Meantime, both Genji and Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, in their secret minds, were thinking of the notes of the koto heard before on that evening, and of the bare and pitiable condition of the residence of the Princess whom they had left—a great contrast to the luxury of their present quarters. Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ's idea about her took something of this shape: “If girls who, from a modest propriety, keep themselves aloof for years from our society, were at last to be subdued by our attentions, our affection for them would become irresistible, even braving whatever remarks popular scandal might pass upon us. She may be like one of these. The Prince Genji seems to have made her the object of some attentions. He is not one to waste his time without reason. He knows what he is doing.”
As these thoughts arose in his mind, a slight feeling of jealousy disturbed him, and made him ready to dare a little rivalry in that quarter; for, it would appear, that after this day amatory letters were often sent both by him and Genji to the Princess, who, however, returned no answer to either.
This silence on her part made Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, more especially, think thus: “A strange rejection; and from one, too, who possesses such a secluded life. True, her birth is high; but that cannot be the only reason which makes her bury herself in retirement. There must be some stronger reason, I presume.”
As we have before mentioned, Genji and Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ were so intimate that all ceremony was dispensed with between them, and they could ask each other any question without reserve. From this circumstance Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ one day boldly inquired of Genji: “I dare say you have received some replies from the Princess. Have you not? I for my part have thrown out some hints in that quarter by way of experiment, but I gave up in disappointment.”
“Ah, then, he too has been trying there,” thought Genji, smiling slightly, and he replied very vaguely, “I am not particularly concerned whether I get an answer or not, therefore I cannot tell you whether I have received any.”
“I understand that,” thought Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ; “perhaps he has got one; I suspect so.”
To state the truth, Genji was not very deeply smitten by the Princess, and he was but little concerned at her sending no reply to his letter; but when he heard the confession of his brother-inlaw's attempts in the same quarter, the spirit of rivalry stirred him once more. “A girl,” thought he, “will yield to him who pays her the most attentions. I must not allow him to excel me in that.” And Genji determined to achieve what he intended to do, and with this object still enlisted the aid of Tayû. He told her that the Princess's treating his letter with such indifference was an act of great cruelty. “Perhaps she does this,” said he, “because she suspects I am changeable. I am not, however, such a one as that. It is often only the fault of ladies themselves that causes men to appear so; besides a lady, like the Princess, who has neither parent nor brother to interfere with her, is a most desirable acquaintance, as we can maintain our friendship far better than we could otherwise do.”
“Yes! what you say is all very well,” replied Tayû, “but the Princess is not exactly so placed that any one can make himself quite at ease with her. As I told you before she is very bashful and reserved; but yet is perhaps more desirable for this very reason,” and she detailed many more particulars about her. This enabled Genji to fully picture the general bearing of the Princess's character; and he thought, “Perhaps her mind is not one of brilliant activity, but she may be modest, and of a quiet nature, worthy of attention.” And so he kept the recollection of her alive in his mind. Before, however, he met her, many events had taken place. He had been attacked by the ague, which led to his journey to the mountain and his discovery of Violet, and his secret affection for a certain one in the palace.
His mind being thus otherwise occupied, the spring and summer passed away without anything further transpiring about the Princess. As the autumn advanced his thoughts recurred to past times, and even the sound of the fuller's hammer, which he had listened to in the home of Yûgao, came back to his mental ear; and these reveries again brought him to the recollection of the Princess Hitachi, and now once more he began to urge Tayû to contrive a meeting.
It would seem that there was no difficulty for Tayû to bring the matter about, but at the same time no one knew better than herself that the natural gifts and culture of the Princess were far from coming up to Genji's standard. She thought, however, that it would matter very little if he did not care for her, but if, on the other hand, he did so, he was quite free to come and see her without any interference. For this reason she at last made up her mind to bring them together, and she gave several hints to the Princess.
Now it so happened towards the end of August that Tayû was on one occasion engaged in conversing with the Princess. The evening was as yet moonless, the stars alone twinkled in the heavens, and the gentle winds blew plaintively over the tall trees around the mansion. The conversation gradually led to times gone by, and the Princess was rendered sad by the contrast of her present circumstances with those of her father's time. “This is a good opportunity,” thought Tayû, and she sent, it seems, a message to Genji, who soon hastened to the mansion with his usual alacrity. At the moment when he arrived on the scene the long-looked-for moon had just made her appearance over the tops of a distant mountain, and as he looked along the wildly growing hedges around the residence, he heard the sound of the koto , which was being played by the Princess at Tayû's request. It sounded a little too old-fashioned, but that was of no consequence to the eager ears of the Prince. He soon made his way to the entrance, and requested a domestic to announce him to Tayû.
When the latter heard of this she affected great surprise, and said to the Princess, “The Prince has come. How annoying! He has often been displeased because I have not yet introduced him to you. I have often told him that you do not particularly like it, and therefore I cannot think what makes him come here. I had better see him and send him away, but what shall I say. We cannot treat him like an ordinary person. I am really puzzled what to do. Will you not let me ask you if you will see him for a few minutes, then all matters will end satisfactorily?”
“But I am not used to receive people,” said the Princess, blushing. “How simple minded!” rejoined Tayû, coaxingly, “I am sorry for that, for the bashfulness of young ladies who are under the care of their parents may sometimes be even desirable, but how then is that parallel with your case? Besides, I do not see any good in a friendless maiden refusing the offer of a good acquaintance.”
“Well, if you really insist upon it,” said the Princess, “perhaps I will; but don't expose me too much to the gaze of a stranger.”
Having thus cunningly persuaded the Princess, Tayû set the reception-room in order, into which Genji was soon shown. The Princess was all the while experiencing much nervousness, and as she did not know exactly how to manage, she left everything to Tayû, and was led by her to the room to receive her visitor.
The room was arranged in such a way that the Princess had her back to the light so that her face and emotions could be obscured.
The perfume which she used was rich, still preserving the trait of high birth, but her demeanor was timid, and her deportment awkward.
Genji at once noticed this. “Just as I imagined. She is so simple,” thought he, and then he commenced to talk with her, and to explain how passionately he had desired to see her. She, however, listened to him almost in silence, and gave no plain answer. Genji was disconcerted, and at last said,
“From you I sought so oft reply,
But you to give one would not deign,
If you discard me, speak, and I
Will cease to trouble you again.”
The governess of the Princess, Kojijiû by name, who was present, was a sagacious woman, and noticing the embarrassment of the lady, she advanced to her side, and made the following reply in such a well-timed manner that her real object, which was to conceal the deficiencies of her mistress, did not betray itself—
“Not by the ringing of a bell,
Your words we wish to stay;
But simply, she has nought to tell,
And nothing much to say.”
“Your eloquence has so struck me that my mouth is almost closed,” said Genji smiling—
“Not speaking is a wiser part,
And words are sometimes vain,
But to completely close the heart
In silence, gives me pain.”
He then tried to speak of this thing and that indifferently, but all hopes of agreeable responsiveness on the lady's part being vain, he coolly took his leave, and left the mansion, much disappointed.
This evening he slept in his mansion at Nijiâ. The next morning Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ appeared before he had risen.