Genji gave vent to his feelings to the Princess, as follows:—
“Though now we meet, and not again
We e'er may meet, I seem
As though to die, I were full fain
Lost in this blissful dream.”
Then the Princess replied to him, full of sadness:—
“We might dream on but fear the name,
The envious world to us may give,
Forgetful of the darkened fame,
That lives when we no longer live.”
For some time after this meeting had taken place, Genji found himself too timid to appear at his father's palace, and remained in his mansion. The Princess, too, experienced a strong feeling of remorse. She had, moreover, a cause of anxiety special in its nature and peculiar to herself as a woman, for which she alone felt some uneasiness of conscience.
Three months of the summer had passed away, and her secret began to betray itself externally. The Emperor was naturally anxious about the health of his favorite, and kind inquiries were sent from time to time to her. But the kinder he was to her the more conscience-stricken she felt.
Genji at this time was often visited by strange dreams. When he consulted a diviner about them, he was told that something remarkable and extraordinary might happen to him, and that it behooved him to be cautious and prudent.
“Here is a pretty source of embarrassment,” thought Genji. He cautioned the diviner to be discreet about it, especially because he said the dreams were not his own but another person's. When at last he heard authentically about the condition of the Princess, he was extremely anxious to communicate with her, but she now peremptorily objected to any kind of correspondence between them, and Ô Miâbu too refused any longer to assist him.
In July Wistaria returned to the palace. There she was received by the Emperor with great rejoicing, and he thought that her condition did but add to her attractiveness.
It was now autumn, the season when agreeable receptions were often held by the Emperor in Court, and it was awkward when Genji and the Princess happened to face each other on these occasions, as neither of them could be free from their tender recollections.
During these autumn evenings the thoughts of Genji were often directed to the granddaughter of the nun, especially because she resembled the Princess so much. His desire to possess her was considerably increased, and the recollection of the first evening he heard the nun intoning to herself the verses about the tender grass, recurred to his mind. “What,” thought he, “if I pluck this tender grass, would it then be, would it then grow up, as fair as now.”
“When will be mine this lovely flower
Of tender grace and purple hue?
Like the Wistaria of the bower,
Its charms are lovely to my view.”
The Emperor's visit to the Palace Suzak-in was now announced to take place in October, and dancers and musicians were selected from among the young nobles who were accomplished in these arts, and Royal Princes and officers of State were fully engaged in preparation for the fête . After the Royal festivities, a separate account of which will be given hereafter, he sent again a letter to the mountain. The answer, however, came only from the priest, who said that his sister had died on the twentieth day of the last month; and added that though death is inevitable to all of us, still he painfully felt her loss.
Genji pondered first on the precariousness of human life, and then thought how that little one who had depended on her must be afflicted, and gradually the memory of his own childhood, during which he too had lost his mother, came back to his mind.
When the time of full mourning was over, Shiânagon, together with the young girl, returned to their house in the capital. There one evening Genji paid them a visit. The house was rather a gloomy one, and was tenanted by fewer inmates than usual.
“How timid the little girl must feel!” thought Genji, as he was shown in. Shiânagon now told him with tearful eyes every circumstance which had taken place since she had seen him. She also said that the girl might be handed over to her father, who told her that she must do so, but his present wife was said to be very austere. The girl is not young enough to be without ideas and wishes of her own, but yet not old enough to form them sensibly; so were she to be taken to her father's house and be placed with several other children, much misery would be the result. Her grandmother suffered much on this account. “Your kindness is great,” continued she, “and we ought not, perhaps, to think too anxiously about the future. Still she is young, too young, and we cannot think of it without pity.”
“Why do you recur to that so often?” said Genji, “it is her very youthfulness which moves my sympathy. I am anxious to talk to her,
Say, can the wave that rolls to land,
Return to ocean's heaving breast,
Nor greet the weed upon the strand
With one wild kiss, all softly pressed.
How sweet it would be!”
“That is very beautifully put, sir,” said Shiânagon, “but,
Half trembling at the coming tide
That rolls about the sea-beat sand,
Say, can the tender weed untried,
Be trusted to its boisterous hand?”
Meanwhile the girl, who was with her companions in her apartment, and who was told that a gentleman in Court dress had arrived, and that perhaps it was the Prince, her father, came running in, saying, “Shiânagon, where is the gentleman in Court dress; has the Prince, my father, arrived?”
“Not the Prince, your father,” uttered Genji, “but I am here, and I too am your friend. Come here!”
The girl, glancing with shy timidity at Genji, for whom she already had some liking, and thinking that perhaps there was impropriety in what she had spoken, went over to her nurse, and said, “Oh! I am very sleepy, and wish to lie down!”
“See how childish she still is,” remarked Shiânagon.
“Why are you so timid, little one, come here and sleep on my knees,” said Genji.
“Go, my child, as you are asked,” observed Shiânagon, and she pushed her towards Genji.