Genji Monogatari (The Tale of Genji) — Evening Glory Part 2

The midnight passed, and the wind blew louder, rushing amongst the branches of the old pines, and making them moan more and more sadly.

The cries of strange weird birds were heard, probably the shrieks of the ill-omened screech-owl, and the place seemed more and more remote from all human sympathy.

Genji could only helplessly repeat, "How could I have chosen such a retreat."

While Ukon, quite dismayed, cried pitifully at his side.

To him it seemed even that this girl might become ill, might die!

The light of the lamp flickered and burnt dim.

Each side of the walls seemed to his alarmed sight to present numberless openings one after another (where the demon might rush in), and the sound of mysterious footsteps seemed approaching along the deserted passages behind them.

"Ah!

were Koremitz but here," was the only thought of Genji; but it would seem that Koremitz was from home, and the time Genji had to wait for him seemed an age.

At last the crowing cocks announced the coming day, and gave him new courage.

He said to himself, "I must now admit this to be a punishment for all my inconsiderateness.

However secretly we strive to conceal our faults, eventually they are discovered.

First of all, what might not my father think!

and then the general public?

And what a subject for scandal the story of my escapades will become."

Koremitz now arrived, and all at once the courage with which Genji had fought against calamity gave way, and he burst into tears, and then slowly spoke.

"Here a sad and singular event has happened; I cannot explain to you why.

For such sudden afflictions prayers, I believe, are the only resource.

For this reason I wished your brother to accompany you here."

"He returned to his monastery only yesterday," replied Koremitz.

"But tell me what has happened; any unusual event to the girl?"

"She is dead," returned Genji in a broken voice; "dead without any apparent cause."

Koremitz, like the Prince, was but young.

If he had had greater experience he would have been more serviceable to Genji; indeed, they both were equally perplexed to decide what were the best steps to be taken under the trying circumstances of the case.

At last Koremitz said, "If the steward should learn this strange misfortune it might be awkward; as to the man himself he might be relied on, but his family, who probably would not be so discreet, might hear of the matter.

It would, therefore, be better to quit this place at once."

"But where can we find a spot where there are fewer observers than here?"

replied Genji.

"That is true.

Suppose the old lodgings of the deceased.

No, there are too many people there.

I think a mountain convent would be better, because there they are accustomed to receive the dead within their walls, so that matters can be more easily concealed."

And after a little reflection, he continued, "There is a nun whom I know living in a mountain convent in Higashi-Yama.

Let us take the corpse there.

She was my father's nurse; she is living there in strict seclusion.

That is the best plan I can think of."

This proposal was decided on, and the carriage was summoned.

Presuming that Genji would not like to carry the dead body in his arms, Koremitz covered it with a mantle, and lifted it into the carriage.

Over the features of the dead maiden a charming calmness was still spread, unlike what usually happens, there being nothing repulsive.

Her wavy hair fell outside the mantle, and her small mouth, still parted, wore a faint smile.

The sight distressed both the eyes and heart of Genji.

He fain would have followed the body; but this Koremitz would not permit.

"Do take my horse and ride back to Nijiô at once," he said, and ordered the horse for him.

Then taking Ukon away in the same carriage with the dead, he, girding up his dress, followed it on foot.

It was by no means a pleasant task for Koremitz, but he put up with it cheerfully.

Genji, sunk in apathy, now rode back to Nijiô; he was greatly fatigued, and looked pale.

The people of the mansion noticed his sad and haggard appearance.

Genji said nothing, but hurried straight away to his own private apartment.

"Why did I not go with her?"

he still vainly exclaimed.

"What would she think of me were she to return to life?"

And these thoughts affected him so deeply that he became ill, his head ached, his pulse beat high, and his body burned with fever.

The sun rose high, but he did not leave his couch.

His domestics were all perplexed.

Rice gruel was served up to him, but he would not touch it.

The news of his indisposition soon found its way out of the mansion, and in no time a messenger arrived from the Imperial Palace to make inquiries.

His brother-in-law also came, but Genji only allowed Tô-no-Chiûjiô to enter his room, saying to him, "My aged nurse has been ill since last May, and has been tonsured, and received consecration; it was, perhaps, from this sacrifice that at one time she became better, but lately she has had a relapse, and is again very bad.

I was advised to visit her, moreover, she was always most kind to me, and if she had died without seeing me it would have pained her, so I went to see her.

At this time a servant of her house, who had been ill, died suddenly.

Being rendered 'unclean' by this event, I am passing the time privately.

Besides, since the morning, I have become ill, evidently the effects of cold.

By the bye, you must excuse me receiving you in this way."

"Well, sir," replied Tô-no-Chiûjiô, "I will represent these circumstances to his Majesty.

Your absence last night has given much inquietude to the Emperor.

He caused inquiries to be made for you everywhere, and his humor was not very good."

And thereupon Tô-no-Chiûjiô took his leave, thinking as he went, "What sort of 'uncleanness' can this really be.

I cannot put perfect faith in what he tells me."

Little did Tô-no-Chiûjiô imagine that the dead one was no other than his own long-lost Tokonatz (Pinks).

In the evening came Koremitz from the mountain, and was secretly introduced, though all general visitors were kept excluded on the pretext of the "uncleanness."

"What has become of her?"

cried Genji, passionately, when he saw him.

"Is she really gone?"

"Her end has come," replied Koremitz, in a tone of sadness; "and we must not keep the dead too long.

To-morrow we will place her in the grave: to-morrow 'is a good day.'

I know a faithful old priest.

I have consulted with him how to arrange all."

"And what has become of Ukon?"

asked Genji.

"How does she bear it?"

"That is, indeed, a question.

She was really deeply affected, and she foolishly said, 'I will die with my mistress.'

She was actually going to throw herself headlong from the cliff; but I warned, I advised, I consoled her, and she became more pacified."

"The state of her feelings may be easily conceived.

I am myself not less deeply wounded than she.

I do not even know what might become of myself."

"Why do you grieve so uselessly?

Every uncertainty is the result of a certainty.

There is nothing in this world really to be lamented.

If you do not wish the public to know anything of this matter, I, Koremitz, will manage it."

"I, also, am aware that everything is fated.

Still, I am deeply sorry to have brought this misfortune on this poor girl by my own inconsiderate rashness.

The only thing I have now to ask you, is to keep these events in the dark.

Do not mention them to any one--nay, not even to your mother."

"Even from the priests to whom it must necessarily be known, I will conceal the reality," replied Koremitz.

"Do manage all this most skilfully!"

"Why, of course I shall manage it as secretly as possible," cried Koremitz; and he was about to take his departure, but Genji stopped him.

"I must see her once more," said Genji, sorrowfully.

"I will go with you to behold her, before she is lost to my sight forever."

And he insisted on accompanying him.

Koremitz, however, did not at all approve of this project; but his resistance gave way to the earnest desire of Genji, and he said, "If you think so much about it, I cannot help it."

"Let us hasten, then, and return before the night be far advanced."

"You shall have my horse to ride."

Genji rose, and dressed himself in the ordinary plain style he usually adopted for his private expeditions, and started away with one confidential servant, besides Koremitz.

They crossed the river Kamo, the torches carried before them burning dimly.

They passed the gloomy cemetery of Toribeno, and at last reached the convent.

It was a rude wooden building, and adjoining was a small Buddha Hall, through whose walls votive tapers mysteriously twinkled.

Within, nothing but the faint sound of a female's voice repeating prayers was to be heard.

Outside, and around, the evening services in the surrounding temples were all finished, and all Nature was in silent repose.

In the direction of Kiyomidz alone some scattered lights studding the dark scene betrayed human habitations.

They entered.

Genji's heart was beating fast with emotion.

He saw Ukon reclining beside a screen, with her back to the lamp.

He did not speak to her, but proceeded straight to the body, and gently drew aside the mantle which covered its face.

It still wore a look of tranquil calmness; no change had yet attacked the features.

He took the cold hand in his own, crying out as he did so:-- "Do let me hear thy voice once more!

Why have you left me thus bereaved?"

But the silence of death was unbroken!

He then, half sobbing, began to talk with Ukon, and invited her to come to his mansion, and help to console him.

But Koremitz now admonished him to consider that time was passing quickly.

On this Genji threw a long sad farewell glance at the face of the dead, and rose to depart.

He was so feeble and powerless that he could not mount his horse without the help of Koremitz.

The countenance of the dead girl floated ever before his sight, with the look she wore when living, and it seemed as if he were being led on by some mysterious influence.

The banks of the river Kamo were reached, when Genji found himself too weak to support himself on horseback, and so dismounted.

"I am afraid," he exclaimed, "I shall not be able to reach home."

Koremitz was a little alarmed.

"If I had only been firm," he thought, "and had prevented this journey, I should not have exposed him to such a trial."

He descended to the river, and bathing his hands,[58] offered up a prayer to Kwannon of Kiyomidz, and again assisted Genji to mount, who struggled to recover his energy, and managed somehow to return to Nijiô, praying in silence as he rode along.

The people of the mansion entertained grave apprehensions about him;

and not unnaturally, seeing he had been unusually restless for some days, and had become suddenly ill since the day before, and they could never understand what urgency had called him out on that evening.

Genji now lay down on his couch, fatigued and exhausted, and continued in the same state for some days, when he became quite weak.

The Emperor was greatly concerned, as was also Sadaijin.

Numerous prayers were offered, and exorcisms performed everywhere in his behalf, all with the most careful zeal.

The public was afraid he was too beautiful to live long.

The only solace he had at this time was Ukon; he had sent for her, and made her stay in his mansion.

And whenever he felt better he had her near him, and conversed with her about her dead mistress.

In the meantime, it might have been the result of his own energetic efforts to realize the ardent hopes of the Emperor and his father-in-law, that his condition became better, after a heavy trial of some three weeks; and towards the end of September he became convalescent.

He now felt as though he had been restored to the world to which he had formerly belonged.

He was, however, still thin and weak, and, for consolation, still resorted to talk with Ukon.

"How strange," he said to her, as they were conversing together one fine autumn evening.

"Why did she not reveal to me all her past life?

If she had but known how deeply I loved her, she might have been a little more frank with me."

"Ah!

no," replied Ukon; "she would not intentionally have concealed anything from you; but it was, I imagine, more because she had no choice.

You at first conducted yourself in such a mysterious manner;

and she, on her part, regarded her acquaintance with you as something like a dream.

That was the cause of her reticence."

"What a useless reticence it was," exclaimed Genji.

"I was not so frank as, perhaps, I ought to have been; but you may be sure that made no difference in my affection towards her.

Only, you must remember, there is my father, the Emperor, besides many others, whose vigilant admonitions I am bound to respect.

That was the reason why I had to be careful.

Nevertheless, my love to your mistress was singularly deep;

too deep, perhaps, to last long.

Do tell me now all you know about her; I do not see any reason why you should conceal it.

I have carefully ordered the weekly requiem for the dead; but tell me in whose behalf it is, and what was her origin?"

"I have no intention of concealing anything from you.

Why should I?

I

only thought it would be blamable if one should reveal after death what another had thought best to reserve," replied Ukon.

"Her parents died when she was a mere girl.

Her father was called Sammi-Chiûjiô, and loved her very dearly.

He was always aspiring to better his position, and wore out his life in the struggle.

After his death, she was left helpless and poor.

She was however, by chance, introduced to Tô-no-Chiûjiô, when he was still Shiôshiô, and not Chiûjiô.

During three years they kept on very good terms, and he was very kind to her.

But some wind or other attacks every fair flower; and, in the autumn of last year, she received a fearful menace from the house of Udaijin, to whose daughter, as you know, Tô-no-Chiûjiô is married.

Poor girl, she was terrified at this.

She knew not what to do, and hid herself, with her nurse, in an obscure part of the capital.

It was not a very agreeable place, and she was about removing to a certain mountain hamlet, but, as its 'celestial direction' was closed this year, she was still hesitating, and while matters were in this state, you appeared on the scene.

To do her justice, she had no thought of wandering from one to another; but circumstances often make things appear as if we did so.

She was, by nature, extremely reserved, so that she did not like to speak out her feelings to others, but rather suffered in silence by herself.

This, perhaps, you also have noticed."

"Then it was so, after all.

She was the Tokonatz of Tô-no-Chiûjiô," thought Genji; and now it also transpired that all that Koremitz had stated about Tô-no-Chiûjiô's visiting her at the Yûgao house was a pure invention, suggested by a slight acquaintance with the girl's previous history.

"The Chiûjiô told me once," said Genji, "that she had a little one.

Was there any such?"

"Yes, she had one in the spring of the year before last--a girl, a nice child," replied Ukon.

"Where is she now?"

asked Genji, "perhaps you will bring her to me some day.

I should like to have her with me as a memento of her mother.

I should not mind mentioning it to her father, but if I did so, I must reveal the whole sad story of her mother's fate, and this would not be advisable at present; however, I do not see any harm if I were to bring her up as my daughter.

You might manage it somehow without my name being mentioned to any one concerned."

"That would be a great happiness for the child," exclaimed Ukon, delighted, "I do not much appreciate her being brought up where she is."

"Well, I will do so, only let us wait for some better chance.

For the present be discreet."

"Yes, of course.

I cannot yet take any steps towards that object; we must not unfurl our sails before the storm is completely over."

The foliage of the ground, touched with autumnal tints, was beginning to fade, and the sounds of insects (_mushi_) were growing faint, and both Genji and Ukon were absorbed by the sad charm of the scene.

As they meditated, they heard doves cooing among the bamboo woods.

To Genji it brought back the cries of that strange bird, which cry he had heard on that fearful night in Rokjiô, and the subject recurred to his mind once more, and he said to Ukon, "How old was she?"

"Nineteen."

"And how came you to know her?"

"I was the daughter of her first nurse, and a great favorite of her father's, who brought me up with her, and from that time I never left her.

When I come to think of those days I wonder how I can exist without her.

The poet says truly, 'The deeper the love, the more bitter the parting.'

Ah!

how gentle and retiring she was.

How much I loved her!"

"That retiring and gentle temperament," said Genji, "gives far greater beauty to women than all beside, for to have no natural pliability makes women utterly worthless."

The sky by this time became covered, and the wind blew chilly.

Genji gazed intently on it and hummed:-- "When we regard the clouds above, Our souls are filled with fond desire, To me the smoke of my dead love, Seems rising from the funeral pyre."

The distant sound of the bleacher's hammer reached their ears, and reminded him of the sound he had heard in the Yûgao's house.

He bade "Good-night" to Ukon, and retired to rest, humming as he went:-- "In the long nights of August and September."

On the forty-ninth day (after the death of the Yûgao) he went to the Hokke Hall in the Hiye mountain, and there had a service for the dead performed, with full ceremony and rich offerings.

The monk-brother of Koremitz took every pains in its performance.

The composition of requiem prayers was made by Genji himself, and revised by a professor of literature, one of his intimate friends.

He expressed in it the melancholy sentiment about the death of one whom he had dearly loved, and whom he had yielded to Buddha.

But who she was was not stated.

Among the offerings there was a dress.

He took it up in his hands and sorrowfully murmured, "With tears to-day, the dress she wore I fold together, when shall I Bright Elysium's far-off shore This robe of hers again untie?"

And the thought that the soul of the deceased might be still wandering and unsettled to that very day, but that now the time had come when her final destiny would be decided,[59] made him pray for her more fervently.

So closed the sad event of Yûgao.

Now Genji was always thinking that he should wish to see his beloved in a dream.

The evening after his visit to the Hokke Hall, he beheld her in his slumbers, as he wished, but at the same moment the terrible face of the woman that he had seen on that fearful evening in Rokjiô again appeared before him; hence he concluded that the same mysterious being who tenanted that dreary mansion had taken advantage of his fears and had destroyed his beloved Yûgao.

A few words more about the house in which she had lived.

After her flight no communication had been sent to them even by Ukon, and they had no idea of where she had gone to.

The mistress of the house was a daughter of the nurse of Yûgao.

She with her two sisters lived there.

Ukon was a stranger to them, and they imagined that her being so was the reason of her sending no intelligence to them.

True they had entertained some suspicions about the gay Prince, and pressed Koremitz to confide the truth to them, but the latter, as he had done before, kept himself skilfully aloof.

They then thought she might have been seduced and carried off by some gallant son of a local Governor, who feared his intrigue might be discovered by Tô-no-Chiûjiô.

During these days Kokimi, of Ki-no-Kami's house, still used to come occasionally to Genji.

But for some time past the latter had not sent any letter to Cicada.

When she heard of his illness she not unnaturally felt for him, and also she had experienced a sort of disappointment in not seeing his writing for some time, especially as the time of her departure for the country was approaching.

She therefore sent him a letter of inquiry with the following:-- "If long time passes slow away, Without a word from absent friend, Our fears no longer brook delay, But must some kindly greeting send."

To this letter Genji returned a kind answer and also the following:-- "This world to me did once appear Like Cicada's shell, when cast away, Till words addressed by one so dear, Have taught my hopes a brighter day."

This was written with a trembling hand, but still bearing nice traits, and when it reached Cicada, and she saw that he had not yet forgotten past events, and the scarf he had carried away, she was partly amused and partly pleased.

It was about this time that the daughter of Iyo-no-Kami was engaged to a certain Kurando Shiôshiô, and he was her frequent visitor.

Genji heard of this, and without any intention of rivalry, sent her the following by Kokimi:-- "Like the green reed that grows on high By river's brink, our love has been, And still my wandering thoughts will fly Back to that quickly passing scene."

She was a little flattered by it, and gave Kokimi a reply, as follows:-- "The slender reed that feels the wind That faintly stirs its humble leaf, Feels that too late it breathes its mind, And only wakes, a useless grief."

Now the departure of Iyo-no-Kami was fixed for the beginning of October.

Genji sent several parting presents to his wife, and in addition to these some others, consisting of beautiful combs, fans, _nusa_,[60] and the scarf he had carried away, along with the following, privately through Kokimi:-- "I kept this pretty souvenir In hopes of meeting you again, I send it back with many a tear, Since now, alas!

such hope is vain."

There were many other minute details, which I shall pass over as uninteresting to the reader.

Genji's official messenger returned, but her reply about the scarf was sent through Kokimi:-- "When I behold the summer wings Cicada like, I cast aside;

Back to my heart fond memory springs, And on my eyes, a rising tide."

The day of the departure happened to be the commencement of the winter season.

An October shower fell lightly, and the sky looked gloomy.

Genji stood gazing upon it and hummed:-- "Sad and weary Autumn hours, Summer joys now past away, Both departing, dark the hours, Whither speeding, who can say?"

All these intrigues were safely kept in strict privacy, and to have boldly written all particulars concerning them is to me a matter of pain.

So at first I intended to omit them, but had I done so my history would have become like a fiction, and the censure I should expect would be that I had done so intentionally, because my hero was the son of an Emperor; but, on the other hand, if I am accused of too much loquacity, I cannot help it.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 52: Name of an ecclesiastical office.

] [Footnote 53: Sasinuki is a sort of loose trousers, and properly worn by men only, hence some commentators conclude, the attendant here mentioned to mean a boy, others contend, this garment was worn by females also when they rode.

] [Footnote 54: A mythological repulsive deity who took part in the building of a bridge at the command of a powerful magician.

] [Footnote 55: A popular superstition in China and Japan believes foxes to have mysterious powers over men.

] [Footnote 56: Upasaka, a sect of the followers of Buddhism who are laymen though they observe the rules of clerical life.

] [Footnote 57: Meitreya, a Buddhisatva destined to reappear as a Buddha after the lapse of an incalculable series of years.

] [Footnote 58: It is the Oriental custom that when one offers up a prayer, he first washes his hands, to free them from all impurity.

] [Footnote 59: According to the Buddhist's doctrine of the Hosso sect, all the souls of the dead pass, during seven weeks after death, into an intermediate state, and then their fate is decided.

According to the Tendai sect, the best and the worst go immediately where they deserve, but those of a medium nature go through this process.

] [Footnote 60: An offering made of paper, to the God of roads, which travellers were accustomed to make, before setting out on a journey.

]