called “Yûgao” (evening-glory), adding, and at the same time pointing to the flowers, “See the flowers only , flourishing in that glorious state.”
“What beautiful flowers they are,” exclaimed Genji. “Go and beg a bunch.”
The attendant thereupon entered the half-opened gate and asked for some of them, on which a young girl, dressed in a long tunic, came out, taking an old fan in her hand, and saying, “Let us put them on this, those with strong stems,” plucked off a few stalks and laid them on the fan.
These were given to the attendant, who walked slowly back. Just as he came near to Genji, the gate of Koremitz's court-yard opened and Koremitz himself appeared, who took the flowers from him and handed them to Genji, at the same moment saying, “I am very sorry I could not find the gate key, and that I made you wait so long in the public road, though there is no one hereabouts to stare at, or recognize you, I sincerely beg your pardon.”
The carriage was now driven in, and Genji alighted. The Ajari,1 elder brother of Koremitz; Mikawa-no-Kami, his brother-in-law; and the daughter of Daini, all assembled and greeted him. The nun also rose from her couch to welcome him.
“How pleased I am to see you,” she said, “but you see I have quite altered, I have become a nun. I have given up the world. I had no reluctance in doing this. If I had any uneasiness, it was on your account alone. My health, however, is beginning to improve; evidently the divine blessing on this sacrifice.”
“I was so sorry,” replied Genji, “to hear you were ill, and now still more so to find you have given up the world. I hope that you may live to witness my success and prosperity. It grieves me to think you were compelled to make such a change; yet, I believe, this will secure your enjoyment of happiness hereafter. It is said that when one leaves this world without a single regret, one passes straight to Paradise.” As he said these words his eyes became moistened.
Now, it is common for nurses to regard their foster children with blind affection, whatever may be their faults, thinking, so to speak, that what is crooked is straight. So in Genji's case, who, in Daini's eyes, was next door to perfection, this blindness was still more strongly apparent, and she always regarded her office as his nurse, as an honor, and while Genji was discoursing in the above manner, a tear began to trickle from her eyes.
“You know,” he continued, “at what an early age I was deprived of my dearest ties; there were, indeed, several who looked after me, but you were the one to whom I was most attached. In due course, after I grew up, I ceased to see you regularly. I could not visit you as often as I thought of you, yet, when I did not see you for a long time, I often felt very lonely. Ah! if there were no such things as partings in the world!”
He then enjoined them earnestly to persevere in prayer for their mother's health, and said, “Good-by.”
At the moment of quitting the house he remembered that something was written on the fan that held the flowers. It was already twilight, and he asked Koremitz to bring a taper, that he might see to read it. It seemed to him as if the fragrance of some fair hand that had used it still remained, and on it was written the following couplets:—
“The crystal dew at Evening's hour
Sleeps on the Yûgao's beauteous flower,
Will this please him, whose glances bright,
Gave to the flowers a dearer light?”
With apparent carelessness, without any indication to show who the writer was, it bore, however, the marks of a certain excellence. Genji thought, “this is singular, coming from whence it does,” and turning to Koremitz, he asked, “Who lives in this house to your right?” “Ah,” exclaimed Koremitz mentally, “as usual, I see,” but replied with indifference, “Truly I have been here some days, but I have been so busy in attending my mother that I neither know nor have asked about the neighbors.” “You may probably be surprised at my inquisitiveness,” said Genji, “but I have reasons for asking this on account of this fan. I request you to call on them, and make inquiries what sort of people they are.”
Koremitz thereupon proceeded to the house, and, calling out a servant, sought from him the information he wanted, when he was told that, “This is the house of Mr. Yâmei-no-Ske. He is at present in the country; his lady is still young; her brothers are in the Court service, and often come here to see her. The whole history of the family I am not acquainted with.” With this answer Koremitz returned, and repeated it to Genji, who thought, “Ah! the sending of this verse may be a trick of these conceited Court fellows!” but he could not entirely free his mind from the idea of its having been sent especially to himself. This was consistent with the characteristic vanity of his disposition. He, therefore, took out a paper, and disguising his handwriting (lest it should be identified), indited the following:—