The Tale of Genji, Page 46

  “It is just that I can hardly pretend not to notice, you know, when you become impatient with me over feelings I really do not have. I am sure that I will do very well by such a little girl. What a pretty age she must be now!” She gave him a faint smile. She did love children, and she wanted very much to have this one to cuddle and look after.

  Genji still wondered what to do. Should he bring her to Nijō? It was so difficult for him to go there. He seems to have promised her just twice a month, when he went for the rites at his temple on Saga Moor. That was better than the Tanabata stars' once a year, but despite being resigned to this arrangement she could only grieve.

  19

  USUGUMO

  Wisps of Cloud

  The chapter title comes from a poem spoken by Genji in mourning for Fujitsubo:

  “Those thin wisps of cloud trailing there over mountains caught in sunset light

  seem to wish to match their hue to the sleeves of the bereaved.”

  RELATIONSHIP TO EARLIER CHAPTERS

  “Wisps of Cloud” begins in the winter of the year covered (spring and fall) by “Wind in the Pines” and ends the following autumn.

  PERSONS

  His Grace, the Palace Minister, Genji, age 31 to 32

  The lady at Ōi, 22 to 23 (Akashi no Kimi)

  The Nun, her mother, mid-50s (Akashi no Amagimi)

  Genji's daughter's nurse

  Genji's daughter, 3 to 4 (Akashi no Himegimi)

  The lady in Genji's west wing, 23 to 24 (Murasaki)

  The lady in Genji's east pavilion (Hanachirusato)

  Chūjō one of Genji's, now Murasaki's, gentlewomen

  The father of the lady at Ōi, around 64 to 65 (Akashi no Nyūdō)

  His Excellency, the Chancellor, the former Minister of the Left, 65 to 66 (dies) (Sadaijin)

  Her Cloistered Eminence, mother of the Emperor, 36 to 37 (dies) (Fujitsubo)

  His Majesty, the Emperor, 13 to 14 (Reizei)

  A certain Prelate

  His Highness of Ceremonial, Asagao's father (dies) (Shikibukyō no Miya)

  The Acting Counselor, then Grand Counselor and Commander of the Right (Tō no Chūjo)

  Her Highness, the Ise Consort, daughter of the Rokujō Haven, 22 to 23 (Akikonomu)

  Ōi became drearier still with winter, and the lady there spent her days feeling completely lost. “You cannot go on like this,” Genji told her. “You must make up your mind to move near me”; but she was in turmoil, because if going only brought her more such misery, she would sink into the pit of despair, and what would tears avail her then?1

  “Very well, our little girl, then. It is a shame that this should be the only life she knows, and an affront as well, considering what I intend for her. The lady in my west wing has heard of her and often asks about her, and once they have made friends, I mean to hold a donning of the trousers that does not go completely unnoticed.” He broached the topic gravely.

  That she had long suspected it only made it worse. Whatever treatment she may receive there, he surely does not expect to be able to hide the truth forever, she quite naturally reflected; but Genji reassured her.

  “Have no fear,” he said. “There is no need for you to worry.” That lady still has no children, you know, after all these years, and she is so disappointed that she insists on looking after the former Ise Priestess2 even now, when she is quite grown-up. You can be sure that she will not lightly neglect any child as impossible to dislike as this one.” He went on to tell her more about how admirable the lady was.

  Yes, she thought, the power of destiny must have brought them together, and she must be a marvel among women if those old ways of his—ways rumored long ago, ways such that one wondered who could ever induce him to settle down—are really over and done with now. She might well take offense if I, who could not possibly stand beside her, tried to put myself forward nonetheless. But never mind what happens to me, because it is certainly her wishes that could make or break my daughter's future, and if that is so, then I should give my daughter up while she is still too little to understand. I shall worry so much, though, if I do! Only she relieves the dullness of my days, and I do not know how I shall live without her! And what will bring him here then? Her confusion made her very unhappy indeed.

  Her mother the Nun spoke to her from her profound understanding. “This is foolishness,” she said. “Yes, it will be painful not to have her anymore, but remember that it is for her own good. It is not indifference that makes him talk this way. Just trust him and let him take her. An imperial son's rank seems to come from his mother, and I expect the reason why His Grace is a mere official, despite his extraordinary qualities, is that the late Grand Counselor was one step too low,3 so that he was called an Intimate's son. It is obviously not for the likes of us to measure ourselves against such people. In fact, a child's mother, even if a Princess or a Minister's daughter, had better be the father's formal wife;4 otherwise, people will think less of her child, and not even the father will be able to treat it equally. As for your daughter, it is all too obvious that in such exalted company a girl like her would simply be ignored. The girl whose father has given her just that extra degree of care, in the manner proper to his station, is the one who need never fear other people's contempt. And as far as this donning of the trousers goes, no trouble you could take, lost as you are in these hills, could give it any luster whatever. Just let him do as he thinks best and watch how well he acquits himself.”

  Sensible people she consulted always gave the same answer, that her daughter should go to Nijō and she therefore began to yield. Genji shared their opinion, but he felt for her so much that he could not bring himself to press the matter.

  “What will you do about her donning of the trousers?” he inquired; and she answered, “As far as I can see, I am so insignificant that I may jeopardize her future if I keep her with me, and yet I still cannot help feeling that in your world she may only be mocked.” Genji sympathized with her more than ever. He had a day selected5 and quietly ordered the necessary preparations for receiving his daughter. Her mother was still in despair over letting her go, but she bore up for her daughter's sake.

  “Are you leaving me, too, nurse?” she asked, weeping. “Your conversation has been such a comfort through all these times when I have been sad or bored, and I shall feel your absence as well very much!”

  “It can only be fate that brought me to you so unexpectedly, and I shall not forget all your kindness; nor shall I ever lose touch with you, my lady, since you will be good enough to miss me. One day soon you will come, too, I know, but for now I must leave you, and I wonder what life will be like there, where I never imagined I would ever go!” The nurse was in tears herself.

  The last month of the year had come. The weather turned to snow and sleet, and her affliction grew. How strangely I was born to bear many sorrows! she lamented, and more than ever she caressed and fussed over her daughter. One morning when falling snow darkened the skies and she was absorbed in pondering all that had been and would be, she who so seldom approached the veranda sat dressed in many layers of soft white, gazing at the ice along the edge of the water; and it seemed to her women that her pensive figure, the lines of her hair, and her figure from behind made her the very picture of the greatest lady in the land. “I shall miss you so much more on days like this!” she sighed charmingly, brushing away a tear.

  “The snow may be deep and the paths across the hills lost in banks of cloud,

  but please still keep coming here; never fail to keep in touch.”

  The nurse wept and said comfortingly,

  “Even if my goal were the Yoshino Mountains and their constant snows,

  how could I lose touch with you, when my heart goes to you so?”

  He came once the snow had melted a little. She usually awaited him eagerly, but this time she knew what to expect, and she felt an anguish for which she had no one but herself to blame. It is all up to me, she thought—he would not insist if I were to ref
use. Oh, I should never have agreed! She checked these capricious impulses, though. The sight of her daughter, sitting so sweetly before her, reminded her that this little girl was not to be taken lightly. Her hair had grown since spring to the length of a nun's, and it now swayed very prettily; and of course her face and eyes were lovely, too. Genji felt such pain, imagining her mother's despair once she knew that her daughter belonged to someone else, that he spent the night explaining himself all over again.

  “No, no, all I ask is that you treat her better than her worthless mother deserves!” Her self-control collapsed, and she burst into pathetic tears.

  The little girl was innocently eager to board the carriage. Her mother carried her to it herself. Her lisping speech was very dear, and when she tugged at her mother's sleeve, crying, “Come, get in!” her mother was overcome.

  “Now that I am torn from my little seedling pine and her years ahead,

  when shall I with my own eyes see her as a mighty tree?”

  Tears prevented her from saying more.

  Of course, poor thing! Genji thought, and he answered soothingly,

  “Since she first struck root in such deep, nurturing soil, let her add henceforth

  her own thousand years to those of the Takekuma pine.”6

  She hoped he was right, but it was more than she could bear.

  Godchild

  The nurse and an elegant gentlewoman known as Shōshō were the only ones to get in, and they brought the dagger, the godchild,7 and so on with them. Various nice, younger gentlewomen and page girls rode in the accompanying carriages. They were to see the party to their destination. Genji felt guilty all the way there for having so hurt the lady who remained behind.

  They arrived after dark, and the carriage was no sooner drawn up than the magnificence of the place, so unlike what they knew in the country, made them wonder how they could live here without making fools of themselves, but the aisle room on the west side had been made ready just for their little mistress and equipped with small, very pretty furnishings. The nurse had her room on the north side of the western bridgeway.

  The little girl, who had fallen asleep on the way, did not cry when she was lifted down from the carriage. In her room she ate some nuts and sweets, but when by and by she looked around and missed her mother, it was charmingly clear from her face that there would soon be tears, and her nurse was called in to comfort and distract her. Genji could hardly bear to imagine the monotony her mother faced, there among her hills, but it was surely also a great satisfaction to him that he could now look after his daughter as he pleased, day in and day out. He wondered bitterly why no such dear and perfect little girl had been born in his own house.

  His daughter cried for a time, missing people she knew, but on the whole her nature was sweet and happy, and she made friends so nicely with the lady who reigned over Genji's household that this lady was delighted to have so dear a child. She was always taking her in her arms and playing with her, and naturally the nurse was soon waiting on her intimately as well. Genji brought in another nurse, too, a lady of high rank with lots of milk.

  Genji made no great show of preparing for the donning of the trousers, but he nonetheless gave it special thought. All the furnishings were done beautifully, as though for dolls. The guests attracted no particular attention, since there were always so many people coming and going, day or night. All noted how perfectly charming she looked with the cords of her trousers crossed that way over her chest to tie back her sleeves.

  The lady at Ōi missed her acutely, and she lamented her error. Her mother was more than ever prone to tears, despite her persuasive speeches, but she rejoiced at the way Genji looked after her granddaughter. What gifts could they possibly send? They could only prepare gowns in the loveliest colors and send them off to her nurse and her women. Genji knew how the lady longed for his visits, and he wished to spare her seeing her fears confirmed. He therefore went there quietly before the year was over. The house was lonelier than ever, and it so upset him to imagine her feelings after losing the child whose care had absorbed her that he sent her constant letters. His darling had given up any real jealousy by now, having forgiven him for the sake of the dear little girl.

  The New Year came. Genji, more carefree than ever, flourished beneath balmy skies, and among those who gathered to the spotless magnificence of his establishment, a procession of older gentlemen presented themselves on the seventh to thank him,8 while younger ones called happily for no particular reason at all. Other, lesser visitors may have had their private sorrows, but this was a time for all to show a proud and pleased face to the world.

  The lady in Genji's east pavilion9 lived handsomely, too. No gentlewoman or page girl of hers ever misbehaved, and she watched herself vigilantly. A wonderful benefit of having Genji so close was that he might come and see her at any time, when he was at leisure, although nothing suggests that he ever tried to spend the night. In the tranquil innocence of her nature she was simply thankful for her good fortune, and she maintained such wonderfully reassuring serenity that Genji provided for her, season by season, hardly less well than he did for his own love. People came to her and served her equally, because it was impossible to think poorly of her. The women under her Mistress of the Household were so exquisitely attentive that she upheld the most impeccable standard in all things.

  Genji always remained aware that life was very dreary in the hills, and he made up his mind to go there once the press of his public and private engagements had passed. For this visit he prepared himself with exceptional care, donning a cherry blossom dress cloak over an indescribably lovely gown, both sweetly perfumed, and the clear light of the setting sun made his figure even more entrancing. His darling saw him off with a troubled heart. The little girl clung childishly to his gathered trousers, wanting to go with him, and he stopped, deeply moved, just before stepping out through the blinds. “I'll be back tomorrow,”10 he sang to soothe her as he left, and his love, waiting by the bridgeway door, had Chūjō take him:

  “If there were no one over there on that island to detain his boat,

  then indeed I would expect my husband back tomorrow!”

  The message was delivered with knowing ease, and he gave a charming smile.

  “I shall go and see and yes, be back tomorrow; and I shall not care

  if yonder on the island she is not especially pleased!”

  The little girl, running merrily about and understanding nothing, had so captivated his lady that all her feeling against “that other woman” was gone. How her mother must long for her! I would miss her so much if I were she! she would reflect as she gazed at the child, and then she would playfully cuddle her and give her her own pretty breast to suck. The sight was well worth seeing. The women around her whispered to each other, “Why, when it could just as well have been she…?” and “Oh, what a shame!”

  The lady at Ōi led a life at once quiet and distinguished. Her house was unusual, but as for herself, Genji admired whenever he saw her the looks and the mature dignity of demeanor that placed her very little below the greatest in the land. If only it were possible to pass her off as simply another provincial Governor's daughter, people would be glad enough to remember that this was not the first time such a thing had happened. Her father's fame as an egregious crank was a problem, but he had quite enough to make him acceptable. Genji did not at all want to rush home again, since this visit had no doubt been too short for him as well. “Is it a tossing bridge crossed in dreams?”11 he sighed, then drew a nearby sō no koto to him and insisted until she took up her biwa and accompanied him a little; for he remembered as so often the sound of her music that night at Akashi. Her playing made him wonder how she could have mastered so many instruments. He took the time to tell her all about their little girl.

  He stayed at Ōi quite often, despite what the place was like, and there were also times when he took a light meal of fruit and steamed rice there. He would come under cover of a trip to his nearby temp
le or to his Katsura villa, and even if his behavior toward her suggested no headlong passion, he did not by any means treat her dismissively, as he might have any other woman, for he clearly thought a great deal of her. She herself understood his regard for her, and she never took what he might construe as a liberty or betrayed the slightest vulgar touch; she never failed his standards in any way, and her company was always a pleasure. She had heard that he was less at ease with the greatest ladies than he was with her and that he stood on his dignity with them, and perhaps she therefore felt that if she moved any closer, those around him might just dismiss her as being of no interest, and that the preservation of her own self-respect lay precisely in attracting these rare visits from him.

  Despite what her father had said at Akashi, he longed to know how Genji was disposed toward her and how she herself was getting on, and since his messengers kept him informed on these matters, he knew now and again a moment of anguish, but also, often enough, of pride and joy.

  At about this time His Excellency the Chancellor12 passed away. Even His Majesty mourned him, for he had carried great weight in the world. Many others regretted his loss especially, because even during his short retirement, troubles had come upon the realm. Genji grieved, and he was very sorry also because he owed his leisure to having ceded His Excellency so many of his own responsibilities, and he feared a tedious press of duties henceforth.13 He felt no anxiety concerning affairs of state, because His Majesty was by now mature far beyond his years, but there was no one else at all obvious to assist him, and he could not see who might assume these duties and leave him the peace he craved above all. This troubled him very much. He contributed more thoughtfully and more generously to the funeral rites than did any of the children or grandchildren.