The beauteous Yûgao of Genji was lost, but memory of her never vanished from his mind. Her attractive nature, thoughtfulness, and patient manner had seemed to him
surpassingly charming. At last he began to think of seeking for some other maiden who might resemble her in these qualities. True, his thoughts had often reverted to Cicada, and to her young friend; but it was now of little use thinking of them, for one had gone to the country, and the other was married.
Now, Genji had another nurse, next in degree to Daini. The daughter of this nurse, Tayû-no-Miâbu, was in Court service. She was still young, and full of mirth and life. Genji was wont to make her useful when in the palace. Her father, who had been remotely connected with the Royal blood, was an official in the War Department. Her mother, however, had been married again to the Governor of the province of Chikzen, and had gone there with her husband; so Tayû made her father's house her home, and went from there backwards and forwards to the palace. She was an intimate acquaintance of a young Princess, the daughter of the late Lord-Lieutenant of Hitachi, and she had been the child of his old age, and was at this time his survivor. The life that she passed was somewhat lonely, and her circumstances miserable. Tayû mentioned this young lady to Genji, who exclaimed:—
“How sad! Tell me all about her.”
“I cannot say that I know so much about her,” replied Tayû. “She leads a very retired life, and is seldom seen in society. Perhaps, some favorable evening, you might see her from a hiding-place. The koto is her favorite instrument, and the favorite amusement of her solitude.”
“Ah!” said Genji, “I see, one of the three friends (as the Chinese poets call them)—Music, Poetry, and Wine; but, of the other two, one is not always a good friend.” And he added, “Well, you may manage some time to let me hear her koto . The Prince, her father, had great taste and reputation in such arts; so, I believe, she is no ordinary performer.”
“But, perhaps, after all, not so good as you imagine,” replied Tayû, disingenuously.
“Oh! that remains to be discovered,” cried Genji, nibbling at the bait. “One of these evenings I will come, and you had better be there also.”
Now, the home of Tayû's father was at some distance from the Princess's mansion; but Tayû used to spend her time very often with the Princess, when she had leave of absence from the Court, chiefly because she did not like being at home with her stepmother. For this reason Tayû had plenty of chances for gratifying the wish of Genji to see the Princess; so a certain evening was appointed.
It was a sweet balmy day in spring, and the grounds of the palace were full of silence and repose. Tayû left the palace, and proceeded to the mansion of the Princess, attracted more by the beauty of the evening than by the appointment made. Genji also appeared on the scene, with the newly risen moon, and was soon prattling with Tayû.
“You have not come at a very favorable time,” said she. “This is not the sort of evening when the koto sounds sweetest.”
“But take me somewhere, so that I may hear her voice. I cannot go away without hearing that.”
Tayû then led him into a private room, where she made him sit down, and left him, saying, as she went away, “I am sorry to make you wait, but you must have a little patience.” She proceeded to another part of the palace occupied by the Princess, whom she found sitting pensively near an open casement, inhaling the rich perfume of the plum blossoms.
“A good opportunity,” thought Tayû; and, advancing to the Princess, said: “What a lovely evening! How sweet at such an hour is the music of the koto ! My official going to and fro to the palace prevents me from having the pleasure of hearing it often; so do now, if you please, play me a tune.”
“You appreciate music,” said the Princess “but I am afraid that mine is not good enough to charm the ear of courtiers; but, if you wish it, I will play one tune.” And she ordered the koto to be brought, and began to strike it. Her skill was certainly not super-excellent; but she had been well instructed, and the effect was by no means displeasing to the ear.
Tayû, however, it must be remembered, was rather a sharp girl. She did not like Genji to hear too much, so as to criticise; and, therefore, said to the Princess, casting a glance upwards, “How changed and dull the sky has become. A friend of mine is waiting; and is, perhaps, impatient. I must have more of this pleasure some other time; at present I must go and see him.” Thus she caused the Princess to cease playing, and went to Genji, who exclaimed, when she returned, “Her music seems pretty good; but I had better not have heard it at all. How can we judge by so little? If you are willing to oblige me at all, let me hear and see more closely than this.” Tayû made a difficulty. “She is so retiring,” she said, “and always keeps herself in the strictest privacy. Were you to intrude upon her, it would not be acting rightly.”
“Truly so,” replied Genji; “her position insures her from intrusion. Let us, then, seek for some better opportunity.” And then he prepared to take leave, as if he had some other affairs on his hands. Tayû observed, with a knowing smile, “The Emperor, your father, always thinks of you as quite guileless, and actually says so. When I hear these remarks I often laugh in my sleeve. Were his Majesty to see you in these disguises, what would he then think?”
Genji answered, with a slight laugh: “Nonsense! If these trifling amusements were thought so improper, how cheerless the life of woman would be!”
Tayû made no remark in reply; so Genji then left the house, and took a stroll round the garden, intending to reach that part of the mansion where the Princess had her apartments. As he sauntered along, he came to a thick hedge, in which there was a dark bower, and here wished to stop awhile. He stepped cautiously into it, when he suddenly perceived a tall man concealed there. “Who can this be?” thought Genji, as he withdrew to a corner where the moonlight did not reach. This was Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, and the reason of his being there was this:
He had left the Palace that evening in company with Genji, who did not go to his house in Nijiâ, nor to his bride, but separated from him on the road. Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ was very anxious to find out where Genji was going. He therefore followed him unperceived. When he saw Genji enter the mansion of the Princess, he wished to see how the business would end; so he waited in the garden, in order that he might witness Genji's departure, listening, at the same time, to the koto of the Princess. Genji did not know who the man was, nor did he wish to be recognized. He therefore began to retreat slowly on tip-toe, when Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ came up to him from behind, and addressed him: “You slighted me, but I have come to watch over you:—
Though like two wandering moons on high
We left our vast imperial home,
We parted on our road, and I
Knew not where you were bent to roam.”
Genji at once recognized his companion; and, being somewhat amused at his pertinacity, exclaimed: “What an unexpected surprise!
We all admire the moon, 'tis true,
Whose home unknown to mortal eye
Is in the mountains hid, but who
To find that far-off home, would try?”
Hereupon Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ gave him a taunt: “What would you do,” said he, “if I were to follow you very often? Were you to maintain true propriety in your position, you ought always to have trustworthy attendants; and I am sure, by so doing, you will meet with better fortune. I cannot say that it is very decorous of you to go wandering about in such a fashion. It is too frivolous!”
“How very tiresome!” mentally exclaimed Genji; “but he little knows about his Nadeshiko (little darling). I have him there!”
Neither of them ventured to go to any other rendezvous that night; but, with many mutual home-thrusts, they got into a carriage together, and proceeded home, amusing themselves all the way with a duet on their flutes. Entering the mansion, they went to a small apartment, where they changed their dresses, and commenced playing the flutes in such a manner as if they had come from the Palace. The Sadaijin, hearing this music, could not forbear joining them, and blew skilfully a Corean flute in concert with theirs. Lady Aoi, also, in her room, catching the impulse, ordered some practised players on the koto to perform.