“What can be the matter,” said an attendant, and as she came near to the Prince's room she added, “Perhaps my ear was deceived,” and she began to retire.
“Buddha will guide you; fear not the darkness, I am here,” said Genji.
“Sir!” replied the servant, timidly.
“Pray do not think me presumptuous,” said Genji; “but may I beg you to transmit this poetical effusion to your mistress for me?
Since first that tender grass I viewed,
My heart no soft repose e'er feels,
But gathering mist my sleeve bedews,
And pity to my bosom steals.”
“Surely you should know, sir, that there is no one here to whom such things can be presented!”
“Believe me, I have my own reasons for this,” said Genji. “Let me beseech you to take it.”
So the attendant went back, and presented it to the nun.
“I do not see the real intent of the effusion,” thought the nun. “Perhaps he thinks that she is already a woman. But”—she continued, wonderingly—“how could he have known about the young grass?” And she then remained silent for a while. At last, thinking it would be unbecoming to take no notice of it, she gave orally the following reply to the attendant to be given to Genji:—
“You say your sleeve is wet with dew,
'Tis but one night alone for you,
But there's a mountain moss grows nigh,
Whose leaves from dew are never dry.”
When Genji heard this, he said: “I am not accustomed to receive an answer such as this through the mouth of a third person. Although I thank the lady for even that much, I should feel more obliged to her if she would grant me an interview, and allow me to explain to her my sincere wishes.”
This at length obliged the nun to have an interview with the Prince. He then told her that he called Buddha to witness that, though his conduct may have seemed bold, it was dictated by pure and conscientious motives.
“All the circumstances of your family history are known to me,” continued he. “Look upon me, I pray, as a substitute for your once loved daughter. I, too, when a mere infant, was deprived by death of my best friend—my mother—and the years and months which then rolled by were fraught with trouble to me. In that same position your little one is now. Allow us, then, to become friends. We could sympathize with each other. 'Twas to reveal these wishes to you that I came here, and risked the chance of offending you in doing so.”
“Believe me, I am well disposed at your offer,” said the nun; “but you may have been incorrectly informed. It is true that there is a little girl dependent upon myself, but she is but a child. Her society could not afford you any pleasure; and forgive me, therefore, if I decline your request.”
“Yet let there be no reserve in the expression of your ideas,” interrupted Genji; but, before they could talk further, the return of the priest put an end to the subject, and Genji retired to his quarters, after thanking the nun for his kind reception.
The night passed away, and dawn appeared. The sky was again hazy, and here and there melodious birds were singing among the mountain shrubs and flowers that blossomed around. The deer, too, which were to be seen here, added to the beauty of the picture. Gazing around at these Genji once more proceeded to the temple. The hermit—though too infirm to walk—again contrived to offer up his prayers on Genji's behalf, and he also read from the Darani.1 The tremulous accents of the old man— poured forth from his nearly toothless mouth—imparted a greater reverence to his prayers.
Genji's attendants now arrived from the capital, and congratulated him on the improvement in his health. A messenger was despatched from the Imperial Palace for the same purpose. The priest now collected wild and rare fruits, not to be met with in the distant town, and, with all respect, presented them to Genji, saying: “The term of my vow has not yet expired; and I am, therefore, sorry to say that I am unable to descend the mountain with you on your departure.” He then offered to him the parting cup of saké .
“This mountain, with its waters, fill me with admiration,” said Genji, “and I regret that the anxiety of my father the Emperor obliges me to quit the charming scene; but before the season is past, I will revisit it: and—
The city's folk from me shall hear
How mountain cherries blossom fair,
And ere the Spring has passed away,
I'll bid them view the prospect gay.”
To this the priest replied—
“Your noble presence seems to me
Like the rare flowers of Udon tree,2
Nor does the mountain cherry white,
Attract my gaze while you're in sight.”
Genji smiled slightly, and said: “That is a very great compliment; but the Udon tree does not blossom so easily.”
The hermit also raised the cup to his lips, and said:—
“Opening my lonely hermit's door,
Enclosed around by mountain pine,
A blossom never seen before
My eyes behold that seems divine.”
And he presented to him his toko (a small ecclesiastical wand). On seeing this, the priest also made him the following presents:— A rosary of Kongâji (a kind of precious stone), which the sage Prince Shâtok obtained from Corea, enclosed in the original case in which it had been sent from that country; some medicine of rare virtue in a small emerald jar; and several other objects, with a spray of Wistaria, and a branch of cherry blossoms.
Genji, too, on the other hand, made presents, which he had ordered from the capital, to the hermit and his disciples who had taken part in the religious ceremonies, and also to the poor mountaineers. He also sent the following to the nun, by the priest's page:—
“In yester-eve's uncertain light,
A flower I saw so young and bright,
But like a morning mist. Now pain
Impels me yet to see again.”
A reply from the nun was speedily brought to him, which ran thus:—