Now with regard to the fair one about whom Koremitz was making inquiries. After some still further investigations, he came to Genji and told him that “there is some one who often visits there. Who he was I could not at first find out, for he comes with the utmost privacy. I made up my mind to discover him; so one evening I concealed myself outside the house, and waited. Presently the sound of an approaching carriage was heard, and the inmates of the house began to peep out. The lady I mentioned before was also to be seen; I could not see her very plainly, but I can tell you so much: she looked charming. The carriage itself was now seen approaching, and it apparently belonged to some one of rank. A little girl who was peeping out exclaimed, “Ukon, look here, quick, Chiûjiâ is coming.” Then one older came forward rubbing her hands and saying to the child, ‘Don't be so foolish, don't be excited.' How could they tell, I wondered, that the carriage was a Chiûjiâ's. I stole forth cautiously and reconnoitred. Near the house there is a small stream, over which a plank had been thrown by way of a bridge. The visitor was rapidly approaching this bridge when an amusing incident occurred: The elder girl came out in haste to meet him, and was passing the bridge, when the skirt of her dress caught in something, and she wellnigh fell into the water. ‘Confound that bridge, what a bad Katzragi,'3 she cried, and suddenly turned pale. How amusing it was, you may imagine. The visitor was dressed in plain style, he was followed by his page, whom I recognized as belonging to Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ.”
“I should like to see that same carriage,” interrupted Genji eagerly, as he thought to himself, “that house may be the home of the very girl whom he (Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ) spoke about, perhaps he has discovered her hiding-place.”
“I have also made an acquaintance,” Koremitz continued, “with a certain person in this house, and it was through these means that I made closer observations. The girl who nearly fell over the bridge is, no doubt, the lady's attendant, but they pretend to be all on an equality. Even when the little child said anything to betray them by its remarks, they immediately turned it off.” Koremitz laughed as he told this, adding, “this was an amusing trick indeed.”
“Oh,” exclaimed Genji, “I must have a look at them when I go to visit your mother; you must manage this,” and with the words the picture of the “Evening-Glory” rose pleasantly before his eyes.
Now Koremitz not only was always prompt in attending to the wishes of Prince Genji, but also was by his own temperament fond of carrying on such intrigues. He tried every means to favor his designs, and to ingratiate himself with the lady, and at last succeeded in bringing her and Genji together. The details of the plans by which all this was brought about are too long to be given here. Genji visited her often, but it was with the greatest caution and privacy; he never asked her when they met any particulars about her past life, nor did he reveal his own to her. He would not drive to her in his own carriage, and Koremitz often lent him his own horse to ride. He took no attendant with him except the one who had asked for the “Evening-Glory.” He would not even call on the nurse, lest it might lead to discoveries. The lady was puzzled at his reticence. She would sometimes send her servant to ascertain, if possible, what road he took, and where he went. But somehow, by chance or design, he always became lost to her watchful eye. His dress, also, was of the most ordinary description, and his visits were always paid late in the evening. To her all this seemed like the mysteries of old legends. True, she conjectured from his demeanor and ways that he was a person of rank, but she never ascertained exactly who he was. She sometimes reproached Koremitz for bringing her into such strange circumstances. But he cunningly kept himself aloof from such taunts.
Be this as it may, Genji still frequently visited her, though at the same time he was not unmindful that this kind of adventure was scarcely consistent with his position. The girl was simple and modest in nature, not certainly manœuvring, neither was she stately or dignified in mien, but everything about her had a peculiar charm and interest, impossible to describe, and in the full charm of youth not altogether void of experience.
“But by what charm in her,” thought Genji, “am I so strongly affected; no matter, I am so,” and thus his passion continued.
Her residence was only temporary, and this Genji soon became
aware of. “If she leaves this place,” thought he, “and I lose sight of her—for when this may happen is uncertain—what shall I do?” He at last decided to carry her off secretly to his own mansion in Nijiâ. True, if this became known it would be an awkward business; but such are love affairs; always some dangers to be risked! He therefore fondly entreated her to accompany him to some place where they could be freer.
Her answer, however, was “That such a proposal on his part only alarmed her.” Genji was amused at her girlish mode of expression, and earnestly said, “Which of us is a fox?4 I don't know, but anyhow be persuaded by me.” And after repeated conversations of the same nature, she at last half-consented. He had much doubt of the propriety of inducing her to take this step, nevertheless her final compliance flattered his vanity. He recollected very well the Tokonatz (Pinks) which Tâ-no-Chiûjiiâ spoke of, but never betrayed that he had any knowledge of that circumstance.
It was on the evening of the 15th of August when they were together. The moonlight streamed through the crevices of the broken wall. To Genji such a scene was novel and peculiar. The dawn at length began to break, and from the surrounding houses the voices of the farmers might be heard talking.
One remarked, “How cool it is.” Another, “There is not much hope for our crops this year.” “My carrying business I do not expect to answer,” responded the first speaker. “But are our neighbors listening!” Conversing in this way they proceeded to their work.
Had the lady been one to whom surrounding appearances were important, she might have felt disturbed, but she was far from being so, and seemed as if no outward circumstances could trouble her equanimity, which appeared to him an admirable trait. The noise of the threshing of the corn came indistinctly to their ears like distant thunder. The beating of the bleacher's hammer was also heard faintly from afar off.
They were in the front of the house. They opened the window and looked out on the dawn. In the small garden before their eyes was a pretty bamboo grove; their leaves, wet with dew, shone brilliantly, even as bright as in the gardens of the palace. The cricket sang cheerfully in the old walls as if it was at their very ears, and the flight of wild geese in the air rustled overhead. Everything spoke of rural scenes and business, different from what Genji was in the habit of seeing and hearing round him.