conversation,’ he said, ‘but I fear that if you pursue your enquiry, your expectations will be sadly disappointed. You have probably never heard of Azechi no Dainagon, he died so long ago. He married my sister, who after his death turned her back upon the world. Just at that time I myself was in certain difficulties and was unable to visit the Capital; so for company she came to join me here in my retreat.’
‘I have heard that Aseji no Dainagon had a daughter. Is that so?’ said Genji at a venture; ‘I am sure you will not think I ask the question with any indiscreet intention. …’ ‘He had an only daughter who died about ten years ago. Her father had always wanted to present her at Court. But she would not listen, and when he was dead and there was only my sister the nun to look after her, she allowed some wretched go-between to introduce her to Prince Hyōbukyō whose mistress she became. His wife, a proud, relentless woman, from the first pursued her with constant vexations and affronts; this obstinate persecution continued, day in and day out till at last she died of heartbreak. They say that unkindness cannot kill; but I shall never say so, for from this cause alone I saw my kinswoman fall sick and perish.’
‘Then the little girl must be this lady’s child,’ Genji realized at last. And that accounted for her resemblance to the lady in the Palace.[1] He felt more drawn towards her than ever. She was of good lineage, which is never amiss; and her rather rustic simplicity would be an actual advantage when she became his pupil, as he was now determined she should; for it would make it the easier for him to mould her unformed tastes to the pattern of his own. ‘And did the lady whose sad story you have told me leave no remembrance behind her?’ asked Genji,
- ↑ Fujitsubo, who was Hyōbukyō’s sister.
