‘Grandmother, Grandmother! Prince Genji who came to see us in the mountains is here, paying a visit. Why do you not let him come and talk to you?’ ‘Hush, child, hush!’ cried all the gentlewomen, scandalized. ‘No, no,’ said the child; ‘Grandmother said that when she saw this prince it made her feel better at once. I was not being silly at all.’ This speech delighted Genji; but the gentlewomen of the household thought the child’s incursion painful and unseemly, and pretended not to hear her last remark. Genji gave up the idea of paying a real visit and drove back to his house, thinking as he went that her behaviour was indeed still that of a mere infant. Yet how easy and delightful it would be to teach her!
Next day he paid a proper visit. On his arrival he sent in a poem written on his usual tiny slip of paper: ‘Since first I heard the voice of the young crane, my boat shows a strange tendency to stick among the reeds!’ It was meant for the little girl and was written in a large, childish hand, but very beautifully, so that the ladies of the house said as soon as they saw it ‘This will have to go into the child’s copy-book.’
Shōnagon sent him the following note: ‘My mistress, feeling that she might not live through the day, asked us to have her moved to the temple in the hills, and she is already on her way. I shall see to it that she learns of your enquiry, if I can but send word to her before it is too late.’ The letter touched him deeply.
During these autumn evenings his heart was in a continual ferment. But though all his thoughts were occupied in a different quarter, yet owing to the curious relationship in which the child stood to the being who thus obsessed his mind, the desire to make the girl his own throughout this stormy time grew daily stronger. He remembered the evening when he had first seen her and the nun’s poem,
