“You say you feel, perhaps 'tis true,
A pang to leave these mountain bowers,
For sweet the blossoms, sweet the view,
To strangers' eyes of mountain flowers.”
While this was being presented to him in his carriage, a few more people came, as if accidentally, to wait upon him on his journey. Among them was Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, and his brother Ben, who said: “We are always pleased to follow you; it was unkind of you to leave us behind.”
Just as the party were on the point of starting, some of them observed that it was a pity to leave so lovely a spot without resting awhile among the flowers. This was immediately agreed to, and they took their seats on a moss-grown rock, a short distance from which a little streamlet descended in a murmuring cascade.
They there began to drink saké , and Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ taking his flute, evoked from it a rich and melodious strain; while Ben, tapping his fan in concert, sang “The Temple of Toyora,” while the Prince, as he leaned against a rock, presented a picturesque appearance, though he was pale and thin.
Among the attendants was one who blew on a long flute, called Hichiriki, and another on a Shiâ flute. The priest brought a koto , and begged Genji to perform upon it, saying: “If we are to have music at all, let us have a harmonious concert.” Genji said that he was no master of music; but, nevertheless, he played, with fair ability, a pleasing air. Then they all rose up, and departed.
After they had quitted the mountain, Genji first of all went to the Palace, where he immediately had an interview with the Emperor, who considered his son to be still weak in health; and who asked him several questions with regard to the efficacy of the prayers of the reverend hermit. Genji gave him all particulars of his visit to the mountain.
“Ah!” said the Emperor, “he may some day be entitled to become a dean (Azali). His virtue and holiness have not yet been duly appreciated by the government and the nation.”
Sadaijin, the father-in-law of the Prince, here entered, and entreated Genji to accompany him to his mansion, and spend a few days. Genji did not feel very anxious to accept this invitation, but was persuaded to do so. Sadaijin conveyed him in his own carriage, and gave up to him the seat of honor.
They arrived; but, as usual, his bride did not appear, and only presented herself at last at the earnest request of her father. She was one of those model princesses whom one may see in a picture—very formal and very sedate—and it was very difficult to draw her into conversation. She was very uninteresting to Genji. He thought that it would only lead to a very unpleasant state of affairs, as years grew on, if they were to be as cool and reserved to each other as they had been hitherto. Turning to her, he said, with some reproachfulness in his accents, “Surely you should sometimes show me a little of the ordinary affection of people in our position!”
She made no reply; but, glancing coolly upon him, murmured with modest, yet dignified, tone—
“When you cease to care for me,
What can I then do for thee?”
“Your words are few; but they have a sting in them. You say I cease to care for you; but you do me wrong in saying so. May the time come when you will no longer pain me thus,” said Genji; and he made every effort to conciliate her. But she was not easily appeased. He was unsuccessful in his effort, and presently they retired to their apartment, where he soon relapsed into sleepy indifference. His thoughts began to wander back into other regions, and hopes of the future growth and charms of the young mountain-violet again occupied his mind. “Oh! how difficult it is to secure a prize,” thought he. “How can I do so? Her father, Prince Hiâbkiâ, is a man of rank, and affable, but he is not of prepossessing appearance. Why does his daughter resemble so much, in her personal attractions, the lovely one in the chamber of Wistaria. Is it that the mother of her father and of Wistaria is the same person? How charming is the resemblance between them! How can I make her mine?”
Some days afterwards he sent a letter to the mountain home, and also a communication—perhaps with some hint in it—to the priest. In his letter to the nun he said that her indifference made it desirable to refrain from urging his wishes; but, nevertheless, that he should be deeply gratified if she would think more favorably of the idea which was now so deeply rooted in his mind. Inside the letter he enclosed a small folded slip of paper, on which was written:—
“The mountain flower I left behind
I strive but vainly to forget,
Those lovely traits still rise to mind
And fill my heart with sad regret.”
This ludicrous effusion caused the nun to be partly amused and partly vexed. She wrote an answer as follows:—
“When you came into our neighborhood your visit was very pleasing to us, and your special message does us honor. I am, however, at a loss how to express myself with regard to the little one, as yet she cannot even manage the naniwadz.”3
Enclosed in the note were the following lines, in which she hinted as to her doubts of the steadfastness of Genji's character:
“Your heart admires the lowly flower
That dwells within our mountain bower.
Not long, alas! that flower may last
Torn by the mountain's angry blast.”
The tenor of the priest's answer was much the same, and it caused Genji some vexation.
About this time the Lady Wistaria, in consequence of an attack of illness, had retired from the palace to her private residence, and Genji, while sympathizing with the anxiety of the Emperor about her, longed greatly for an opportunity of seeing her, ill though she was. Hence at this time he went nowhere, but kept himself in his mansion at Nijiâ and became thoughtful and preoccupied. At length he endeavored to cajole Ô Miâbu, Wistaria's attendant, into arranging an opportunity for him to see her. On Wistaria's part there were strong doubts as to the propriety of complying with his request, but at last the earnestness of the Prince overcame her scruples, and Ô Miâbu managed eventually to bring about a meeting between them.4