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Title: A wreath of cloud
Being the third part of 'the tale of Genji'
Author: Murasaki Shikibu
Translator: Arthur Waley
Release date: April 13, 2025 [eBook #75852]
Language: English
Original publication: Boston: Houghton Mifflin Company, 1927
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A WREATH OF CLOUD ***
Transcriber’s Notes
Misspelled words have been corrected. These are identified by
♦ symbols in the text and are shown immediately below the
paragraph in which they appear.
Details and other notes may be found at the end of this text.
A WREATH OF CLOUD
A WREATH OF CLOUD
BEING THE THIRD PART OF
‘THE TALE OF GENJI’
By
LADY MURASAKI
TRANSLATED FROM THE JAPANESE BY
ARTHUR WALEY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1927
PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
TO
RAYMOND MORTIMER
PREFACE
This is the last volume but one of _The Tale of Genji_ proper. Between
volumes IV and V there is a gap of eight years, during which Genji has
died. Volumes V and VI contain the sequel, ‘the ten Uji chapters,’
as they are called in Japan, which deal with the fortunes of Genji’s
supposed son Kaoru, and his grandson (the Akashi Princess’s child)
Niou. The name ‘Genji’ (member of the Minamoto clan) applies equally
to his descendants, so that in Japanese the sequel too can be called
_The Tale of Genji_. But in English it needs a new name, and I have
called it _The Tale of Kaoru_. Thus _The Tale of Genji_ itself will
be complete in four volumes, and will be followed by a sequel in two
volumes.
I wish here to thank Mr. R. C. Trevelyan and Miss Sybil Pye for the
care with which they have read the proofs of the present volume. The
fact that the heroine of the story and the writer of it are both
called Murasaki is somewhat confusing. I will therefore here point out
that the name ‘Murasaki’ was given to the authoress as a nickname, in
allusion to the heroine of her book. Her real name is unknown to us.
For the origin of the nickname, see below, p. 23.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 7
LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS 11
SUMMARY OF VOLUMES I AND II 13
INTRODUCTION 15
CHAPTER
I. A WREATH OF CLOUD 35
II. ASAGAO 68
III. THE MAIDEN 91
IV. TAMAKATSURA 147
V. THE FIRST SONG OF THE YEAR 200
VI. THE BUTTERFLIES 218
VII. THE GLOW-WORM 240
VIII. A BED OF CARNATIONS 264
IX. THE FLARES 291
X. THE TYPHOON 296
LIST OF MOST IMPORTANT PERSONS
(alphabetical)
Akashi, Lady of Whom Genji courted during his exile.
Akashi, Princess from Daughter of the above by Genji.
Akikonomu, Empress Daughter of Rokujō.
Aoi Genji’s first wife.
Asagao, Princess Daughter of Prince Momozono Shikibukyō,
courted by Genji since his boyhood,
without success.
Ateki Daughter of Tamakatsura’s old nurse.
Bugo no Suke Brother of the above.
Chūjō, Lady Tō no Chūjō’s eldest daughter (called
Kōkiden in the original, but this renders
her liable to confusion with Genji’s
step-mother).
Emperor, The Old Genji’s father.
Falling Flowers, Lady Sister of one of the Old Emperor's Sister
from the Village of of one of the Old Emperor's Court-ladies
under Genji’s protection.
Fujitsubo Consort of the Old Emperor; loved by
Genji.
Genji Son of the Old Emperor by a
lady-in-waiting.
Higekuro Brother of Suzaku’s consort Lady Jōkyōden.
Hyōbukyō, Prince Murasaki’s father.
Kashiwagi Eldest son of Tō no Chūjō.
Kōbai Brother of the above.
Kōkiden Consort of the Old Emperor; Genji’s wicked
‘step-mother.’
Koremitsu Genji’s retainer.
Koremitsu’s Daughter Gosechi dancer, admired by Yūgiri.
Kumoi Younger daughter of Tō no Chūjō.
Momozono, Prince. Brother of the Old Emperor. Father of
Asagao.
Murasaki Second ‘wife’ of Genji (never, technically
speaking, his _kita no kata_ or formal
wife).
Nyogo, Princess Younger sister of the Old Emperor.
Oborozuki Consort of the ex-Emperor Suzaku. Loved by
Genji.
Ōmi, Lady of Bastard of Tō no Chūjō, reclaimed by him
in error while searching for Tamakatsura.
Ōmiya, Princess Mother of Aoi and Tō no Chūjō. Sister of
the Old Emperor.
Rokujō Widow of a brother of the Old Emperor.
Ryōzen, The Emperor Reputed son of the Old Emperor, but really
son of Genji and Fujitsubo.
Sanjō Yūgao’s maid.
Shōni Husband of Tamakatsura’s nurse. Father of
Ateki and Bugo no Suke.
Sochi, Prince Genji’s step-brother.
Suyetsumu Fantastic lady with red nose, daughter of
Prince Hitachi.
Suzaku, The Ex-Emperor Genji’s step-brother; son of Kōkiden.
Tamakatsura Child of Tō no Chūjō by Yūgao.
Tayū Swashbuckler in Tsukushi.
Utsusemi Wife of a provincial governor; loved by
Genji.
Yoshikiyo Faithful retainer of Genji; followed him
into exile.
Yūgao Loved first by Tō no Chūjō, then by Genji.
Dies in a deserted mansion.
Yūgiri Genji’s son by Aoi.
SUMMARY OF VOLUMES I AND II
Genji is an illegitimate son of the Emperor. At the age of twelve he
is affianced to Lady Aoi, daughter of the Minister of the Left; but
she is older than he is, and looks down upon him as a mere schoolboy.
Genji falls in love with Rokujō, a widow eight years older than
himself. She is passionately jealous of his wife, and relations with
her become very difficult. Genji turns for consolation to Utsusemi,
wife of a provincial governor: to Yūgao, a discarded mistress of his
friend Tō no Chūjō: to the fantastic Suyetsumu, the ‘lady with the
red nose.’ Utsusemi is carried off to the provinces by her husband;
Yūgao dies, withered by the virulence of Rokujō’s jealousy. Meanwhile
Genji succeeds in establishing better relations with his wife, Aoi,
only to lose her through the operation of the same baleful force that
had destroyed Yūgao. Since his childhood he has passionately admired
Fujitsubo, his father’s second wife. He has a son by her, who is
believed by the public to be the Emperor’s child.
Genji’s enemies, in particular Kōkiden, who had been his mother’s
rival, are striving to get rid of him. He simplifies matters for them
by starting an intrigue with Oborozuki, a much younger sister of
Kōkiden.
At the end of Vol. I Genji marries Lady Murasaki, a niece of Fujitsubo;
some years before he had taken her into his house and adopted her.
In Vol. II, Rokujō leaves the capital and goes to live at Ise,
where her daughter is Vestal Virgin. Genji is caught making love to
Oborozuki, and knowing that his enemies now have him in their grasp he
retires as a voluntary exile to Suma. Here a storm destroys his house,
and the Old Recluse of Akashi (a neighbouring bay) persuades him
to move thither. Here he falls in love with the Recluse’s daughter
(the Lady of Akaski), by whom he has a child (called the Princess from
Akashi). Genji, after three years of exile, is recalled, and wants
to send for the Lady of Akashi to live with him in his palace. But
she fears that her position there will be humiliating, and will not
consent. Finally he instals her in a country house at Ōi, several miles
from the capital. In this volume both Utsusemi (the governor’s wife)
and Rokujō re-appear at the capital. There is also a further encounter,
of a diverting kind, between Genji and the lady with the red nose.
INTRODUCTION
Murasaki
Murasaki Shikibu was born about 978 A.D. Her father, Tametoki, belonged
to a minor branch of the powerful Fujiwara clan. After holding various
appointments in the Capital he became governor first of Echizen
(probably in 1004); then of a more northerly province, Echigo. In 1016
he retired and took his vows as a Buddhist priest.
Of her childhood Murasaki tells us the following anecdote[1]: ‘When my
brother Nobunori[2] (the one who is now in the Board of Rites) was a
boy my father was very anxious to make a good Chinese scholar of him,
and often came himself to hear Nobunori read his lessons. On these
occasions I was always present, and so quick was I at picking up the
language that I was soon able to prompt my brother whenever he got
stuck. At this my father used to sigh and say to me: “If only you were
a boy how proud and happy I should be.” But it was not long before I
repented of having thus distinguished myself; for person after person
assured me that even boys generally become very unpopular if it is
discovered that they are fond of their books. For a girl, of course, it
would be even worse; and after this I was careful to conceal the fact
that I could write a single Chinese character. This meant that I got
very little practice; with the result that to this day I am shockingly
clumsy with my brush.’
Between 994 and 998 Murasaki married her kinsman Fujiwara no
Nobutaka, a lieutenant in the Imperial Guard. By him she had two
daughters, one of whom married the Lord Lieutenant of Tsukushi and
is reputed (very doubtfully) to be the authoress of an uninteresting
novel, the _Tale of Sagoromo_. Nobutaka died in 1001, and it was
probably three years later that Murasaki’s father was promised the
governorship of Echizen. Owing to the machinations of an enemy the
appointment was, at the last minute, almost given to some one else.
Tametoki appealed to his kinsman the Prime Minister Fujiwara no
Michinaga, and was eventually nominated for the post.
Murasaki was now about 26. To have taken her to Echizen would have
ended all hope of a respectable second marriage. Instead Tametoki
arranged that she should enter the service of Michinaga’s daughter,
the very serious minded Empress Akiko, then a girl of about sixteen.
Part of Murasaki’s time was henceforth spent at the Emperor’s Palace.
But, as was customary, Akiko frequently returned for considerable
periods to her father’s house. Of her young mistress Murasaki writes
as follows[3]: ‘The Empress, as is well known to those about her, is
strongly opposed to anything savouring of flirtation; indeed, when
there are men about, it is as well for any one who wants to keep on
good terms with her not to show herself outside her own room....
I can well imagine that some of our senior ladies, with their air
of almost ecclesiastical severity, must make a rather forbidding
impression upon the world at large. In dress and matters of that kind
we certainly cut a wretched figure, for it is well known that to show
the slightest sign of caring for such things ranks with our Mistress as
an unpardonable fault. But I can see no reason why, even in a society
where young girls are expected to keep their heads and behave
sensibly, appearances should be neglected to the point of comicality;
and I cannot help thinking that her Majesty’s outlook is far too
narrow and uncompromising. But it is easy enough to see how this state
of affairs arose. Her Majesty’s mind was, at the time when she first
came to Court, so entirely innocent and her own conduct so completely
impeccable that, quite apart from the extreme reserve which is natural
to her, she could never herself conceivably have occasion to make even
the most trifling confession. Consequently, whenever she heard one of
us admit to some slight shortcoming, whether of conduct or character,
she henceforward regarded this person as a monster of iniquity.
‘True, at that period certain incidents occurred which proved that
some of her attendants were, to say the least of it, not very well
suited to occupy so responsible a position. But she would never have
discovered this had not the offenders been incautious enough actually
to boast in her hearing about their trivial irregularities. Being young
and inexperienced she had no notion that such things were of everyday
occurrence, brooded incessantly upon the wickedness of those about her,
and finally consorted only with persons so staid that they could be
relied upon not to cause her a moment’s anxiety.
‘Thus she has gathered round her a number of very worthy young ladies.
They have the merit of sharing all her opinions, but seem in some
curious way like children who have never grown up.
‘As the years go by her Majesty is beginning to acquire more experience
of life, and no longer judges others by the same rigid standards as
before; but meanwhile her Court has gained a reputation for extreme
dullness, and is shunned by all who can manage to avoid it.
‘Her Majesty does indeed still constantly warn us that it is
a great mistake to go too far, “for a single slip may bring very
unpleasant consequences,” and so on, in the old style; but she now
also begs us not to reject advances in such a way as to hurt people’s
feelings. Unfortunately, habits of long standing are not so easily
changed; moreover, now that the Empress’s exceedingly stylish brothers
bring so many of their young courtier-friends to amuse themselves at
her house, we have in self-defence been obliged to become more virtuous
than ever.’
There is a type of disappointed undergraduate, who believes that all
his social and academic failures are due to his being, let us say,
at Magdalene instead of at St. John’s. Murasaki, in like manner, had
persuaded herself that all would have been well if her father had
placed her in the highly cultivated and easy-mannered entourage of the
Emperor’s aunt, Princess Senshi.[4] ‘Princess Senshi and her ladies,’
Murasaki writes, ‘are always going off to see the sunset or the fading
of the moon at dawn, or pursuing some truant nightingale amid the
flowering trees. The Princess herself is a woman of marked character,
who is determined to follow her own tastes, and would contrive to
lead at Court a life as detached as her present existence at the Kamo
Shrine. How different from this place, with its perpetual: “The Empress
has been summoned into the Presence and commands you to attend her,” or
“Prepare to receive his Excellency the Prime Minister, who may arrive
at any moment.” Princess Senshi’s apartments are not subject to the
sudden alarms and incursions from which we suffer. There one could
apply oneself in earnest to anything one cared for and was good at;
there, occupied perhaps in making something really beautiful, one would
have no time for those indiscreet conversations which at our own
Court are the cause of so much trouble. There I should be allowed to
live buried in my own thoughts like a tree-stump in the earth; at the
same time, they would not expect me to hide from every man with whom
I was not already acquainted; and even if I addressed a few remarks
to such a person, I should not be thought lost to all sense of shame.
Indeed, I can imagine myself under such circumstances becoming, after a
certain amount of practice, quite lively and amusing!’
While pining for the elegance and freedom of Princess Senshi’s Court,
Murasaki was employed by her earnest young mistress for a purpose that
the world would have considered far more improper than the philandering
of which Akiko so sternly disapproved. The Empress had a secret
desire to learn Chinese. The study of this language was considered at
the time far too rough and strenuous an occupation for women. There
were no grammars or dictionaries, and each horny sentence had to be
grappled and mastered like an untamed steer. That Akiko should wish
to learn Chinese must have been as shocking to Michinaga as it would
have been to Gladstone if one of his daughters had wanted to learn
boxing. Murasaki had, as we have seen, picked up something of the
language by overhearing her brother’s lessons. She did everything in
her power to conceal this knowledge, even pretending (as she tells
us in the _Diary_) that she could not read the Chinese characters on
her mistress’s screen; but somehow or other it leaked out: ‘Since the
summer before last, very secretly, in odd moments when there happened
to be no one about, I have been reading with her Majesty the two
books of “Songs.”[5] There has of course been no question of formal
lessons; her Majesty has merely picked up a little here and there,
as she felt inclined. All the same, I have thought it best to say
nothing about the matter to anybody....’
We gather, however, that what in the long run made Akiko’s Court
distasteful to Murasaki was not the seriousness of the women so much
as the coarseness and stupidity of the men. Michinaga, Akiko’s father,
was now forty-two. He had already been Prime Minister for some fourteen
years, and had carried the fortunes of the Fujiwara family to their
apogee. It is evident that he made love to Murasaki, though possibly in
a more or less bantering way. In 1008 she writes: ‘From my room beside
the entrance to the gallery I can see into the garden. The dew still
lies heavy and a faint mist rises from it. His Excellency[6] is walking
in the garden. Now he has summoned one of his attendants and is giving
directions to him about having the moat cleared. In front of the orange
trees there is a bed of lady-flowers (_ominabeshi_) in full bloom. He
plucks a spray and returning to the house hands it to me over the top
of my screen. He looks very magnificent. I remember that I have not yet
powdered my face and feel terribly embarrassed. “Come now,” he cries,
“be quick with your poem, or I shall lose my temper.” This at any
rate gives me a chance to retire from his scrutiny; I go over to the
writing-box and produce the following: “If these beyond other flowers
are fair, ’tis but because the dew hath picked them out and by its
power made them sweeter than the rest.” “That’s right,” he said, taking
the poem. “It did not take you long in the end.” And sending for his
own ink-stone he wrote the answer: “Dew favours not; it is the flower’s
thoughts that flush its cheeks and make it fairer than the rest.”’
The next reference to Michinaga’s relations with Murasaki is as
follows: ‘His Excellency the Prime Minister caught sight of _The Tale
of Genji_ in her Majesty’s room, and after making the usual senseless
jokes about it, he handed me the following poem, written on a strip
of paper against which a spray of plum-blossom had been pressed: “How
comes it that, sour as the plum-tree’s fruit, you have contrived to
blossom forth in tale so amorous?” To this I answered: “Who has told
you that the fruit belies the flower? For the fruit you have not
tasted, and the flower you know but by report.”[7]
‘One night when I was sleeping in a room which opens on to the
corridor, I heard some one tapping. So frightened was I that for the
whole of the rest of the night I lay dead still on my bed, scarcely
daring to breathe. Next morning came the following poem from His
Excellency: “More patient than the water-rail that taps upon the
tree-root all night long, in vain I loitered on the threshold of your
inhospitable room.” To this I answered: “So great was your persistence
that for a water-rail I did indeed mistake you; and lucky am I to have
made this merciful mistake.”’[8]
Again, in 1010: ‘To-day his Excellency had an audience with the
Emperor; when it was over they came out of the Audience Chamber
together, and banqueted. As usual, his Excellency became very drunk
and, fearing trouble, I tried to keep out of his way. But he noticed
my absence and sent for me, crying out: “Here’s your mistress’s papa
taking dinner with the Emperor; it is not every one who gets the chance
of being present on an occasion like this. You ought to be uncommonly
grateful. Instead of which your one idea seems to be how to escape at
the earliest possible moment. I can’t make you out at all!”
He went on scolding me for some time, and then said: “Well, now
you are here, you must make a poem. It is one of the days when the
parent’s[9] poem is always made by a substitute. You will do as well
as anybody; so be quick about it....” I was afraid at first that if I
showed myself he would behave in such a way as to make me feel very
uncomfortable. But it turned out that he was not so extraordinarily
drunk after all; indeed, he was in a very charming mood and, in the
light of the great lamp, looked particularly handsome.’
It has often been observed that whereas in her commonplace book (the
_Makura no Sōshi_) Sei Shōnagon[10] scarcely so much as mentions the
existence of the other ladies-in-waiting, Murasaki refers constantly
to her companions, and to one of them at least she was evidently
very strongly attached. Her great friend was Lady Saishō. ‘On my way
back from the Empress’s rooms I peeped in at Saishō’s door. I had
forgotten that she had been on duty at night and would now be having
her morning sleep. She had thrown over her couch various dresses with
bright-coloured linings, and on top of them had spread a covering
of beaten silk, lustrous and heavily scented with perfume. Her face
was hidden under the clothes; but as she lay there, her head resting
on a box-shaped writing-case, she looked so pretty that I could not
help thinking of the little princesses in picture-books. I raised
the clothes from her face and said to her: “You are like a girl in a
story.” She turned her head and said sharply: “You lunatic! Could you
not see I was asleep? You are too inconsiderate....” While she was
saying this she half raised herself from her couch and looked up at
me. Her face was flushed. I have never seen her so handsome. So it
often is; even those whom we at all times admire will, upon some
occasion, suddenly seem to us ten times more lovely than ever before.’
Saishō is her constant companion and her fellow victim during the
drunken festivities which they both detested. The following is from a
description of an entertainment given on the fiftieth day after the
birth of the Empress Akiko’s first child: ‘The old Minister of the
Right, Lord Akimitsu, came staggering along and banged into the screen
behind which we sat, making a hole in it. What really struck us was
that he is getting far too old[11] for this kind of thing. But I am
sure he did not at all know that this was the impression he was making.
Next followed matching of fans, and noisy jokes, many of which were in
very bad taste.
‘Presently the General of the Right came and stood near the pillar on
our left. He was looking at us and seemed to be examining our dresses,
but with a very different expression from the rest. He cannot bear
these drunken revels. If only there were more like him! And I say this
despite the fact that his conversation is often very indecent; for
he manages to give a lively and amusing turn to whatever he says. I
noticed that when the great tankard came his way he did not drink out
of it, but passed it on, merely saying the usual words of good omen. At
this Lord Kintō[12] shouted: “The General is on his best behaviour. I
expect little Murasaki is somewhere not far off!” “You’re none of you
in the least like Genji,” I thought to myself, “so what should Murasaki
be doing here?” ... Then the Vice-Councillor began pulling about poor
Lady Hyōbu, and the Prime Minister made comic noises which I found very
disagreeable. It was still quite early, and knowing well what would be
the latter stages of an entertainment which had begun in this way,
I waited till things seemed to have come to a momentary pause and then
plotted with Lady Saishō to slip away and hide. Presently however the
Prime Minister’s sons and other young Courtiers burst into the room; a
fresh hubbub began, and when they heard that two ladies were in hiding
they tracked us down and flung back the screen behind which we had
ensconced ourselves. We were now prisoners....’
The _Diary_ contains a series of notes chiefly upon the appearance but
also in a few cases upon the character of other ladies at Court. Her
remarks on Lady Izumi Shikibu, one of the greatest poets whom Japan has
produced, are of interest: ‘Izumi Shikibu is an amusing letter-writer;
but there is something not very satisfactory about her. She has a gift
for dashing off informal compositions in a careless running-hand; but
in poetry she needs either an interesting subject or some classic model
to imitate. Indeed it does not seem to me that in herself she is really
a poet at all.
‘However, in the impromptus which she recites there is always something
beautiful or striking. But I doubt if she is capable of saying anything
interesting about other people’s verses. She is not intelligent enough.
It is odd; to hear her talk you would certainly think that she had a
touch of the poet in her. Yet she does not seem to produce anything
that one can call serious poetry....’
Here, too, is the note on Sei Shōnagon,[13] author of the famous
_Makura no Sōshi_: ‘Sei Shōnagon’s most marked characteristic is
her extraordinary self-satisfaction. But examine the pretentious
compositions in Chinese script which she scatters so liberally over
the Court, and you will find them to be a mere patchwork of
blunders. Her chief pleasure consists in shocking people; and as each
new eccentricity becomes only too painfully familiar, she gets driven
on to more and more outrageous methods of attracting notice. She was
once a person of great taste and refinement; but now she can no longer
restrain herself from indulging, even under the most inappropriate
circumstances, in any outburst that the fancy of the moment suggests.
She will soon have forfeited all claim to be regarded as a serious
character, and what will become of her[14] when she is too old for her
present duties I really cannot imagine.’
It was not likely that Murasaki, who passed such biting judgments
on her companions, would herself escape criticism. In her diary she
tells us the following anecdote: ‘There is a certain lady here called
Sayemon no Naishi who has evidently taken a great dislike to me, though
I have only just become aware of it. It seems that behind my back she
is always saying the most unpleasant things. One day when some one had
been reading _The Tale of Genji_ out loud to the Emperor, his Majesty
said: “This lady has certainly been reading the Annals of Japan. She
must be terribly learned.” Upon the strength of this casual remark
Naishi spread a report all over the Court that I prided myself on my
enormous learning, and henceforth I was known as “Dame Annals” wherever
I went.’
The most interesting parts of the _Diary_ are those in which Murasaki
describes her own feelings. The following passage refers to the winter
of 1008 A.D.: ‘I love to see the snow here,[15] and was hoping from
day to day that it would begin before Her Majesty went back to Court,
when I was suddenly obliged to go home.[16] Two days after I arrived,
the snow did indeed begin to fall. But here, where everything is so
sordid, it gives me very little pleasure. As, seated once more at the
familiar window, I watch it settling on the copses in front of the
house, how vividly I recall those years[17] of misery and perplexity!
Then I used to sit hour after hour at this same window, and each day
was like the last, save that since yesterday some flower had opened or
fallen, some fresh song-bird arrived or flown away. So I watched the
springs and autumns in their procession, saw the skies change, the moon
rise; saw those same branches white with frost or laden with snow. And
all the while I was asking myself over and over again: “What has the
future in store for me? How will this end?” However, sometimes I used
to read, for in those days I got a certain amount of pleasure out of
quite ordinary romances; I had one or two intimate friends with whom I
used to correspond, and there were several other people, not much more
than acquaintances, with whom I kept up a casual intercourse. So that,
looking back on it now, it seems to me that, one way and another, I had
a good many minor distractions.
‘Even then I realized that my branch of the family was a very humble
one; but the thought seldom troubled me, and I was in those days far
indeed from the painful consciousness of inferiority which makes life
at Court a continual torment to me.
‘To-day I picked up a romance which I used to think quite entertaining,
and found to my astonishment that it no longer amused me at all. And
it is the same with my friends. I have a feeling that those with
whom I used to be most intimate would now consider me worldly and
flippant, and I have not even told them that I am here. Others, on
whose discretion I completely relied, I now have reason to suspect of
showing my letters to all and sundry. If they think that I write to
them with that intention they cannot know very much of my character! It
is surely natural under such circumstances that a correspondence should
either cease altogether or become formal and infrequent. Moreover, I
now come here so seldom that in many cases it seems hardly worth while
to renew former friendships, and many of those who wanted to call I
have put off with excuses.... The truth is I now find that I have not
the slightest pleasure in the society of any but a few indispensable
friends. They must be people who really interest me, with whom I can
talk seriously on serious subjects, and with whom I am brought into
contact without effort on my side in the natural course of everyday
existence. I am afraid this sounds very exacting! But stay, there is
Lady Dainagon. She and I used to sleep very close together every night
at the Palace and talk for hours. I see her now as she used to look
during those conversations, and very much wish that she were here. So I
have a little human feeling, after all!’
A little later in the same winter Murasaki sees the Gosechi dancers[18]
at the Palace, and wonders how they have reached their present pitch
of forwardness and self-possession: ‘Seeing several officers of the
Sixth Rank coming towards them to take away their fans, the dancers
threw the fans across to them in a manner which was adroit enough, but
which somehow made it difficult to remember that they were women at
all. If I were suddenly called upon to expose myself in that fashion I
should completely lose my head. But already I do a hundred things
which a few years ago I should never have dreamed myself capable of
doing. So strange indeed are the hidden processes which go on in the
heart of man that I shall no doubt continue to part with one scruple
after another till in the end what now appears to me as the most
abandoned shamelessness will seem perfectly proper and natural. Thus
I reflected upon the unreality of all our attitudes and opinions, and
began sketching out to myself the probable course of my development.
So extraordinary were the situations in which I pictured myself that I
became quite confused, and saw very little of the show.’
The most direct discussion of her own character comes in a passage
towards the end of the diary: ‘That I am very vain, reserved,
unsociable, wanting always to keep people at a distance—that I am
wrapped up in the study of ancient stories, conceited, living all the
time in a poetical world of my own and scarcely realizing the existence
of other people, save occasionally to make spiteful and depreciatory
comments upon them—such is the opinion of me that most strangers hold,
and they are prepared to dislike me accordingly. But when they get
to know me, they find to their extreme surprise that I am kind and
gentle—in fact, quite a different person from the monster they had
imagined; as indeed many have afterwards confessed. Nevertheless, I
know that I have been definitely set down at Court as an ill-natured
censorious prig. Not that I mind very much, for I am used to it and see
that it is due to things in my nature which I cannot possibly change.
The Empress has often told me that, though I seemed always bent upon
not giving myself away in the royal presence, yet she felt after a time
as if she knew me more intimately than any of the rest.’
The _Diary_ closes in 1010. After this we do not know one solitary
fact concerning Murasaki’s life or death; save that in 1025 she was
still in Akiko’s service and in that year took part in the ceremonies
connected with the birth of the future Emperor Go-Ryōzen.
The Composition of Genji
It is generally assumed that the book was written during the three or
at the most four years which elapsed between the death of Murasaki’s
husband and her arrival at Court. Others suggest that it was begun
then, and finished some time before the winter of 1008. This assumption
is based on the three references to _The Tale of Genji_ which occur in
the _Diary_. But none of these allusions seem to me to imply that the
_Tale_ was already complete. From the first reference it is evident
that the book was already so far advanced as to show that Murasaki was
its heroine; the part of the _Tale_ which was read to the Emperor[19]
was obviously the first chapter, which ends with a formula derived
directly from the early annals: ‘Some say that it was the Korean
fortune-teller who gave him the name of Genji the Shining One.’ Such
‘alternative explanations’ are a feature of early annals in most
countries and occur frequently in those of Japan. Lastly, Michinaga’s
joke about the discrepancy between the prudishness of Murasaki’s
conduct and the erotic character of her book implies no more than that
half-a-dozen chapters were in existence. It may be thought odd that
she should have shown it to any one before it was finished. But the
alternative is to believe that it was completed in seven years, half of
which were spent at Court under circumstances which could have given
her very little leisure. It is much more probable, I think, that _The
Tale of Genji_, having been begun in 1001, was carried on slowly
after Murasaki’s arrival at Court, during her holidays and in spare
time at the Palace, and not completed till, say, 1015 or even 1020.
The middle and latter parts certainly give the impression of having
been written by some one of comparatively mature age. In 1022 the book
was undoubtedly complete, for the _Sarashina Diary_ refers to the
‘fifty-odd chapters of _The Tale of Genji_.’ In 1031 Murasaki’s name
is absent from a list where one might expect to find it, and it is
possible that she was then no longer alive.[20]
The Empress Akiko lived on till 1074, reaching an even riper age than
Queen Victoria, whom in certain ways she so much resembled.
NOTES
On Genji’s Household.
Polygamy in Japan as elsewhere was confined to the upper classes, who
alone were able to support the expense of so costly an institution.
The actual wife (_kita no kata_, ‘north side’) of a man in Genji’s
position had to be of the same social class as the husband, a condition
fulfilled by Aoi, but not by Murasaki, who was never strictly speaking
a _kita no kata_, but merely a _tai no uye_ (‘lady of the wing’). It
will be remembered that Murasaki’s mother was not of noble birth.
Falling Flowers, Akashi and the rest were theoretically on the same
footing as Murasaki. The number of ladies in an establishment was
limited not by law or religion, but by expense and above all (in a
case such as that of Genji) by the difficulty of dealing with the
emotional situation that arose from large households. Did polygamy
create different emotional situations from those to which we are
accustomed—if, for example, it were so much taken for granted that
jealousy ceased to exist—a novel dealing with a polygamous society
would make very little appeal to us. It is because in _Genji_ the
re-actions of the characters are precisely the same as ours would be
under similar circumstances, that the book holds our attention.
Another point concerning Genji’s household that perhaps requires
comment is the apparent ability of persons to live years in the same
house without ever having met. But such a thing happens frequently at
English University Colleges, and we must envisage Genji’s palace as
more like a college than a house,—consisting, in fact, of separate
courtyards and cloisters, joined by covered galleries. Hence it
comes about that, in the story, Genji’s various favourites tend to be
isolated from one another in a way which is not always advantageous
to the construction of the book. Later on the authoress realizes the
danger of the tale falling into a series of disconnected episodes, in
which the personality of Genji is the only common factor—and takes
pains to bring her heroines into relation with one another.
On the Time-scheme in Genji.
A pamphleteer has recently shown how complete and elaborate is the
time-scheme that underlies Emily Bronte’s _Wuthering Heights_. It is
obvious that _Genji_ is based upon an equally precise scheme. Here is
no ‘Oriental vagueness’; indeed it is inconceivable that Murasaki had
not prepared for herself some species of chronological chart, which
she kept constantly by her when at work. If it has appeared to any
reader that her sense of time is vague, the fault is entirely mine. In
one case, indeed, I am conscious of having created this impression by
translating inappropriately a phrase about the young Emperor Ryōzen,
whereby I make him seem much older than the chronology warrants. But
there is never a moment in the story at which the authoress has not got
a precise idea about the age of every character in it.
[1] _Diary_, Hakubunkwan text, p. 51.
[2] Died young, perhaps about 1012, while serving on his father’s
staff in Echigo.
[3] _Diary_, p. 51.
[4] 963–1035. Vestal at Kamo during five successive reigns. One of
the most important figures of her day; known to history as the
Great Vestal.
[5] The third and fourth body of Po Chü-i’s poetical works,
including _Magic_, _The Old Man with the Broken Arm_, _The
Prisoner_, _The Two Red Towers_, and _The Dragon of the Pool_,
all of which are translated in my ‘170 Chinese Poems.’
[6] Michinaga.
[7] ‘You have neither read my book nor won my love.’ Both poems
contain a number of double-meanings which it would be tedious
to unravel.
[8] _Kui-na_ means ‘water-rail’ and ‘regret not.’
[9] The parent of the Empress.
[10] Lady-in-waiting to the Empress Sadako, Akiko’s predecessor.
[11] He was now 64.
[12] Fujiwara no Kintō (966–1041), famous poet; cousin of Michinaga.
[13] See p. 22. Shōnagon was about ten years senior to Murasaki. She
was lady-in-waiting first to the Empress Sadako (died,
1000 A.D.); then to Sadako’s sister Princess Shigesa (died,
1002 A.D.); finally to the Empress Akiko.
[14] Murasaki suggests that Shōnagon will lose Akiko’s confidence and
be dismissed. There is indeed a tradition (_Kojidan_, vol. ii)
that when some courtiers were out walking one day they passed a
dilapidated hovel. One of them mentioned a rumour that Sei
Shōnagon, a wit and beauty of the last reign, was now living in
this place. Whereupon an incredibly lean hag shot her head out
at the door, crying ‘Won’t you buy old bones, old rags and
bones?’ and immediately disappeared again.
[15] At the Prime Minister’s.
[16] Her parents’ house.
[17] After the death of her husband.
[18] See below, p. 125.
[19] For the Emperor’s remark, see above, p. 25.
[20] Murasaki was outlived by her father, so that it is improbable
that she reached any great age.
A WREATH OF CLOUD
A WREATH OF CLOUD
CHAPTER I
A WREATH OF CLOUD
As winter drew on, the Lady of Akashi in her house by the Ōi river
became very dispirited. Formerly the prospect of a visit from Genji
was sufficient to rouse her from her melancholy; but now he found her
always in the same dejected posture morning, noon and night: ‘How much
longer is this to go on?’ he cried impatiently. ‘Do, I beg of you,
make up your mind to come to my palace and use the quarters I have
reserved for you.’ But he could never persuade her that she would not
be thus exposing herself to a hundred indignities and affronts. It
was of course impossible to be quite sure how things would go, and
if, after all his assurances, the move did not turn out well, her
vague resentment against him would henceforth be transformed into a
definite and justified grievance. ‘Do you not feel,’ he said, ‘that it
would be unfair to your child to keep it here with you much longer?
Indeed, knowing as you do what plans[21] I have made for its future,
you must surely see that you are behaving towards it with a lack of
proper respect.... I have constantly discussed this matter with my
wife and she has always shown great interest in the child’s future.
If it is put for a while under her care, she will no doubt be
willing to stand sponsor to it; so that it will be possible to carry
out the Initiation ceremony and other rituals of induction[22] with
full publicity.’ So far from being convinced by his arguments, she saw
herself now being inveigled into doing precisely what she had always
suspected with horror that he would one day ask of her. ‘Take the
child away from me if you like,’ she said at last, ‘and give her to
these grand people to bring up as though she were their own. But just
when you think you have repaired the accident of her birth, some one
will let out the secret, and where will you be then?’ ‘Yes, we must be
careful about that,’ answered Genji. ‘But you need have no fear that
the child will not be properly looked after. As you know, though we
have been married for many years, Lady Murasaki has no children of her
own, and this very much distresses her. She badly needs companionship,
and when at one time there was some question of her adopting Lady
Akikonomu, the former Vestal Virgin, she was obviously delighted at
the prospect, though this lady was already a grown-up person. But
when it comes to a child,—at an age, too, when such creatures have an
irresistible charm—it is quite certain that she will welcome it with
alacrity and henceforward devote all her time to its care. Of that
there is no doubt at all ...’ and he proceeded to a general eulogy
upon Murasaki’s docility and charm. But while he was speaking the Lady
of Akashi recalled the stories of Genji’s adventurous past, and of
numerous other attachments with which rumour credited him. It seemed
on the one hand very unlikely that Lady Murasaki would not ultimately
suffer the fate of her predecessors, and why should her child be
entrusted to a favourite who might soon be forgotten or thrust aside?
If on the other hand Murasaki were indeed endowed with such pre-eminent
qualities that she alone of all her rivals and predecessors was
destined to enjoy permanent favour, then as long as mother and child
remained in their present obscurity there was little danger that this
magnificent lady would regard them as worth a moment’s thought. But
as soon as one or both should make an appearance in the Nijō palace,
Murasaki’s pride would be affronted and her jealousy aroused.... Her
mother, however, was a woman who looked beyond the difficulties of
the moment, and she now said with some severity: ‘You are behaving
very foolishly. It is natural enough that you should dislike parting
with the child; but you must make up your mind to do what will be best
for it. I feel certain that His Highness is perfectly serious in his
intentions concerning its future, and I advise you to entrust it to him
at once. You need have no misgivings. After all, even Royal Princes are
of very varying stock on the mother’s side. I seem to remember that
Prince Genji himself, who is reckoned the greatest gentleman in the
land, could not be put forward as a successor to the Throne because
his mother was so far inferior to the other ladies of the Court; and
indeed, judged from that point of view, he is a mere waiting-woman’s
son. If such disadvantages are not fatal even in the most exalted
spheres, we lesser folk certainly need not trouble ourselves about
them....’ The Lady of Akashi took the advice of several other persons
who had a reputation for sagacity in such matters, and also consulted
various soothsayers and astrologers. In every case the answer was the
same: the child must go to the Capital. In face of such unanimity she
began to waver. Genji, for his part, was still as anxious as ever
that his plan should be carried out. But the subject was evidently
so painful to her that he no longer attempted to broach it, and in
the course of his next letter merely asked what were her wishes
concerning the Initiation ceremony. She answered: ‘I see now that,
being what I am, I cannot keep the child with me without injuring its
prospects. I am ready to part with it; but I still fear that amid
such surroundings....’ He was very sorry for her; but all the same he
ordered his clerks to search the calendar for a suitable day, and began
secretly to make preparations for the child’s arrival.
To hand over her own child to another woman’s keeping was indeed a
bitter trial; but she kept on repeating to herself that, for its own
sake, this sacrifice must sooner or later be made. The nurse whom Genji
had originally sent to Akashi would of course go to take charge of it
at the palace, and the prospect of losing this lady, to whom she had
long confided all her sorrows, finding in her society the one solace
of her monotonous and unhappy existence, added greatly to her present
distress. ‘Madam,’ the nurse would say to her, ‘I shall never forget
your kindness to me ever since the day when, so unexpectedly, yet as
I think not without the intervention of some kind fate, it fell to my
lot to serve you. You may be sure that I shall all the while be longing
to have you with me. But I shall never regard our separation as more
than an expedient of the moment. In the end I am convinced that all
will come right. Meanwhile, do not think that I look forward with any
pleasant anticipations to a life that will take me so far from your
side.’ She wept; and thus day after day was spent in sad forebodings
and preparations till the twelfth month was already come.
Storms of snow and hail now made the situation at Ōi more than ever
depressing and uncomfortable. It appalled the Lady of Akashi to
discover what manifold varieties of suffering one can be called upon
to endure at one and the same time. She now spent every moment of the
day in tending and caressing her little girl. One morning when the
fast-falling snow was piling up high on every side she sat with the
child in her arms, again and again going back in her mind over all the
miseries of the past, and picturing to herself the yet more desolate
days that were to come. It was long since she had gone into the front
of the house. But this morning there was ice on the moat, and she
went to the window to look. She was clad in many wraps of some soft,
white, fluttering stuff, and as she stood gazing before her with hands
clasped behind her head, those within the room thought that, prince’s
daughter though her rival was, she could scarce be more lovely in poise
and gesture than their lady in her snowy dress. Raising her sleeve to
catch the tears that had now begun to fall the Lady of Akashi turned to
the nurse and said: ‘If it were upon a day such as this,[23] I do not
think that I could bear it....’ And she recited the poem: ‘If country
roads be deep in snow, and clouds return, tread thou the written path,
and though thyself thou comest not, vouchsafe a sign.’[24] To comfort
her the nurse answered through her tears: ‘Though the snow-drifts of
Yoshino were heaped across his path, doubt not that whither his heart
is set, his footsteps shall tread out their way.’ The snow was now
falling a little less fast. Suddenly Genji appeared at the door. The
moments during which she waited to receive him put her always into a
state of painful agitation. To-day guessing as she did the purpose
of his visit, his arrival threw her immediately into an agonizing
conflict. Why had she consented? There was still time. If she refused
to part with the child, would he snatch it from her? No, indeed; that
was unthinkable. But stay! She had consented; and should she now
change her mind, she would lose his confidence forever. At one moment
she was ready to obey; a moment afterwards, she had decided to resist
by every means in her power.
She sat by the window, holding the little girl in her arms. He thought
the child very beautiful, and felt at once that her birth was one of
the most important things that had happened in his life. Since last
spring her hair had been allowed to grow[25] and it was now an inch
or two long, falling in delicate waves about her ears like that of a
little novice at a convent. Her skin too was of exquisite whiteness
and purity, and she had the most delightful eyes. To part with such
a creature, to send her away into strange hands,—he understood well
enough what this must mean, and suddenly it seemed to him that it was
impossible even to suggest such a sacrifice. The whole matter was
re-opened, and a discussion followed which lasted the better part of
the day. ‘Whether it is worth while depends on you,’ she said at last.
‘It is in your power to make amends to the child for the disadvantages
of its birth. And if I thought that you meant to do so ...’ she was
worn out by the long discussion, and now burst into tears. It was
terrible to witness such distress. But the child, heedless of what was
going on about it, was lustily demanding ‘a ride in the nice carriage.’
The mother picked it up and carried it in her own arms to the end of
the drive. When she had set it down, it caught at her sleeve and in
the prettiest, baby voice imaginable begged her to ‘come for a ride
too.’ There framed themselves in the lady’s heart the lines: ‘Were
all my prayers in vain, or shall I live to see the two-leaved pine
from which to-day I part spread mighty shadows on the earth?’; but she
could scarce speak the words, and seeing her now weeping wildly Genji
strove to comfort her with the verse: ‘Like the little pine-tree
that at Takekuma from the big one grows, grafted to my deep roots long
shall this stripling thrive secure.’ ‘Wait patiently,’ he added. She
strove hard to persuade herself that he was right, that all was for the
best. But now the carriages were moving away....
With the child rode the nurse and also a gentlewoman of good family
called Shōshō, holding on their knees the Sword, the Heavenly
Children[26] and other emblems of royalty. In the next carriage
followed a band of youths and little girls whom he had brought to form
the child’s escort on the homeward way. All the time they were driving
to the Capital Genji was haunted by the image of the sorrow-stricken
figure that had watched their departure. Small blame to her if at the
moment she was feeling bitterly towards him!
It was quite dark when they arrived. So soon as the carriages had
been drawn in, Shōshō and the nurse began looking about them at
the splendours amid which they were now destined to reside. They
felt indeed (coming as they did from rural and quite unpretentious
surroundings) somewhat awestruck and ill at ease. But when they were
shown the apartments which had been set aside for the new arrival,
with a tiny bed, screens-of-state, and everything which a little lady
could require, all beautifully set out and arranged, they began to take
heart. The nurse’s own room was in the corridor leading to the western
wing, on the north side of the passage.
The child had fallen asleep during the journey and while she was
carried into the house had not cried or seemed at all put out. She was
taken straight to Murasaki’s room and there given her supper. After
a while she began to look round her.
She evidently wondered why her mother was nowhere to be seen, and after
a further search her little lips began to tremble. The nurse was sent
for and soon succeeded in distracting her attention. If only, thought
Genji, who had witnessed this scene—if only the mother in that slow
country home could be as easily comforted! But now there was no way to
make amends to her, save to see to it that never in one jot should the
child’s care and upbringing fall short of what its mother might in her
wildest dream have craved for it. For the moment indeed he accounted
it a blessing that Murasaki had not borne him a child of her own, and
was thus free to devote herself to the reparation of the wrong which
he had inflicted upon this little newcomer by the circumstances of its
birth. For some days the child continued occasionally to ask for its
mother or some other person whom it had been used to see daily at Ōi,
and when they could not be produced it would have a fit of screaming
or of tears. But it was by nature a contented, happy little thing, and
soon struck up a friendship with its new mother, who for her part was
delighted to take charge of a creature so graceful and confiding. She
insisted on carrying it about in her own arms, attended herself to all
its wants and joined in all its games. Gradually the nurse became a
personal attendant upon Lady Murasaki rather than the under-servant
she had been before. Meanwhile a lady of irreproachable birth happened
to become available as a wet-nurse and was accordingly added to the
establishment. The ceremony of her Initiation did not involve any
very elaborate preparations, but the child’s little companions were
naturally aware that something was afoot. Her outfit, so tiny that
it looked as though it came out of a doll’s-house, was a charming
sight. So many people came in and out of the house all day even at
ordinary times that they hardly noticed the guests who had assembled in
their little mistress’s honour. It was only when she raised her arms
for the Binding of the Sleeves that the unwonted gesture caught their
attention; they had never seen her in so pretty a pose before.
Meanwhile the mother at Ōi was all the more wretched because she
now felt that her misery was self-inflicted. Had she been firm, the
child might still be with her and life in some measure endurable. She
could not believe that so extreme a course could really have been
indispensable to its interests and bitterly repented of her docility.
Even the grandmother, who had been foremost in urging the sacrifice,
missed the baby sadly and went about the house with tears in her eyes.
But news had reached them of the pains which Genji was bestowing upon
its upbringing, and she felt no doubt that she had advised for the best.
A peculiar compunction prevented the Lady of Akashi from sending
any gift or message to the child which was no longer hers, but she
took immense pains in contriving presents for all its companions and
attendants from the nurse downwards, and would spend hours in the
matching of colours and the choosing of stuffs.
Genji did not at all want her to think that, now she had parted with
the child, his visits were going to become any the less frequent, and
though it was very difficult to arrange, he made a point of going out
to Ōi before the turn of the year. It must at the best of times, he
thought, be an uninteresting place to live in; but at any rate she had
had the child to look after, and (what with getting it up and putting
it to bed) that seemed to occupy a good deal of time. How she managed
to get through the day now he could not imagine, and coming away from
this visit with a heavy heart he henceforward wrote to her almost
daily. Fortunately Murasaki no longer showed any jealousy on this
score, feeling, as it seemed, that the surrender of so exquisite a
child needed whatever recompense Genji found it in his heart to bestow.
The New Year[27] was ushered in by a spell of bright, clear weather. At
the Nijō-in everything seemed to be going particularly well and, now
that all the improvements were completed, an unusually large number of
guests was entertained during the period of festivities. The older,
married visitors came, as is customary, on the seventh day, bringing
with them their children to assist in the ceremonies of congratulation;
and these young visitors all seemed to be in excellent health and
spirits. Even the lesser gentlemen and retainers who came to pay their
respects, though no doubt many of them had worries and troubles enough
of their own, managed to keep up, during these few days at any rate, an
outward appearance of jollity.
The lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, who was now installed
in the new eastern wing, seemed completely satisfied by her new
surroundings. She had her work cut out for her in keeping up to the
mark all the writing-women and young girls whom Genji had allotted to
her service. Nor could she feel that she had gained nothing by her
present proximity; for whenever he had a few moments to spare, he would
come round and sit with her. He did not however visit her by previous
appointment or stay at all late at night in her apartments. Happily she
was by nature extremely unexacting. If what she wanted did not come her
way, she at once assumed that this particular thing was not ‘in her
destiny,’ and ceased to worry about it. This habit of mind made her
quite unusually easy to handle, and he for his part lost no opportunity
of publicly showing by his manner towards her that he regarded her as
of scarcely less consequence than Murasaki; with the result that
those who came to the house felt they would be displeasing him if
they did not pay their respects to her as well as to his wife; while
stewards and servants saw that she was a person whom it would not
be advisable to neglect. Thus everything seemed to be working very
smoothly, and Genji felt that the arrangement was going to be a great
success.
He thought constantly of the country house at Ōi and of the dull
hours which the Lady of Akashi must be passing there at this season
of festivity. So soon as the New Year celebrations both at his own
house and in the Palace were drawing to a close, he determined to pay
her another visit, and with this object in view he put on his finest
clothes, wearing under his cherry-coloured cloak a matchless vesture
of deep saffron hue, steeped in the perfumes of the scented box where
it had lain. Thus clad he went to take his leave of Murasaki, and as
he stood in the full rays of the setting sun, his appearance was so
magnificent that she gazed at him with even greater admiration than
was her wont. The little princess grabbed at the ends of his long
wide trousers with her baby hands, as though she did not want him to
go. When he reached the door of the women’s apartments she was still
clinging to him and he was obliged to halt for a moment in order to
disentangle himself. Having at last coaxed her into releasing him,
he hurried down the corridor humming to himself as he did so the
peasant-song ‘To-morrow I will come again.’[28] At the door he met
one of Murasaki’s ladies and by her he sent back just that message,
‘To-morrow I will come again.’ She instantly recognized whence the
words came and answered with the poem: ‘Were there on the far
shore no person to detain your boat, then might I indeed believe that
to-morrow you will come again.’ This was brought to him before he drove
away, and smiling at her readiness of wit he answered: ‘In truth I
will but look to my business and come back again; come back to-morrow,
though she across the waters chide me as she will.’ The little girl did
not of course understand a word of all this; but she saw that there
was a joke, and was cutting the strangest capers. As usual the sight
of her antics disarmed all Murasaki’s resentment, and though she would
much rather there had been no ‘lady on the far shore,’ she no longer
felt any hostility towards her. Through what misery the mother must
be passing, Murasaki was now in a position to judge for herself. She
continually imagined what her own feelings would be if the child were
taken from her, never for an instant let it go out of her sight, and
again and again pressed it to her bosom, putting her lovely teats to
its mouth, and caressing it for hours together.
‘What a pity that she has never had one of her own!’ her ladies
whispered; ‘To be sure if this were hers, she could not wish it
different....’
Meanwhile the Lady of Akashi was setting herself to face with resolute
calm the dullness and monotony of country life. The house had a curious
charm of its own, which appealed very much to Genji during his visits,
and as for its occupant,—he was astonished at the continual improvement
in her looks. Indeed, had not that queer father of hers taken such
extraordinary pains to prevent her ever mixing with the world, he
believed there was no reason why she should not have done extremely
well for herself. Yes, all she had needed was an ordinary father;
even a rather shabby one would not have mattered. For such beauty and
intelligence as hers, if once given the chance, could not have failed
to pull her through. Each visit left him restless and unsatisfied,
and he found himself spending his time in continual goings and comings,
his life ‘a tremulous causeway linking dream to dream.’
Sometimes he would send for a zithern and remembering the exquisite
music with which she had beguiled those nights at Akashi, he begged
her to play to him upon her lute. She would not now play alone; but
she sometimes consented to accompany him, doing so with a mastery he
could not imagine how she had contrived to acquire. The rest of the
time was generally spent in minute recital of the little princess’s
sayings and doings. Often he had come over on business connected with
his new oratory at Saga or his estate at Katsura; and then there would
perhaps be only time enough to eat a little fruit and dried rice with
her at Ōi before he hurried back to town. On such occasions there was
not time for intimacies of any kind; but the mere fact that he snatched
at every chance of seeing her and that he did so without any attempt
at concealment, marked her as one who held a not inconsiderable place
in his affections. She was quite aware of this; but she never presumed
upon it, and without any tiresome display of humility she obeyed his
orders and in general gave him as little trouble as possible. By all
that she could hear, there was not one of the great ladies at Court
with whom he was on so intimate a footing as with herself; indeed, he
was said to be somewhat stand-offish and difficult of approach. Were
she to live closer at hand he would perhaps grow weary of her, and in
any case there would certainly be unpleasant rivalries and jealousies.
Thus or in some such way may we suppose the Lady of Akashi to have
reconciled herself to these brief and accidental visits. Her father,
despite his disavowal of all worldly interests, was extremely anxious
to hear how Genji was behaving towards his daughter and constantly sent
messengers to Ōi to pick up what news they could. Much of what he
heard distressed and disappointed him; but frequently too there were
signs and indications of a more encouraging kind, and he would grow
quite elated.
About this time Lady Aoi’s father died. His name had carried great
weight in the country and his death was a heavy loss to the present
government. It so happened that the period during which he took part
in public life had been marked by much disorder and unrest. A renewal
of these upheavals was now expected and general depression prevailed.
Genji too was much distressed, both for personal reasons and because
he had been in the habit of delegating to the old Minister most of
the public business which fell to his lot. He had thus managed to
secure a reasonable amount of leisure. He saw himself henceforward
perpetually immersed in a multiplicity of tiresome affairs, and the
prospect greatly depressed him. The Emperor, though still only twelve
years old, was extremely forward for his age both in body and mind, and
although it was not to be expected that he should act alone, the task
of supervising his work was not a difficult one. But for some years
such supervision would still be needed, and unfortunately there was no
one else to whom Genji could possibly entrust such a task. Thus the
prospect of being able to lead the retired life which alone appealed to
him was still remote, and he frequently became very discontented.
For some while he was occupied with the celebration of rituals and
services on behalf of the dead man’s soul; these he carried out even
more elaborately than did the sons and grandsons of the deceased. This
year, as had been predicted, was marked by a number of disorders and
calamities. The Palace was frequently visited by the most disagreeable
and alarming apparitions, the motions of the planets, sun and moon were
irregular and unaccountable, and clouds of baleful and significant
shape were repeatedly observed. Learned men of every school sent in
elaborate addresses to the Throne, in which they attempted to account
for these strange manifestations. But they were obliged to confess that
many of the reported happenings were unique, and of a very baffling
character. While speculation thus reigned on every side, Genji held
in his heart a guilty secret[29] which might well be the key to these
distressing portents.
Lady Fujitsubo had fallen ill at the beginning of the year and since
the third month her malady had taken a serious turn. The August visit
of the Emperor to her bedside and other unusual ceremonies had already
taken place. He was a mere child when she relinquished the care of him,
and he had grown up without any very strong feelings towards her. But
he now looked so solemn as he stood by the bedside that she herself
began to feel quite sad. ‘I have for some while felt certain,’ she said
to him calmly, ‘that this would be the last year of my life. But as
long as my illness did not prevent me from going about as usual, I gave
no hint to those around me that I knew my end was near; for I dreaded
the fuss and outcry that such a confession would have produced. Nor
did I alter in any way my daily prayers and observances. I longed to
visit you at the Palace and talk with you quietly about old days. But I
seldom felt equal to so great an exertion.... And now it is too late.’
She spoke in a very low, feeble voice. She was thirty-seven years
old, but seemed much younger. The Emperor, as he looked at her, was
overwhelmed by pity and regret. That just as she was reaching an age
when she would need his care, she should, unknown to him, have
passed through months of continual suffering, without once having
recourse to those sacred expedients which alone might have saved
her—this thought made the most painful impression upon him; and now,
in a last attempt to rescue her from death, he set in motion every
conceivable sort of ritual and spell. Genji too was dismayed at the
discovery that for months past she had been worn out by constant pain,
and now sought desperately to find some remedy for her condition. But
it was apparent that the end was at hand; the Emperor’s visits became
more and more frequent and many affecting scenes were witnessed.
Fujitsubo was in great pain and seldom attempted to speak at any
length. But lying there and looking back over the whole course of her
career, she thought that while in the outward circumstances of life few
women could have been more fortunate than herself, inwardly scarce one
in all history had been more continually apprehensive and wretched. The
young Emperor was of course still wholly ignorant of the secret of his
birth. In not acquainting him with it she felt that she had failed in
the discharge of an essential duty, and the one matter after her death
in which she felt any interest was the repair of this omission.
Merely in his position as head of the government it was natural that
Genji should be gravely concerned by the approaching loss to his
faction of so distinguished a supporter, coming, as it seemed likely
to, not many months after the death of the old Grand Minister. This
public concern could indeed be openly displayed. But concealed from all
those about him there was in his inmost heart a measureless sorrow, to
which he dared give vent only in perpetual supplication and prayer.
That it was no longer possible to renew even such casual and colourless
intercourse as had been theirs in recent years was very painful to him.
He hurried to her bedside at the first news of the serious turn
which her condition had taken.
To his surprise she did, in a faint and halting manner, contrive to
speak a few words to him when she realized that he was near. First
she thanked him for carrying out so scrupulously the late Emperor’s
wishes with regard to the surveillance of his present Majesty. Much
had happened in the last years for which she had cause to be grateful
to him, and she had often meant to tell him how sensible she was of
his kindness. And there was another matter of which she had meant
for some time to speak ... to the Emperor himself. She was sorry she
had never.... Here her voice became inaudible, and tears for a while
prevented him from making a reply. He feared that this display of
emotion would arouse comment among those who were standing by; but
indeed any one who had known her as she used to be might well have been
overcome with grief to see her in so woeful a condition. Suddenly he
looked up. No thought or prayer of his could now recall her; and in
unspeakable anguish, not knowing whether she heard him or no, he began
to address her: ‘In spite of the difficulties into which I myself have
sometimes fallen, I have tried to do my best for His Majesty, or at any
rate, what then seemed to me best. But since the death of the old Grand
Minister, everything has gone wrong; and with you lying ill like this
I do not know which way to turn. Were you now to die, I think I should
soon follow you....’ He paused, but there was no reply; for she had
died suddenly like a candle blown out by the wind, and he was left in
bewilderment and misery.
She was, of all the great ladies about the Court at that time, the most
tender-hearted and universally considerate. Women of her class do not
as a rule expect to compass their own ends without causing considerable
inconvenience to ordinary people. Fujitsubo on the contrary
invariably released even her servants and retainers from any duty which
she felt to be an undue infringement of their liberty.
She was devout; but unlike many religious persons she did not display
her piety by impressive benefactions paid for out of funds which other
people had collected. Her charities (and they were considerable)
were made at the expense of her own exchequer. The ranks, titles
and benefices which were at her disposal she distributed with great
intelligence and care, and so many were her individual acts of
generosity that there was scarcely a poor ignorant mountain-priest in
all the land who had not reason to lament her loss. Seldom had the
obsequies of any public person provoked so heart-felt and universal a
sorrow. At Court no colour but black was anywhere to be seen; and the
last weeks of spring lacked all their usual brilliance and gaiety.
Standing one day before the great cherry-tree which grew in front of
the Nijō-in Genji suddenly remembered that this was the season when,
under ordinary circumstances, the Flower Feast would have been held at
the Emperor’s Palace. ‘This year should’st thou have blossomed with
black flowers,’[30] he murmured and, to hide the sudden access of grief
that had overwhelmed him, rushed into his chapel and remained there
weeping bitterly till it began to grow dark. Issuing at last, he found
a flaming sun about to sink beneath the horizon. Against this vivid
glow the trees upon the hill stood out with marvellous clearness,
every branch, nay every twig distinct. But across the hill there
presently drifted a thin filament of cloud, draping the summit with a
band of grey. He was in no mood that day to notice sunsets or pretty
cloud-effects; but in this half-curtained sky there seemed to him to be
a strange significance, and none being by to hear him he recited
the verse: ‘Across the sunset hill there hangs a wreath of cloud that
garbs the evening as with the dark folds of a mourner’s dress.’
There was a certain priest who had for generations served as chaplain
in Lady Fujitsubo’s family. Her mother had placed extraordinary
confidence in him, and she herself had instilled the young Emperor
Ryōzen with deep veneration for this old man, who was indeed known
throughout the land for the sanctity of his life and the unfailing
efficacy of his prayers. He was now over seventy and had for some
time been living in retirement, intent upon his final devotions. But
recently the occasion of Lady Fujitsubo’s death had called him back to
the Court, and the Emperor had more than once summoned him to his side.
An urgent message, conveyed by Prince Genji, now reached him. The night
was already far advanced, and the old man at first protested that these
nocturnal errands were no longer within his capacity. But in the end
he promised, out of respect for His Majesty, to make a great effort to
appear, and at the calm of dawn, at a moment when, as it so happened,
many of the courtiers were absent and those on duty had all withdrawn
from the Presence, the old man stepped into Ryōzen’s room. After
talking for a while in his aged, croaking voice about various matters
of public interest, he said at last: ‘There is one very difficult
matter which I wish to discuss with you. I fear I may not have the
courage to embark upon it, and I am still more afraid that if I succeed
in broaching this topic I may give you great offence. But it concerns
something which it would be very wrong to conceal; a secret indeed such
as makes me fear the eye of Heaven. What use is there, now that I am
so near my end, in locking it up so tightly in my heart? I fear that
Buddha himself might cast me out should I approach him defiled by this
unholy concealment.’ He began trying to tell the Emperor something;
but he seemed unable to come to the point. It was strange that there
should be any worldly matter concerning which the old priest retained
such violent emotions. Perhaps, despite his reputation, he had once
secretly pursued some hideous vendetta, had caused an innocent person
to be entrapped, done away with ... a thousand monstrous possibilities
crowded to the Emperor’s mind. ‘Reverend Father,’ he said at last, ‘you
have known me since I was a baby, and I have never once hidden anything
from you. And now I learn that there is something which you have for
a long time past been concealing from me. I confess, I am surprised.’
‘There is nothing that I have kept from you,’ the old man cried
indignantly. ‘Have I not made you master of my most secret spells, of
the inner doctrines that Buddha forbids us to reveal? Do you think that
I, who in these holy matters reposed so great a confidence in your
Majesty, would have concealed from you any dealing of my own?
‘The matter of which I speak is one that has had grave results already
and may possibly in the future entail worse consequences still. The
reputations concerned are those of your late august Mother and of some
one who now holds a prominent place in the government of our country
... it is to Prince Genji that I refer. It is for their sake, and lest
some distorted account of the affair should ultimately reach you from
other sources, that I have undertaken this painful task. I am an old
man and a priest; I therefore have little to lose and, even should this
revelation win me your displeasure, I shall never repent of having made
it; for Buddha and the Gods of Heaven showed me by unmistakable signs
that it was my duty to speak.
‘You must know, then, that from the time of your Majesty’s conception
the late Empress your mother was in evident distress concerning
the prospect of your birth. She told me indeed that there were reasons
which made the expected child particularly in need of my prayers;
but what these reasons were she did not say; and I, being without
experience in such matters, could form no conjecture. Soon after your
birth there followed a species of convulsion in the state; Prince Genji
was in disgrace and later in exile. Meanwhile your august Mother seemed
to grow every day more uneasy about your future, and again and again I
was asked to offer fresh prayers on your behalf. Strangest of all, so
long as Prince Genji was at the Capital he too seemed to be acquainted
with the instructions I had received; for on every occasion he at once
sent round a message bidding me add by so much to the prayers that had
been ordered and make this or that fresh expenditure on some service or
ritual....’
The disclosure[31] was astonishing, thrilling, terrifying. Indeed so
many conflicting emotions struggled for the upper hand that he was
unable to make any comment or reply. The old priest misunderstood this
silence and, grieved that he should have incurred Ryōzen’s displeasure
by a revelation which had been made in His Majesty’s own interest, he
bowed and withdrew from the Presence. The Emperor immediately ordered
him to return. ‘I am glad that you have told me of this,’ said Ryōzen.
‘Had I gone on living in ignorance of it I see that a kind of contempt
would have been attached for ever to my name; for in the end such
things are bound to be known. I am only sorry that you should have
concealed this from me for so long; and tremble to think of the things
that in my ignorance I may have said or done....[32] Tell me, does
anyone besides yourself know of this, ... any one who is likely to
have let out the secret?’ ‘Besides myself and your mother’s maid Ōmyōbu
there is no one who has an inkling of the matter,’ the priest hastened
to assure him. ‘Nevertheless the existence of such a secret causes me
grave misgivings. Upheavals of nature, earthquakes, drought and storm,
have become alarmingly frequent; and in the State, we have had constant
disorder and unrest. All these things may be due to the existence of
this secret. So long as your Majesty was a helpless infant Heaven took
pity on your innocence; but now that you are grown to your full stature
and have reached years of understanding and discretion, the Powers
Above are manifesting their displeasure; for, as you have been taught,
it frequently happens that the sins of one generation are visited upon
the next. I saw plainly that you did not know to what cause our present
troubles and disorders are due, and that is why I at last determined
to reveal a secret which I hoped need never pass my lips.’ The old man
spoke with difficulty, tears frequently interrupted his discourse, and
it was already broad daylight when he finally left the Palace.
No sooner had he realized the full significance of this astonishing
revelation than a medley of conflicting thoughts began to harass
Ryōzen’s mind. First and foremost, he felt indignant on behalf of the
old Emperor, whom he had always been taught to regard as his father;
but he also felt strangely uncomfortable at the idea that Genji, who
had a much better right to the Throne than he, should have been cast
out of the Imperial family, to become a Minister, a mere servant of
the State. Viewed from whatever standpoint, the new situation was
extremely painful to him, and overcome by shock and bewilderment he
lay in his room long after the sun was high. Learning that his Majesty
had not risen, Genji assumed that he was indisposed and at once
called to enquire. The Emperor was in tears, and utterly unable to
control himself even in the presence of a visitor. But this was after
all perhaps not so very surprising. The young man had only a few
weeks ago lost his mother, and it was natural that he should still
be somewhat upset. Unfortunately it was Genji’s duty that morning to
announce to his Majesty the decease of Prince Momozono.[33] It seemed
to Ryōzen as though the whole world, with all its familiar landmarks
and connections, were crumbling about him. During the first weeks of
mourning Genji spent all his time at the Palace and paid an early
visit to the Emperor every day. They had many long, uninterrupted
conversations, during the course of which Ryōzen on one occasion said:
‘I do not think that my reign is going to last much longer. Never
have I had so strong a foreboding that calamity of some stupendous
kind was at hand; and quite apart from this presentiment, the unrest
which is now troubling the whole land is already enough to keep me
in a continual state of agitation and alarm. Ever since this began
I have had great thoughts of withdrawing from the Throne; but while
my mother was alive I did not wish to distress her by doing so. Now,
however, I consider that I am free to do as I choose, and I intend
before long to seek some quieter mode of life....’ ‘I sincerely hope
you will do nothing of the kind,’ said Genji. ‘The present unrest casts
no reflection upon you or your government. Difficulties of this kind
sometimes arise during the rule of the most enlightened government,
as is proved by the history of China as well as by that of our own
country. Nor must you allow yourself to be unduly depressed by the
demise of persons such as your respected uncle, who had, after all,
reached a time of life when we could not reasonably expect ...’
Thus Genji managed, by arguments which for fear of wearying you I will
not repeat, to coax the Emperor into a slightly less desperate state of
mind. Both were dressed in the simplest style and in the same sombre
hue. For years past it had struck the Emperor, on looking at himself
in the mirror, that he was extraordinarily like Prince Genji. Since
the revelation of his true parentage, he had more frequently than ever
examined his own features. Why, of course! There was no mistaking
such a likeness! But if he was Genji’s son, Genji too must be aware
of the fact, and it was absurd that the relationship should not be
acknowledged between them. Again and again he tried to find some way of
introducing the subject. But to Genji, he supposed, the whole matter
must be a very painful one. He often felt that it was impossible to
refer to such a thing at all, and conversation after conversation went
by without any but the most general topics being discussed; though it
was noticeable that Ryōzen’s manner was even more friendly and charming
than usual. Genji who was extremely sensitive to such changes did not
fail to notice that there was something new in the young Emperor’s
attitude towards him—an air of added respect, almost of deference.
But it never occurred to him that Ryōzen could by any possibility be
in possession of the whole terrible secret. At first the Emperor had
thought of discussing the matter with the maid Ōmyōbu and asking her
for a fuller account of his birth and all that had led up to it. But
at the last moment he felt that it was better she should continue to
think herself the only inheritor of the secret, and he decided not
to discuss the matter with any one. But he longed, without actually
letting out that he knew, to get some further information from Genji
himself. Among other things he wanted to know whether what had happened
with regard to his birth was wholly unexampled, or whether it was
in point of fact far more common than one would suppose. But he could
never find the right way to introduce such a subject. It was clear that
he must get his knowledge from other sources, and he threw himself
with fresh ardour into the study of history, reading every book with
the sole object of discovering other cases like his own. In China, he
soon found, irregularities of descent have not only in many cases been
successfully concealed till long afterwards, but have often been known
and tolerated from the beginning. In Japan he could discover no such
instance; but he knew that if things of this kind occurred, they would
probably not be recorded, so that their absence from native history
might only mean that in our country such matters are hushed up more
successfully than elsewhere.
The more he thought about it, the more Genji regretted that Ryōzen
should have discovered (as from His Majesty’s repeated offers of
abdication he now felt certain to be the case) the real facts
concerning his birth. Fujitsubo, Genji was sure, would have given
anything rather than that the boy should know; it could not have been
by her instructions that the secret had been divulged. Who then had
betrayed him? Naturally his thoughts turned towards Ōmyōbu. She had
moved into the apartments which had been made out of the old offices of
the Lady of the Bedchamber. Here she had been given official quarters
and was to reside permanently in the Palace. Discussing the matter with
her one day, Genji said: ‘Are you sure that you yourself, in the course
of some conversation with his Majesty, may not by accident have put
this idea into his head?’ ‘It is out of the question,’ she replied. ‘I
know too well how determined my Lady was that he should never discover
... indeed, the fear that he might one day stumble upon the facts for
himself was her constant torment And this despite the dangers into
which she knew that ignorance might lead him.’[34] And they fell to
talking of Lady Fujitsubo’s scrupulous respect for propriety, and how
the fear of scandals and exposures which another woman would in the
long run have grown to regard with indifference, had embittered her
whole life.
For Lady Akikonomu he had done all and more than all that he led her to
expect, and she had already become a prominent figure at Court. During
the autumn, having been granted leave of absence from the Palace, she
came to stay for a while at the Nijō-in. She was given the Main Hall,
and found everything decked with the gayest colours in honour of her
arrival. She assumed in the household the place of a favourite elder
daughter, and it was entirely in this spirit that Genji entertained
and amused her. One day when the autumn rain was falling steadily and
the dripping flowers in the garden seemed to be washed to one dull
tinge of grey, memories of long forgotten things came crowding one
after another to Genji’s mind, and with eyes full of tears he betook
himself to Lady Akikonomu’s rooms. Not a touch of colour relieved the
dark of his mourner’s dress, and on pretext of doing penance for the
sins of the nation during the recent disorders he carried a rosary
under his cloak; yet he contrived to wear even this dour, penitential
garb with perfect elegance and grace, and it was with a fine sweep of
the cloak that he now entered the curtained alcove where she sat. He
came straight to her side and, with only a thin latticed screen between
them, began to address her without waiting to be announced: ‘What an
unfortunate year this is! It is too bad that we should get weather
like this just when everything in the garden is at its best. Look at
the flowers. Are not you sorry for them? They came when it was
their turn, and this is the way they are welcomed.’ He leant upon the
pillar of her seat, the evening light falling upon him as he turned
towards her. They had many memories in common; did she still recall, he
asked, that terrible morning when he came to visit her mother at the
Palace-in-the-fields? ‘Too much my thoughts frequent those vanished
days,’ she quoted,[35] and her eyes filled with tears. Already he was
thinking her handsome and interesting, when for some reason she rose
and shifted her position, using her limbs with a subtle grace that made
him long to see her show them to better advantage.... But stay! Ought
such thoughts to be occurring to him? ‘Years ago,’ he said, ‘at a time
when I might have been far more happily employed, I became involved,
entirely through my own fault, in a number of attachments, all of the
most unfortunate kind, with the result that I never knew an instant’s
peace of mind. Among these affairs there were two which were not
only, while they lasted, far more distressing than the rest, but also
both ended under a dark cloud of uncharitableness and obstinacy. The
first was with Lady Rokujō, your mother. The fact that she died still
harbouring against me feelings of the intensest bitterness will cast a
shadow over my whole life, and my one consolation is that in accordance
with her wishes, I have been able to do something towards helping _you_
in the world. But that by any act of mine the flame of her love should
thus forever have been stifled will remain the greatest sorrow of my
life.’ He had mentioned two affairs; but he decided to leave the other
part of his tale untold and continued: ‘During the period when my
fortunes were in eclipse I had plenty of time to think over all these
things and worked out a new plan which I hoped would make every one
satisfied and happy. It was in pursuance of this plan that I induced
the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers to take up residence in
the new eastern wing. Her own resources are quite inadequate, and I
used to feel very uncomfortable about her; it is a great relief to know
that she is getting all she needs. Fortunately she is very easy to
deal with, we understand each other perfectly and there is (or at any
rate I hope so) complete satisfaction on both sides. Soon after I came
back a great deal of my time began to be taken up in looking after the
young Emperor and helping him to conduct the business of the State. I
am not particularly interested in that sort of thing, but I was glad
to be of use. It was only when it came to filling his Household that I
found myself confronted with a task that was definitely uncongenial.
I wonder whether you realize what very strong impulses of my own I
had to overcome before I surrendered you to the Palace? You might at
least tell me that you feel for me and are grateful; then I should no
longer think that this sacrifice was made quite in vain....’ She was
vexed. Why must he needs start talking in that strain? She made no
reply. ‘Forgive me,’ he said; ‘I see that I have displeased you ...,’
and he began hastily to talk of other matters: ‘How much I should like
to retire to some quiet place,—to know that for the rest of my life
on earth I should have no more anxieties or cares and could devote
myself for as long as I liked each day to preparation for the life to
come. But of course all this would be very dull if one had nothing
interesting to look back upon. There are many things to be thought
of first. For example, I have young children, whose place in the
world is very insecure; it will be a long time before I can establish
them satisfactorily. And here you can be of great use to me; for
should you—forgive me for speaking of such a thing— one day bring
increase to his Majesty’s house, it would be in your power to render
considerable services to my children, even though I should chance no
longer to be with you.... It was evident that this sort of conversation
was far more to her liking. She did not indeed say more than a word or
two at a time; but her manner was friendly and encouraging, and they
were still immersed in these domestic projects when darkness began
to fall. ‘And when all these weighty matters are off my hands,’ said
Genji at last, ‘I hope I shall have a little time left for things which
I really enjoy—flowers, autumn leaves, the sky, all those day-to-day
changes and wonders that a single year bring forth; that is what I
looked forward to. Forests of flowering trees in Spring, the open
country in Autumn.... Which do you prefer? It is of course useless to
argue on such a subject, as has so often been done. It is a question
of temperament. Each person is born with “his season” and is bound
to prefer it. No one, you may be sure, has ever yet succeeded in
convincing any one else on such a subject. In China it has always been
the Spring-time with its “broidery of flowers” that has won the highest
praise; here however the brooding melancholy of Autumn seems always to
have moved our poets more deeply. For my own part I find it impossible
to reach a decision; for much as I enjoy the music of birds and the
beauty of flowers, I confess I seldom remember at what season I have
seen a particular flower, heard this or that bird sing. But in this
I am to blame; for even within the narrow compass of my own walls, I
might well have learnt what sights and sounds distinguish each season
of the year, having as you see not only provided for the springtime
by a profusion of flowering trees, but also planted in my garden many
varieties of autumn grass and shrub, brought in, root and all, from
the countryside. Why, I have even carried hither whole tribes of
insects that were wasting their shrill song in the solitude of lanes
and fields. All this I did that I might be able to enjoy these things
in the company of my friends, among whom you are one. Pray tell me
then, to which season do you find that your preference inclines?’ She
thought this a very difficult form of conversation; but politeness
demanded some sort of reply and she said timidly: ‘But you have just
said you can never yourself remember when it was you saw or heard the
thing that pleased you most. How can you expect me to have a better
memory? However, difficult as it is to decide, I think I agree with
the poet[36] who found the dusk of an autumn evening “strangest and
loveliest thing of all.” Perhaps I am more easily moved at such moments
because, you know, it was at just such a time ...’ Her voice died away,
and knowing well indeed what was in her mind Genji answered tenderly
with the verse: ‘The world knows it not; but to you, oh Autumn, I
confess it: your wind at night-fall stabs deep into my heart.’[37]
‘Sometimes I am near to thinking that I can hold out no longer,’ he
added. To such words as these she was by no means bound to reply and
even thought it best to pretend that she had not understood. This
however had the effect of leading him on to be a little more explicit;
and matters would surely have come a good deal further had she not at
once shown in the most unmistakable manner her horror at the sentiments
which he was beginning to profess. Suddenly he pulled himself up. He
had been behaving with a childish lack of restraint. How fortunate that
she at least had shown some sense! He felt very much cast down; but
neither his sighs nor his languishing airs had any effect upon her. He
saw that she was making as though to steal quietly and unobtrusively
from the room, and holding her back he said: ‘I see that you are
terribly offended; well, I do not deny that you have good cause. I
ought not to be so impetuous; I know that it is wrong. But, granted I
spoke far too suddenly—it is all over now. Do not, I beg of you, go
on being angry with me; for if you are unkind....’[38] And with that
he retired to his own quarters. Even the scent of his richly perfumed
garments had become unendurable to her; she summoned her maids and
bade them open the window and door. ‘Just come over here and smell
the cushion that his Highness was sitting on!’ one of them called to
another. ‘What an exquisite fragrance! How he contrives to get hold of
such scents I simply cannot imagine. “If the willow-tree had but the
fragrance of the plum and the petals of the cherry!” So the old poet
wished, and surely Prince Genji must be the answer to his prayer, for
it seems that in him every perfection is combined.’
He went to the western wing; but instead of going straight into
Murasaki’s room, he flung himself down upon a couch in the vestibule.
Above the partition he could see the far-off flicker of a lamp; there
Murasaki was sitting with her ladies, one of whom was reading her
a story. He began to think about what had just occurred. It was a
sad disappointment to discover that he was still by no means immune
from a tendency which had already played such havoc with his own and
other people’s happiness. Upon what more inappropriate object could
his affections possibly have lighted? True, his chief offence in old
days had been of far greater magnitude. But then he had the excuse
of youth and ignorance, and it was possible that, taking this into
consideration, Heaven might by this time have forgiven the offence. But
on this occasion he could hardly plead inexperience; indeed, as
he ruefully admitted to himself, he ought by now to have learnt every
lesson which repeated failure can teach.
Lady Akikonomu now bitterly repented of having confessed her partiality
for the autumn. It would have been so easy not to reply at all, and
this one answer of hers seemed somehow to have opened up the way for
the distressing incident that followed. She told no one of what had
occurred, but was for a time very much scared and distressed. Soon
however the extreme stiffness and formality of address which Genji
henceforth adopted began somewhat to restore her confidence.
On entering Murasaki’s room at a later hour in the day of the incident,
he said to her: ‘Lady Akikonomu has been telling me that she likes
Autumn best. It is a taste which I can quite understand, but all the
same, I am not surprised that you should prefer, as you have often
told me that you do, the early morning in Spring. How I wish that I
were able to spend more time with you! We would pass many hours in the
gardens at all seasons of the year, deciding which trees and flowers we
liked the best. There is nothing which I more detest than having all my
time taken up by this endless succession of business. You know indeed
that if I had only myself to consider I should long ago have thrown up
everything and retired to some temple in the hills....’
But there was the Lady of Akashi; she too must be considered. He
wondered constantly how she was faring; but it seemed to become every
day more impossible for him to go beyond the walls of his palace. What
a pity she had got it into her head that she would be miserable at
Court! If only she would put a little more confidence in him and trust
herself under his roof as any one else would do, he would prove to her
that she had no reason for all these reservations and precautions.
Presently one of his accustomed excursions to the oratory at Saga
gave him an excuse for a visit to Ōi. ‘What a lonely place to live in
always!’ he thought as he approached the house, and even if the people
living there had been quite unknown to him he would have felt a certain
concern on their behalf. But when he thought how she must wait for him
day after day and how seldom her hopes could ever be fulfilled, he
suddenly felt and showed an overwhelming compassion towards her. This
however had only the effect of making her more than ever inconsolable.
Seeking for some means of distracting her mind, he noticed that behind
a tangle of close-set trees points of flame were gleaming—the flares
of the cormorant-fishers at work on Ōi River; and with these lights,
sometimes hardly distinguishable from them, blended the fireflies that
hovered above the moat. ‘It is wonderful here,’ said Genji; ‘you too
would feel so, were not one’s pleasure always spoiled by familiarity.’
‘Those lights on the water!’ she murmured. ‘Often I think that I am
still at Akashi. “As the fisher’s flare that follows close astern, so
in those days and in these has misery clung to my tossing bark, and
followed me from home to home.”’ ‘My love,’ he answered, ‘is like the
secret flame that burns brightly because it is hidden from sight; yours
is like the fisherman’s torch, that flares up in the wind and presently
is spent. No, no; you are right,’ he said after a pause; ‘life (yours
and mine alike) is indeed a wretched business.’ It happened to be a
time at which he was somewhat less tied and harassed than of late, and
he was able to devote himself more wholeheartedly than usual to the
proceedings at his oratory. This kept him in the district for several
days on end, a circumstance which did not often occur and which he
hoped would, for the moment at any rate, make her feel a little less
neglected.
[21] Genji had promised in due course to marry the child to the Heir
Apparent, son of the Emperor Ryōzen.
[22] Buddhist ceremonies corresponding to the Christian
‘Confirmation.’
[23] That Genji fetched the child.
[24] There is a play on words: _fumi_ = ‘letter’; also ‘treading.’
_Ato_ = ‘the tracks of feet,’ but also ‘tracks of the pen,’
σήματα.
[25] Babies’ heads were shaved, save for two tufts.
[26] The sword was the emblem of the child’s royal blood. The
Heavenly Children were dolls which were intended to attract
evil influences and so save the child from harm.
[27] Genji must now have been 30.
[28] ‘Stop your boat, oh cherry-man! I must sow the ten-rood island
field. Then I will come again. To-morrow I will come again!’
The lady answers: ‘To-morrow, forsooth! Those are but words.
You keep a girl upon the other side, and to-morrow you will not
come, no, not to-morrow will you come.’
[29] The secret that the Emperor was his son. The safety of the
State depended upon the cult of ancestors. This could only be
performed by their true descendants. Moreover the occupation of
the throne by one who was not by birth entitled to it would
arouse the wrath of the Sun, from whom the Emperor of Japan
claims descent.
[30] Quoting a poem of Uyeno Mine-o’s upon the death of Fujiwara no
Mototsune, 891 A.D.
[31] That Ryōzen was in reality Genji’s son.
[32] See above, note on p. 49, and below note on p. 60.
[33] Prince Momozono Shikibukyō, brother of the old Emperor and
father of Princess Asagao.
[34] Into performing ceremonies at the grave of his supposed father
which unless performed by a true son, were sacrilegious and
criminal.
[35] From a poem by Ono no Komachi’s sister, say the commentaries;
but such a poem is not to be found in her surviving works.
[36] Anon, in _Kokinshū_, No. 546.
[37] He identifies Akikonomu with the Autumn.
[38] ‘If you are unkind, I too by unkindness will teach you the pain
that unkindness can inflict.’ Anonymous poem.
CHAPTER II
ASAGAO
The death of Prince Momozono meant, of course, the return to Court
of the Kamo Vestal, Lady Asagao; and Genji followed up his letter
of welcome by numerous other notes and messages. For it was, as I
have said before, a peculiarity of his character that if he had once
become fond of any one, neither separation nor lapse of time could
ever obliterate his affection. But Asagao remembered only too well the
difficulty that she had before experienced in keeping him at arm’s
length, and she was careful to answer in the most formal and guarded
terms. He found these decorous replies exceedingly irritating. In
the ninth month he heard that she had moved into her father’s old
residence, the Momozono Palace, which was at that time occupied by
Princess Nyogo, a younger sister of the old Emperor.[39] Here was an
opening; for it was perfectly natural and proper that Genji should
visit this princess, who had been his father’s favourite sister and
with whom he had himself always remained on excellent terms. He found
that the two ladies were living in opposite wings of the Palace,
separated by the great central hall. Though old Prince Momozono had so
recently passed away the place had already assumed a rather decayed
and depressing air. Princess Nyogo received him immediately. He
noticed at once that she had aged very rapidly since he last saw her.
She was indeed quite decrepit, and it was difficult to believe that
she was really younger than Aoi’s mother, who seemed to him never to
have changed since he had known her; whereas in the quavering accents
and palsied gait of the aged lady who now greeted him it was well nigh
impossible to recognize the princess of former days.
‘Everything has been in a wretched way since the old Emperor, your
poor father, was taken from us, and as the years go by the outlook
seems to grow blacker and blacker; I confess, I never have an easy
moment. And now even my brother Prince Momozono has left me! I go on,
I go on; but it hardly seems like being alive, except when I get a
visit like yours to-day, and then I forget all my troubles....’ ‘Poor
thing,’ thought Genji, ‘how terribly she has gone to pieces!’ But he
answered very politely: ‘For me too the world has been in many ways a
different place since my father died. First, as you know, came this
unexpected attack upon me, followed by my exile to a remote district.
Then came my restoration to rank and privilege, bringing with it all
manner of ties and distractions. All this time I have been longing to
have a talk with you, and regret immensely that there has never before
been an opportunity....’ ‘Oh, the changes, the changes,’ she broke in;
‘such terrible destruction I have seen on every side. Nothing seems
safe from it, and often I feel as though I would give anything to
have died before all this began. But I do assure you I am glad I have
lived long enough to witness your return. To die while you were still
in such trouble, not knowing how it was all going to end—that would
indeed have been a melancholy business.’ She paused for a while and
then went on in her quavering, thin voice: ‘You know, you have grown to
be a very handsome man. But I remember that the first time I saw
you, when you were only a little boy, I was astonished at you, really
I was. I could never have believed that such loveliness would be seen
shining in the face of any mortal child! And every time I see you I
always feel just as I did then. They say that his present Majesty, the
Emperor Ryōzen, is the image of you; but I don’t believe a word of it.
He may be just a little like; but no one is going to persuade me that
he is half as handsome as you.’ So she rambled on. Coming from any one
else such flattery would have very much embarrassed him. But at this
strange old lady’s out-pourings one could only be amused. ‘Since my
exile I have quite lost whatever good looks I may once have possessed,’
he said; ‘one cannot live for years on end under those depressing
conditions without its changing one very much. As for the Emperor, I
assure you that his is a beauty of an altogether different order. I
should doubt if a better-looking young man has ever existed, and to
assert that he is less handsome than me is, if you will forgive my
saying so, quite ridiculous.’ ‘If only you came to see me every day I
believe I should go on living for ever,’ she burst out. ‘I am suddenly
beginning to feel quite young, and I am not at all sure that the world
is half so bad a place as I made out just now.’ Nevertheless it was not
long before she was again wailing and weeping. ‘How I envy my sister
Princess Ōmiya,’[40] she cried; ‘no doubt, being your mother-in-law,
she sees a great deal of you. I only wish I were in that position.
You know, I expect, that my poor brother often talked of affiancing
his daughter to you and was very sorry afterwards that he did not do
so.’ At this Genji pricked up his ears. ‘I desired nothing better,’
said he, ‘than to be connected on close terms with your family, and
it would still give me great pleasure to be on a more intimate
footing in this house. But I cannot say that I have hitherto received
much encouragement....’ He was vexed that he had not discovered this
at the time. He looked towards the other wing of the house. The garden
under the younger princess’s windows was carefully tended. He scanned
those borders of late autumn flowers, and then the rooms behind; he
pictured her sitting not far from the window, her eyes fixed upon
these same swiftly-fading petals. Yes, he must certainly contrive to
see her; and bowing to Princess Nyogo he said: ‘I naturally intend to
pay my respects to your niece to-day; indeed, I should not like her to
regard my visit as a mere afterthought, and for that reason I shall,
with your permission, approach her apartments by way of the garden
instead of going along the corridor and through the hall.’ Skirting
the side of the house he came at length to her window. Although it was
now almost dark, he could see, behind grey curtains, the outline of a
black screen-of-state. He was soon observed, and Asagao’s servants,
scandalized that he should have been left standing even for a moment
in the verandah, hurried him into the guest-room at the back of the
house. Here a gentlewoman came to enquire what was his pleasure, and he
handed to her the following note: ‘How this carries me back to the days
of our youth—this sending in of notes and waiting in ante-chambers! I
had hoped, I confess, that my reticence during the years of your sacred
calling would have won for me, still your ardent admirer, the right
to a somewhat less formal reception.’ It would be hard indeed if she
gave him no more encouragement than this! Her answer was brought by
word of mouth: ‘To come back to this house and find my father no longer
here, is so strange an experience that it is difficult to believe those
old days were not a mere dream from which I now awake to a fleeting
prospect of the most comfortless realities. But in a world where
all is change, it would, I confess, be ungracious not to cherish and
encourage a devotion so undeviating as that which you have described.’
She need not, he thought, remind him of life’s uncertainties. For who
had in every circumstance great and small more grievously experienced
them than he? In reply he sent the poem: ‘Have I not manfully held
back and kept cold silence year on year, till the Gods gave me leave?’
‘Madam,’ he added, ‘you are a Vestal no longer and cannot plead that
any sanctity now hedges you about. Since last we met I have experienced
many strange vicissitudes. If you would but let me tell you a little
part of all that I have seen and suffered....’ The gentlewoman who took
his answer noticed that his badges and decorations were somewhat more
dazzling than in old days; but though he was now a good deal older, his
honours still far out-stripped his years.
‘Though it were but to tell me of your trials and sorrows that you
have made this visit, yet even such tidings the Gods, my masters till
of late, forbid me to receive.’ This was too bad! ‘Tell your lady,’ he
cried peevishly, ‘that I have long ago cast my offence[41] of old days
to the winds of Shinado; or does she think perhaps that the Gods did
not accept my vows?’[42] The messenger saw that though he sought to
turn off the matter with these allusions and jests he was in reality
very much put about, and she was vexed on his behalf. She had for years
past been watching her mistress become more and more aloof from the
common interests and distractions of life, and it had long distressed
her to see Prince Genji’s letters so often left unanswered. ‘I did ill
to call at so late an hour,’ he said; ‘I can see that the purpose
of my visit has been wholly misunderstood.’ And sighing heavily he
turned to go, saying as he did so: ‘This is the way one is treated
when one begins to grow old.... It is useless, I know, after what has
passed, even to suggest that her Highness should come to the window for
a moment to see me start ...’ and with that he left the house, watched
by a bevy of ladies who made all the usual comments and appraisements.
Not only was it delightful weather, but at this moment the wind was
making a most agreeable music in the neighbouring trees, and these
ladies soon fell to talking of the old days when Prince Momozono was
alive; particularly of Genji’s visits long ago and the many signs he
had given of a deep and unaltering attachment to their mistress.
After his return from this unsuccessful expedition, Genji felt in no
mood for sleep, and soon he jumped up and threw open his casement.
The morning mist lay thick over the garden of flowers, which, at the
season’s close, looked very battered and wan. Among them, its blossoms
shimmering vaguely, was here and there a Morning Glory,[43] growing
mixed in among the other flowers. Choosing one that was even more
wilted and autumnal than the rest, he sent it to the Momozono palace,
with the note: ‘The poor reception which you gave me last night has
left a most humiliating and painful impression upon me. Indeed, I can
only imagine it was with feelings of relief that you so soon saw my
back turned upon your house, though I am loth to think that things can
even now have come to such a pass: “Can it be that the Morning Glory,
once seen by me and ever since remembered in its beauty, is now a dry
and withered flower?” Does it count with you for nothing that I have
admired you unrequited, year in year out, for so great a stretch of
time? That at least might be put to my credit....’ She could not
leave so mannerly an appeal quite unheeded, and when her people pressed
round her with ink-stone and brush, she yielded to their persuasion so
far as to write the poem: ‘Autumn is over, and now with ghostly flower
the Morning Glory withers on the mist-bound hedge.’ ‘Your comparison,’
she added, ‘is so just that the arrival of your note has brought
fresh dewdrops to the petals of the flower to whom this reminder was
addressed.’ That was all, and it was in truth not very interesting
or ingenious. But for some reason he read the poem many times over,
and during the course of the day found himself continually looking at
it. Perhaps what fascinated him was the effect of her faint, sinuous
ink-strokes on the blue-grey writing-paper which her mourning dictated.
For it often happens that a letter, its value enhanced to us either by
the quality of the writer or by the beauty of the penmanship, appears
at the time to be faultless. But when it is copied out and put into a
book something seems to have gone wrong.... Efforts are made to improve
the sense or style, and in the end the original effect is altogether
lost.
He realized the impropriety of the letters with which he had in old
days assailed her and did not intend to return to so unrestrained a
method of address. His new style had indeed met with a certain measure
of success; for whereas she had formerly seldom vouchsafed any answer
at all, he had now received a not unfriendly reply. But even this
reply was far from being such as to satisfy him, and he was unable to
resist the temptation of trying to improve upon so meagre a success.
He wrote again, this time in much less cautious terms, and posting
himself in the eastern wing[44] of his palace he sent a carriage to
fetch one of Asagao’s ladies, and presently sent her back again with
the letter. Her gentlewomen would themselves never have dreamed
of discouraging far less distinguished attentions, let alone those of
such a personage as Prince Genji, and they now urged his claims upon
their mistress as one ‘for whose sake a little virtue was surely worth
sacrificing.’ But after all her efforts in the past to keep free of
such an entanglement, this was hardly the moment to give in; for she
felt that both he and she had now reached an age when such things
are best put aside. She feared that even her inevitable allusions to
the flowers and trees of the season might easily be misinterpreted,
and even if Genji himself was under no misapprehension, there are
always those who made a business of getting hold of such things and
turning them to mischief, and in consequence she was careful to avoid
the slightest hint of anything intimate or sentimental. About this
time a rumour ran through the Court to the effect that Genji was in
active correspondence with the former Vestal, abetted and encouraged
by Princess Nyogo and the lady’s other relatives. The pair seemed
very well suited to one another and no one expressed any surprise at
the existence of such an attachment. The story eventually reached
Murasaki’s ears. At first she refused to credit it, making sure that
if he were indeed carrying on any such intrigue it would be scarcely
possible for him to conceal it from her. But observing him with this
tale in her mind she thought that he seemed unusually abstracted and
depressed. What if this affair, which he had always passed off as a
mere joke between himself and his cousin, were to turn out after all
to be something important—the beginning of what she dreaded day and
night? In rank and in accomplishments perhaps there was little to
choose between Asagao and herself. But he had begun to admire and court
this princess long, long ago; and if an affection grounded so far back
in the past were now to resume its sway over him, Murasaki knew
that she must be prepared for the worst. It was not easy to face what
she now believed to threaten her. For years past she had held, beyond
challenge or doubt, the first place in Genji’s affections—had been the
centre of all his plans and contrivings. To see herself ousted by a
stranger from a place which long use had taught her to regard as her
own by inalienable right—such was the ordeal for which she now began
silently to prepare herself. He would not, of course, abandon her
altogether; of that she was sure. But the very fact that they had for
so many years lived together on terms of daily intimacy and shared so
many trifling experiences made her, she felt, in a way less interesting
to him. So she speculated, sometimes thinking that all was indeed lost,
sometimes that the whole thing was her fancy and nothing whatever was
amiss. In his general conduct towards her there was not anything of
which she could reasonably complain. But there were from time to time
certain vague indications that he was not in the best of tempers, and
these were enough whenever they occurred to convince her that she was
undone for good and all,—though she showed no outward sign of the
despair which had now settled upon her. Genji, meanwhile, spent much of
his time in the front[45] of the house and was also frequently at the
Emperor’s Palace. His leisure was employed in writing endless letters.
Murasaki wondered how she could have ever doubted the rumours that were
now rampant throughout the Court. If only he would tell, give even the
slightest hint of what was in these days passing through his mind!
Winter drew on, and at last the eleventh month came round. But
this year there were none of the usual religious festivals and
processions[46] to distract him, and Genji became more and more
restless. One evening when the delicate twilight was sprinkled with
a few thin flakes of snow, he determined to set out for the Momozono
palace. All day he had been more than usually preoccupied with thoughts
of its occupant, and somehow he could not help feeling that she too
would on this occasion prove less unyielding. Before starting, he
came to take leave of Murasaki in the western wing. ‘I am sorry to
say Princess Nyogo is very unwell,’ he said; ‘I must go and offer her
my sympathy.’ She did not even look round, but went on playing with
her little foster-child as though determined not to be interrupted.
Evidently there was going to be trouble. ‘There has been something
very strange in your manner lately,’ he said. ‘I am not conscious
of having done anything to offend you. I thought we understood one
another well enough for me to be able to spend a day or two now and
then at the Emperor’s Palace without your taking offence. But perhaps
it is something else?’ ‘I certainly understand you well enough,’ she
answered, ‘to know that I must expect to put up with a great deal of
suffering ...’ and she sank back upon the divan, her face turned away
from him. He could never bear to leave her thus, and knew he would be
wretched every step of the way to Princess Nyogo’s house. But the hour
was already late, and as he had promised beforehand that he would call
there that evening, it was impossible to defer his departure.
Murasaki meanwhile lay on her couch, continually debating within
herself whether this affair might not really have been going on for
years past—perhaps ever since his return—without her having any
suspicion of it. She went to the window. He was still dressed chiefly
in grey; but the few touches of colour which his mourning permitted
showed up all the more brightly, and as she watched his handsome
figure moving against a background of glittering snow, the thought
that she might be losing him, that soon, very soon perhaps, he would
vanish never to return, was more than she could endure. His cortège
consisted only of a few favourite outriders, to whom he said: ‘I am
not feeling inclined just now to go about paying calls; indeed, you
will have noticed that apart from a few necessary visits to Court, I
have hardly left home at all. But my friends at the Momozono palace are
passing through a very trying time. Her Highness has for years relied
upon her brother’s aid and, now that he is taken from her, the least
I can do is to help her occasionally with a little encouragement and
advice....’ But his gentlemen were not so easily deceived and whispered
among themselves as they rode along: ‘Come, come, that will not do.
Unless he has very much changed his ways it is not to chatter with old
ladies that his Highness sets out at this hour of a winter night. There
is more here than meets the eye,’ and they shook their heads over his
incurable frivolity.
The main gate of the palace was on the north side; but here there was
usually a great deal of traffic, and not wishing to attract attention
he drove up to a side-entrance, the one which Prince Momozono himself
commonly used, and sent in a servant to announce his arrival. As he
had promised to appear at a much earlier hour Princess Nyogo had by
now quite given up expecting him, and, much put about by this untimely
visit, she bade her people send the porter to the western gate. The man
made his appearance a moment later, looking wretchedly pinched and cold
as he hastened through the snow with the key in his hand. Unfortunately
the lock would not work, and when he went back to look for help no
other manservant could anywhere be found. ‘It’s very rusty,’ said
the old porter dolefully, fumbling all the while with the lock, that
grated with an unpleasant sound but would not turn. ‘There’s nothing
else wrong with it, but it’s terribly rusty. No one uses this gate now.’
The words, ordinary enough in themselves, filled Genji with an
unaccountable depression. How swiftly the locks rust, the hinges grow
stiff on doors that close behind us! ‘I am more than thirty,’ he
thought; and it seemed to him impossible to go on doing things just
as though they would last ... as though people would remember. ‘And
yet,’ he said to himself, ‘I know that even at this moment the sight
of something very beautiful, were it only some common flower or tree,
might in an instant make life again seem full of meaning and reality.’
At last the key turned and with a great deal of pushing and pulling the
gate was gradually forced open. Soon he was in the Princess’s room,
listening to her usual discourses and lamentations. She began telling
a series of very involved and rambling stories about things all of
which seemed to have happened a great while ago. His attention began
to wander; it was all he could do to keep awake. Before very long the
Princess herself broke off and said with a yawn: ‘It’s no good; I can’t
tell things properly at this time of night, it all gets mixed up....’
Then suddenly he heard a loud and peculiar noise. Where did it come
from? What could it be? His eye fell upon the Princess. Yes; it was
from her that these strange sounds proceeded; for she was now fast
asleep and snoring with a resonance such as he would never have
conceived to be possible.
Delighted at this opportunity of escape he was just about to slip out
of the room when he heard a loud ‘Ahem,’ also uttered in a very aged
and husky voice, and perceived that some one had just entered the
room. ‘There! What a shame! I’ve startled you. And I made sure you
heard me come in. But I see you don’t know who in the world I am. Well,
your poor father, the old Emperor, who loved his joke, used to call me
the Grandam. Perhaps that will help you to remember....’ Could this
be.... Yes, surely it was that same elderly Lady of the Bedchamber
who had flirted with him so outrageously years ago, at the time of
the Feast of Red Leaves.[47] He seemed to remember hearing that she
had joined some lay order and become a pensioner in the late prince’s
household. But it had not occurred to him that she could possibly still
be in existence, and this sudden encounter was something of a shock. ‘I
am distressed to find,’ he answered, ‘that those old days are becoming
very dim in my mind, and anything that recalls them to me is therefore
very precious. I am delighted to hear your voice again. Pray remember
that, like the traveller whom Prince Shōtoku[48] found lying at the
wayside, I have ‘no parent to succour me’ and must therefore look to
old friends such as you for shelter from the world’s unkindness.’ It
was extraordinary how little she had changed in appearance, and her
manner was certainly as arch and coquettish as ever. Her utterance,
indeed, suggested that she now had very few teeth left in her head;
but she still managed to impart to her words the same insinuating and
caressing tone as of old. It amused him that she spoke of herself
as though she had been a mere girl when they first met and that she
continually apologized for the changes which he must now be noticing in
her. He was amused, but also saddened. For he could not help thinking
that of all the gentlewomen who had been this lady’s rivals scarce one
was now left at Court. Most were dead; others had fallen into disgrace
and were eking out a miserable existence no one knew where. Or
again, that a creature such as Lady Fujitsubo should vanish so soon,
while this absurd grandam, even in her younger days totally devoid
of charm or intelligence, should be left behind! And judging by her
appearance, there was every prospect that she would go on happily
pottering about and telling her rosary for another twenty years. No;
there was no sense, no purpose in all this.
She saw that thoughts which moved him deeply were passing through his
mind and at once assumed that he was recalling the details of what
she was pleased to think of as their ‘love affair’; and now in her
most playful voice she recited the poem: ‘Though your father called me
Granny, I am not so old but that you and I were sweethearts long ago.’
He felt somewhat embarrassed but he answered kindly: ‘Such motherly
care as yours not in this life only but in all lives to come none save
a scapegrace would forget.’ ‘We must meet again at a more convenient
time and have a good talk,’ he said; and with that he hastened towards
the western wing. The blinds were drawn and everything was shut up for
the night, save that at one window she[49] had left a lattice half
unclosed, feeling that to show no light at all on the evening of his
visit would be too pointedly uncivil. The moon had risen and its rays
blended with the glitter of the newly-fallen snow. It was indeed a most
charming night. ‘An old woman in love and the moon at mid-winter’: he
remembered the saying that these are the two most dismal things in the
world; but to-night he felt this collocation to be very unjust. He
sent in an urgent letter: if despite her scruples she intended ever to
admit him for a few moments to her presence, why not take advantage of
this excellent opportunity and not subject him to the irritation of
purposeless delays?
She did not doubt the reality of his feelings; but if at a time
when they were both young enough to be forgiven a few indiscretions,
when moreover her father was actually seeking to promote an alliance
between them, she had without a moment’s hesitation refused to yield
herself to him—what sense could there be, now that they were both
past the age to which such irresponsible gallantries by right belong,
what sense (she asked herself) could there be in parleying with him,
indeed, in admitting him into her presence at all? He saw that she was
absolutely unmoved by his appeal, and was both astonished and hurt. She
meanwhile disliked intensely this frigid interchange of messages and
notes, but for the moment saw no way of bringing it to a close. It was
now getting late, a fierce wind had begun to blow and Genji, feeling
a very real disappointment and distress, was about to make his way
homeward, flinging out as he did so the parting verse:
‘No penance can your hard heart find save such as you long since have
taught me to endure.’ As usual her gentlewomen insisted that she must
send a reply, and reluctantly she wrote the verse; ‘Is it for me to
change, for me who hear on every wind some tale that proves you, though
the years go by, not other than you were?’
He burst into a great rage when he received her note, but a moment
afterwards felt that he was behaving very childishly, and said to the
gentlewoman who had brought it: ‘I would not for the world have any
one know how I have been treated to-night. Promise me, I beg of you,
that you will speak of it to no one; stay, you had best even deny that
I was here at all....’ He whispered this in a very low voice; but some
servants who were hanging about near by noticed the aside, and one of
them said to another: ‘Look at that now! Poor gentleman! You can see
she has sent him a very stinging reply. Even if she does not fancy
him, she might at least treat him with common civility. For he does not
look at all the kind of gentleman who would take advantage of a little
kindness....’
As a matter of fact, she had no distaste for him whatever. His beauty
delighted her and she was sure that she would have found him a most
charming companion. But she was convinced that from the moment she
betrayed this liking he would class her among the common ruck of his
admirers and imagine that she would put up with such treatment as they
were apparently content to endure. A position so humiliating she knew
that she could never tolerate. She was resolute, therefore, in her
determination never to allow the slightest intimacy to grow up between
them. But at the same time she was now careful always to answer his
letters fully and courteously, and she allowed him to converse with her
at second hand whenever he felt inclined. It was hardly conceivable
that, submitted to this treatment, he would not soon grow weary of
the whole affair. For her part she wished to devote herself to the
expiation of the many offences against her own religion[50] that her
residence at Kamo had involved. Ultimately she meant to take orders;
but any sudden step of that kind would certainly be attributed to an
unfortunate love-affair and so give colour to the rumours which already
connected her name with his. Indeed, she had seen enough of the world
to know that in few people is discretion stronger than the desire to
tell a good story, and she therefore took no one into her confidence,
not even the gentlewoman who waited daily upon her. Meanwhile she
devoted herself more and more ardently to preparation for the mode of
life which she hoped soon to embrace.
She had several brothers; but they were the children of Prince
♦Zembō’s first wife[51] and she knew very little of them. Other visitors
at the Momozono palace became increasingly rare; but the fact that no
less a person than Genji was known to be Princess Asagao’s admirer
aroused a widespread curiosity concerning her.
♦ “Zembo’s” replaced with “Zembō’s”
As a matter of fact, he was not very desperately in love with her; but
her apparent indifference had piqued him and he was determined to go
on till he had gained his point. He had recently gathered from several
sources of information, including persons of every rank in society, but
all of them in a position to know what they were talking about, that
his own reputation now stood very high in the country. He felt indeed
that his insight into affairs had very greatly improved since old days,
and it would certainly be a pity if a scandal once more deprived him of
popular confidence. Nevertheless, if gossip were to concern itself with
the matter at all, he could not help feeling he should prefer to figure
in the story as having succeeded than as having been ignominiously
repulsed.
Meanwhile his frequent absences from the Nijō-in had already convinced
Murasaki that the affair was as serious as it could possibly be. She
tried to conceal her agitation, but there were times when it was
evident that she had been secretly weeping, and Genji said to her one
day: ‘What has come over you lately? I cannot imagine any reason why
you should be so depressed’; and as he gently stroked the hair back
from her forehead they looked such a pair as you might put straight
into a picture.
‘Since his mother’s death,’ Genji went on presently, ‘the Emperor
Ryōzen has been in very low spirits and I have felt bound to spend a
good deal of time at the Palace. But that is not the only thing which
takes up my time in these days; you must remember that I have now to
attend personally to a mass of business which the old Minister of
the Left used formerly to take off my hands. I am as sorry as you are
that we see so much less of one another; but I do my best, and you must
really try henceforward to bear with me more patiently. You are no
longer a child; yet you make as little effort to enter into my feelings
and see my point of view as if you were still in the nursery.’ And with
that, just as though she were indeed a small child, he put back in
its place a lock of her hair that had become disordered while she was
weeping.
But still she turned away from him and would not speak a word. ‘This
is quite new,’ he said; ‘who has been teaching you these pettish airs
and graces?’ He spoke lightly; but how long, he wondered, was this
going to last, how much time were they going to spend in this dismal
fashion, while at any moment one of those countless horrors that
life perpetually holds over us might suddenly descend upon them and
reconciliation be no longer possible? Determined to bring the matter to
a head, he said at last: ‘I think you have perhaps been misled by very
foolish rumours concerning my friendship with the former Vestal. As a
matter of fact, it is of the most distant kind, as in the end you will
yourself probably realize. She has always, since I first got to know
her years ago, treated me with an exaggerated coldness. This hurts me,
and I have more than once remonstrated with her on the subject. As very
little now goes on at the Momozono palace, she has a good deal of time
on her hands and it amuses her to keep up a desultory correspondence.
This is all that has happened between us; and even you will surely
admit that is not worth crying about! If it is really this affair that
has been on your mind, I assure you that there is no cause whatever
for anxiety....’ He spent the whole day in trying to win back her
confidence, and his patience was at last rewarded.
By this time the snow was lying very deep, and it was still
falling, though now very lightly. So far from obliterating the
shapes of pine-tree and bamboo, the heavy covering of snow seemed
only to accentuate their varying forms, which stood out with strange
distinctness in the evening light. ‘We decided the other day,’ said
Genji to Murasaki, ‘that Lady Akikonomu’s season is Autumn, and yours
Spring. This evening I am more sure than ever that mine is Winter.
What could be more lovely than a winter night such as this, when the
moon shines out of a cloudless sky upon the glittering, fresh-fallen
snow? Beauty without colour seems somehow to belong to another world.
At any rate, I find such a scene as this infinitely more lovely and
moving than any other in the whole year. How little do I agree with the
proverb that calls the moon in winter a dismal sight!’ So saying he
raised the window-blind, and they looked out. The moon was now fully
risen, covering the whole garden with its steady, even light. The
withered flower-beds showed, in these cold rays, with painful clearness
the ravages of wind and frost. And look, the river was half-choked
with ice, while the pond, frozen all over, was unutterably strange
and lonesome under its coat of snow. Near it some children had been
allowed to make a monster snow-ball. They looked very pretty as they
tripped about in the moonlight. Several of the older girls had taken
off their coats and set to in a very business-like way, showing all
sorts of strange under-garments; while their brothers, coming straight
from their tasks as page-boys and what not, had merely loosened their
belts, and there was now a sight of smart coat-tails flapping and long
hair falling forwards till its ends brushed the white garden floor—an
effect both singular and delightful. Some of the very little ones were
quite wild with joy and rushed about dropping all their fans and other
belongings in their mad excitement.
The glee imprinted on these small faces was charming to behold. The
children made so big a snow-ball that when it came to rolling it along
the ground they could not make it budge an inch, and the sight of their
frantic endeavours to get it moving provoked much jeering and laughter
from another party of children which had just made its appearance at
the eastern door.
‘I remember,’ said Genji, ‘that one year Lady Fujitsubo had a
snow-mountain built in front of her palace. It is a common enough
amusement in winter time; but she had the art of making the most
ordinary things striking and interesting. What countless reasons I
have to regret her at every moment! I was during the greater part of
her life not at all intimate with her and had little opportunity of
studying her at close quarters. But during her residence at the Palace,
she often allowed me to be of service to her in various small ways,
and I frequently had occasion to use her good offices. In this way we
were constantly discussing one piece of business or another, and I
discovered that though she had no obvious or showy talents, she had the
most extraordinary capacity for carrying through even quite unimportant
and trivial affairs with a perfection of taste and management that has
surely never been equalled. At the same time she was of a rather timid
disposition and often took things too much to heart. Though you and she
both spring from the same stem and necessarily have much in common, I
have noticed that you are a good deal less even in temperament than she.
‘Lady Asagao, now, has a quite different nature. If in an idle moment I
address to her some trifling fancy she replies with such spirit that I
have hard work not to be left lagging. I know no one else at Court to
compare with her in this respect.’
‘I have always heard,’ said Murasaki, ‘that Lady Oborozuki is
extremely accomplished and quick-witted. I should have thought, too,
from all I know of her that she was very sensible and discreet; and
that makes me all the more surprised at certain stories that I have
heard repeated....’
‘You are quite right,’ said Genji. ‘Among all the ladies now at Court
she is the one I should pick out both for liveliness and beauty. As
to the rumours you speak of—I know quite well what you are referring
to. I bitterly regret what happened; as indeed I regret much else that
belongs to that part of my life. And what quantities of things most
people must begin to repent of, as the years go by! For compared with
almost any of my friends, I have led a very quiet and decorous life.’
He paused for a moment; the mention of Oborozuki seemed to have moved
him deeply. Presently he continued: ‘I have a feeling that you look
down upon country people such as the Lady of Akashi. I assure you that,
unlike most women in that station of life, she is extremely cultivated
and intelligent; though of course people of her class are bound in many
ways to be very different from us, and I admit she has certain strained
and exaggerated ideas, of which I cannot approve.
‘About women of the common sort I know nothing; but among our own
people it has always seemed to me that few indeed were in any way
remarkable or interesting. An exception however is our guest in the
new wing[52]; she remains charming as ever. But though such beauty and
intelligence are very rare, she has never cared to parade them; and
since the time when I first realized her gifts and hastened to make her
acquaintance, she has always continued to show the same indifference to
the worldly conquests which she might so easily have secured. We have
now been friends for so long that I do not think we are ever likely
to part; I at any rate should be very sorry if she were to leave my
house.’ While he thus talked of one thing and another, it grew very
late. The moon shone brighter and brighter, and a stillness now reigned
that, after the recent wintry storms, was very agreeable. Murasaki
recited the verse: ‘The frozen waters are at rest; but now with waves
of light the moon-beam ebbs and flows.’ She was looking out at the
window, her head a little to one side, and both the expression of her
face and the way her hair fell reminded him, as so often before, of her
whom he had lost. Suddenly his affections, which for many weeks past
had to some small extent been divided, were once more hers, and hers
alone.
Just then a love-bird[53] cried, and he recited the verse: ‘Does it
not move you strangely, the love-bird’s cry, to-night when, like the
drifting snow, memory piles up on memory?’ Long after he and Murasaki
had retired to rest, recollections of Lady Fujitsubo continued to crowd
into his mind, and when at last he fell asleep, a vision of her at once
appeared to him, saying in tones of deep reproach: ‘It may be that
you on earth have kept our secret; but in the land of the dead shame
cannot be hid, and I am paying dearly for what you made me do....’ He
tried to answer, but fear choked his voice, and Murasaki, hearing him
suddenly give a strange muffled cry, said rather peevishly: ‘What are
you doing that for? You frightened me!’ The sound of her voice roused
him. He woke in a terrible state of grief and agitation, his eyes full
of tears which he at once made violent efforts to control. But soon he
was weeping bitterly, to the bewilderment of Murasaki, who nevertheless
lay all the time stock still at his side. He was now too miserable
and distracted to think of sleep, and slipping out of bed presently
began writing notes to various temples in the district, directing that
certain texts and spells should be recited; he did not however dare
to state on whose behalf these things were to be done.
Small wonder that in the dream she turned upon him so bitter and
reproachful a gaze, feeling (as by her words he judged she did) that
this one sin had robbed her of salvation. He remembered her constant
devotions; never since that fatal day had she omitted one single
prayer, penance or charity that might serve as atonement for her guilt.
Yet all had been in vain, and even in the world beyond, this one crime
clung to her like a stain that could not be washed away. In the past
he had never thought clearly about such things; but now they lived
in his mind with a terrible vividness and certainty. Were there but
some spell, some magic that could enable him to seek her out in the
obscure region where her soul was dwelling, and suffer in her stead
the penalties of his own offence! Yet the truth was that he could not
so much as have a few poor Masses said for her soul; for, had he named
her, the suspicions of the Court would at once have been aroused.
Concerning the Emperor, too, Genji’s conscience was very uneasy; for
had Ryōzen indeed discovered the true story of his birth, he must now
be living in a state of continual apprehension. It was at about this
time that Genji put himself under the especial protection of Amida,
Buddha of Boundless Light, beseeching the Blessed One that in due time
his soul and that of the lady whom he had undone might spring from the
same lotus in His holy Paradise. But of such an issue he had little
hope, and often he would disconsolately recite the verse: ‘Fain would I
follow her, could I but hope to thread my way among the sunless Rivers
of the World Below.’[54]
[39] Consequently an aunt both of Asagao and Genji, who were first
cousins; Prince Momozono, Asagao’s father, being a brother of
Genji’s father, the old Emperor. Asagao was the one lady whom
Genji had courted in vain. See vol. i, p. 68.
[40] Aoi’s mother.
[41] I.e. making love to her.
[42] Allusion to the poem: ‘By the River of Cleansing I tied
prayer-strips inscribed “I will love no more”; but it seems
that the Gods would not accept my vow.’
[43] Asagao.
[44] Where Murasaki would not be likely to come.
[45] In the men’s quarters.
[46] During the 10th month the Gods withdraw themselves and cannot
hear our prayers; their return in the 11th month is celebrated
with rejoicing; but this year, owing to the National Mourning
for Fujitsubo’s death, these ceremonies were omitted.
[47] See vol. i, p. 229.
[48] 572–621 A.D.
[49] Asagao.
[50] Buddhism. She had been Vestal in the Shintō temple at Kamo,
where no Buddhist prayers or observances were allowed.
[51] Rokujō was his second.
[52] The lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.
[53] Generally called by the ugly name ‘Mandarin Duck.’
[54] Through each of the Three Evil Realms (of Animals, Hungry
Ghosts and Demons) runs a meandering river.
CHAPTER III
THE MAIDEN
In the spring of the next year[55] the National Mourning for Lady
Fujitsubo came to an end. Gay colours began to appear once more at
Court, and when the time for summer dresses came round it was seen
that the fashions were smarter than ever; moreover, the weather was
unusually agreeable and there was every prospect of a fine spell
for the Kamo Festival.[56] Lady Asagao gave no outward sign of what
reflections passed through her mind while she witnessed the ceremonies
in which she herself had a few years ago taken the leading part. But
she gazed fixedly at the laurel tree[57] in front of her window; and
though there was much beauty in those lank branches, swept to and fro
by the roving winds, yet it seemed as if it must be for some other
cause that again and again her eyes returned to it. In her ladies, at
any rate, the sight of this tree aroused a host of reminiscences and
suitable reflections.
From Genji came a note in which he said: ‘Does it not give you a
strange feeling to witness a Day of Cleansing in which you take no
part?’ And remembering that she was still in mourning for her father,
he added the poem: ‘Little thought I that, like a wave in the swirl of
the flood, you would come back so soon, a dark-robed mourner swept
along time’s hurrying stream.’
It was written on purple paper in a bold script, and a spray of
wistaria[58] was attached to it. Moved by all that was going on around
her she replied: ‘It seems but yesterday that I first wore my sombre
dress; but now the pool of days has grown into a flood wherein I soon
shall wash my grief away.’[59] The poem was sent without explanation
or comment and constituted, indeed, a meagre reply; but, as usual, he
found himself constantly holding it in front of him and gazing at it as
though it had been much more than a few poor lines of verse.
When the end of the mourning actually came, the lady who acted as
messenger and intermediary in general was overwhelmed by the number
of packages[60] from the Nijō-in which now began to arrive. Lady
Asagao expressed great displeasure at this lavishness and, if the
presents had been accompanied by letters or poems of at all a familiar
or impertinent kind, she would at once have put a stop to these
attentions. But for a year past there had been nothing in his conduct
to complain of. From time to time he came to the house and enquired
after her, but always quite openly. His letters were frequent and
affectionate, but he took no liberties, and what nowadays troubled her
chiefly was the difficulty of inventing anything to say in reply.
To Princess Nyogo, too, Genji sent good wishes on the occasion of her
coming out of mourning. This delighted her, and the old lady observed
to her maids, whilst reading the letter: ‘How strange it is to get this
very nice letter from Prince Genji! Why, it seems only yesterday
that he was a baby-in-arms, and here he is, writing such a sensible,
manly letter! I had heard that he had grown up very good-looking;
but what pleases me is that he evidently has a quite exceptionally
nice disposition.’ These outbursts of praise were always greeted with
laughter by the younger ladies-in-waiting, among whom Princess Nyogo’s
weakness for Genji was a standing joke.
The old lady next bustled off to her niece’s rooms. ‘What do you
say to this?’ she asked, holding out the letter; ‘could anything be
more friendly and considerate? But he has always regarded this house
as a second home. I have often told you that your poor father was
bitterly disappointed that the circumstances of your birth made it
impossible for him to offer your hand to this Prince. It was indeed
definitely arranged that he should do so, and it was with the greatest
reluctance that he consented to your departure. He talked to me about
this constantly in after years, and it was obvious that he bitterly
regretted not having arranged the marriage at a much earlier period in
your life. What held him back from doing so was that my sister Princess
Ōmiya had already arranged for the marriage of her daughter, Lady Aoi,
to Prince Genji and, frightened of giving offence, he let time slip by
without doing anything towards the accomplishment of this favourite
project. But Lady Aoi’s death has removed the one insurmountable
obstacle which before made it out of the question that any person of
consequence should offer to this Prince his daughter’s hand. For though
there are now several ladies in his household, none of them is of the
highest rank. Such a person as yourself, for example, would necessarily
assume the foremost place, and I confess I cannot see why, if an offer
came your way, it would be such a bad thing for you to accept it. At
any rate, that is how I feel. He must be very fond of you, or he
certainly would not have started writing again directly you came back
from Kamo....’
Princess Asagao thought her aunt’s way of looking at things very old
fashioned and mistaken: ‘Having held out for so long against the
reproaches of my father, who was, as you will remember, by no means
used to being gainsaid, it would be a strange thing if I were now to
yield, after all that has happened since, to your or any one else’s
friendly persuasions.’ She looked so reluctant to discuss the subject
further that her aunt did not proceed. The whole staff of the Palace,
from dames-of-honour down to kitchen-maids, being all of them more or
less in love with Genji themselves, watched with great interest to see
how he would fare at Princess Asagao’s hands, the majority prophesying
for him a heavy discomfiture. But Genji himself firmly believed that
if only he went on quietly displaying his devotion, sooner or later
there would come some sign that she was ready to yield. He had long
ago realized that she was not a person who could ever be hustled into
acting against her own better judgment and inclination.
It was high time to be thinking about the Initiation of Yūgiri, Aoi’s
son, who was now twelve years old. It would in many ways have been
better that the ceremony should be performed in Genji’s palace. But it
was natural that the boy’s grandmother should be anxious to witness
it, and in the end it was decided that it should be performed at the
Great Hall. Here the boy had the support of his uncle Tō no Chūjō
and of Aoi’s other brothers, all of whom were now in influential
positions, and as the function was to take place under their own roof
they were additionally ready to do whatever they could to help in
making the occasion a success. It was an event which aroused very wide
interest throughout the country, and what with visitors pouring in from
all sides and a mass of preparations to be made for the actual
ceremony, there was hardly room to turn round for days beforehand.
He had thought at first of placing Yūgiri in the Fourth Rank; but
he was afraid that this would be considered an abuse of power, and
there was indeed no hurry; for the boy was still very immature, and
affairs being now entirely in Genji’s hands he could easily promote
him by small steps, till within a comparatively short time it would
be possible to put him in the Fourth Rank without attracting an undue
amount of attention. When, however, Yūgiri made his appearance at the
Great Hall in the light blue decorations of the Sixth Rank, this was
more than his grandmother Princess Ōmiya could bear. Genji fortunately
realized that she would very likely be somewhat upset. When he went
to call upon her she at once began voicing her grievance. ‘You must
remember,’ replied Genji, ‘that he is far too young to begin his public
career. I would not indeed have performed his Initiation so early save
that I designed to make a scholar of him. This will give him profitable
employment during two or three years which might otherwise have been
completely thrown away. As soon as he is old enough to take public
office, he is certain to come quickly to the fore.
‘I myself was brought up at the Palace in complete ignorance of the
outside world. Living as I did continually at my father the Emperor’s
side I could not but pick up a certain vague familiarity with writing
and books; it was, however, of the most meagre kind. For I could not
at the best learn more than he chanced himself to have picked up in
the same casual way, so that in every subject I only knew disconnected
scraps and had no notion of how they ought to be fitted together. This
was the case particularly as regards literature; but even in music my
knowledge was hopelessly incomplete, and I acquired no real command
over either zithern or flute. It may turn out that he is quicker
than I; but on the whole it seems far commoner for children to have
less natural aptitude than their parents; and I determined that this
child of mine should be educated in a far more thorough way. For if I
merely handed on to him the scraps of information which I in my day had
picked up from the old Emperor I feared that knowledge might reach him
in so attenuated a form as would stand him in very poor stead for the
future.
‘I have noticed that children of good families, assured of such
titles and emoluments as they desire, and used to receive the homage
of the world however little they do to deserve it, see no advantage
in fatiguing themselves by arduous and exacting studies. Having then
in due time been raised to offices for which they have qualified
themselves only by a long course of frolics and indiscretions, they
are helped out of all their difficulties by a set of time-servers (who
are all the while laughing at them behind their backs), and they soon
imagine themselves to be the most accomplished statesmen on earth. But
however influential such a one may be, the death of some relative or
a change in the government may easily work his undoing, and he will
soon discover with surprise how poor an opinion of him the world really
has. It is _then_ that he feels the disadvantages of the desultory
education which I have described. For the truth is, that without a
solid foundation of book-learning this “Japanese spirit” of which one
hears so much is not of any great use in the world.
‘So you see that, though at the present moment I may seem to be doing
less for him than I ought, it is my wish that he may one day be fit to
bear the highest charges in the State, and be capable of so doing even
if I am no longer here to direct him. For the moment, though you think
that I do not adequately use my influence on his behalf, I will at
any rate see to it that he is not looked down upon as a mere starveling
aspirant of the Schools.’ But the Princess would not part with her
grievance: ‘I am sure you have thought it all out very carefully,’
she said; ‘but his uncles and most other people will not understand a
word of this, and will merely think he is being badly treated; and I
am sure the poor boy himself is very disappointed. He has always been
brought up with the idea that Tō no Chūjō’s children and his other
little cousins are in some way inferior to him, and now he sees them
all going steadily upwards in rank, while he is treated like this....
I assure you he found it very painful wearing that light blue dress,
and my heart went out to him.’ Genji could not help laughing: ‘You must
not take these things so seriously,’ he said. ‘What does it all matter?
Please remember that you are talking about a child of twelve years old.
You may be sure he understands nothing whatever of all this business.
When he has been at his studies for a little while, you will see how
much improved he is and be angry with me no longer.’
The ceremony of bestowing the School-name took place in the new part
of the Nijō-in palace, a portion of the eastern wing being set aside
for the purpose. As such a function seldom takes place in the houses
of the great, the occasion was one of great interest, and Princes and
Courtiers of every degree vied with one another for the best seats; the
professors who had come to conduct the proceedings were not expecting
so large and distinguished an audience, and they were evidently very
much put out. ‘Gentlemen,’ said Genji, addressing them, ‘I want you
to perform this ceremony in all its rigour, omitting no detail,
and above all not in any way altering the prescribed usages either
in deference to the company here assembled or out of consideration
for the pupil whom you are about to admit into your craft.’ The
professors did their best to look business-like and unconcerned. Many
of them were dressed in gowns which they had hired for the occasion;
but fortunately they had no idea how absurd they looked in these
old-fashioned and ill-fitting clothes; which saved them from a great
deal of embarrassment. Their grimaces and odd turns of speech, both
combined with a certain mincing affability which they thought suitable
to the occasion—even the strange forms and ceremonies that had to be
gone through before any one of them could so much as sit down in his
seat—all this was so queer that Yūgiri’s cousins, who had never seen
anything of the sort in their lives before, could not refrain from
smiling. It was therefore as well that, as actual participators in the
ceremony, only the older and steadier among the princes of the Great
Hall had been selected. They at least could be relied upon to control
their laughter, and all was going smoothly, when it fell to the lot
of Tō no Chūjō and his friend Prince Mimbuykō to fill goblets out of
the great wine-flagon and present them to their learned guests. Being
both of them entirely unversed in these academic rites they paused
for a moment, as though not quite certain whether they were really
expected to perform this task with their own hands. So at any rate
the professors interpreted their hesitation, and at once broke out
into indignant expostulations: ‘The whole proceeding is in the highest
degree irregular,’[61] they cried. ‘These gentlemen possess no academic
qualifications and ought not to be here at all. They must be made to
understand that we know nothing of the distinctions and privileges
which prevail at Court. They must be told to mend their manners....’ At
this some one in the audience ventured to titter, and the professors
again expostulated: ‘These proceedings cannot continue,’ they
said, ‘unless absolute silence is preserved. Interruptions are in the
highest degree irregular, and if they occur again we shall be obliged
to leave our seats.’ Several more testy speeches followed, and the
audience was vastly entertained; for those who had never witnessed
such performances before were naturally carried away by so diverting
a novelty; while the few who were familiar with the proceedings had
now the satisfaction of smiling indulgently at the crude amazement of
their companions. It was long indeed since Learning had received so
signal a mark of encouragement, and for the first time its partisans
felt themselves to be people of real weight and consequence. Not a
single word might any one in the audience so much as whisper to his
neighbour without calling down upon himself an angry expostulation, and
excited cries of ‘disgraceful behaviour!’ were provoked by the mildest
signs of restlessness in the crowd. For some time the ceremony had
been proceeding in darkness, and now when the torches were suddenly
lit, revealing those aged faces contorted with censoriousness and
self-importance, Genji could not help thinking of the Sarugaku[62]
mountebanks with their burlesque postures and grimaces. ‘Truly,’ he
thought, looking at the professors, ‘truly in more ways than one an
extraordinary and unaccountable profession!’ ‘I think it is rather
fun,’ he said, ‘to see every one being kept in order by these crabbed
old people,’ and hid himself well behind his curtains-of-state, lest
his comments too should be heard and rebuked.
Not nearly enough accommodation had been provided, and many of the
young students from the college had been turned away for lack of
room. Hearing this, Genji sent after them with apologies and had them
brought back to the Summer House where they were entertained with food
and drink. Some of the professors and doctors whose own part in
the ceremony was over had also left the palace, and Genji now brought
them back and made them compose poem after poem. He also detained such
of the courtiers and princes as he knew to care most for poetry; the
professors were called upon to compose complete poems[63] while the
company, from Genji downwards, tried their hands at quatrains, Teachers
of Literature being asked to choose the themes. The summer night was so
short that before the time came to read out the poems it was already
broad daylight. The reading was done by the Under-secretary to the
Council, who, besides being a man of fine appearance, had a remarkably
strong and impressive voice, so that his recitations gave every one
great pleasure.
That mere enthusiasm should lead young men of high birth, who might so
easily have contented themselves with the life of brilliant gaieties
to which their position entitled them, to study ‘by the light of the
glow-worm at the window or the glimmer of snow on the bough,’[64]
was highly gratifying; and such a number of ingenious fancies and
comparisons pervaded the minds of the competitors that any one of these
compositions might well have been carried to the Land Beyond the Sea
without fear of bringing our country into contempt. But women are not
supposed to know anything about Chinese literature, and I will not
shock your sense of propriety by quoting any of the poems—even that by
which Genji so deeply moved his hearers.
Hard upon the ceremony of giving the School Name came that of actual
admittance to the College, and finally Yūgiri took up residence in the
rooms which had been prepared for him at the Nijō-in. Here he was put
in charge of the most learned masters that could be procured, and
his education began in earnest. At first he was not allowed to visit
his grandmother at all; for Genji had noticed that she spoiled him
shockingly, treating him, indeed, as though he were still a little
child, and there seemed a much better chance that he would settle
down to his new life if it were not interrupted by constant treats
and cossettings at the Great Hall. But Princess Ōmiya took the boy’s
absence so much to heart that in the end three visits a month were
allowed.
Yūgiri found this sudden restriction of liberty very depressing, and
he thought it unkind of his father to inflict these labours upon him,
when he might so easily have allowed him to amuse himself for a little
while longer and then go straight into some high post. Did Genji think
him so very stupid as to need, before he could work for the Government,
a training with which every one else seemed able to dispense? But he
was a sensible, good-natured boy, who took life rather seriously, and
seeing that he was not going to be allowed to mix in the world or
start upon his career till he had read his books, he determined to get
through the business as quickly as possible. The consequence was that
in the space of four or five months he had read not only the whole of
the _Historical Records_,[65] but many other books as well. When the
time came for his Examinations, Genji determined to put him to the test
privately a little while beforehand. He was assisted by Tō no Chūjō,
by the Chief Secretary of Council, the Clerk of the Board of Rites
and a few other friends. The chief tutor was now sent for, and asked
to select passages from the _Historical Records_.[66] He went through
every chapter, picking out the most difficult paragraphs—just
such parts indeed as the College Examiners were likely to hit upon and
made his pupil read them out loud. Yūgiri not only read without the
slightest stumbling or hesitation but showed clearly in every doubtful
or misleading passage that he understood the sense of what he was
reading. Every one present was astonished at his proficiency and it
was generally agreed that he had the makings of a first-rate scholar.
‘If only his poor grandfather could see him!’ said Tō no Chūjō with
a sigh; and Genji, unable to restrain his feelings, exclaimed with
tears in his eyes: ‘All this makes me feel very old! Before it has
always been other people over whom one shook one’s head, saying that
they were “getting on in life” or “not so active as they were.” But
now that I have a grown-up child of my own, I feel (though I am still
fortunately some way off my second childhood) that henceforward he
will every day grow more intelligent, and I more stupid.’ The tutor
listened attentively to this speech and felt much comforted by it. Tō
no Chūjō had been helping him liberally to wine, and the learned man’s
gaunt, rugged features were now suffused with smiles of joy and pride.
He was a very unpractical man and his worldly success had never been
proportionate to his great attainments. At the time when Genji first
came across him he was without patronage or any means of subsistence.
Then came this sudden stroke of good fortune; he of all people was
singled out and summoned to this all-important task. Ever since his
arrival he had enjoyed a degree of consideration far in excess of
what, in his capacity of tutor, he had any right to expect, and now
that the diligence of his pupil had procured for him this fresh ground
for Genji’s esteem, he looked forward at last to a distinguished and
prosperous career.
On the day of the actual examination the College courtyards were
crammed to overflowing with fashionable equipages; it seemed indeed
as though the whole world had turned out to witness the ceremony, and
the princely candidate’s entry at the College gates wore the air of a
triumphal procession. He looked very unfit to mingle with the crowd
(shabby and uncouth as such lads generally are) among whom he now had
to take his place, sitting right at the end of the bench, for he was
the youngest scholar present; and it was small wonder that he came near
to wincing as he took his place amid his uncouth class-mates.
On this occasion also the presence of so large and profane an audience
sorely tried the nerves of the academic authorities, and it was to the
accompaniment of constant appeals for silence and good manners that
Yūgiri read his portion. But he did not feel in the least put out and
performed his task with complete success.
This occasion had an important effect upon the fortunes of the College.
It began to recover much of its old prestige, and henceforward the
students were drawn not only from the lower and middle, but also to
a considerable degree from the upper classes, and it became more and
more frequent for the holders of high office to have received a certain
amount of education. It was found that the possession of Degrees, such
as that of Doctor of Letters or even Bachelor, was now an advantage in
after life and frequently led to more rapid promotion. This incited
both masters and pupils to unprecedented efforts. At Genji’s palace
too the making of Chinese poems became frequent; both scholars and
professors were often his guests, and learning of every kind was
encouraged and esteemed in a manner seldom before witnessed at Court.
The question of appointing an Empress now became urgent.
The claims of Akikonomu were considerable, since it was the dying
wish of Fujitsubo, the Emperor’s mother, that her son should be guided
by this lady’s counsel; and in urging her claims Genji was able to
plead this excuse. The great disadvantage of such a choice was that
Akikonomu, like Fujitsubo before her, was closely connected with the
reigning family, and such alliances are very unpopular in the country.
Lady Chūjō[67] had the merit of priority, and to her partisans it
appeared that there could be no question of any one else being called
upon to share the Throne. But there were many supporters of Lady
Akikonomu who were equally indignant that her claims should for an
instant be questioned.
Prince Hyōbukyō[68] had now succeeded to the post of President of the
Board of Rites, previously held by Asagao’s father; he had become a
figure of considerable importance at Court and it was no longer deemed
politic that his daughter should be refused admittance to the Imperial
Household.
This lady, like Akikonomu, had the disadvantage of a close connection
with the ruling House; but on the other hand her elevation to the
Throne was just as likely to have been supported by the Emperor’s
late mother as that of Akikonomu, for the new-comer was her brother’s
child, and it was thought by many people not to be unreasonable that
this elder cousin should be called upon to take Fujitsubo’s place, as
far as watching over the health and happiness of the young Emperor was
concerned. The claims, then, were pretty equally divided, and after
some hesitation Genji followed his own inclinations by appointing
Akikonomu to share the Throne. How strange that in the end this lady
should have risen to an even higher position than her celebrated
mother! Such was the comment of the world, and in the country at large
some surprise was felt at the announcement of her good fortune, for
little was known of her outside the Court.
About this time Tō no Chūjō became Palace Minister and Genji began to
hand over to him most of the business of state. Chūjō had a vigorous
and rapid mind, his judgment tended to be very sound, and his natural
intelligence was backed by considerable learning. Thus, though it will
be remembered that at the game of ‘covering rhymes’[69] he was badly
defeated, in public affairs he carried all before him. By his various
wives[70] he had some ten children, who were now all grown-up and
taking their places very creditably in the world. Besides the daughter
whom he had given in marriage to the Emperor there was another, Lady
Kumoi by name, who was a child of a certain princess with whom he had
at one time carried on an intrigue. This lady then was not, as far
as birth went, in any way her sister’s inferior; but the mother had
subsequently married a Provincial Inspector who already had a large
number of children. It seemed a pity to allow the girl to be brought
up by a step-father among this promiscuous herd of youngsters, and Tō
no Chūjō had obtained leave to have her at the Great Hall and put her
under his mother Princess Ōmiya’s keeping. He took far less interest
in her, it is true, than he did in Lady Chūjō; but both in beauty and
intelligence she was generally considered to be at least her sister’s
equal. She had during her childhood naturally been brought much into
contact with Yūgiri. When each of them was about ten years old they
began to live in separate quarters of the house. She was still
very much attached to him; but one day her father told her that he did
not like her to make great friends with little boys, and the next time
they met she was careful to be very distant towards him. He was old
enough to feel puzzled and hurt; and often when she was in the garden
admiring the flowers or autumn leaves or giving her dolls an airing he
would follow her about, entreating to be allowed to play with her. At
such times she could not bring herself to drive him away, for the truth
was that she cared for him quite as much as he for her. Her nurses
noticed her changed manner towards him, and could not understand how
it was that two children who for years had seemed to be inseparable
companions should suddenly begin to behave as though they were almost
strangers to one another. The girl was so young that the relationship
certainly had no particular meaning for her; but Yūgiri was a couple of
years older, and it was quite possible (they thought) that he had tried
to give too grown-up a turn to the friendship. Meanwhile the boy’s
studies began, and opportunities for meeting were rarer than ever. They
exchanged letters written in an odd childish scrawl which nevertheless
in both cases showed great promise for the future. As was natural with
such juvenile correspondents they were continually losing these letters
and leaving them about, so that among the servants in both houses
there was soon a pretty shrewd idea of what was going on. But there
was nothing to be gained by giving information and, having read these
notes, the finders hastened to put them somewhere out of sight.
After the various feasts of congratulation were over things became
very quiet at Court. Rain set in, and one night when a dank wind was
blowing through the tips of the sedges, Tō no Chūjō, finding himself
quite at leisure, went to call upon his mother, and sending for Lady
Kumoi asked her to play to them on her zithern. Princess Ōmiya
herself performed excellently on several instruments and had taught all
she knew to her granddaughter. ‘The lute,’ said Tō no Chūjō, ‘seems
to be the one instrument which women can never master successfully;
yet it is the very one that I long to hear properly played. It seems
as though the real art of playing were now entirely lost. True, there
is Prince So-and-so, and Genji....’ And he began to enumerate the
few living persons whom he considered to have any inkling of this
art. ‘Among women-players I believe the best is that girl whom Prince
Genji has settled in the country near Ōi. They say that she inherits
her method of playing straight from the Emperor Engi, from whom it
was handed on to her father. But considering that she has lived by
herself in the depths of the country for years on end, it is indeed
extraordinary that she should have attained to any great degree of
skill. Genji has constantly spoken to me of her playing and, according
to him, it is absolutely unsurpassed. Progress in music more than in
any other subject depends upon securing a variety of companions with
whom to study and rehearse. For any one living in isolation to obtain
mastery over an instrument is most unusual and must imply a prodigious
talent.’ He then tried to persuade the old princess to play a little.
‘I am terribly stiff in the fingers,’ she said; ‘I can’t manage the
“stopping” at all.’ But she played very nicely. ‘The Lady of Akashi,’
said Tō no Chūjō presently, ‘must, as I have said, be exceptionally
gifted; but she has also had great luck. To have given my cousin Genji
a daughter when he had waited for one so long was a singular stroke
of good fortune. She seems moreover to be a curiously self-effacing
and obliging person; for I hear that she has resigned all claim to
the child and allows her betters to bring it up as though it were
their own.’ And he told the whole story, so far as the facts
were known to him. ‘Women,’ he went on, ‘are odd creatures; it is no
use trying to advance them in the world unless they have exactly the
right temperament.’ After naming several examples, he referred to
the failure of his own daughter. Lady Chūjō: ‘She is by no means bad
looking,’ he said, ‘and she has had every possible advantage. Yet now
she has managed things so badly that she is thrust aside in favour of
some one[71] who seemed to have no chance at all. I sometimes feel that
it is quite useless to make these family plans. I hope indeed that I
shall be able to do better for this little lady[72]; and there did at
one time seem to be a chance that so soon as the Crown Prince[73] was
almost old enough for his Initiation I might be able to do something
for her in that direction. But now I hear that the little girl from
Akashi is being spoken of as the future Empress Presumptive, and if
that is so I fear that no one else has any chance.’ ‘How can you say
such a thing?’ asked the Princess indignantly. ‘You have far too low
an opinion of your own family. The late Minister, your father, always
believed firmly that we should one day have the credit of supplying
a partner to the Throne, and he took immense pains to get this child
of yours accepted in the Imperial Household at the earliest possible
moment. If only he were alive, things would never have gone wrong like
this.’ It was evident, from what she went on to say, that she felt very
indignant at Genji’s conduct in the matter.
It was a very pretty sight to see little Lady Kumoi playing her
mother’s great thirteen-stringed zithern. Her hair fell forward across
her face with a charming effect as she bent over her instrument. Chūjō
was just thinking how graceful and distinguished the child’s appearance
was when, feeling that she was being watched, Lady Kumoi shyly
turned away, showing for a moment as she did so a profile of particular
beauty. The poise of her left hand, as with small fingers she depressed
the heavy strings, was such as one sees in Buddhist carvings. Even her
grandmother, who had watched her at her lessons day by day, could not
hold back a murmur of admiration.
When they had played several duets the big zithern was removed, and
Tō no Chūjō played a few pieces on his six-stringed Japanese zithern,
using the harsh ‘major’[74] tuning which was appropriate to the season.
Played not too solemnly and by so skilful a hand as Chūjō’s, this
somewhat strident mode was very agreeable. On the boughs outside the
window only a few ragged leaves were left; while within several groups
of aged gentlewomen clustering with their heads together behind this
or that curtain-of-state, moved by Chūjō’s playing were shedding the
tears that people at that time of life are only too ready to let fall
upon any provocation. ‘It needs but a light wind to strip the autumn
boughs,’ quoted Chūjō, and continuing the quotation, he added: ‘“It
cannot be the music of my zithern that has moved them. Though they know
it not, it is the sad beauty of this autumn evening that has provoked
their sudden tears.” But come, let us have more music before we part.’
Upon this Princess Ōmiya and her daughter played _The Autumn Wind_ and
Tō no Chūjō sang the words with so delightful an effect that every one
present was just thinking how much his presence added to the amenity of
any gathering, when yet another visitor arrived. Yūgiri thinking that
such an evening was wasted if not spent in agreeable company, had come
over from Genji’s palace to the Great Hall. ‘Here she is,’ said
Tō no Chūjō, leading the boy towards the curtain-of-state behind which
Kumoi was now sitting. ‘You see she is a little shy of you and has
taken refuge behind her curtains.’ And then looking at Yūgiri: ‘I don’t
believe all this reading is suiting you. Your father himself agrees
with me; I know that learning easily becomes a useless and tedious
thing if pushed beyond a reasonable point. However, in your case he
must have had some particular reason for supposing that academic
honours would be useful. I do not know what was in his mind, but be
that as it may, I am sure it is bad for you to be bending all day over
your books!’ And again: ‘I am sure that you ought sometimes to have a
change. Come now, play a tune on my flute. Your masters can have no
objection to that, for is not the flute itself the subject of a hundred
antique and learned stories?’ Yūgiri took the flute and played a tune
or two with a certain boyish faltering, but with very agreeable effect.
The zitherns were laid aside and while Chūjō beat the measure softly
with his hands, Yūgiri sang to them the old ballad ‘Shall I wear my
flowered dress?’ ‘This is just the sort of concert that Genji so much
enjoys,' said Tō no Chūjō, ‘and that is why he is always trying to get
free from the ties of business. Nor do I blame him; for the world is an
unpleasant place at best, and surely one might as well spend one’s time
doing what one likes, instead of toiling day after day at things that
do not interest one in the least.’
He passed round the wine-flagon, and as it was now getting dark, the
great lamp was brought in, soon followed by supper. When the meal was
over, Tō no Chūjō sent Lady Kumoi back to her room. It did not escape
the notice of Princess Ōmiya’s gentlewomen that Chūjō was anxious to
keep Yūgiri and his little daughter as far as possible apart. ‘Why,
he has sent her away,’ they whispered, ‘because he does not want
her to hear the little gentleman play on the zithern. There will be
a sad awakening for him one day, if he goes on treating them like
that.... When Tō no Chūjō at length withdrew, he remembered that he had
not given certain instructions to one of the Princess’s ladies, and
stealing back into the room he delivered his message as quietly as
possible and was on his way out of the room again, when he caught the
sound of his own name. A group of ancient gentlewomen at the far end of
the apartment had not noticed his return and their whispering had gone
on uninterrupted. He stood still and, listening intently, heard the
words: ‘He is supposed to be a very clever man. But people are always
fools when it comes to dealing with their own children. I could never
see any sense at all in that proverb—you know the one I mean—“No one
knows a child but its parents.” All nonsense, I say,’ and she nudged
her neighbour expressively. This was a shock to Chūjō. It meant, he
realized as he hurried from the room, that the friendship between
these two children, which he had hoped to keep within bounds, had
already, in the eyes of the household, taken on a romantic tinge. The
old ladies within suddenly heard the sharp cry of Chūjō’s outriders.
‘Well! What do you think of that?’ they said. ‘He’s only just starting!
Where has he been hiding all this time? I’ll tell you what. He’s up
to some of his old tricks again, you mark my words!’ And another: ‘I
thought a fresh puff of scent blew this way; but little Prince Yūgiri
has got some just like it, and I fancied it was his. Do you think His
Excellency was anywhere round here? It would be a terrible thing for
all of us if he heard what we said after we thought he had gone away.
He’s got a hasty temper....’ ‘Well, after all, there is really nothing
to worry about,’ thought Tō no Chūjō, as he drove to the Palace. ‘It
is perfectly natural that they should have made friends.’ But it
really would be very galling if after the failure of Lady Chūjō to
get herself made Empress, Lady Kumoi should through this boy-and-girl
affair lose her chance of becoming Empress Presumptive.
Now as always, he was really on very good terms with Genji; but, just
as in old days, their interests sometimes clashed, and Chūjō lay awake
a long while calling to mind their boyish rivalry and later jealousies.
The old princess saw all that was going on; but Yūgiri was her
favourite grand-child, and whatever he did she accepted as perfectly
justified. But she too was very much irritated by various conversations
that she overheard, and henceforward watched over the situation with
all the concentration of which her vigorous and somewhat acrid nature
was capable.
Only two days later Tō no Chūjō came to his mother’s rooms again. The
princess was extremely flattered and pleased; it was seldom that he
honoured her with two visits in such rapid succession. Before receiving
him she had her hair set to rights and sent for her best gown; for
though he was her own child he had become so important that she never
felt quite sure of herself in his presence, and was as anxious to make
a good impression as if he had been a complete stranger. It was soon
evident on this occasion that he was in a very bad temper: ‘I hesitated
to come again so soon,’ he said; ‘I am afraid your servants must think
it very strange. I know I am not so competent as my father and cannot
look after you as he did; but we have always seen a great deal of one
another and, I hope, always shall. Look back over all that time, and
I do not think you will be able to recall one occasion upon which
there has been any sort of breach or misunderstanding between us. It
never occurred to me as possible that I should ever come here with the
express purpose of scolding you, least of all about an affair of this
particular sort; but that is why I am here..'. The old princess
opened her eyes very wide and, under all the powder and paint that
she had hurriedly applied when she heard of his coming, she visibly
changed colour. ‘To what are you alluding?’ she asked. ‘It would indeed
be surprising if you suddenly insisted upon picking a quarrel with a
woman of my age. I should like to hear what it is all about.’ He quite
agreed; it would be lamentable if after so many years of unbroken
affection a difference should arise between them. Nevertheless he
proceeded: ‘The matter is quite simple. I entrusted to your care a
child from whom I myself had unfortunately been separated during her
early years. I was at the time very much occupied with the future of my
other daughter and was much exercised in mind to discover that, despite
all my efforts, I could not do for her all that I had planned. But I
had absolute confidence that this other child at any rate could be
coming to no harm: I now find that quite the opposite is the case, and
I think I have every right to complain. You will tell me, I know, that
the young gentleman in question is a very fine scholar. He may for all
I know be on his way to becoming the most learned man in the world; but
that does not alter the fact that these two are first-cousins and have
been brought up together. Should it become known that they are carrying
on an intrigue, it would look as though very lax standards prevailed
in your house. Such a thing would be considered scandalous even in any
ordinary family.... I am thinking of Yūgiri’s future quite as much
as that of my own child. What both of them need is a connection with
quite new people; they would in the end find such an alliance as this
too obvious and uninteresting. And if I on my side object to the match
on these grounds, you may be sure that Genji, when he hears of it,
will insist upon the boy looking further afield. If you could yourself
do nothing to forestall this attachment, you might at least
have informed me of its existence. I could then have had a chance of
arranging the match, despite all its disadvantages, before the matter
became the talk of the whole town. You could not have done worse than
to leave these young people to their own devices.’
That the matter was so serious as this had never occurred to Princess
Ōmiya at all, and she was horrified. ‘I entirely agree with you’;
she said. ‘But how could I possibly know what was going on all the
while in the minds of these two children? I am sure I am very sorry
it has happened; indeed I have quite as much reason to lament over it
as you have. But I think it is the young pair themselves, and not I,
who ought to bear the blame for what has happened. You have no idea
of all that I have done for this girl since you first sent her to me.
She has had advantages such as it would never have occurred to you to
suggest, and if, through a blindness very natural in a grandmother, I
have too long regarded the boy’s friendship for her as a matter of no
particular consequence, what reason is there to think that any harm has
as yet been done? All your information on the subject is founded on
the chatter of good-for-nothings who take a pleasure in damaging the
reputations of every one round them. If you were to look into these
stories you would probably find they were pure inventions, and stupid
inventions at that!’ ‘Not at all!’ said Tō no Chūjō hotly. ‘It is not
a question of slanders or lies. The way in which these two carry on
together is a common matter for jest among your own ladies-in-waiting.
It is a most disagreeable situation and I am worried about it’; and
with that he left the room.
The news of all this rumpus soon went the round of the aged servants at
the Great Hall and there was much wringing of hands. In particular the
ladies whose conversation had been overheard felt that, without
meaning any harm, they had done irreparable damage, and could not
imagine how they could have been so rash as to begin discussing such a
subject directly His Excellency left the room.
Tō no Chūjō next looked in upon the young lady herself, and could
not help being somewhat melted by her innocent and appealing air. He
therefore passed on and went to look for her nurse. ‘I understood when
I engaged you,’ he said, ‘that you were young; but one can be young
without being infantile, and I supposed you had your wits about you
like other people. I seem to have made a great mistake....’ To these
sarcastic remarks it was impossible to make any reply; but the nurse
said afterwards to one of her assistants: ‘How is one expected to
prevent these things? Just the same might have happened if she had
been the Emperor’s favourite daughter! In old stories the lovers are
generally brought together by some go-between, but we certainly cannot
be accused of having played any such part as that, for these two have
been allowed to be together as much as they chose for years past; and
if my Lady thought they were so young that there was no harm in it,
what reason was there for us to interfere? But they have been seeing
much less of each other for some while past, and the last thing in the
world I should have suspected was that anything wrong could possibly
have been going on. Why, the little gentleman looks quite a child; I
can’t believe such things have ever entered his head.’
So the nurse afterwards declared. But while she was actually being
scolded she merely hung her head, and Tō no Chūjō said at last: ‘That
will do. I am not going to mention this business to anyone else at
present. I am afraid a good many people must have heard about it, but
you might at least contradict any rumours that you hear going
about.... As for the young lady, I intend to have her moved to my
palace as soon as I can arrange it. I think my mother has acted very
imprudently; but she could not possibly have foreseen that you nurses
would behave with such imbecility.’
So they were all going to move to the Prime Minister’s palace! Such
was the young nurse’s first thought, and she found this prospect so
attractive that, though she knew the loss of Lady Kumoi would be
a sad blow to the old princess, she could not feel otherwise than
elated. ‘There now, only think of it!’ she said, harping back to Tō no
Chūjō’s injunction to secrecy. ‘And I had half a mind to go round to
the Inspector’s house and tell the little lady’s mama! I should have
thought this Prince Yūgiri was good enough for anyone; but of course
he does not count as a member of the Royal Family, and they say Lady
Kumoi’s mama has very grand ideas indeed.’ It was clearly no use saying
any more to such a featherhead as this, and Kumoi herself was so young
that it would be mere waste of breath to lecture her.
The old princess was upset by the affair; but she was fond of both her
grand-children, perhaps especially of Yūgiri, and at the bottom of her
heart she was extremely gratified at their having taken such a fancy
to each other. On reflection it seemed to her that Tō no Chūjō had
been very heartless about the matter and had also treated it far more
seriously than it deserved. After all he had taken very little trouble
about this girl himself, and had never once indicated that he had any
ambitious plans for the future. Indeed, it really seemed as though
the idea of offering her to the Imperial Household never occurred to
him till this trouble arose, and had been invented, thought the old
Princess indignantly, merely in order to furnish Tō no Chūjō with a
colourable grievance. He had certainly never really counted on
this Palace plan; and granted that it was only an afterthought, he
must often have contemplated the possibility of the child marrying
a commoner. If so, where could a better match be found? Yūgiri was
certainly, as regards birth and general advantages, more than the equal
of Kumoi; indeed, she could not conceive that any lady would not feel
proud to have him as her husband. This no doubt was due to a certain
grandmotherly partiality on Ōmiya’s part; but be that as it may, she
felt very cross with Tō no Chūjō. She was however determined not to let
him know it, lest he should become even further incensed against the
young people.
Quite unconscious of all the fuss that had been going on at the Great
Hall, Yūgiri a few days afterwards again presented himself at his
grandmother’s apartments. On the last occasion there had been so many
people about that he had not managed to get a word in private with Lady
Kumoi, and he now arrived very late in the evening, hoping that things
would be quieter at such an hour. Old Lady Ōmiya was usually delighted
to see him, and full of jokes and nonsense. But to-day she was terribly
grave. ‘I am very much upset,’ she said at last, after talking stiffly
of various indifferent matters, ‘because your uncle is displeased with
you. It is unkind of you to take advantage of us all like this, because
naturally I get the blame just as much as you. But that is not why I am
talking about it. I mention the matter because you might not otherwise
discover that you are in disgrace....’ The affair was so much on his
mind already that after she had spoken two words he guessed all that
was coming. The colour mounted to his cheeks: ‘I don’t know what he
means,’ he said. ‘Since I began my lessons I have been shut up all the
time and have scarcely seen anyone. Certainly nothing has happened that
my uncle could possibly object to....’ It went to her heart to see
what pain it cost him to discuss the subject with her. ‘There, there,’
she said kindly. ‘Be careful for the future that is all I ask,’ and she
turned the conversation on to other matters.
Since in the last month he had done little more than exchange notes
with his sweetheart, Yūgiri supposed that even this was considered
improper and was very depressed. Supper was served, but he would not
eat, and presently it seemed that he had fallen asleep. But in truth
he was very wide awake indeed, listening with all his ears till the
last sounds of people retiring and settling down for the night had
everywhere ceased. Then he stole softly to the door of Lady Kumoi’s
room, which was usually fastened on a latch, but not bolted or barred.
To-night it would not yield an inch. No sound was audible within.
With beating heart he leant close up against the door. Despite his
care, he had made a certain amount of noise, and this woke her. But
now, as she lay listening, she could hear no other sound save that of
the wind rustling among the bamboos, and very faint and far away, the
mournful cry of wild-geese overhead. Perhaps because, young though she
was, the events of the last few weeks had left her far more unhappy
than her elders knew, there now came into her head the lines:[75]
‘The wild-geese that with sorrowful cry ...,’ and thinking that no
one could hear her, she repeated the poem to herself aloud, causing
Yūgiri’s heart to beat yet more wildly than before. By what stratagem
could he prevail upon her to open the door? ‘I am Kojijū,’ he said in
a feigned childish voice. ‘Do let me in!’ This Kojijū was the child
of Kumoi’s old wet-nurse; so desperate was he that any ruse seemed
justifiable if he could but bring her to the door. But now all was
silent, for Kumoi, ashamed that he should have heard her speaking
to herself, lay with her face pressed deep into the pillows. His ruse
had not deceived her, and it was misery to picture him standing behind
the bolted door. Presently some of the servants in an adjoining room
began moving about, and for a moment both he, standing without, and she
on her bed within remained rigidly motionless. Soon however all was
quiet again and he made his way back to his own bedroom. As he passed
by Princess Ōmiya’s apartments he heard the noise of some one sighing
heavily. Evidently she was still awake; most likely indeed she had
heard all that had happened! He crept past the door with the utmost
caution and it was with feelings of intense shame and guilt that he at
last reached his room. He rose early and wrote a letter to Kumoi which
he hoped to convey to her by the hand of that same Kojijū whose voice
he had counterfeited in the night. But the child was nowhere to be
seen, and Yūgiri left the house in great distress.
What Kumoi on her side could not endure was being scolded by her father
and grandmother, and she did all she could to avoid it. But she had
not the least idea what they meant when they talked about her ‘future’
or her ‘reputation.’ To be whispered about by nurses and servants
flattered her vanity and was in itself far from acting as a deterrent.
One thing about which her guardians made terrible scenes, seemed to
her most harmless of all; this was the writing of letters and poems.
But though she had no idea why they forbade it, she saw that it led to
scoldings, and henceforward Yūgiri did not receive a single line from
her. Had she been a little older she would have found out some way of
circumventing these restrictions; and Yūgiri, who already possessed far
more capacity to shift for himself, was bitterly disappointed by her
tame surrender.
To Princess Ōmiya’s great distress Tō no Chūjō no longer paid
his customary visits to the Great Hall. Nor did he ever discuss the
matter with his wife,[76] who was only able to guess, from his general
ill-humour and irritability, that something had gone amiss. He did
however one day allude to his disappointment concerning their own
daughter, Lady Chūjō: ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that during the ceremonies
of Investiture[77] it would be better that our daughter should not be
at Court. A quiet time at home would not do her any harm; and although
she has been passed over on this occasion she really stands very well
with the Emperor. Indeed, she is in such constant attendance upon him
that it is a great strain on her gentlewomen who are kept running
about at every hour of the day and night ...’; and he applied for
her release. The Emperor Ryōzen was extremely loth to part with her
and at first refused. But Tō no Chūjō seemed to attach such extreme
importance to the matter that in the end he agreed to let her spend a
short holiday at home. ‘I am afraid it will be rather dull for you,’ he
said to his daughter when she arrived; ‘but I have arranged for Kumoi
to visit us, so you will have someone to play with. They have been
very good to her at her grandmother’s; but I find that the house is
frequented by a certain rather undesirably precocious child, with whom,
as was inevitable, she has struck up a great friendship. She is far too
young for that kind of thing....’ And he began at once to arrange for
Lady Kumoi’s removal from the Great Hall.
Princess Ōmiya whose one consolation, since the death of her daughter
Aoi, had been the arrival of Lady Kumoi, was appalled at this sudden
loss. No hint had been given to her that it was not final, and she saw
herself deprived at a stroke of the one happiness which promised to
alleviate the miseries of old age and decay. And added to all this
was the fact that her own son had taken sides against her and become
quite indifferent to her sufferings. She charged him with this, but
he hotly denied it. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘it is nonsense to say that I
have turned against you. I think that you have behaved foolishly in one
particular matter, and shall continue to think so. Lady Chūjō is going
through rather a difficult time at Court just now and I have thought it
best to withdraw her for a little while. It is very dull at my house
and it is a great comfort for her to have a young companion. This is
only a temporary measure ...’ and he added: ‘Do not think that I am
ungrateful for all your kindness to the child. I know that I can never
thank you enough....’
Such speeches did little to re-assure her. But it was evident that
he was determined to part the two children and it was no use arguing
about that. ‘How heartless men are!’ she said. ‘Whatever may have been
your reasons for acting like this, the chief result has been that I
have lost the confidence of both these children. Perhaps that has not
occurred to you? Besides, even if Kumoi is no longer here, Prince
Genji, though he is far from being an unreasonable man, is certain to
feel that my house is no safe place for young people, and now that he
has got Yūgiri at the Nijō-in, he will keep him there permanently.’
Soon afterwards Yūgiri called again at the Great Hall. He was
far exceeding the number of visits for which his grandmother had
stipulated; but he still hoped that by some accident he might get
the chance of speaking a word or two to the playmate who had been so
cruelly wrested from him. To his disgust the first thing he saw when he
approached the Great Hall was Tō no Chūjō’s carriage. He stole away to
his old room, which was still kept in readiness for him, and remained
in hiding for some while. Not only Tō no Chūjō but all his sons
were there—Kashiwagi, Kōbai, and the rest, but Princess Ōmiya would not
receive any of them behind her curtains-of-state. Sayemon no Kami and
Gon Chūnagon, who were not her own children but had been born to the
late Minister of the Left by another wife, were also in the habit of
calling, out of respect to their father’s memory, and on this occasion,
thinking to please and interest their step-mother, they had brought
their little sons with them. But the only result was that, comparing
them in her mind with her favourite Yūgiri, she thought them very
ugly, unattractive little boys. Yūgiri and Kumoi, these were the only
grandchildren for whom she really cared. And now the little girl who
had been her delight, upon whom she had lavished so much tenderness and
care,—Kumoi, who for all these years had never left her side, was to be
taken from her and put into a stranger’s hands.
‘I have to go to the Palace now,’ said Tō no Chūjō quickly. ‘I will
come back towards nightfall and fetch Kumoi away.’
He had thought the matter out very carefully and decided that even
if it should afterwards prove necessary for him to consent to this
match, it was not one which he would ever be able to regard with any
satisfaction. However, when Yūgiri had begun his career it would
be possible to see of what stuff he was made and also to judge the
strength of his feeling for Kumoi. If the boy still remained anxious
to marry her the betrothal could be announced in a proper way and the
whole affair be carried through without discredit to anybody. But so
long as they were allowed to frequent the same house, however much
they were scolded and watched, it was, considering their age, only to
be expected that they would get into a scrape. He could not put it
like this to his mother, because to do so would have hurt her
feelings; and wishing to avoid any suggestion that Princess Ōmiya had
been to blame, he used both at the Great Hall and at his own house the
convenient excuse that Lady Chūjō was at home and needed a companion.
Soon after Tō no Chūjō left, Kumoi received a note from Princess
Ōmiya: ‘Your father is going to take you home with him this evening.
I hope you understand that this is entirely his doing. Nothing that
happens will ever change my feelings towards you.... Come and see me at
once....’
The child presented herself immediately. She was dressed in her
smartest clothes and, though only eleven and still undeveloped, she had
quite the gracious air of a little lady paying a farewell call. She
felt very uncomfortable while Princess Ōmiya told her how lonely she
would be without any one to play with, and how (though the houses were
not far apart) it would seem as though she had gone to live a long,
long way off. All this trouble, the child felt dimly, as she listened
to the recital of Ōmiya’s woe, came from having made friends with that
little boy, and hanging her head, she began to weep bitterly. At this
moment Yūgiri’s old nurse happened to come in. ‘Well, I _am_ sorry you
are going away from us!’ she said to Kumoi. ‘I always thought of you
as _my_ lady, just as much as Prince Yūgiri was _my_ little gentleman.
We all know what his Excellency means by taking you away like this;
but don't you let him down you!’ The girl felt all the more wretched
and ashamed, but did not know how to reply. ‘Don’t say such things to
the child!’ cried Princess Ōmiya. ‘It may all come right in the end,
without any need to upset the poor little thing like that!’ ‘The truth
is,’ answered the nurse indignantly, ‘that all of you think my young
gentleman is not good enough for her. You and his Excellency may take
it from me that Yūgiri is going to be the finest gentleman in the
land....’ Just as the outraged nurse was voicing this opinion
Yūgiri entered the room. He at once recognized the figure of Kumoi
behind her curtains-of-state; but there seemed only a very remote
chance of getting any conversation with her, and he stood upon the
threshold looking so disconsolate that his old nurse could not bear it.
A long, whispered consultation took place. At last Ōmiya yielded and
under cover of a fading light, at a moment when the movements of the
other guests created a useful division, Yūgiri was smuggled behind the
little princess’s curtains-of-state. They sat looking at one another
with nothing to say; they felt very shy and the eyes of both of them
began to fill with tears. ‘Listen,’ said Yūgiri at last. ‘Your father
thinks that by taking you away from me he can make me stop caring for
you. But by all his cruelty he has only made me love you far more than
before. Why have I not seen you for so many weeks? Surely we could have
found some way....’ He spoke childishly; but there was a passion in his
voice that strangely stirred her. ‘Darling, I wanted to see you,’ was
all she could say in reply. ‘Then you still love me?’ She answered with
a quick, childish nod.
But now the great lamp was brought in, and a moment afterwards there
was a shouting and clatter of hoofs in the courtyard outside. ‘There
are the outriders, he’ll be here in a minute!’ cried one of the maids
in great alarm, and Kumoi shuddered from head to foot. She attempted
indeed to rush from the room; but Yūgiri held her fast. The nurse, who
was to go with her to the Prime Minister’s Palace, now came to fetch
her and to her dismay saw the outline of a boy’s figure behind the
curtains-of-state. What folly to allow this kind of thing at the last
moment! The old princess must suddenly have taken leave of her wits!
‘Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ she muttered to Yūgiri as
she dived behind the curtains to fetch her charge away. ‘I don’t
know what your uncle would say if he knew this. I have half a mind in
any case to tell Madam Inspector,[78] and you’ll catch it then. You may
be Prince Genji’s boy and I don’t know what else, but you are only in
the Sixth Rank, and have no right to meddle with such a little lady as
this!’ It was true enough. He had been kept back, while every one else
was promoted; and awakening suddenly to an intense indignation against
the powers which had put this affront upon him, he recited the lines:
‘Pale was the robe they made me wear; but tears of blood long since
have stained it to a hue no tongue should dare deride.’ ‘Hard driven as
we are and thwarted at every hour, how can our love spring upward and
put on a deeper hue?’ So Kumoi answered; but she had scarcely said the
lines when some one announced that His Excellency was waiting, and the
nurse bustled her out of the room. There were three coaches altogether
to carry away Tō no Chūjō, the little girl and her belongings. Yūgiri
heard them start one after another. Princess Ōmiya presently sent for
him to come to her, but he pretended to be asleep. All night he lay
sobbing bitterly, and very early next morning, through a world white
with frost, he hurried back to the Nijō-in. His eyes were swollen with
weeping and he feared that if he stayed longer at the Great Hall his
grandmother would insist upon seeing him. All the way home the most
melancholy ideas came one after another into his mind. Thick clouds
covered the sky and it was still quite dark: ‘Unbroken is my misery as
this dull sky that day on day has bound the waters of the earth in ice
and snow.’
It fell to Genji’s lot to supply a dancer for the Gosechi Festival,
and though he was merely supposed to choose the girl from among the
children of his retainers and leave the rest to her parents, he went
much further than this, taking a great interest even in the
costumes of the little girls who were to wait upon the dancer and
hurrying on the seamstresses when he found that they were leaving
things to the last moment. The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers
was put in charge of the dresses of those who were to be present at
the Early Levee before the ceremony. Genji determined that the dancer
supplied by his household should make a brave show, and he equipped her
with a body of pages and attendants such as the Empress herself might
well have been proud of. Last year, owing to the National Mourning for
Fujitsubo, there had been no public festivals or amusements of any
kind, so that people looked forward to the coming occasion with an
unusual zest, and the families whose turn it was to supply a dancer
vied with one another in the pains they took over her training and
equipment. One came from the household of the Inspector, one from that
of Tō no Chūjō’s step-brother Sayemon no Kami, and one from Yoshikiyo,
who was now Governor of Ōmi. This year the Emperor had expressed a
desire to retain all the dancers in his service at the Palace, and
consequently both these gentlemen had chosen daughters of their own
to send to the Festival. The dancer from Genji’s household was the
daughter of Koremitsu, who had now become Governor of the province
of Tsu. She had the reputation of being a particularly lively and
good-looking child. When Genji first suggested it, Koremitsu did not
at all take to the idea, feeling that his family had no claim to such
an honour. But every one pointed out to him that the Inspector had
shown no hesitation, though he was only offering a bastard daughter;
and in the end Koremitsu reluctantly consented, believing like the
others that it would give his daughter a chance of permanent service
at the Palace. He trained the girl at home, taking endless trouble in
teaching her dance-steps and also in selecting the attendants
who were to look after her, and on the night before the ceremony
he took her to the Nijō-in himself. Meanwhile Genji was inspecting
the little train-bearers and pages. They had been chosen from among
the prettiest children in the service of the various ladies in his
household, and seldom can so engaging a troupe have been collected.
His next business was to teach them the curtsey which they would have
to make when they were presented to the Emperor, and each one of them
showed such readiness and perfect grace in executing the unaccustomed
movements that Genji said, laughing: ‘We should have no difficulty in
producing a second dancer from this household, if one were wanted!’
There were still however more of them than were actually required for
the ceremony, and since all seemed equally good-looking and equally
intelligent, he was obliged to select them according to the rank of
their parents.
All this while Yūgiri sat hour after hour in his room, giving no heed
to what was going on in this busy house. He was too depressed to work
at his books, and lay all day on his couch staring blankly in front of
him. But at last he grew tired of doing nothing, and thinking that a
little company might distract him, he strolled out to join the throngs
who filled the palace.
He was well-born, handsome, and, in a subdued way, very agreeable in
his manners. The gentlewomen of the household took no small interest in
him, but he remained somewhat of a mystery to them. With Murasaki he
had few dealings and was indeed barely acquainted with her. Why it was
that he held aloof from her he would have been at a loss to explain.
Was it that some dim instinct warned him against a repetition of his
father’s disastrous entanglements?[79]
The Gosechi dancer had already arrived and a space had been screened
up for her to rest in while she was waiting for her rehearsal.
Yūgiri sauntered towards the screens and peeped to see what was behind
them. There she lay or rather crouched in her corner, looking very
miserable. She seemed about the same age as Kumoi but rather taller,
and was indeed far more obviously good-looking. It was growing dark and
he could not see her features very clearly, but there was certainly
something about her which reminded him of the girl he loved. The
resemblance was not enough to make him feel in any way drawn towards
her; but his curiosity was aroused, and to attract her attention he
rustled the train of her skirt. She looked up startled and on the spur
of the moment he recited the lines: ‘Though you become a servant of
Princess Hill-Eternal[80] who dwells above the skies, forget not that
to-night I waited at your door.’ She heard that he had a pleasant
voice, and evidently he was young. But she had not the least idea who
he was, and was beginning to feel somewhat nervous when her attendants
came bustling along with her dancing-clothes, and as there were now
several other people in the room, Yūgiri was obliged to slip away as
unobtrusively as he could. He did not like to show himself at the
Festival in that wretched blue dress and was feeling very disconsolate
at the prospect of being left all alone, when he heard that by Imperial
permission cloaks of any colour might be worn at to-day’s ceremony, and
set off to the Palace. He had no need to hide; for he had a charming
young figure upon which, slender though he was, his man’s dress sat
very well indeed, and every one from the Emperor downwards noticed him
on this occasion with particular pleasure and admiration.
At the ceremony of Presentation the dancers all acquitted themselves
very creditably and there was little to choose between the
children in any way, though Koremitsu’s and the Inspector’s were
generally voted to have the best of it as regards good looks. But
pretty as they all were, none of the others was handsome to anything
like the same degree as the girl from Genji’s household.[81] She
had been brought up in a far humbler way than the others and at any
ordinary gathering would have been quite eclipsed by them. But now,
when all were dressed for the same part, her real superiority became
evident. They were all a little older than the Gosechi dancers usually
are, which gave to this year’s ceremony a character of its own. Genji
was present at the ceremony of Introduction, and the spectacle at once
recalled to his mind that occasion, years ago, when he had so much
admired one of the Gosechi maidens,—the daughter of the Provincial
Secretary.[82] And now on the evening of the Festival Day he sent
a messenger to her house with the poem: ‘Be thankful that upon the
maidens of the Sky time leaves no mark; for upon me, to whom long since
you waved your dancing-sleeve, age and its evils creep apace.’
She began to count the years. What a long time ago it had all happened!
She knew that this letter did but betoken a brief moment of reminiscent
tenderness; but it gave her pleasure that he had succumbed to this
feeling, and she answered: ‘It needed but your word to bring them
back, those winter days; though long since faded is the wreath that
crowned them with delight.’ Her answer was written on a blue diapered
paper in a boldly varied hand, heavy and light strokes being dashed in
with an almost cursive sweep,—a somewhat mixed style but, considering
the writer’s position in life, highly creditable, thought Genji as he
examined the note.
Meanwhile with _his_ Gosechi dancer Yūgiri made no further
progress, though he thought a good deal about her and would have
cultivated her acquaintance, had it been possible to do so without
attracting attention. Unfortunately she seemed as a rule to be under
extremely close surveillance and he was as yet wholly inexperienced in
the art of circumventing such precautions. But he had certainly taken a
great fancy to her; and though no one could replace Kumoi, a friendship
with this girl might, he felt, do something towards distracting him
from his misery.
All four dancers were to be retained at the Palace; but for the
moment they had to retire from Court in order to perform the ceremony
of Purification. Yoshikiyo’s daughter was taken off to Karasaki,
Koremitsu’s to Naniwa, and soon the dancers had all left Court. A
post in the Lady of the Bedchamber’s office was vacant, and when the
Emperor suggested that Koremitsu’s daughter might care to take it Genji
naturally accepted for her with alacrity. This was bad news for Yūgiri.
Young and unimportant as he was, he could not possibly try to restrain
her from accepting such a post; but it would be too bad if she never
even found out who it was that had made friends with her that evening
at the Nijō-in; and though Kumoi still occupied the chief place in
his thoughts, there were times when this subsidiary failure weighed
heavily upon him. The girl had a brother who was a page at Court and
had also often waited upon Yūgiri at Genji’s palace. ‘When is your
sister going into residence at Court?’ he asked the page one day, after
making conversation with him for some time. ‘I do not know; some time
this year, I suppose,’ the boy answered. ‘She has an extraordinarily
beautiful face,’ said Yūgiri. ‘I envy you for seeing her so constantly.
I wish you would arrange for me to meet her again.’ ‘How can I?’ said
the boy. ‘I am much younger than she. We have not been brought up
together, and I do not myself see her except on special occasions.
I have no chance of introducing her to gentlemen such as you....’ ‘But
a letter, surely you could manage a letter?’ and Yūgiri handed him a
note. The boy had been brought up to consider this kind of thing very
underhand; but Yūgiri was so insistent that, much against his will,
he at last consented. The girl had more taste in such matters than is
usual at her age, and the appearance of the note greatly delighted her.
It was on a greenish paper, very thin and fine, laid down on a stout
backing. The hand was naturally still somewhat unformed; but it did not
promise ill for the future. With the letter was a poem: ‘Hidden though
I was, surely the Maid of Heaven perceived with what enthralment I
witnessed the waving of her feathery sleeves?’
Brother and sister were reading the note together when Koremitsu
suddenly entered the room and snatched it out of their hands. The girl
sat motionless, while the blood rushed to her cheeks. But her brother,
indignant at Koremitsu’s high-handed manner of dealing with the
situation, strode angrily out of the room. ‘Who sent this?’ Koremitsu
called after him. ‘Prince Genji’s son,’ the boy answered, turning
back; ‘the one who is studying for the College. At any rate it was he
who gave me the note and asked me to bring it here.’ Koremitsu, who
regarded Yūgiri as a mere child, burst into a hearty laugh. ‘Well, you
have chosen a pretty little prince for your sweetheart,’ he said; ‘I
thought this letter came from some grown-up person. Of course there
can be no harm in fun of that sort ...’, and showing the letter to his
wife he proceeded to tell her what a nice child Yūgiri was. ‘If it ever
should happen,’ he said to her in an aside, ‘that one of these young
princes took a fancy to our daughter, we should do much better for her
that way than by keeping her at the Palace, where she can never play
more than a very humble part. There’s this comfort about it, that
if Prince Yūgiri is anything like his father he will continue to show
an interest in her when he grows up. You know I have always told you
that once Prince Genji takes a fancy to people, he never forgets them,
come what may. Look at what he has done for that girl from Akashi.’
Nevertheless they hurried on the preparations for their daughter’s
departure to Court.
After this brief diversion Yūgiri became more than ever pre-occupied
with his main misfortune. To Kumoi it was impossible even to send a
letter, and all his time was now spent in endless speculations as to
where and how he should ever see her again. He no longer visited the
Great Hall, for the sight of the rooms where they used to play together
evoked memories that he could not endure. But he was almost equally
miserable at home, and shut himself up for days on end in his own
room. Genji now put him under the care of the Lady from the Village of
Falling Flowers. ‘His grandmother is not likely to live very long,’
Genji said to her. ‘You have known him since he was quite small and
will be much the best person to look after him.’ She always accepted
with docility whatever duties he put upon her, and now did her best
to look after the boy, of whom she was indeed very fond. Yūgiri liked
her, but he did not think she was at all pretty. It seemed to him that
Genji, who had gone on being fond of this uninteresting lady for so
many years, would surely be able to understand that if one fell in
love with a handsome creature like Kumoi one was not likely to give
her up all in a minute. No doubt the Lady from the Village of Falling
Flowers had quite other qualities to recommend her. She was docile and
equable, and Yūgiri saw that it would be very convenient only to fall
in love with people of that sort. However, if they were as plain as
the lady who had been commissioned to look after him, love would be a
painful business. But perhaps his father thought her beautiful
or intelligent? The question was hard to answer, but one thing was
certain: Genji managed not to spend much time alone with her. ‘No,’
said Yūgiri to himself, ‘I cannot remember his doing more than bring
her some little present or chat with her for a few moments from outside
her screen ever since I have been in the house.’
About this time old Princess Ōmiya took her vows, and though this
necessitated a change of costume, it did not prevent her being as
anxious as ever to make a good impression, and she continued to take
the greatest possible pains with her appearance. Yūgiri had indeed
always known people with whom appearances counted for a great deal;
while the lady who had been put in charge of him, having never been
particularly handsome, had, now that she was no longer quite young,
grown somewhat angular, and her hair was becoming scanty. These things
made a disagreeable impression upon him.
As the year drew towards a close, Princess Ōmiya’s whole attention
became occupied with the delightful task of making ready the young
scholar’s New Year clothes. It was a splendid costume, _that_ he
could not deny. But it did not seem to interest him very much. ‘I
don’t know why you have ordered all these clothes,’ he said at last;
‘I have no intention of going to Court at all on New Year’s day. Why
did you suppose I meant to?’ ‘What a way to talk!’ she said in bitter
disappointment. ‘One would think you were already an old gentleman
hardly able to drag yourself about!’ ‘One can have the feeling that
one’s life is over, without being old,’ he muttered, his eyes filling
with tears. She knew quite well what was on his mind, and felt very
sorry for him. But she thought it better not to discuss the matter and
said gently: ‘A man ought to bear himself with pride even if he knows
that he deserves a higher rank than that which for the moment has
been accorded to him. You must not let it depress you so much. Why do
you go about looking so wretched nowadays? It really becomes quite
insufferable.’ ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ answered
Yūgiri. ‘Why should I go to Court if I do not choose to? As a matter
of fact, it is very unpleasant to be only in the Sixth Rank. People
notice it and make remarks. I know it is only for the present; but all
the same I had rather stay at home. I am sure that if my grandfather
were alive, he would never allow me to be treated like this. One would
think my father might do ♦something about it; but he does not seem to
care what becomes of me. I saw little enough of him before; but now he
has put me to live right away in the new eastern wing, and never comes
near me at all. The only person who takes any trouble about me is this
‘Falling Flowers’ whom he keeps there....’ ‘Poor child,' said Princess
Ōmiya, ‘it is a terrible misfortune to have no mother, in whatever
rank of life one may be. But before long you will be old enough to
go out into the world and shift for yourself. Then people will soon
learn to respect you. Meanwhile you must try to be patient and not
take these things so much to heart. Your grandfather would indeed have
done more for you if he were here. For though your father holds the
same position, he does not seem to have the same influence over people
as your poor grandfather did. They still tell me that your uncle Tō
no Chūjō is a man of very remarkable talents, and I used to think so
myself. But I have noticed a change in him lately, and it becomes
greater every day. However, things must indeed be in a bad way if a
young boy like you, with all his life before him, can talk so gloomily
about the future....’
♦ “someting” replaced with “something”
On New Year’s day Genji, being Grand Minister Extraordinary, did not
go to Court, but following the precedent set by Fujiwara no
Yoshifusa[83] celebrated the rites of the season at his own palace.
On the seventh day a White Horse was presented to the Grand Minister
with exactly the same ceremonies as to the Emperor at Court; indeed,
in many respects the festivities arranged by Genji exceeded in their
magnificence anything that had ever been seen on such occasions save
at the Palace itself. Towards the end of the second month came the
Imperial Visit to the ex-Emperor Suzaku. It was too early for the
blossoms to be quite at their best, but immediately afterwards came
the ‘month of fasting’ in memory of the Emperor’s mother, so the Visit
could not be postponed. Fortunately the cherry blossom was unusually
early this year and in Suzaku’s gardens it already made a delightful
show. A tremendous cleaning and polishing was set afoot at his palace
in preparation for the Emperor’s arrival; and meanwhile the noblemen
and princes who were to accompany his Majesty thought of nothing but
their new clothes. They had been ordered to wear dove-grey lined with
pale green; the Emperor himself was to be dressed all in crimson. By
special command Genji was also in attendance on the day of the Visit,
and he too wore red; so that frequently during the day the figure of
the Emperor seemed to merge into that of his Minister, and it was as
though the two of them formed but one crimson giant. Every one present
had taken unusual pains with his appearance, and their host, the
ex-Emperor, who had grown into a far better-looking man than at one
time seemed possible, evidently took much more interest in such matters
than before, and was himself magnificently apparelled.
Professional poets had not been summoned for the occasion, but only
some ten scholars from the College who had the reputation of being able
to turn out good verses.
The subjects chosen were modelled on those given out to the
competitors for posts in the Board of Rites. It was thought that it
would be a good thing to give Yūgiri some idea of the themes given out
at Palace examinations. That his mind might not be disturbed, each poet
was set adrift on the lake all by himself, and it was with considerable
alarm that these timid scholars, few of whom had ever set foot in a
boat before, saw their moorings loosed and felt themselves gliding
further and further away from the shore. As dusk drew on, boats with
musicians on board began to circle the lake, and their tunes mingled
agreeably with the sighing of the mountain wind. Here, thought Yūgiri,
was a profession which brought one into pleasant contact with the world
and at the same time entailed studies far less arduous than those to
which he had been so heartlessly condemned; and he wandered about
feeling very discontented.
Later on, the dance called ‘Warbling of the Spring Nightingales,’ was
performed, and Suzaku, remembering that famous Feast of Flowers[84]
years ago said to Genji with a sigh: ‘What wonderful days those were!
We shall not see their like again.’ There were indeed many incidents
belonging to that time which even now Genji looked back upon with
considerable emotion, and when the dance was over, he handed the
wine bowl to Suzaku, reciting as he did so: ‘Spring comes, and still
the sweet birds warble as of old; but altered and bereft[85] are
they that sit beneath the blossoming tree.’ To this Suzaku replied:
‘To-day the nightingales have come to tell me of the Spring. Else had
no sunshine pierced the mists that hide my hermit’s-dwelling from
the world’s pomp and pride.' It was now the turn of Prince Sochi no
Miya, who had recently become President of the Board of War, to
present the bowl. He did so, reciting the verse: ‘Speak not of change;
unaltered through all ages[86] shall the flute preserve their song, the
nightingales that in the spring-time warble on the swaying bough.’ This
was said with a glance towards the Emperor, and in loud clear voice,
that the compliment might not be missed. Ryōzen was indeed gratified by
the graceful allusion, but as he took the bowl he answered modestly:
‘If birds still sing and a few faded blossoms deck the tree, it is but
in remembrance of those happier days when Virtue ruled the world.’ This
was said with great earnestness and humility. All the above poems were
exchanged privately and only overheard by a few privileged persons, and
there were others which did not get recorded at all. The pavilion of
the musicians was some way off, and Suzaku suggested that those about
him should send for their instruments and make a little music of their
own. Sochi no Miya accordingly played on the lute, Tō no Chūjō on the
Japanese zithern, while Suzaku himself played to the Emperor on the
thirteen-stringed zithern. The Chinese zithern was as usual played by
Genji. It was seldom that so gifted a band of performers chanced to
meet in one place, and the concert that followed was of unforgettable
beauty. Several of the courtiers present had good voices, and the songs
‘Was ever such a day!’ and the ‘Cherry Man’[87] were now performed.
Finally torches were lit all round the edge of the island in the lake,
and so the feast at last came to an end. But late as it was, Ryōzen
felt that it would be uncivil on his part if he went away without
paying his respects to Suzaku’s mother, Lady Kōkiden, who was living in
the same house with him. Genji was naturally obliged to accompany
him. The old lady received them in person and was evidently very much
gratified by the visit. She had aged immensely since he last saw her;
but here she still was, and it irritated him to think that she should
hang on to life in this way, when a much younger woman like Fujitsubo
was already in her grave. ‘My memory is not so good as it was,’ said
Kōkiden, ‘but this visit of yours has brought back the old days to my
mind more clearly than anything that has happened to me for a long
time past.’ ‘Those upon whom I leaned have now been taken from me one
after another,’ the Emperor replied, ‘and hitherto the year has had
no spring-time for me. But my visit to your house to-day has at last
dispelled my grief; I hope you will permit me to come here often....’
Genji too had to make a suitable speech, and had even to ask if he also
might venture to call again. The procession left the house amid great
scenes of popular enthusiasm, which painfully reminded the old lady
of her complete failure to injure Prince Genji’s career. To govern he
was born, and govern he would despite all her scheming. ‘Well, such
is fate,’ she thought, and was almost sorry that she had wasted time
contending against it.
It was natural that this visit should bring Oborozuki to his mind.
Not that he had altogether ceased corresponding with her; for lately
whenever an opportunity occurred, he had sent her a word or two of
greeting. And now there rose before him on his way home many delightful
recollections of the hours they had spent together.
As for Kōkiden, despite her professions of good will she did as a
matter of fact intensely dislike all contact with the present Emperor
and his government. But it was sometimes necessary to communicate with
them concerning her own salary, or the preferment of her friends, and
on such occasions she often wished that she had not lived to see
an age which was in all respects the reversal of what she herself had
striven for. Old age had not improved her temper, and even Suzaku found
her very difficult to get on with, and sometimes wondered how much
longer he would be able to endure so trying a partnership.
So greatly had Yūgiri distinguished himself in the literary
competitions which marked that day’s festivity, that upon the strength
of them alone he was awarded the Doctor’s degree. Among those who had
competed were many who were far older than he and some who were thought
to possess remarkable ability. But besides Yūgiri only two others were
passed. When the time of the autumn appointments came round he received
the rank of Chamberlain. He longed as much as ever to see Lady Kumoi.
But he knew that Tō no Chūjō had his eye upon him, and to force his
way into her presence under such circumstances would have been so very
disagreeable that he contented himself with an occasional letter. She,
meanwhile, was fully as wretched as her young lover.
Genji had long had it in his mind, if only he could find a site
sufficiently extensive and with the same natural advantages as the
Nijō-in, to build himself a new palace where he could house under one
roof the various friends whose present inaccessibility, installed as
they were in remote country places, was very inconvenient to him. He
now managed to secure a site of four _machi_[88] in the Sixth Ward
close to where Lady Rokujō had lived and at once began to build.
The fiftieth birthday of Murasaki’s father Prince Hyōbukyō was in the
autumn of the following year. The preparations for this event were
of course chiefly in her hands; but Genji too, seeing that on this
occasion at any rate he must appear to have overcome his dislike of the
prince, determined to give the affair an additional magnificence
by holding the celebrations in his new house; and with this end in
view he hurried on the work of construction as fast as he could.
The New Year came, and still the place was far from finished. What
with spurring on architects and builders, arranging for the Birthday
Service, choosing the musicians, the dancers and the like, he had
plenty to keep him busy. Murasaki herself had undertaken the decking of
the scripture-rolls and images that would be used at the Service; as
well as the customary distribution of presents and mementos. In these
tasks she was aided by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers,
and it was at this time that an intimacy sprang up between them such as
had never existed before.
The rumour of these preparations soon reached Prince Hyōbukyō’s ears.
After the general amnesty which succeeded his return from Suma, Genji
in general made no difference between those who had remained loyal to
his cause and those who had stood aloof from him. But from the first
Hyōbukyō felt that in his case an exception was made. Over and over
again he found himself treated with marked coldness, and the refusal
to accept his younger daughter as a candidate for the Emperor’s hand,
together with a number of other small but vexatious incidents, finally
convinced him that he must at some time have given Genji particular
offence. How this had occurred he was at a loss to conjecture; it
was indeed the last thing in the world which he would have wished
to happen. The fact that, among the many women upon whom Genji had
bestowed his favours, it was Murasaki who had been chosen to be the
mistress of his house, gave to Hyōbukyō, as her father, a certain
worldly prestige. But it could by no means be said that he had hitherto
taken a personal share in any of his daughter’s triumphs. This time
however, a celebration in which Hyōbukyō necessarily played the
foremost part was being planned and prepared by Genji himself on a
scale which had set the whole country talking. The prince began to hope
that his old age would be lightened by a period of belated conspicuity,
and he began to feel very well pleased with himself. This intensely
irritated his wife, who could not endure that honours should come to
him through the influence of her step-child, and saw no reason why
Genji should so quickly be forgiven his obstructive attitude concerning
the Presentation of her own little daughter.
The new palace was finished in the eighth month. The portions
corresponding to the astrological signs Sheep and Monkey[89] were
reserved for Lady Akikonomu’s occasional use, for they stood on ground
that her own suite of rooms had once occupied. The Dragon and Snake
quarters were for Genji himself; while the Bull and Tiger corner was to
be used by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. Finally the
Dog and Wild Boar quarters were made ready for the Lady from Akashi,
in the hope that she would at last consent to instal herself under his
roof.
He effected great improvement in the appearance of the grounds by a
judicious handling of knoll and lake, for though such features were
already there in abundance, he found it necessary here to cut away
a slope, there to dam a stream, that each occupant of the various
quarters might look out of her windows upon such a prospect as pleased
her best. To the south-east he raised the level of the ground, and on
this bank planted a profusion of early flowering trees. At the foot of
this slope the lake curved with especial beauty, and in the foreground,
just beneath the windows, he planted borders of cinquefoil, of
red-plum, cherry, wistaria, kerria, rock-azalea, and other such plants
as are at their best in spring-time; for he knew that Murasaki was
in especial a lover of the spring; while here and there, in places
where they would not obstruct his main plan, autumn beds were cleverly
interwoven with the rest.
Akikonomu’s garden was full of such trees as in autumn-time turn to
the deepest hue. The stream above the waterfall was cleared out and
deepened to a considerable distance; and that the noise of the cascade
might carry further, he set great boulders in mid-stream, against which
the current crashed and broke. It so happened that, the season being
far advanced, it was this part of the garden that was now seen at its
best; here indeed was such beauty as far eclipsed the autumn splendour
even of the forests near Ōi, so famous for their autumn tints.
In the north-eastern garden there was a cool spring, the neighbourhood
of which seemed likely to yield an agreeable refuge from the summer
heat. In the borders near the house upon this side he planted Chinese
bamboos, and a little further off, tall-stemmed forest-trees whose
thick leaves roofed airy tunnels of shade, pleasant as those of the
most lovely upland wood. This garden was fenced with hedges of the
white deutzia flower, the orange tree ‘whose scent rewakes forgotten
love,’ the briar-rose, and the giant peony; with many other sorts of
bush and tall flower so skilfully spread about among them that neither
spring nor autumn would ever lack in bravery.
On the east a great space was walled off, behind which rose the
Racing Lodge[90]; in front of it the race-course was marked off with
ozier hurdles; and as he would be resident here during the sports of
the fifth month, all along the stream at this point he planted the
appropriate purple irises.[91] Opposite were the stables with
stalls for his racehorses, and quarters for the jockeys and grooms.
Here were gathered together the most daring riders from every province
in the kingdom. To the north of Lady Akashi’s rooms rose a high
embankment, behind which lay the storehouses and granaries, screened
also by a close-set wall of pine-trees, planted there on purpose that
she might have the pleasure of seeing them when their boughs were laden
with snow; and for her delight in the earlier days of the winter there
was a great bed of chrysanthemums, which he pictured her enjoying on
some morning when all the garden was white with frost. Then there was
the mother-oak[92] (for was not she a mother?) and, brought hither from
wild and inaccessible places, a hundred other bushes and trees, so
seldom seen that no one knew what names to call them by.
The move was to take place about the time of the Festival of the
Further Shore.[93] He had at first intended to transfer all the
occupants at one time. But it soon became apparent that this would
be too vast an undertaking, and it was arranged that Lady Akikonomu
should not arrive till somewhat later than the rest. With her usual
amiability and good-sense the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers
readily fell in with the suggestion that she and her party should
not form a separate cortège, but should join with Murasaki in the
ceremony of removal. Genji regretted that the latter was not going to
see her new domain at the season for which it had been principally
designed; but still, the move itself was a diverting experience. There
were fifteen coaches in the procession and almost all the outriders
were gentlemen of the fourth or fifth rank. The ordering of the
procession was not so elaborate as might have been expected, for it
seemed likely at the moment that too lavish a display might try the
temper of the common people, and some of the more ostentatious forms
and ceremonies were either omitted or abridged.
But Genji was careful not to let it seem that any of these restrictions
had been carried out to the detriment of one lady rather than another.
The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers had indeed nothing to
complain of, for Yūgiri had been told off to wait upon her exclusively
during the whole ceremony. The gentlewomen and maids found their
quarters in the new house admirably fitted out with every comfort and
convenience, and they were louder than ever in Genji’s praises. About
six days later the Empress Akikonomu arrived from the Palace. The
ceremony of her arrival, though it had been intended that the whole
move should be as little ostentatious as possible, was necessarily
a very sumptuous and imposing affair. Not only had she risen from
obscurity to the highest place which a woman can hold in the land,
but she had herself advanced so much in beauty and acquired so great
a dignity of carriage and mien that she now figured very large in the
popular imagination, and crowds flocked the road wherever she was to
pass.
The various quarters of which the New Palace was composed were joined
by numerous alleys and covered ways, so that access from one to
another was easy, and no one felt that she had been bundled away into
a corner. When the ninth month came and the autumn leaves began to be
at their best, the splendours of Akikonomu’s new garden were at last
revealed, and indeed the sights upon which her windows looked were
indescribably lovely. One evening when the crimson carpet was ruffled
by a gusty wind, she filled a little box with red leaves from different
trees and sent it to Murasaki. As messenger she chose one of the
little girls who waited upon her. The child, a well grown, confident
little thing, came tripping across the humped wooden bridge that led
from the Empress’s apartments with the utmost unconcern. Pleased
though Murasaki was to receive this prompt mark of friendship, she
could for a while do nothing but gaze with delight at the messenger’s
appearance, and she quite forgot to be resentful, as some in her place
would have been, that an older and more dignified messenger had not
been entrusted with the Empress’s gift. The child wore a silk shirt,
yellow outside and lined with green. Her mantle was of brown gauze.
She was used to running about on messages in the Palace, had that
absolute faultlessness of turn-out and bearing which seems never to be
found elsewhere, and was far from being overawed at finding herself in
the presence of such a person as Lady Murasaki. Attached to the box
was the poem: ‘Though yours be a garden where only Spring-time is of
price, suffer it that from my house Autumn should blow a crimson leaf
into your hand.’ It was amusing to see how while Murasaki read the
missive, her ladies crowded round the little messenger and plied her
with refreshments and caresses. For answer, Murasaki placed in the lid
of the box a carpet of moss and on it laid a very little toy rock. Then
she wrote on a strip of paper tied to a sprig of five-pointed pine:
‘The light leaf scatters in the wind, and of the vaunted spring no
tinge is left us, save where the pine-tree grips its ledge of stone.’
The Empress thought at first that it was a real pine-branch. But
when she looked closer she saw that, like the rock, it was a work of
art—as delicate and ingenious a piece of craftsmanship as she had
ever encountered. The readiness of Murasaki’s answer and the tact
with which, while not exalting her own favourite season above that
of Akikonomu’s choice, she had yet found a symbol to save her
from tame surrender, pleased the Empress and was greeted as a happy
stroke by all the ladies who were with her. But Genji when she showed
it to him pretended to think the reply very impertinent, and to tease
Murasaki he said to her afterwards: ‘I think you received these leaves
most ungraciously. At another season one might venture perhaps upon
such disparagement; but to do so now that the Goddess of Tatsuta[94]
holds us all in sway seems almost seditious. You should have bided
your time; for only from behind the shelter of blossoming boughs could
such a judgment be uttered with impunity.’ So he spoke; but he was in
reality delighted to find these marks of interest and good will being
exchanged between the various occupants of his house, and he felt that
the new arrangement was certain to prove a great success.
When the Lady of Akashi heard of the removal to the New Palace and
was told that only her own quarters, as spacious and handsome as any
of the rest, now remained untenanted, she determined at last to hold
aloof no longer. It was the Godless month when she arrived. She looked
around her and, mistrustful though she was, she certainly could see
no sign here that as regards either elegance or comfort she would be
expected to put up with less than her neighbours. And indeed Genji
saw to it that on all occasions she should rank in the eyes of the
household rather as mother of the little Princess for whom so brilliant
a future was in store, than as the scion of a poor and undistinguished
provincial family.
[55] Genji is now 33.
[56] In the 4th month.
[57] The laurel and the hollyhock form the garlands worn by
worshippers at this festival.
[58] Her mourning was of dark blue wistaria-colour.
[59] Her period of mourning is almost over. There is a play of
words; _fuji_ = wistaria, and _fuchi_ = pool.
[60] The presents of gay clothing which are customarily made to a
person who has just emerged from a period of mourning.
[61] The professors speak in a mixture of antiquated Japanese and
classical Chinese the effect of which I do not attempt to
reproduce.
[62] See my _Nō Plays_, p. 15 seq.
[63] In eight lines.
[64] Like Chʻe Yün and Sun Kʻang, two Chinese scholars who had not
money enough to buy candles (4th century A.D.).
[65], [66] By Ssu-ma Chʻien, 1st century B.C., a book somewhat
longer than Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_; by far the most
distinguished Chinese historical work.
[67] The eldest daughter of Tō no Chūjō.
[68] Murasaki’s father, who was anxious to place his younger
daughter at Court.
[69] See vol. ii, p. 86. The rhyme-words at the end of the verses
were covered and the competitors had to guess them.
[70] His first wife was a daughter of the Minister of the Right.
[71] Akikonomu.
[72] Kumoi.
[73] The ex-Emperor Suzaku’s little son.
[74] Using ‘major’ and ‘minor’ as translations of _Yō_ and _In_. The
six strings were tuned to the 1st, 5th, 9th, and 3rd, 7th,
11th, semitones of the diatonic scale.
[75] ‘Some such sorrow as mine they too must know, the wild-geese
that with sorrowful cry trail through the country of the
clouds.’
[76] A sister of Kōkiden.
[77] Of Akikonomu as Empress.
[78] Kumoi’s mother.
[79] With Fujitsubo, his father’s concubine.
[80] There is a legend which tells how certain dancing-maidens took
the fancy of the gods and were snatched up to the sky.
[81] Koremitsu’s daughter.
[82] See vol. ii, pp. 96 and 129.
[83] 804–872 A.D.
[84] See vol. i, p. 239 seq.
[85] Allusion to the death of the old Emperor, Genji’s and Suzaku’s
father.
[86] The song and dance ‘Warbling of the Spring Nightingales’ are
attributed to the mythical Chinese Emperor Yao, 3rd millennium
B.C.
[87] See above, p. 45.
[88] A _machi_ is 119 yards.
[89] The points of the compass indicated by these animal
designations are, successively S.W., S.E., N.E., N.W. Houses
were planned with reference to Chinese astrological
conceptions.
[90] Used for residence during the Kamo Festival.
[91] Plucked on the 5th day of the 5th month.
[92] _Quercus dentata_.
[93] Lasts for a week, centring round the autumnal equinox. The
Further Shore is Nirvāna, to which Buddha carries us in the
Ship of Salvation. The festival is peculiar to Japan.
[94] Goddess of the autumn; here compared to Akikonomu. The
secondary meaning is ‘You must be more civil to Akikonomu now
that she is Empress.’
CHAPTER IV
TAMAKATSURA
Though seventeen years had now passed since Yūgao’s death,[95]
Genji had not by any means forgotten her. He had indeed since those
early days seen much of the world and encountered the most divers
temperaments. But he had yet to find a disposition such as hers; and it
was with feelings of longing and contrition that he looked back upon
their intimacy.
Though Ukon was not a creature of much account, she was the one person
to whom he could speak of the dead lady. He felt a considerable degree
of affection towards her, and during the years after Yūgao’s death
Ukon had practically lived at the ♦Nijō-in, being allowed to spend most
of her time with the older servants in the housekeeper’s room. Then
came the exile, and with Genji’s other servants she went across to the
western wing and entered Murasaki’s service. She gave the impression of
being a harmless, self-effacing creature, and it would have surprised
every one very much to know what was all the while going on in her
mind. For Ukon, particularly after the move to the New Palace, was
constantly appraising the relative positions of the great ladies who
ruled the house, and deciding what place her own dear mistress would
now be occupying, were she still alive. ‘Certainly,’ said Ukon to
herself, looking critically at the Lady of Akashi, ‘my poor lady would
not have been eclipsed by such as you!’ And indeed Ukon had seen
for herself that even where his feelings were far less strong than in
Yūgao’s case, there never came a time when Genji turned aside from
those who had opened their hearts to him, or behaved as though his
obligations towards them were at an end. However full might be the cup
of his affections, he did not allow a drop to spill; and though Yūgao
might not perhaps have been able to vie with so great a personage as
Murasaki, yet it was certain that were she alive she would now be
occupying one of the main apartments in the newly-finished house.
♦ “Nijo-in” replaced with “Nijō-in”
Such were the sad reflections that dwelt constantly in this solitary
lady’s heart. She had never attempted to get into communication with
the family of her late mistress, nor even to discover the present
whereabouts of the child[96] whom Yūgao had left behind at the house
in the Fifth Ward; partly through fear of being questioned concerning
her own part in the unhappy affair, partly because there seemed to be
no object in doing so. Moreover, Genji had strictly forbidden her to
mention the story to anybody, and though she had sometimes thought of
writing to the people at the house, she felt that it would be disloyal
to him to do so, and was entirely without news. She did, however, hear
long afterwards a report that the husband of the nurse in whose care
the child had been left was now working in a provincial Treasury and
that his wife was with him. It seemed probable that they had also taken
the child.
This was indeed the case. Tamakatsura was four years old when she made
the journey to Tsukushi. The nurse, after months of vain endeavour to
discover Yūgao’s whereabouts, during which she had trudged weary and
weeping from quarter to quarter and house to house without finding
the least glimmer of news, had at last given up all hope. She
would have been glad enough for her own sake to keep the child, to whom
she had become fondly attached, as a remembrance of the mistress whom
she must now regard as forever lost. But there were also the little
girl’s own interests to consider. ‘We are humble people,’ thought the
nurse, ‘and Tsukushi[97] is a long way off. Perhaps it is my duty
to tell her father[98] of what has happened and give him the chance
of making some more suitable provision for her future.’ But it was
difficult for such people to communicate with a young gentleman of Tō
no Chūjō’s quality. ‘If I mention the child to its father,’ she said
to her husband one day, ‘he is certain to ask at once how I could have
been so foolish as to let our poor young lady out of my sight. And
indeed, I don’t know how I should answer him. Then again, it isn’t
as if he had ever seen much of the little creature. It would be like
handing her over to strangers, and I do not think that, when the time
came, I should ever find it in my heart to let her go. He may of course
refuse to do anything for her himself; but one thing is certain: if
he hears we are going off to Tsukushi, he will never give me leave to
take her with us!’ So the nurse declared to her husband and companions.
Though Tamakatsura was not much over three years old when her mother
disappeared, she had acquired all the airs and graces of a little
lady; she was remarkably good-looking and it was apparent that she
already had a strong will of her own. But now she was bundled on to a
common trading-ship in which no provision whatever had been made for
the comfort of the passengers; and as they rowed out into the bay, she
began to look very disconsolate. She still thought a great deal
about her mother, and, to re-assure herself, she said out loud: ‘I know
why we are travelling on this ship; we are going to see mother!’ She
returned to this idea again and again, but it received no confirmation
on any side, and at last she burst into tears. Two young women sitting
near by were also weeping, though they suddenly ceased to do so when
one of the sailors reminded them that ‘tears bring bad luck at sea.’
Skirting along the coast they passed much lovely scenery’, and the
nurse, remembering what delight her young mistress had taken in such
sights as these, wished for a moment that she were here to see them.
But then she remembered that but for Yūgao’s disappearance she and her
husband would never have been driven to accept this wretched post in
the provinces, and she gazed regretfully in the direction of the City,
envying even the waves that stole back so peacefully towards shores
‘that she, perhaps, would never tread again.’ Soon the rowers began
chanting in their rough, wild voices the song ‘Over the distant waves,’
and the two young women, who were sitting face to face, again began to
weep bitterly. At last the ship rounded the Golden Cape, and knowing
that the coast which now came into view belonged not to the mainland,
but to the island of Tsukushi, the travellers felt that exile had
indeed begun. The old nurse’s heart sank; but she had her little charge
to see to and was most of the time far too busy to think of anything
else. Now and again she would drop off to sleep and then, as for some
time past, she would at once dream that her mistress appeared before
her. But always at Yūgao’s side there stood the figure of another
woman, who seemed to follow her wherever she went. The nurse woke
from these dreams sickened and afraid, and she felt, after each such
occasion, more certain than ever that Yūgao was no longer alive.
Shōni, the nurse’s husband, had only been appointed to his post
in Tsukushi for a term of five years. But the position he held was a
very humble one and when the time came, he found it difficult to meet
the expenses of a long journey. Thus their departure for the capital
had to be postponed again and again. At last, after many months of
disappointment and delay, Shōni fell seriously ill. Tamakatsura was
now ten years old and was growing handsomer every day. Shōni, who knew
that his end was near, kept asking himself what would become of her
in this desolate place. He had always felt that in bringing her with
them they had acted somewhat unfairly to the child. For after all
she was Tō no Chūjō’s daughter, and her birth entitled her to better
surroundings than the cramped and dingy home of a provincial clerk.
But five years is not a very long time, and he had always confidently
expected that when his term of office ran out he would be able to take
her with him to Kyōto and put her into touch with her father. True, it
was possible that Chūjō would refuse to acknowledge her. But the City
is a big place, and Shōni made no doubt that, once he had settled her
there, a girl such as this would not have to wait very long before a
satisfactory opening occurred. For this reason he had done everything
in his power to raise funds for the journey. But now the last expedient
had failed and he knew that for his part he was fated never to leave
Tsukushi. During his last days he worried much over the injustice which
had been done to the child in detaining her so long away from the
Capital, and sending for his sons he said to them: ‘As soon as this is
over I want you to take Tamakatsura back to the City. The same day.
Don’t wait for the funeral....’
It was only known to the members of Shōni’s family that the little
girl was Tō no Chūjō’s daughter. To the other government clerks
and to the world in general she was a grand-daughter of Shōni’s whose
parents were in trouble of some kind and had left her in his charge.
But in the family she continued to be treated as ‘the young lady’, and
every sacrifice was made that she might have, so far as possible, the
upbringing to which her birth entitled her. Shōni’s sudden illness and
death naturally threw his wife into a piteous state of distraction; but
in the midst of her grief, one thought obsessed her; would they ever
be able to secure a passage back to the City and restore the little
girl to her relations? Unfortunately Shōni had been unpopular with the
local people and none of them would give any assistance. Thus the time
dragged on, wretched years full of anxiety and discouragement; and
still there seemed no prospect of return.
Meanwhile Tamakatsura grew to womanhood. She had all her mother’s
beauty, and something more besides; for she seemed to have inherited
from her father’s side a singular air of high breeding, an aristocratic
fineness of limb and gesture, that in Yūgao, whose beauty was that of
the by-street rather than of the palace, had been entirely lacking.
She was of a very generous disposition, and in every way a most
delightful companion. Her fame soon spread through the island, and
hardly a day passed but some local squire or farmer attempted to get
into correspondence with her. These letters, written for the most part
in a rustic sprawling hand and very crudely expressed, were thrust
upon every member of the household in turn in the hope that he or she
would consent to act as a go-between. Clumsy documents of this kind
were calculated to arouse nothing but disgust in the breast of any
one save an islander, and no attention whatever was paid to them. At
last the persistence of her suitors became a nuisance, and the nurse
put it about that though the girl looked just like other people, she
suffered from a secret deformity which made it impossible for her
ever to marry. It had indeed (so the story ran) already been decided
that she was to live quietly with her ‘grandmother’ till the old lady
died, and after that was to enter a nunnery. But it soon became so
irritating to hear every one saying: ‘Isn't it sad about poor Shōni's
grand-daughter? They say she has got some terrible deformity,’ that the
old nurse could bear it no longer and again began racking her brains
to discover some way of getting the girl back to her father. Was it
conceivable that he would refuse to look after her? After all, he had
made quite a fuss over her when she was a baby. The old lady prayed
fervently to every Buddha and God that some way might present itself of
taking Tamakatsura to Kyōto. But the chance of any member of her family
getting away from Tsukushi was now remoter than ever. Her daughters had
married local people and her sons were employed in the neighbourhood.
In her heart of hearts she still cherished all sorts of schemes for
compassing the return of the whole family; but every day it became
more and more impossible that anything of the kind would ever happen.
Thus Tamakatsura grew up amid continual lamentations and repinings
and learnt to look upon life as one long succession of troubles and
disappointments, varied only by three great bouts of penance and
fasting, each January, May and September. The years went by. She was
now twenty; her beauty was at its height, and still it was being wasted
in this barbarous and sequestered land.
Some while after Shōni’s death the family had moved along the coast
from Chikuzen to Hizen, hoping for a more peaceful existence in a place
where they were not known. But Tamakatsura’s reputation had preceded
her and, little inclined to credit the stories about her deformity, the
notabilities of the neighbouring countryside began pestering her
guardians with such assiduity that life soon became as harassing as
before.
Among these suitors there was a certain Tayū no Gen who held a small
position under the Lord-Lieutenant of Tsukushi. He came of a family
that was very influential in Higo and the surrounding country, and
on this side of the island he ranked as a person of considerable
importance. He had, moreover, greatly distinguished himself in a
campaign against the insurgents. To a singular degree of hardihood
and endurance there was added in his nature more than a fair share
of sensuality. Women were his hobby; he kept a prodigious quantity
of them always about him, and was continually on the look-out for
opportunities of adding to the collection. The story of the beautiful
Tamakatsura and of the secret deformity which prevented her marriage
soon reached Tayū’s ears. ‘Mis-shapen, is she?’ he cried. ‘Frightened
that people will stare? She need not worry about that if she comes to
me. I’ll keep her locked up all right!’ and he wrote at once to Shōni’s
wife. The old lady, who knew his reputation, was sadly put about. She
replied that her grand-daughter was destined for the convent and that
no proposals of this kind could be entertained on her behalf. Tayū was
not used to be put off like this and, determined at all costs to get
his way, he came galloping over to Hizen at full speed. He immediately
summoned Shōni’s three sons to his lodging and said to them: ‘Let me
have that girl, and you may count on me as a friend for life. My name
goes for something on the Higo side....’ Two of the sons were easily
won over and promised to do as Tayū asked. They had, it is true, a
moment’s qualm at the thought of handing over Tō no Chūjō’s child to
this lawless provincial swashbuckler. But they had their own way to
make in the world, and they knew that Tayū had by no means exaggerated
the value of his own friendship and protection. On the other hand,
life on this part of the island with Tayū against one was a prospect
not to be faced with equanimity. If the girl had failed to take in the
world the place to which her rank entitled her, that was her father’s
fault, not theirs. She ought to be grateful that such a man as this
(after all, he was the principal person in the neighbourhood) should
have taken such a fancy to her. In Tsukushi at any rate there was no
prospect of doing better for her, and Tayū, angered by the refusal of
his proffered patronage would certainly stick at nothing.... So they
argued, doing their best to scare their mother into assent by stories
of Tayū’s violence and implacability. Only the second brother, Bugo
no Suke, stood out: ‘I know a good deal about this fellow,’ he said.
‘It’s too much of a shame. We simply cannot hand her over to him....
Somehow or other one of us ought to do what our father asked us to—take
her back to Kyōto. There must be some way of managing it....’ Shōni’s
two daughters stood by weeping. Their mother was utterly heart-broken.
What had become now of all her plans for the girl’s happy future? Of
what use had been all these years of isolation and subterfuge, if at
the end Tamakatsura must be handed over to this coarse and unscrupulous
barbarian?
It would indeed have astonished Tayū to know that any one in Hizen
considered him in such a light as this. He had always regarded
his attentions to women as favours bestowed; he flattered himself
moreover that he knew as well as any man how to conduct a gallant
correspondence, and his letters began to arrive thick and fast. They
were written in a clean, bold hand on thick Chinese paper, heavily
scented. It was evident indeed that he regarded himself as no mean
calligrapher. His style of composition was not an agreeable one, being
very tortuous and affected. Soon he made up his mind that the time had
come for him to call in person, and he arranged with the brothers
to meet him at their mother’s house. Tayū was a man of about thirty,
tall and solidly built. He was far from ill-looking; but he had the
power (which he frequently exercised) of assuming the most repulsively
ferocious expression. This, however, was reserved for his followers
and opponents. When in a good temper and engaged upon errands of love
he adopted an entirely different voice and manner. You would have
thought indeed that some little bird was chirruping, so dexterously
did he reduce his rough bass to a small silvery fluting: ‘As a lover,
I ought to have come after dark, ought I not? Isn’t that what courting
means—coming at night? So I was always told. What extraordinary weather
for a spring evening! In autumn of course one expects it....’
Upon a strict undertaking that she would not provoke Tayū in any way,
the old lady’s sons had allowed her to see him. He now turned to her
saying: ‘Madam, though I never had the pleasure of meeting your late
husband, I knew him to be a kind-hearted and upright gentleman. I
always hoped that I might one day have an opportunity of showing him
how much I appreciated his excellent qualities, and it was with deep
regret that I heard of his untimely decease. But though I can no longer
do him any service, I hope that you will allow me to show my regard
for him in some practical way. There is, I think, a young lady here,
(I am right, am I not?) a ward of yours, or relative of some sort?
If I venture to speak of her, it is with the greatest deference and
respect; for I understand that she is of extremely high birth. I assure
you that, were I ever privileged to make the acquaintance of such a
person, I should kneel before her like a slave, dedicate my life to her
service, humbly petition her.... But I see that you are looking at me
somewhat askance. You have heard stories no doubt.... Believe me,
there is no truth in them. I have in the past admired one or two of our
simple country girls; but surely you can understand that _this_ would
be a very different matter. Should you admit me to the friendship of
your exalted kinswoman, I would set her up as my paragon, my empress,
my all-in-all....’ He made many fair speeches of this kind. At last
the old nurse answered: ‘I should indeed consider my granddaughter
singularly fortunate to have aroused the interest of so distinguished
a gentleman as yourself, were it not for the fact that nature has
played upon her a cruel trick at birth.... Sir, I have seldom spoken
of this to any one before; but I must assure you that the poor girl’s
unhappy condition has for years past been a sore trouble to me. As for
offering her hand in marriage to any one—that is entirely out of the
question....’ ‘Pray don’t make so many apologies,’ cried Tayū. ‘Were
she the most blear-eyed, broken-legged creature under Heaven, I’d have
her put right for you in a very short while. The truth of the matter
is, the Gods and Buddhas in the temples round here owe a good deal to
me, and I can make them do pretty much whatever I choose....’ So he
bragged; but when, assuming that his offer had already been accepted,
he began pressing the old lady to name a day, she hastily changed the
subject, saying that summer would soon be coming, that the farmers
were needing rain, plying him in fact with all the usual topics of
the countryside. He felt that before he left he ought to recite a few
verses of poetry, and after a long period of silent meditation, he
produced the following:
If she does not want to be married,
I shall go to the pine-tree Bay
And complain to the God of the Mirror;[99]
Then I need hardly say
That I shall get my way.
‘I don’t think that’s such a bad poem,’ he said smiling awkwardly.
The nurse was in far too agitated a condition to indulge in literary
pastimes. Utterly unable to produce any sort of reply, she begged her
daughters to answer in her stead. ‘But mother darling,’ the young
ladies protested, ‘if _you_ cannot think of anything to say, still
less can we....’ At last after much painful cogitation, the old lady
recited the following poem, speaking as though she were addressing
herself as much as him: ‘Unkind were it indeed should the Guardian
of the Mirror frustrate the prayers of one[100] who year on year hath
been his and his alone.’ ‘What’s that?’ cried Tayū rushing towards
her. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’ So sudden was his onrush that
Shōni’s wife jumped almost out of her skin, and she turned pale with
fright. Fortunately her daughters were not so easily scared, and one of
them, laughing as though an absurd misunderstanding had occurred, at
once said to Tayū: ‘What mother meant was this: she hopes that after
all the trouble she has taken praying to the Gods of Matsura on our
little niece’s behalf, they will not allow the poor girl’s deformity
to turn you against her. But dear mother is getting old and it is not
always easy to make out what she is saying.’ ‘Oho! Yes, yes, I see,’
he said, nodding his head reflectively. ‘I don’t know how I came to
misunderstand it. Ha! ha! Very neatly expressed. I expect you look
upon me as a very uncultivated, provincial person. And so I should be,
if I were at all like the other people round here. But I’ve been very
fortunate; you would not find many men even at the City who have had a
better education than I. You’d be making a great mistake if you set me
down as a plain, countrified sort of man. As a matter of fact, there’s
nothing I have not studied.’ He would very much have liked to try his
hand at a second poem; but his stock of ideas was exhausted and he
was obliged to take leave.
The fact that two of her sons had openly sided with Tayū increased
the old lady’s terror and despair. All she could now think of was to
spirit the girl away from Tsukushi as rapidly and secretly as possible.
She besought the other son, Bugo no Suke, to devise some means of
conducting the girl to Kyōto; but Bugo no Suke answered: ‘I wish I
could; but I do not see how it is to be done. There is not a soul on
the island who will help me. We three used to hang together in old
times; but now they say I am Tayū’s enemy and will have nothing to do
with me. And with Tayū against one it is a difficult thing in these
parts to stir hand or foot, let alone take passage for several persons
in an out-going ship. I might find I was doing Lady Tamakatsura a very
ill turn....’
But though no one had told the girl of what was going on, she somehow
or other seemed to know all about it. She was in a state of the wildest
agitation, and Bugo no Suke heard her declare in tones of the utmost
horror that she intended to take her own life rather than accept
the fate which was in store for her. Bugo was certain that this was
no empty threat, and by a tremendous effort he managed to collect a
sum sufficient to cover the expenses of the journey. His mother, now
getting on in years, was determined not to end her days in Tsukushi.
But she was growing very infirm, and it would be impossible for her to
accompany them did not one of her daughters consent to come and look
after her. The younger sister, Ateki, had been married for several
years; but Bugo no Suke prevailed upon her at last to abandon her
home and take charge of their mother on the journey. The elder sister
had been married much longer; her family was already large and it was
obviously impossible for her to get away. The travellers were
obliged to leave home hastily late one night and embark at once; for
they had suddenly heard that Tayū, who had gone home to Higo, was
expected back in Hizen early next day (the twelfth of the fourth
month), and he would doubtless lose no time in claiming his bride.
There were distressing scenes of farewell. It seemed unlikely that
the elder sister would ever see her mother again. But Ateki took the
parting much more calmly; for though Tsukushi had been her home for so
long, she was by no means sorry to leave the place, and it was only
when someone pointed back to the Matsura temple and Ateki scanning the
quay-side recognized the very spot where she had said goodbye to her
sister, that she felt at all downcast at the thought of the journey
before her. ‘Swiftly we row,’ she sang; ‘the Floating Islands vanish
in the mist and, pilotless as they, I quit life’s anchorage to drift
amid the tempests of a world unknown.’ ‘No longer men but playthings
of the wind are they who in their misery must needs take ship upon the
uncertain pathways of the deep.’ So Tamakatsura replied, and in utter
despair she flung herself face downward upon her seat, where she lay
motionless for many hours.
The news of her flight soon leaked out, and eventually reached Tayū’s
ears. He was not the man to let his prey slip from him in this manner,
and though for an instant he was so angry and surprised that he could
do nothing at all, he soon pulled himself together, hired a light skiff
and set out in pursuit. It was a vessel specially constructed for swift
launching, and the wind was blowing hard from shore. He shot across
the harbour at an immense speed, with every inch of sail spread, and
a moment later was through the Clanging Breakers. Launched upon the
calmer waters of the open sea his craft scudded along more swiftly than
ever. Seeing a small boat chasing after them at reckless speed
the captain of the pursued vessel imagined that pirates were on his
track and pressed on towards the nearest port. Only Tamakatsura and
her companions knew that in that rapidly approaching craft there was
one who, by them at any rate, was far more to be dreaded than the most
ruthless pirate. Louder and louder beat the poor girl’s heart; so loud
indeed that the noise of the breakers seemed to her to have stopped. At
last they entered the bay of Kawajiri. Tayū’s vessel was no longer in
sight, and as their ship approached the harbour, the fugitives began to
breathe again. One of the sailors was singing a snatch of the song:
So I pressed on from China Port to Kawajiri Bay
With never a thought for my own sad love or the babe that wept on
her knee.
He sang in an expressionless, monotonous voice, but the melancholy
tune caught Bugo no Suke’s fancy and he found himself joining in:
‘With never a thought....’ Yes; he too had left behind those who were
dearest to him, with little thought indeed of what was to become of
them. Even the two or three sturdy youths who worked for him in the
house would have been some comfort to his wife and babes. But these
young fellows had clamoured to go with him and he weakly consented. He
pictured to himself how Tayū, maddened by the failure of his pursuit,
would rush back to Hizen and wreak his vengeance upon the defenceless
families of those who had worked against him. How far would he go?
What exactly would he do? Bugo no Suke now realized that in planning
this flight he had behaved with the wildest lack of forethought; all
his self-confidence vanished, and so hideous were the scenes which his
imagination conjured up before him that he broke down altogether and
sat weeping with his head on his knees. Like the ransomed prisoner
in Po Chü-i’s poem,[101] though returning to his native place, he had
left wife and child to shift for themselves amid the Tartar hordes. His
sister Ateki heard him sobbing and could well understand his dismay.
The plight of those who had remained at Hizen was indeed a wretched
one. Most of all she pitied the few old followers and servants who had
consented to come with them from the Capital long ago, believing that
in five years they would be back again in their homes. To leave these
faithful old people in the lurch seemed the basest of treacheries. They
had always (she and her brother) been used to speaking of the City as
their ‘home’; but now that they were drawing near to it they realized
that though it was indeed their native place, there was not within it
one house where they were known, one friend or acquaintance to whom
they could turn. For this lady’s sake they had left what for most of
their lives had been their world, their only true home—had committed
their lives to the hazard of wind and wave; all this without a moment’s
reflection or misgiving. And now that their precious cargo was within
hail of port, what were they to do with her? How were they to approach
her family, make known her presence, prove her identity? Endlessly
though they had discussed these points during the journey, they could
arrive at no conclusion, and it was with a sense of helplessness and
bewilderment that they hurried into the City.
In the Ninth Ward they chanced to hear of an old acquaintance of their
mother’s who was still living in the neighbourhood, and here they
managed to procure temporary lodgings. The Ninth Ward does indeed
count as part of Kyōto; but it is an immense distance from the centre,
and no one of any consequence lives there. Thus in their effort to
find some influential person who would help them to fulfil their
mission, the brother and sister encountered only the strangest types
of market-women and higglers. Autumn was coming on, they had achieved
nothing and there seemed no reason to suppose that the ensuing months
would be any more profitable than those which they had just wasted.
Ateki who had relied entirely upon her brother and imagined him capable
of dealing with any situation that arose, was dismayed to discover
that in the City he was like a waterbird on shore. He hung about
the house, had no notion how to make enquiries or cultivate fresh
acquaintances, and was no better able to look after himself than the
youths he had brought with him from Tsukushi. These young fellows,
after much grumbling, had indeed mostly either found employment in
the neighbourhood or gone back to their native province. It grieved
Ateki beyond measure that her brother should be thus stranded in the
Capital without occupation or resource, and she bewailed his lot day
and night. ‘Come, come, Sister,’ he would say to her, ‘on my account
you have no cause to be uneasy. I would gladly come a good deal
further than we have travelled and put up with many another month of
hardship and waiting, if only I could get our young lady back among
the friends who ought to be looking after her. We may have spoilt our
own prospects, you and I; but what should we be feeling like to-day,
if we consented to let that monster carry her off to his infamous den?
But it is my opinion that the Gods alone can help us in our present
pass. Not far from here is the great temple of Yawata where the same
God is worshipped as in our own Yawata Temples at Hakozaki and Matsura,
where mother used to take the young lady to do her penances. Those two
temples may be a long way off, but the same God inhabits all three, and
I believe that her many visits to Hakozaki and Matsura would now
stand her in good stead. What if she were to go to the Temple here and
perform a service of thanksgiving for her safe journey to the Capital?’
Bugo no Suke made enquiries in the neighbourhood and found out that
one of the Five Abbots, a very holy man with whom Shōni had been well
acquainted, was still alive. He obtained an interview with the old
priest and arranged that Tamakatsura should be allowed to visit the
Temple.
After this they visited a succession of holy places. At last Bugo no
Suke suggested a pilgrimage to the Temple of the Hasegawa Kwannon.
‘There is no deity in Japan,’ he said, ‘who has in recent times worked
so many miracles as this Goddess of Hatsuse. I am told that the fame of
her shrine has spread even to China,[102] and far off though Tsukushi
is, I know that Lady Tamakatsura has for years past been deeply
interested in the achievements of this Divinity and shown an exemplary
piety towards her. I believe that a visit to Hatsuse would do more
for our young lady than anything else.’ It was decided that, to give
it a greater significance, the pilgrimage should be made on foot and,
despite her great age and infirmity, the old nurse would not be left
behind. Tamakatsura, wholly unused to such experiences, felt scared
and wretched as, pilgrims in front and behind, she tramped wearily on,
turning to right or left when she was bid, but otherwise too deeply
buried in her own thoughts to notice what went on around her. What
had she done, she asked herself over and over again, to deserve this
downtrodden existence? And as she dragged foot after foot along the
dusty road she prayed earnestly to Buddha, saying ‘O Much-Honoured
One, if my mother is indeed no longer in this world, grant that,
wherever it be, her soul may look upon me with compassion and her
prayers bring me quick release, that I may take refuge in the place
where her spirit dwells. And if she is still alive, grant, O Buddha,
that I may one day meet her face to face.’ So she prayed, and while she
did so suddenly remembered that it was a useless prayer. For she was
very young when Yūgao disappeared, had only the haziest recollection of
her appearance, and even if the prayer were answered, would certainly
pass her mother unrecognized! Dismal as these reflections would at
any time have been, they were doubly so now, worn out as she was by
the fatigue of the journey. The party had indeed travelled at a very
leisurely pace and it was not till the hour of the Snake, on the
fourth day, that they at last reached Tsuba Market.[103] Tamakatsura
was by this time more dead than alive; they attempted to improvise a
carrying-chair, but the pain in her legs was so great that she could
not bear to be moved, and there was nothing for it but to let her rest
at the inn.
The party consisted of Bugo no Suke, two bowmen and three or four very
rough-looking boys to carry the luggage. The three ladies had their
skirts tucked in at the belt like country-women, and were attended only
by two aged crones who looked like broken-down charwomen. It would
indeed have been impossible to guess that any person of quality was
among them.
They spent the time till dusk in trimming their holy lamps and
preparing such other emblems and offerings as are brought by pilgrims
to the Hasegawa Shrine.
Going his rounds at nightfall the priest who owned the inn came
upon the two decrepit old serving-women calmly making a bed for
Tamakatsura in a corner of the best room of the house. ‘These
quarters have been engaged for the night by a gentlewoman who may
arrive at any minute,’ he said in consternation. ‘Be off with you at
once! Just fancy, without so much as a “by your leave”!’ They were
still staring at him helplessly, when there was a noise at the door
and it became evident that the expected guests had actually arrived.
They too seemed to have come on foot. There were two gentlewomen,
very well-conditioned, and quite a number of attendants both male and
female. Their baggage was on the backs of some four or five horses,
and though they wore plain liveries it was evident that the grooms
were in good service. The landlord was determined that the newcomers
should have the quarters which he had intended for them; but the
intruders showed no signs of moving, and he stood scratching his head
in great perplexity. It did indeed go to the hearts of Tamakatsura’s
old servants to turn her out of the corner where she was so comfortably
established and pack her away into the back room. But it was soon
apparent that the only alternative was to seek quarters in a different
inn, and as this would have been both humiliating and troublesome they
made the best of a bad job and carried their mistress to the inner
room, while others of the party either took shelter in the outhouses or
squeezed themselves and their belongings into stray angles and corners
of the main house.
The new arrivals did not after all seem to be of such rank and
consequence as the priest had made out. But it was hard to guess
what manner of people they might be; for they concealed themselves
scrupulously from the gaze of their fellow-guests and hardly spoke to
one another at all.
In point of fact, the person to whom Lady Tamakatsura had been thus
unceremoniously compelled to give place was none other than her
mother’s faithful maid, Ukon! For years past it had been the one
comfort of the solitary and grief-stricken old lady's existence to
make this pilgrimage, and Genji had always assisted her to do so with
as much comfort as possible. So familiar was the journey that it no
longer seemed to her in any way formidable; but having come on foot she
was quite ready for a rest, and immediately lay down upon the nearest
couch. Beside her was a thin partition of plaited reeds. Behind it she
could hear people moving about, and presently some one entered who
seemed to be carrying a tray of food. Then she heard a man’s voice
saying: ‘Please take this to my Lady. Tell her I am very sorry it is so
badly served; but I have done the best I can.’ From the tone in which
he spoke it was evident that the lady to whom these apologies were
to be conveyed was a person far above him in social position. Ukon’s
curiosity was aroused. She peeped through a crack in the partition,
and at once had the impression that she had seen the young man before.
Who could it be? She racked her brains, but could not imagine. It
would indeed have been strange had she been able to identify Bugo no
Suke, who was a mere child when she last saw him, while now he was a
full-grown man, much bronzed from exposure to the sun and winds of
Tsukushi, and dressed in the poorest clothes. ‘Sanjō, my Lady is asking
for you.’ So Bugo no Suke now cried, and to her astonishment Ukon saw
that the old woman who answered to this name was also certainly some
one whom she had once known. But here there could be no mistake. This
Sanjō was the one who had been in service with Ukon in Yūgao’s house,
and had afterwards (like Ukon herself) been one of the few servants
whom Yūgao took with her to the house in the Fifth Ward. It seemed
like a dream. Who was the Lady whom they were accompanying?
She strained her eyes; but the bed in the room behind the partition
was surrounded by screens and there was no possibility of seeing
its occupant. She had made up her mind to accost the maid Sanjō and
question her, when part of her doubt resolved itself spontaneously: the
man must be that boy of Shōni’s, ... the one they used to call Hyōtōda,
and the lady towards whom they showed such deference could be no other
than Tamakatsura, Yūgao’s child by Tō no Chūjō. In wild excitement she
called to Sanjō by name; but the old woman was busy serving the supper
and for the moment she took no notice. She was very cross at being
called away from her work like this, but whoever it was that wanted her
seemed to be in a great hurry, and presently she arrived, exclaiming:
‘I can’t make it out. I’ve spent the last twenty years in service on
the island of Tsukushi, and here’s a lady from Kyōto calling for me by
my own name, as though she knew all about me. Well, Madam, I am called
Sanjō. But I think it must be another Sanjō that you are wanting.’ As
she drew near Ukon noticed that the old woman was wearing the most
extraordinary narrow-sleeved overall on top of her frumpy old dress.
She had grown enormously stout. The sight of her brought a sudden flush
of humiliation to Ukon’s cheeks, for she realised that she herself
was an old woman, and as Sanjō now looked to her, so must she, Ukon,
for years past have appeared to all eyes save her own. ‘Look again!
Do you not know me?’ she said at last, looking straight into Sanjō’s
face. ‘Why, to be sure I do!’ cried the old lady, clapping her hands,
‘you were in service with my Lady. I was never so glad in my life.
Where have you been hiding our dear mistress all this while?... Of
course she is with you now?’ and in the midst of her excitement Sanjō
began to weep; for the encounter had brought back to her mind the days
when she was young. What times those had been! And how long, how
cruelly long ago it all was! ‘First,’ answered Ukon gravely, ‘you must
give me a little of your news. Is nurse with you? And what has happened
to the baby girl ... and Ateki, where is she?’ For the moment Ukon could
not bear to dash Sanjō’s hope to the ground; moreover it was so painful
to her to speak of Yūgao’s death that she now listened in silence to
Sanjō’s tale: mother, brother and sister were all there. Tamakatsura
was grown to be a fine young lady and was with them too. ‘But here I
am talking,’ said Sanjō at last, ‘when I ought to have run straight in
to tell nurse, ...’ and with this she disappeared. After their first
surprise the chief feeling of Ateki and her mother, upon the reception
of this news, was one of indignation against Ukon, whom they supposed
to have left their mistress in hiding all these years, callously
indifferent to the suspense and misery of all her friends. ‘I don’t
feel that I want to see her,’ said the old nurse at last, nodding in
the direction of Ukon’s room, ‘but I suppose I ought to go.’ No sooner,
however, was she sitting by Ukon’s couch, with all the curtains drawn
aside, than both of them burst into tears. ‘What has become of her,
where is my lady?’ the nurse sobbed. ‘You cannot imagine what I have
been through in all these years. I have prayed again and again that
some sign, some chance word, some dream might tell me where she was
hiding. But not one breath of news came to us, and at last I thought
terrible things—that she must be very far away indeed. Yes, I have
even imagined that she must be dead, and fallen then into such despair
that I hated my own life and would have ended it too, had not my love
for the little girl whom she left with me held my feet from the Paths
of Night. And even so, you see for yourself what I am.... It is but a
faint flicker of life....’
In this strain the nurse spoke on, supposing all the while that
Lady Yūgao herself was somewhere not far away. ‘How shall I tell her?
What am I to say?’ The same questions that tormented Ukon’s brain
during those first days after the funeral returned to her now with
redoubled urgency. But this could not go on; it was impossible not to
speak; and Ukon suddenly broke in upon the old nurse’s outpourings:
‘Listen!’ she said. ‘It is no use my telling you how it happened....
But Lady Yūgao died a long while ago.’
After this there was silence, broken at last by the agonized and
convulsive sobbing of these three old women.
It was growing dark, and now with lamps lit and offerings in their
hands the pilgrims were about to start for the temple. The women clung
to one another till the last moment and, still scarce knowing what
they did, were about to set out upon the road together, when Ukon
suddenly bethought herself of the astonishment which her attendants
must be feeling at this strange addition to the party; moreover Bugo
no Suke had as yet heard nothing of the meeting, and for the moment
the old nurse had not the heart to enter into a long explanation of
what had occurred. The two parties accordingly separated, Ukon scanning
with curiosity the pilgrims who filed past her into the street. Among
them was a girl, very poorly dressed; her hair was caught up in a
thin summer scarf, which held it tight but did not conceal it. In the
procession she walked some way ahead, but even the momentary back view
which Ukon was thus able to obtain convinced her that the girl was not
only of exceptional beauty, but also of a rank in life very different
from that of the shabby pilgrims who tramped beside her. When at last
they arrived the service was already in full swing and the temple
crowded to overflowing; for most of the pilgrims in whose company the
party from Tsukushi had set out from the city were sturdy-legged
peasants and working people who had pressed on through Tsuba without a
moment’s rest and long ago secured their places in the holy building.
Ukon, being an habitual visitor to the temple, was at once conducted
to a place which had been reserved for her immediately to the right
of the Main Altar. But Tamakatsura and her party, who had never been
there before and had, moreover, the misfortune to fall into the hands
of a very unenterprising verger, found themselves bundled away into the
western transept. Ukon from her place of privilege soon caught sight
of them and beckoned to them to join her. After a hasty consultation
with her son, during the course of which the nurse appeared to be
explaining, so far as was possible in a few words, who Ukon was and why
she had beckoned, the women of the party pushed their way towards the
altar, leaving Bugo no Suke and his two followers where the incompetent
sacristan had placed them. Though Ukon was in herself a person of no
consequence, she was known to be in Genji's service, and that alone,
as she had long ago discovered, was sufficient to secure her from
interference, even in such a place as this. Let the herd gape if they
chose and ask one another with indignation why two ill-dressed women
from the provinces, who had arrived at the last minute, were calmly
seating themselves in places reserved for the gentry. Ukon was not
going to have her young lady wedged into a corner or jostled by the
common crowd. She longed to get into conversation at once; but the
critical moment in the service had just arrived and she was obliged to
remain kneeling with head lowered. So it had come at last, this meeting
for which she had prayed year in and year out! And now it only remained
that Genji, who had so often begged her to find out what had become
of Yūgao's child, should welcome the discovery (as she felt sure he
would) and by his influence restore to this unhappy lady the place
at Court to which her birth entitled her. Such indeed was the purport
of her prayer as she now knelt at the altar by Tamakatsura’s side.
In the crowded temple were pilgrims from every province in the land.
Among them the wife of the Governor of Yamato Province was conspicuous
for her elegance and consequential air, for most of the worshippers
were simple country people, very unfashionably dressed. Sanjō, who,
after so many years passed in barbarous Tsukushi, had quite forgotten
how town people get themselves up for occasions such as this, could
not take her eyes off the magnificent lady. ‘Hark ye,’ she said at
last in an awe-struck whisper to the nurse, ‘I don’t know what you’re
a-going to pray for to our Lady Kwannon. But I’m a-praying that if
our dear young lady can’t be wife to the Lord-Lieutenant[104] (as I
have always hoped she might be), then let her marry a Governor of this
fine province of Yamato. For a grander lady than that one there I’m
sure I've never seen! “Just do that,” I said to Lady Kwannon in my
prayer, “and you’ll be surprised at the wonderful offerings poor old
Sanjō will bring to your altar.”’ And smiting her forehead with her
hand, she began again to pray with immense fervour. ‘Well,’ said Ukon,
astonished by this extraordinary speech. ‘You _have_ become a regular
country-woman; there’s no doubt about it. Don’t you know that Madam
is Tō no Chūjō’s own daughter? That’s enough in itself; but now that
Prince Genji, who for her mother’s sake, would do anything for her, has
come into his own again, do you suppose there is any gentleman in the
land who would be too good for her? It would be a sad come-down indeed
if she were to become some paltry Governor’s wife!’ But Sanjō was not
thus to be put out of countenance. ‘Pardon me,’ she said hotly; ‘I
don’t know much about your Prince Genjis or such-like. But I do know
that I’ve seen the Lord-Lieutenant’s wife and all her train on their
way to the temple of Our Lady Kwannon at Kiyomizu, and I can tell you
the Emperor himself never rode out in such state! So don’t try to put
_me_ in my place!’ and unabashed the old woman resumed her attitude of
prayer.
The party from Tsukushi had arranged to stay three days within the
precincts of the temple, and Ukon, though she had not at first intended
to stay for so long, now sent for her favourite priest and asked him
to procure her a lodging; for she hoped that these days of Retreat
would afford her a chance of talking things over quietly with the old
nurse. The priest knew by long experience just what she wanted written
on the prayer-strips which he was to place in the holy lamps, and
at once began scribbling ‘On behalf of Lady Fujiwara no Ruri I make
these offerings and burn....’ ‘That is quite right,’ said Ukon (for
Fujiwara no Ruri was the false name by which she had always referred
to Tamakatsura in discussing the matter with her spiritual adviser);
‘all the usual texts will do, but I want you to pray harder than ever
to-day. For I have at last been fortunate enough to meet the young lady
and am more anxious than ever that my prayer for her happiness may be
fulfilled.’
‘There!’ said the priest triumphantly. ‘Was there ever a clearer case?
Met her? Dear Madam, of course you have. That is just what I have been
praying for night and day ever since you were here last.’ And much
encouraged by this success he set to work once more and was hard at it
till daylight came. Then the whole party, at Ukon’s invitation, moved
to the lodgings that her _daitoko_[105] had reserved for her. Here if
anywhere she felt that she would be able to embark upon the story
which she found so difficult to tell.
At last she was able to have a good look at the child for whose
happiness she had prayed during so many years. Tamakatsura was
undeniably ill-dressed and somewhat embarrassed in the presence of
strangers whom she felt to be taking stock of her appearance; but
Ukon was unfeignedly delighted with her, and burst out: ‘Though I am
sure I never had any right to expect it, it so happens that I have
had the good luck to see as much of fine ladies and gentlemen as any
serving-woman in the City. There’s Prince Genji’s own lady, Madam
Murasaki—I see her nearly every day. What a handsome young thing! I
thought there could be no one to compare with her. But now there’s this
little daughter from Akashi.[106] Of course she is only a child at
present. But she grows prettier every day, and it would not surprise me
if in the end she put all our other young ladies to shame. Of course
they dress that child in such fine clothes and make such a fuss of
her that it is hard to compare her with other children. Whereas our
young lady (she whispered to the nurse) dressed as she is at this
very minute, would hold her own against any of them, I dare swear she
would. I have sometimes heard Prince Genji himself say that of the
many beauties whom he has known, whether at Court or elsewhere since
his father’s time, the present Emperor’s mother[107] and the little
girl born at Akashi stand apart from all the rest. Not one other has
he known of whom you could say without fear of contradiction from any
living soul that she was perfection itself from tip to toe. Those
were his words; but for my own part I never knew Lady Fujitsubo; and
charming though the little princess from Akashi may be, she is still
little more than a baby, and when Prince Genji speaks of her in
these terms, he is but guessing at the future. He did not mention Lady
Murasaki at all in this conversation, but I know quite well that in
his heart of hearts he puts her above all the rest—so far indeed that
he would never dream of mentioning her in such a reckoning as this;
and, great gentleman though he is, I have heard him tell her again and
again that she deserves a husband a thousand times better than he. I
have often thought that having had about him at the start such peerless
ladies as those whom I have mentioned, he might well chance to end his
days without once finding their like. But now I see that I was wrong;
for Madam here is fully their match. Trust me, I shall not say anything
high-flown, nor would he listen to fine phrases such as “The light that
shines from her countenance is brighter than Buddha’s golden rays.” I
shall just say “See her, and you will not be disappointed.”’ So said
Ukon, smiling benevolently at the company. But the nurse, who knew
nothing, it must be remembered, of Genji’s connection with Yūgao nor of
any reason why he should interest himself in Tamakatsura, was somewhat
disconcerted. ‘I am sure I thank you very heartily for suggesting
this,’ she said; ‘and indeed you will believe that no one cares more
for this young lady’s future than I do, when I tell you that I gave up
house and hearth, quitted sons, daughters and friends, and came back to
the City which is now as strange to me as some foreign town—all this
only for Lady Tamakatsura’s sake; for I hated to see her wasting her
youth in a dismal place where there was not a soul for her to speak
to.... No indeed! I should be the last person to interfere with any
plan that promises to bring her to her own again; and I am sure that
among the grand people whom you have mentioned she would have a much
better chance of doing something for herself in the world.... But I
must say that, with her father at Court all the while, it seems
to me a queer thing to quarter her on a perfect stranger. Perhaps I
do not quite understand what you propose ... but wouldn’t it be more
natural to tell her father that she is here and give him a chance of
acknowledging her? That is what we have been trying to do, and we shall
be very glad if you would help us.’ The conversation was overheard
by Tamakatsura; she felt very uncomfortable at being thus publicly
discussed and, shifting impatiently in her seat, sat with her back
to the talkers. ‘I see you think I am taking too much upon myself,’
said Ukon. ‘I know quite well that I am no one at all. But all the
same Prince Genji often sends for me to wait upon him and likes me
sometimes to tell him about anything interesting that I have seen or
heard. On one occasion I told him the story of Madam here—how she had
been left motherless and carried off to some distant province (for so
much I had heard). His Highness was much moved by the story, begged me
to make further enquiries and at once let him know all that I could
discover....’ ‘I do not doubt,’ said the nurse, ‘that Prince Genji is
a very fine gentleman. But it seems from what you tell me that he has
a wife of whom he is fond and several other ladies living with him as
well. He may for the moment have been interested in your story; but I
cannot imagine why you should suppose he wants to adopt her, when her
own father is so close at hand. It would oblige me if you would first
help us to inform Tō no Chūjō of Madam’s arrival. If nothing comes of
that....’
Ukon could keep up her end no longer. Unless she told the nurse
of Genji’s connection with Yūgao, further conversation would be
impossible. And having got so far as to confess that Genji had known
Yūgao, Ukon plunging desperately on finally managed to tell the whole
terrible story. ‘Do not think,’ she said at last, ‘that Genji has
forgotten all this, or will ever do so. It has been his one desire
since that day to find some means of expiating, in however small a
degree, the guilt which brought my lady to her unhappy end; and often
I have heard him long that he might one day be able to bring such
happiness to Lady Yūgao’s child as would in some sort make amends for
all that she had lost. Indeed, having few children, he has always
planned, if she could but be found, to adopt her as his own, and he
begged me to speak of her always as a child of his, whom he had placed
with country folk to be nursed.
‘But in those days I had seen very little of the world and was so
much scared by all that had happened that I dared not go about making
enquiries. At last I chanced one day to see your husband’s name in a
list of provincial clerks. I even saw him, though at some distance,
the day he went to the Prime Minister’s palace to receive confirmation
of his new appointment. I suppose I ought to have spoken to him then;
but somehow or other I could not bring myself to do so. Sometimes I
imagined that you had left Lady Tamakatsura behind, at the house in the
Fifth Ward; for the thought of her being brought up as a little peasant
girl on the island was more than I could endure....’
So they spent the day, now talking, now praying, or again amusing
themselves by watching the hordes of pilgrims who were constantly
arriving at the temple gate. Under their windows ran a river called
the Hatsuse, and Ukon now recited the acrostic poem: ‘Had I not
entered the gate that the Twin Fir-Trees guard, would the old river of
our days e’er have resumed its flow?’ To this Tamakatsura answered:
‘Little knew I of those early days as this river knows of the hill from
whence it sprang.’ She sat gently weeping. But Ukon made no effort to
comfort her, feeling that now all was on the right path. Considering
Tamakatsura’s upbringing no one would have blamed her if there had
been a little country roughness, a shade of over-simplicity in her
manner. Ukon could not imagine how the old nurse had achieved so
remarkable a feat of education, and thanked her again and again for
what she had done. Yūgao’s ways had till the last been timid, docile,
almost child-like; but about her daughter there was not a trace of all
this. Tamakatsura, despite her shyness, had an air of self-assurance,
even of authority. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Ukon to herself, ‘Tsukushi is not
by any means so barbarous a place as one is led to suppose.’ She began
thinking of all the Tsukushi people she had known; each individual she
could recall was more coarse-mannered and uneducated than the last. No;
nurse’s achievement remained a mystery.
At dusk they all went back to the temple, where they stayed that night
and most of the following day, absorbed in various spiritual exercises.
A cold autumn wind was blowing from the valley, and at its cruel touch
the miseries of the past rose up one by one before Shōni’s widow as she
knelt shivering at the Main Altar. But all these sad memories vanished
instantly at the thought that the child upon whom she had lavished her
care would now take the place that was her birth-due. Ukon had told
her about the careers of Tō no Chūjō’s other children. They seemed all
of them to be remarkably prosperous, irrespective of the rank of their
various mothers, and this filled the old lady with an additional sense
of security.
At last the moment came to part. The two women exchanged addresses
and set out upon their different ways: Ukon to a little house Genji
had given her, not far away from his new palace; the others to their
lodgings in the Ninth Ward. No sooner had they parted than Ukon was
suddenly seized with a panic lest Tamakatsura should attempt to evade
her, as Yūgao had fled from Chūjō in days of old; and constantly
running between her house and theirs, she had not a moment’s peace of
mind. It was soon time for Ukon to be back at the new palace, and she
was not loath to end her holiday, for she was in a hurry to obtain an
interview with Genji and inform him of her success. She could not get
used to this new mansion, and from the moment she entered the gates she
was always astonished by the vastness of the place. Yet so great was
nowadays the number of coaches driving[108] in and out, that the crush
was appalling and Ukon began to wonder if she would ever get to the
house.
She was not sent for that night, and lay tossing about on her bed,
thinking how best to make known her discovery. Next day, though it
so happened that a large number of ladies-in-waiting and other young
people had just returned from their holidays, Murasaki sent specially
for old Ukon, who was delighted by this compliment. ‘What a long
holiday you have been having!’ cried Genji to her when she entered.
‘When you were last here you looked like some dismal old widow-lady,
and here you are looking quite skittish! Something very nice must have
happened to you; what was it?’ ‘Sir,’ she answered, ‘it is quite true
that I have been away from the City for a whole week; but I don’t know
whether anything has happened that you would call nice. I have been
over the hills to Hatsuse (on foot too!), and came across someone
whom I was glad to meet again.’ ‘Who was that?’ asked Genji quickly,
and she was about to tell him when it occurred to her that it would
be much better to tell him separately, on some occasion when Murasaki
was not present. But then perhaps the whole thing would come round to
Murasaki’s ears and her mistress would be offended that Ukon had not
told her first.... It was a difficult situation. ‘Well then if you
must know ...’ Ukon was beginning, when suddenly there was a fresh
incursion of visitors, and she was obliged to withdraw. But later in
the day, when the great lamp had been brought in and Genji was sitting
quietly with Murasaki, he said that he would soon be ready for bed, and
sent for Ukon to give him his evening massage.
Lady Murasaki was now almost twenty-eight, but never (thought the old
woman when she arrived) had she looked so handsome. It seemed indeed
as though her full charm had only just matured. Ukon had not seen her
mistress at close quarters for some months past, and could now have
sworn that even in that short space of time Lady Murasaki had grown
twice as handsome. And yet Ukon had no fears for Yūgao’s daughter.
There was indeed an undeniable difference between this splendid
princess and the shy girl from Tsukushi. But it was only the difference
between obscurity and success; a single turn of fortune would quickly
redress the balance.
‘I do not like being massaged by the new young maids,’ Genji said to
Ukon when she arrived. ‘They let me see so plainly how much it bores
them to do it. I much prefer some one I have known for a long time ...
you, for example.’ No such preference had ever been noticed by those
about him, and smiles were secretly exchanged. They realized that Genji
had only said this in order to please and flatter the old lady. But
it was far from true that any of them had ever been otherwise than
delighted at the reception of such a command, and they thought the
joke rather a tiresome one. ‘Would you be angry with me, if I took to
consorting with elderly ladies?’ he whispered to Murasaki. ‘Yes,’ she
nodded, ‘I think I should. With you one never knows where one is. I
should be very much perturbed....’ All the while she was at work Genji
amused the old lady with his talk. Never had Ukon seen him so lively
and amiable. He had now placed the whole direction of public
affairs in Tō no Chūjō’s hands; the experiment was working well, and
such was Genji’s relief at escaping from the burden which had so long
oppressed him that he found it impossible to be serious for a minute.
To joke with Ukon, a very matter-of-fact old lady, was found by most
people to be out of the question. But Genji had a peculiar gift of
sympathy, which enabled him to penetrate the most obstinate gloom, the
most imperturbable gravity.
‘Tell me about the interesting person whom you have discovered,’ he
went on. ‘I believe it is another of your holy men. You have brought
him back here, and now I am to let him pray for me. Have I not guessed
right?’ ‘No, indeed,’ Ukon answered indignantly; ‘I should never dream
of doing such a thing!’ And then, lowering her voice: ‘I have become
acquainted with the daughter of a lady whom I served long ago.... The
mother came to a miserable end.... You will know of whom it is I am
speaking.’ ‘Yes,’ said Genji ... ‘I know well enough, and your news is
indeed very different from anything I had imagined. Where has the child
been during all these years?’ ‘In the country,’ answered Ukon vaguely;
this did not seem a good moment for going into the whole story. ‘Some
of the old servants took charge of the child,’ she continued, ‘and are
still in her service now that she has grown up. They of course knew
nothing of the circumstances under which their former mistress.... It
was torture to speak of it; but I managed at last to tell them....’
‘I think we had better talk about this some other time,’ Genji
interrupted, drawing Ukon aside. But Murasaki had overheard them. ‘Pray
do not trouble about me,’ she said with a yawn. ‘I am half-asleep in
any case; and if it is something I am not to hear....’ So saying she
covered her ears with her sleeves.
‘Is she as handsome as her mother?’ Genji then asked. ‘I did not
at all expect that she would be,’ answered Ukon. ‘But I must say that I
have seldom seen....’ ‘I am sure she is _pretty_,’ he said. ‘I wonder
whether you mean anything more than that. Compared with my Lady...?’
and he nodded towards Lady Murasaki. ‘No, indeed,’ said Ukon hastily;
‘that would be going too far....’ ‘Come,’ he said; ‘it would not be
going much farther than you go yourself. I can see that by your face.
For my part, I must own to the usual vanity of parents. I hope that
I shall be able to see in her some slight resemblance to myself.’ He
said this because he intended to pass off the girl as his own child,
and was afraid that part of the conversation had been overheard.
Having learnt so much, he could not resist the temptation to hear the
whole of Ukon’s story, and presently he took her into a side-room,
where they could discuss the matter undisturbed. ‘Well,’ he said, when
Ukon had satisfied his curiosity, ‘I have quite made up my mind what
to do with her. She shall come and live with me here. For years past
I have constantly wondered what had become of her, and dreaded lest
she should be throwing away her youth in some dismal, unfrequented
place. I am delighted indeed that you have re-discovered her. My only
misgiving concerns her father. I suppose I ought at once to tell him of
her return. But I do not quite see how to set about it; for he knows
nothing of my connection with Lady Yūgao, and I have never been able
to see that there was any use in enlightening him. He has already more
children than he knows what to do with, and the arrival in his house
of a fully-grown girl, whom he has not set eyes on since she was a
child-in-arms, would merely be a nuisance to him. It seems much simpler
that I, who have so small a family, should take charge of her; and it
is easy enough to give out that she is a daughter of mine, whom
I have been educating in the quiet of the country. If what you say of
her is true, it is certain that she will be a great deal run after. The
charge of such a girl needs immense tact and care; I do not think it
would be fair to saddle Tō no Chūjō with so great a responsibility.’
‘That shall be as your Highness decides,’ answered Ukon. ‘I am sure,
at any rate, that if _you_ do not tell Tō no Chūjō, no one else will.
And for my part I had rather she should go to you than to any one else.
For I am certain you are anxious to make what amends you can for your
part in leading Yūgao to her miserable fate; and what better way could
there be to do this, than by promoting her daughter’s happiness by
every means in your power?’ ‘The fact that I ruined the mother might to
some people seem a strange reason for claiming custody of the child,’
said Genji smiling; but his eyes were filled with tears. ‘My love for
her still fills a great part of my thoughts,’ he said after a pause.
‘You must think that a strange thing for me to say, considering how my
household is now arranged.... And it is true that in the years since
her death I have formed many deep attachments. But, believe it or not
as you will, by no one has my heart ever been stirred as it was by your
dear mistress in those far-off days. You have known me long enough
to see for yourself that I am not one in whom such feelings lightly
come and go. It has been an unspeakable comfort to me during all these
years that to you at least I could sometimes talk of your mistress,
sometimes ease my longing. But that was not enough. I yearned for some
object dear to her upon which I could lavish ceaseless pains and care.
What could be more to my purpose than that this orphaned child of hers
should thus be entrusted to my protection?’
His next step must be a letter to Tamakatsura herself. He remembered
Suyetsumu’s extreme incapacity in this direction, and feared
that Tamakatsura, after her strange upbringing, might prove to be a
hundred times more hesitating and inefficient. It was therefore in
order to know the worst as soon as possible that he now lost no time in
addressing her. His letter was full of the friendliest assurances; in
the margin was written the poem: ‘It shows not from afar; but seek and
you shall find it, the marsh-flower of the Island. For from the ancient
stem new shoots for ever spring.’
Ukon herself was the bearer of this letter; she also reported much of
what Genji had said to her, especially such expressions of cordiality
and goodwill as would tend to allay Tamakatsura’s apprehensions. He
also sent many handsome stuffs and dresses, with presents for her
nurse and other members of the party. With Murasaki’s consent the
Mistress-of-Robes had gone through all the store-cupboards and laid out
before him an immense display of costumes, from which he chose those
that were most distinctive in colour and design, thinking to astonish
and delight an eye used to the home-spuns of Tsukushi.
Had all this kindness, nay even the smallest part of it, proceeded from
her own father, Tamakatsura would indeed have been happy. But to be
thus indebted to some one whom she had never seen and upon whom she had
not the smallest claim, was an uncomfortable experience. As for taking
up residence in his house—the prospect appalled her. But Ukon insisted
that such an offer could not be refused; and those about her argued
that so soon as she was decently set up in the world, her father would
repent of his negligence and speedily lay claim to her. ‘That a mere
nobody like old Ukon should be in a position to do any service at all
is in itself a miracle,’ they said, ‘and could not have happened were
not some God or Buddha on our side. For her to send a message to Tō
no Chūjō is, compared with what she has already done, the merest
trifle, and so soon as we are all more comfortably settled....’ Thus
her friends encouraged her. But, whether she accepted his invitation or
not, civility demanded that she must at least reply to his poem. She
knew that he would regard her cadences and handwriting very critically,
expecting something hopelessly countrified and out-of-date. This made
the framing of an answer all the more embarrassing. She chose a Chinese
paper, very heavily scented. ‘Some fault there must be in the stem of
this marsh-flower. Else it had not been left unheeded amid the miry
meadows by the sea.’ Such was her poem. It was written in rather faint
ink and Genji, as he eagerly scanned it, thought the hand lacking in
force and decision. But there was breeding and distinction in it, more
indeed than he had dared to look for; and on the whole he felt much
relieved.
The next thing was to decide in what part of the house she was to
live. In Murasaki’s southern wing there was not a room to spare. The
Empress Akikonomu was obliged by her rank to live in considerable
state. Etiquette forbade that she should ever appear without a numerous
train of followers, and her suite had been designed to accommodate an
almost indefinite number of gentlewomen. There was plenty of room for
Tamakatsura here; but in such quarters she would tend to become lost
amid the horde of Akikonomu’s gentlewomen, and to put her in such a
place at all would indeed seem as though he expected her to assist in
waiting upon the Empress. The only considerable free space in the house
was the wing which he had built to contain his official papers. These
had for the most part been handed over to Tō no Chūjō, and what was
still left could easily be housed elsewhere. The advantage of those
quarters was that Tamakatsura would here be the close neighbour of
the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, whose sensible and
affectionate nature would, he was sure, prove a great comfort to the
new arrival. And now that all was ready, it seemed to him impossible
to instal Tamakatsura in his household without revealing to Murasaki
the whole truth about the girl’s identity and his own dealings with her
mother. No sooner had he begun the story than he saw plainly enough
that she was vexed with him for having made a mystery of the matter
for so long. ‘I see that you are vexed,’ he said, ‘that I did not tell
you about all this before. But you have always known quite well that
I had many such attachments as this in the days before I knew you,
and I have never seen that there was any point in mentioning them,
unless some special circumstance made it necessary to do so. In the
present case, it is essential that some one should be acquainted with
all the facts, and I chose you rather than another merely because you
are a thousand times dearer to me than any of the rest.’ Then he told
her the whole story of his dealings with Yūgao. It was apparent to
her that he was deeply moved, and at the same time that he took great
pleasure in recalling every detail of their relationship. ‘Conversation
turns often upon such matters,’ he said at last, ‘and I have heard
innumerable stories of women’s blind devotion, even in cases where
their love was in no degree reciprocated. Passion such as this is
indeed rarely long withstood even by those who have gravely determined
to rule out of their lives every species of romance; and I have seen
many who have instantly succumbed. But such love as Yūgao’s, such utter
self-forgetfulness, so complete a surrender of the whole being to one
single and ever-present emotion—I have never seen or heard of, and were
she alive she would certainly be occupying no less important a place in
my palace than, for example, the Lady of Akashi is occupying to-day....
In many ways, of course, she fell short of perfection, as indeed
is bound to be the case. She was not of great intelligence, nor
was her beauty flawless. But she was a singularly lovable creature....’
‘Were she as much in your good graces as the Lady of Akashi, she would
have nothing to complain of ...’ broke in Murasaki suddenly; for the
Akashi episode still rankled sore. The little princess,[109] who
constantly visited Murasaki’s rooms, was playing with her toys not
far away, and Murasaki seeing her look so innocent and pretty, in her
childlessness forgave Genji the infidelity which had brought to her so
charming a little playmate and companion.
These things happened in the ninth month; but Tamakatsura’s actual
arrival could not take place for some while afterwards, for though her
quarters had been chosen she still lacked attendants. The first thing
was to find her some pretty pages and serving-girls. Even in Tsukushi
the old nurse had managed to procure some very passable children
to wait upon her; for it sometimes happened that some one from the
City, having fallen upon evil days, would get stranded on the Island
and be glad to place his boy or girl in a respectable home. But in
the sudden flight from Tsukushi all these young people had been left
behind. Orders were given to market-women and trades-people to keep
their eyes open and report upon any suitable children whom they came
across; and in this way, as could scarcely fail to happen in so vast a
town, a fine batch of attendants was quickly brought together. Nothing
was said to them about Tamakatsura’s rank, and they were mustered
in Ukon’s own house, whither Tamakatsura herself now repaired, that
her wardrobe might be finally inspected, her staff fitted out with
proper costumes and instructed in their duties. The move to Genji’s
Palace took place in the tenth month. He had already visited the Lady
from the Village of Falling Flowers and prepared her for the
arrival of her new neighbours: ‘A lady to whom I was much attached,
being seized with a sudden melancholy, fled from the Court and soon
afterwards ended her days in a remote country place. She left behind a
daughter, of whom I could for years obtain no news. All this happened
many years ago and this daughter is now of course a full-grown woman;
but though I have been making enquiries ever since it was only quite
recently (and in the most accidental way) that I at last obtained a
clue. I at once determined to invite her to my palace, and I am going
to give her quarters close to yours, in the unused Record Office. To
one motherless child of mine you have already shown infinite kindness,
and have not, I think, found the care of him unduly irksome. If you
will do for this new-comer what you have been doing for Prince Yūgiri,
I shall be deeply thankful to you. She has been brought up in very
humble and rustic surroundings. In many ways she must be ill-prepared
for the life which she will lead in such a place as this. I hope
that you will instruct her ...’ and he made many suggestions for
Tamakatsura’s polite education. ‘I had no idea,’ the Lady replied,
‘that you had more than one daughter. However, I am extremely glad, if
only for the Akashi child’s sake. I am sure she will be delighted to
find that she has a sister....’ ‘The mother,’ said Genji, ‘was the most
gentle and confiding creature I have ever encountered. This girl, Lady
Tamakatsura, doubtless resembles her; and since you yourself are the
easiest person to get on with....’ ‘I have so much time on my hands,’
she answered quickly. ‘Some one of my own sort to look after and advise
a little.... That is just what I long for.’
Genji’s own servants and retainers had been told nothing save that a
strange lady was shortly to arrive. ‘I wonder whom he has picked up
this time?’ one of them said. ‘I don’t believe this is a fresh
affair,’ said another. ‘In all probability she is only some discarded
mistress who needs looking after for a time....’
The party arrived in three carriages. As Ukon had superintended every
detail, the whole turn-out was quite adequately stylish, or at any rate
did not betray such rusticity as to attract attention. On their arrival
they found their quarters stacked with all sorts of presents from
Genji. He gave them time to settle in, and did not call till late the
same night. Long, long ago Tamakatsura used often to hear him spoken of
in terms of extravagant admiration; ‘Genji the Shining One,’ that was
what people had called him. All the rest she had forgotten; for hers
had been a life from which tales of Courts and palaces seemed so remote
that she had scarcely heeded them. And now when through a chink in her
curtains-of-state she caught a glimpse of him—vague enough, for the
room was lit only by the far distant rays of the great lamp beyond the
partition—her feeling was one of admiration, but (could it be so, she
asked herself) of downright terror.
Ukon had flung open both halves of the heavy maindoor and was now
obsequiously ushering him into the room. ‘You should not have done
that,’ he protested. ‘You are making too much of my entry. No such
ceremonies are necessary when one inmate of this house takes it into
his head to visit another,’ and he seated himself alongside her
curtained chair. ‘This dim light too,’ he continued, addressing Ukon,
‘may seem to you very romantic. But Lady Tamakatsura has consented
to make believe that she is my daughter, and family meetings such as
this require a better illumination. Do you not agree?’ And with this
he slightly raised one corner of her curtain. She looked extremely shy
and was sitting, as he now discovered, with face half-turned away.
But he knew at once that as far as looks were concerned she was
not going to cause him any anxiety. ‘Could we not have a little more
light?’ he said, turning again to Ukon. ‘It is so irritating....’ Ukon
lit a candle and came towards them holding it aloft in her hand. ‘It
is rather heavy work to get started!’ he whispered, smiling. ‘Things
will go better presently.’ Even the way she hung her head, as though
frightened of meeting his eyes, reminded him so vividly of Yūgao that
it was impossible for him to treat her as a stranger; instinctively
indeed he began to speak to her in a tone of complete familiarity as
though they had shared the same house all their lives: ‘I have been
hunting high and low for you ever since you were a baby,’ he said, ‘and
now that I have found you, and see you sitting there with a look that I
know so well, it is more than I can bear. I wanted so much to talk to
you, but now ...’ and he paused to wipe the tears from his eyes, whilst
there rushed to his mind a thousand tender recollections of Yūgao and
her incomparable ways. ‘I doubt,’ he said at last, reckoning up the
years since her death, ‘whether true parent has ever reclaimed a child
after so long a search as I have made for you. Indeed so long a time
has passed that you are already a woman of judgment and experience, and
can tell me a far more interesting story of all that has befallen you
on that island of yours than could be told by a mere child. I have that
compensation at least for having met you so late....’
What would she tell him? For a long while she hung her head in silence.
At last she said shyly: ‘Pray remember that like the leech-child,[110]
at three years old I was set adrift upon the ocean. Since then I
have been stranded in a place where only such things could befall me
as to you would seem nothing at all.’ Her voice died away at the end
of the sentence with a half-childish murmur, exactly as her mother’s
had done long ago. ‘I was “sorry for you” indeed,’ he said, ‘when I
heard whither you had drifted. But I am going to see to it now that no
one shall ever be sorry for you again.’ She said no more that night;
but her one short reply had convinced him that she was by no means a
nonentity, and he went back to his own quarters feeling confident that
there could be no difficulty in launching her upon a suitable career.
‘Poor Tamakatsura has lived in the country for so long,’ he said to
Murasaki later,’ that it would not at all have surprised me to find her
very boorish, and I was prepared to make every allowance.... But on the
contrary she seems very well able to hold her own. It will be amusing
to watch the effect upon our friends when it becomes known that this
girl is living in the house. I can well imagine the flutter into which
she will put some of them,—my half-brother Prince Sochi no Miya for
example. The reason that quite lively and amusing people often look so
gloomy when they come here is that there have been no attractions of
this kind. We must make as much play with her as possible; it will be
such fun to see which of our acquaintances become brisker, and which
remain as solemn as ever.’ ‘You are certainly the strangest “father”!’
exclaimed Murasaki. The first thing you think of is how to use her as
a bait to the more unprincipled among your friends. It is monstrous!’
‘If only I had thought of it in time,’ he laughed, ‘I see now how
splendidly you would have served for the same purpose. It was silly of
me not to think of it; but, somehow or other, I preferred to keep you
all to myself. She flushed slightly as he said this, looking younger
and more charming than ever. Sending for his ink-stone Genji now
wrote on a practising-slip the poem: ‘Save that both she and I have
common cause to mourn, my own is she no more than a false lock worn
upon an aged head.’[111] Seeing him sigh heavily and go about muttering
to himself, Murasaki knew that his love for Yūgao had been no mere
boyish fancy, but an affair that had stirred his nature to its depths.
Yūgiri, having been told that a half-sister (of whose existence he
had never heard) was come to live with them in the palace, and that
he ought to make friends with her and make her feel at home, at once
rushed round to her rooms, saying: ‘I do not count for very much, I
know; but since we are brother and sister, I think you might have sent
for me before. If only I had known who you were, I would have been so
glad to help you to unpack your things. I do think you might have told
me....’ ‘Poor young gentleman,’ thought Ukon, who was close at hand;
‘this is really too bad. How long will they let him go on in this
style, thinking all the while she is his sister? I don’t think it’s
fair....’
The contrast between her present way of life and the days at Tsukushi
was staggering. Here every elegance, every convenience appeared as
though by magic; there the simplest articles could be procured only
by endless contriving, and when found were soiled, dilapidated,
out-of-date. Here Prince Genji claimed her as his daughter, Prince
Yūgiri as his sister.... ‘Now these,’ thought old Sanjō, ‘really are
fine gentlemen. However I came to have such a high opinion of that
Lord-Lieutenant I do not know!’ And when she remembered what airs a
miserable creature like Tayū had given himself on the Island, she
almost expired with indignation.
That Bugo no Suke had acted with rare courage and wisdom in
planning the sudden flight from Tsukushi was readily admitted by
Genji when Ukon had laid all the circumstances before him. It was
unlikely that any stranger would serve Tamakatsura with such devotion
as this foster-brother had shown, and in drawing up for her a list
of gentlemen-in-attendance, Genji saw to it that Bugo no Suke’s name
should figure among them.
Never in his wildest dreams had it occurred to Bugo no Suke that he,
a plain Tsukushi yeoman, would ever set foot in a Minister’s palace;
nay, would in all his living days so much as set eyes on such a place.
And here he was, not merely walking in and out just as he chose, but
going with the lords and ladies wherever they went, and even arranging
their affairs for them and ordering about their underlings as though
they were his own. And to crown his content, no day passed but brought
to his mistress some ingenious intention, some well-devised if trifling
act of kindness from their host himself.
At the end of the year there took place the usual distribution of
stuff for spring clothes, and Genji was determined that the new-comer
should not feel that she had come off worse than the greatest ladies in
the house. But he feared that, graceful and charming though she was,
her taste in dress must necessarily be somewhat rustic, and among the
silks which he gave her he determined also to send a certain number of
woven dresses, that she might be gently guided towards the fashions
of the day. The gentlewomen of the palace, each anxious to prove that
there was nothing she did not know about the latest shapes of bodice
and kirtle, set to work with such a will that when they brought their
wares for Genji’s inspection, he exclaimed: ‘I fear your zeal has been
excessive. If all my presents are to be on this scale (and I have no
desire to excite jealousy), I shall indeed be hard put to it.’ So
saying he had his store-rooms ransacked for fine stuffs; and Murasaki
came to the rescue with many of the costly robes which he had from
time to time given her for her own wardrobe. All these were now laid
out and inspected. Murasaki had a peculiar talent in such matters,
and there was not a woman in all the world who chose her dyes with a
subtler feeling for colour, as Genji very well knew. Dress after dress
was now brought in fresh from the beating-room, and Genji would choose
some robe now for its marvellous dark red, now for some curious and
exciting pattern or colour-blend, and have it laid aside. ‘This one in
the box at the end,’ he would say, handing some dress to one of the
waiting-women who were standing beside the long narrow clothes-boxes;
or ‘Try this one in your box.’ ‘You seem to be making a very just
division, and I am sure no one ought to feel aggrieved. But, if I may
make a suggestion, would it not be better to think whether the stuffs
will suit the complexions of their recipient rather than whether
they look nice in the box?’ ‘I know just why you said that,’ Genji
laughed. ‘You want me to launch out into a discussion of each lady’s
personal charms, in order that you may know in what light she appears
to me. I am going to turn the tables. You shall have for your own
whichever of my stuffs you like, and by your choice I shall know how
_you_ regard _yourself_.’ ‘I have not the least idea what I look like,’
she answered, blushing slightly; ‘after all, I am the last person in
the world to consult upon the subject. One never sees oneself except
in the mirror....’ After much debating, the presents were distributed
as follows: to Murasaki herself, a kirtle yellow without and flowered
within, lightly diapered with the red plum-blossom crest—a marvel of
modern dyeing. To the Akashi child, a long close-fitting dress, white
without, yellow within, the whole seen through an outer facing of
shimmering red gauze. To the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers
he gave a light blue robe with a pattern of sea-shells woven into it.
Lovely though the dress was as an example of complicated weaving,
it would have been too light in tone had it not been covered with a
somewhat heavy russet floss.
To Tamakatsura he sent, among other gifts, a close-fitting dress
with a pattern of mountain-kerria woven upon a plain red background.
Murasaki seemed scarcely to have glanced at it; but all the while,
true to Genji’s surmise, she was guessing the meaning of this choice.
Like her father Tō no Chūjō, Tamakatsura (she conjectured) was
doubtless good-looking; but certainly lacked his liveliness and love
of adventure. Murasaki had no idea that she had in any way betrayed
what was going on in her mind and was surprised when Genji suddenly
said: ‘In the end this matching of dresses and complexions breaks down
entirely and one gives almost at hazard. I can never find anything
that does justice to my handsome friends, or anything that it does
not seem a shame to waste on the ugly ones ...’ and so saying he
glanced with a smile at the present which was about to be dispatched
to Suyetsumu, a dress white without and green within, what is called a
‘willow-weaving,’ with an elegant Chinese vine-scroll worked upon it.
To the Lady of Akashi he sent a white kirtle with a spray of
plum-blossom on it, and birds and butterflies fluttering hither and
thither, cut somewhat in the Chinese fashion, with a very handsome
dark purple lining. This also caught Murasaki’s observant eye and she
augured from it that the rival of whom Genji spoke to her so lightly
was in reality occupying a considerable place in his thoughts.
To Utsusemi, now turned nun, he sent a grey cloak, and, in addition,
a coat of his own which he knew she would remember—jasmine-sprinkled,
faced with Courtier’s crimson and lined with russet. In each box was a
note in which the recipient was begged to favour him by wearing these
garments during the Festival of the New Year. He had taken a great deal
of trouble over the business and could not imagine that any of the
presents was likely to meet with a very bad reception. And indeed the
satisfaction which he had given was soon evidenced not only by the
delighted letters which came pouring in, but also by the handsome
gratuities given to the bearers of these gifts. Suyetsumu was still
living at the old Nijō-in palace, and the messenger who brought her
present, having a quite considerable distance to travel, expected
something rather out of the ordinary in the way of a reward. But to
Suyetsumu these things were matters not of commerce, but of etiquette.
A present such as this was, she had been taught long ago, a species of
formal address which must be answered in the same language, and
fetching an orange-coloured gown, very much frayed at the cuffs, she
hung it over the messenger’s shoulders, attaching to it a letter
written on heavily scented Michinoku paper, which age had not only
considerably yellowed, but also bloated to twice its proper thickness.
‘Alas,’ she wrote, ‘your present serves but to remind me of your
absence. What pleasure can I take in a dress that you will never see me
wear?’ With this was the poem: ‘Was ever gift more heartless? Behold, I
send it back to you, your Chinese dress,—worn but an instant, yet
discoloured with the brine of tears.’ The handwriting, with its antique
flourishes, was admirably suited to the stilted sentiment of the poem.
Genji laughed afresh each time he read it and finally, seeing that
Murasaki was regarding him with astonishment, he handed her the
missive. Meanwhile he examined the bedraggled old frock with which the
discomfited messenger had been entrusted, with so rueful an expression
that the fellow edged behind the bystanders and finally slipped out of
the room, fearing that he had committed a grave breach of etiquette in
introducing so pitiful an object into the presence of the Exalted Ones.
His plight was the occasion of much whispering and laughter among his
fellow servants. But laugh as one might at the absurd scenes which the
princess’s archaic behaviour invariably provoked, the very fact that
adherence to bygone fashions could produce so ludicrous a result
suggested the most disquieting reflexions. ‘It is no laughing matter,’
said Genji. ‘Her “Chinese dress” and “discoloured with the brine of
tears” made me feel thoroughly uncomfortable. With the writers of a
generation or two ago every dress was “Chinese,” and, no matter what
the occasion of the poem, its sleeves were invariably soaked with
tears. But what about your poems and mine? Are they not every bit as
bad? Our tags may be different from those of the princess; but we use
them just as hard and when we come to write a poem are as impervious as
she is to the speech of our own day. And this is true not only of
amateurs such as ourselves, but of those whose whole reputation depends
on their supposed poetical gifts. Think of them at Court festivals,
with their eternal _madoi, madoi_.[112] It is a wonder they do not grow
tired of the word. A little while ago _adabito_ “Faithless one” was
used by well-bred lovers in every poem which they exchanged. They
declined it (“of the faithless one,” “from the faithless one” and so
on) in the third line, thus gaining time to think out their final
couplet. And so we all go on, poring over nicely stitched _Aids to
Song_, and when we have committed a sufficient number of phrases to
memory, producing them on the next occasion when they are required. It
is not a method which leads to very much variety.
‘But if we need a change, how much more does this unfortunate
princess whose scruples forbid her to open any book except these
old-fashioned collections of standard verse, written on dingy,
native paper, to which her father Prince Hitachi introduced her long
ago? Apart from these the only other reading which he seems to have
permitted her was the _Marrow of Native Song_. Unfortunately this book
consists almost entirely of “Faults to be avoided;” its comminations
and restrictions have but served to aggravate her natural lack of
facility. After such an education as this it is no wonder that her
compositions have a well-worn and familiar air.’
‘You are too severe,’ said Murasaki, pleading for the princess.
‘Whatever you may say, she managed this time to send an answer, and
promptly too. Pray let me have a copy of her poem that I may show it
to the Akashi child. I too used to have such books as the _Marrow of
Poesy_, but I do not know what has become of them. Probably book-worms
got into them and they were thrown away. I believe that to any one
unfamiliar with the old phrase-books Suyetsumu’s poem would seem
delightfully fanciful and original. Let us try....’ ‘Do nothing of
the kind,’ said Genji. ‘Her education would be ruined if she began to
take an interest in poetry. It is an accepted principle that however
great the aptitude which a girl may show for some branch of science
or art, she must beware of using it; for there is always a risk that
her mind may be unduly diverted from ordinary duties and pursuits. She
must know just so much of each subject that it cannot be said she has
entirely neglected it. Further than this, she can only go at the risk
of undermining the fortress of chastity or diminishing that softness of
manner without which no woman can be expected to please.’
But all this while he had forgotten that Suyetsumu’s letter
itself required a reply; indeed, as was pointed out by Murasaki, the
princess’s poem contained a hidden meaning which might be construed as
a direct plea for further consolation. It would have been very unlike
him not to have heeded such an appeal, and feeling that the standard
she had set was not a very exacting one, he dashed off the following
reply: ‘If heartlessness there be, not mine it is but yours, who
speak of sending back the coat that, rightly worn, brings dreams of
love.’[113]
[95] See vol. i, chapter iv.
[96] Tō no Chūjō’s child by Yūgao. Her name was Tamakatsura.
[97] The large southern island upon which the modern town of Nagasaki
stands.
[98] Tō no Chūjō.
[99] The God of the Sacred Mirror, at Matsura, in Hizen.
[100] Herself.
[101] See my _170 Chinese Poems_, p. 130.
[102] There is a story in Japan that the wife of the Chinese Emperor
Hsi Tsung (874–888 A.D.) was so ugly that she was nicknamed
‘Horse-head.’ In obedience to a dream she turned to the East
and prayed to the Kwannon of Hasegawa in Japan. Instantly there
appeared before her a figure carrying Kwannon's sacred
water-vessel. He dashed the water over her face and she became
the most beautiful woman in China.
[103] A short distance from the Hasegawa Temple.
[104] Of Tsukushi.
[105] I hesitate to use the word ‘Confessor.’
[106] Now about six years old.
[107] Fujitsubo.
[108] Pulled by servants, the oxen being unyoked at the Gate.
[109] The Lady of Akashi's daughter.
[110] The Royal Gods Izanagi and Izanami bore a leech-child; as at
the age of three it could not stand, they cast it adrift in a
boat. It made a song which said: ‘I should have thought my
daddy and mammy would have been sorry for me, seeing that at
three years old I could not stand.’ See vol, ii, p. 185.
[111] _Tamakazura_ = jewelled wig.
[112] ‘I go astray.’
[113] A coat worn inside out brings dreams of one’s lover.
CHAPTER V
THE FIRST SONG OF THE YEAR
With the morning of the New Year’s[114] Day began a spell of the most
delightful weather. Soft air, bright sunshine, and not a cloud to
be seen in the whole sky. In every garden, on the humblest piece of
waste ground, young shoots that formed each day a clearer patch of
green were pushing up amid the snow; while over the trees hung a mist,
stretched there, so it seemed, on purpose that the wonders it was
hiding might later come as a surprise. Nor was this pleasant change
confined to garden and wood; for men and women also, without knowing
why, suddenly felt good-humoured and hopeful. It may be imagined then
what an enchantment these first spring days, everywhere so delightful,
cast upon the gardens of Genji’s palace, with their paths of jade-dust,
their groves and lakes. It would be impossible here to describe in
any way that would not be both tedious and inadequate the beauties
of the four domains which Genji had allotted to his favourites. But
this I may say, that the Spring Garden,[115] with its great orchards
of fruit trees at this moment far excelled the rest, and even behind
her screens-of-state Murasaki breathed an atmosphere that was heavily
laden with the scent of plum-blossom. Indeed the place was a Heaven
upon earth; but a Heaven adapted to human requirements by the addition
of numerous comforts and amenities. The Princess[116] from Akashi was
still living in Murasaki’s apartments. The younger among the
gentlewomen-in-waiting had been placed at her disposal; while the
older among them, and such as had distinguished themselves in any way,
were retained by Murasaki. On the third day they were already gathered
together in front of the Mirror Cake[117] reciting ‘For a thousand
years may we dwell under thy shadow’ and other New Year verses, with
a good deal of laughter and scuffling, when Genji’s unexpected entry
suddenly caused many pairs of hands to fly back into an attitude of
prayer. The ladies looked so uncomfortable at having been caught
treating the ceremonies of the day with undue levity, that Genji said
to them laughing: ‘Come now, there is no need to take the prayers on
our behalf so seriously. I am sure each of you has plenty of things
she would like to pray for on her own account. Tell me, all of you,
what you most desire in the coming year, and I will add my prayers to
yours.’ Among these ladies was a certain Chūjō,[118] one of his own
gentlewomen, whom he had transferred to Murasaki’s service at the time
of his exile. She knew well enough, poor lady, what thing _she_ most
desired. But she only said: ‘I tried just now to think of something to
pray for on my own account; but it ended by my saying the prayer: “May
he endure long as the Mountain of Kagami in the country of Ōmi.”[118]
The morning had been occupied in receiving a host of New Year visitors;
but now Genji thought he would call upon the various inhabitants of
his palace, to give them his good wishes and see how they looked in
their New Year clothes. ‘Your ladies,’ he said to Murasaki, ‘do not
seem to take these proceedings seriously. I found them romping
together, instead of saying their prayers. You and I will have to hold
a service of our own.’ So saying he recited the prayer, not without
certain additions which showed that he took the business only a trifle
more seriously than the ladies whom he had just criticized. He then
handed her the poem: ‘May the course of our love be clear as the waters
of yonder lake, from which, in the spring sunshine, the last clot of
ice has melted away.’ To this she answered: ‘On the bright mirror of
these waters I see stretched out the cloudless years love holds for us
in store.’ Then (as how many times before!) Genji began telling her
that, whatever was reported of him or whatever she herself observed,
she need never have any anxiety. And he protested, in the most violent
and impressive terms, that his passion for her underlay all that he
felt or did, and could not be altered by any passing interest or fancy.
She was for the moment convinced, and accepted his protestations
ungrudgingly.
Besides being the third of the year it was also the Day of the Rat[120]
and therefore as fine an occasion for prayers and resolutions as could
possibly have been found.
His next visit was to the little girl from Akashi. He found her maids
and page-boys playing New Year games on the mound in front of her
windows, and pulling up the dwarf pine-trees, an occupation in which
they seemed to take a boundless delight. The little princess’s rooms
were full of sweetmeat boxes and hampers, all of them presents from her
mother. To one toy, a little nightingale perched upon a sprig of the
five-leafed pine, was fastened a plaintive message: ‘In _my_ home the
nightingale’s voice I never hear, ...’[121] and with it the poem:—
O nightingale, to one that many months,
While strangers heard you sing,
Has waited for your voice, grudge not to-day
The first song of the year!
Genji read the poem and was touched by it; for he knew that only under
the stress of great emotion would she have allowed this note of sadness
to tinge a New Year poem. ‘Come, little nightingale!’ he said to the
child, ‘you must make haste with your answer; it would be heartless
indeed if in the quarter whence these pretty things come you were
ungenerous with your spring-time notes!’ and taking his own ink-stone
from a servant who was standing by, he prepared it for her and made her
write. She looked so charming while she did this that he found himself
envying those who spent all day in attendance upon her, and he felt
that to have deprived the Lady of Akashi year after year of so great a
joy was a crime for which he would never be able to forgive himself. He
looked to see what she had written. ‘Though years be spent asunder, not
lightly can the nightingale forget the tree where first it nested and
was taught to sing.’ The flatness of the verse had at least this much
to recommend it—the mother would know for certain that the poem had
been written without grown-up assistance!
The Summer Quarters[122] were not looking their best; indeed at this
time of year they could hardly be expected not to wear a somewhat
uninteresting air. As he looked about him he could see no object
that was evidence of any very pronounced taste or proclivity;
the arrangements betokened, rather, a general discrimination and
good-breeding. For many years past his affection for her had remained
at exactly the same pitch, never flagging in the slightest degree,
and at the same time never tempting him to the extremer forms
of intimacy. In this way there had long ago grown up between them a
relationship far more steady and harmonious than can ever exist between
those who are lovers in the stricter sense of the term. This morning
he spoke to her for a while from behind her curtains-of-state. But
presently he cautiously raised a corner of one curtain, and he looked
in. How little she had changed! But he was sorry to see that the New
Year’s dress he had given her was not a great success. Her hair had
of late years grown much less abundant, and in order to maintain the
same style of coiffure, she had been obliged to supplement it by false
locks. To these Genji had long ago grown accustomed. But he now began
trying to imagine how she appeared to other people, and saw at once
that to them she must seem a very homely, middle-aged person indeed. So
much the better, then, that he who loved her had this strange power of
seeing her as she used to be, rather than as she was now. And she on
her side—what if she should one day grow weary of him, as women often
did of those who gave them so little as he had done!
Such were the reflexions that passed through Genji’s mind while he sat
with her. ‘We are both singularly fortunate,’ he concluded to himself.
‘I, in my capacity for self-delusion; she in hers for good-tempered
acceptance of whatever comes her way.’ They talked for a long while,
chiefly of old times, till at last he found that he ought to be on his
way to the Western Wing.
Considering the short time that Tamakatsura had been in residence
she had made things look uncommonly nice. The number and smartness
of her maids gave the place an air of great animation. The large
and indispensable articles of furniture had all arrived; but many
of the smaller fittings were not yet complete. This was in a way
an advantage; for it gave to her rooms a look of spaciousness
and simplicity which had a peculiar charm. But it was the mistress
of these apartments who, when she suddenly appeared upon the scene,
positively confounded him by her beauty. How perfectly she wore that
long, close-fitting robe, with its pattern of mountain-kerria! Here,
he thought, contrasting her inevitably with the lady to whom he had
just said farewell, here was nothing that it might be dangerous to
scrutinize, nothing that kindness bade him condone; but radiance,
freshness, dazzling youth from tip to toe. Her hair was somewhat
thinned out at the ends, in pursuance, perhaps, of some vow made during
the days of her tribulation; and this gave to her movements an ease and
freedom which strangely accorded with the bareness of her quarters. Had
he chosen any but his present rôle,[123] he would not now be watching
her flit unconstrainedly hither and thither across her room.... She,
however, having by this time grown used to his informal visits, enjoyed
his company to the full and would even have had him treat her with a
shade less deference ... when suddenly she remembered that he was only
a make-believe father after all, and then it seemed to her that she
had already countenanced far greater liberties than their situation
demanded. ‘For my part,’ said Genji at last, ‘I feel as though you
had been living with us for years, and am certain that I shall never
have cause to repent your coming. But you have not progressed so fast
in friendship with the other inmates of my household as I have done
in mine with you. I notice you do not visit Lady Murasaki. I am sorry
for this, and hope that in future you will make use of her apartments
without formality of any sort whenever you feel inclined. You could
be of great help to the little girl who lives with her. For example,
if you would take charge of her music-lessons.... You would find
every one in that quarter most affable and forthcoming.... Do promise
me to try!’ ‘If you wish it,’ was all she said; but in a voice which
indicated that she really meant to obey.
It was already becoming dark when he arrived at the Lady of Akashi’s
rooms. Through an open door a sudden puff of wind carried straight
towards him from her daïs a blend of perfumes as exquisite as it was
unfamiliar. But where was the Lady herself? For a while he scanned the
room in vain. He noticed a writing-case, and near it a great litter of
books and papers. On a long flat cushion bordered with Chinese brocade
from Lo-yang lay a handsome zithern; while in a brazier which, even in
the dim light, he could see to be an object of value and importance,
there burned some of that incense which is known as ‘The Courtier’s
Favourite.’ This was the scent which pervaded the whole room and,
blending with a strong odour of musk, created the delicious perfume
which Genji had noticed when he first turned into the corridor. Coming
close enough to examine the papers which lay scattered about the daïs,
he saw that though there were many experiments in different styles,
some of them quite interesting, there were no efforts towards the
more extravagant and pretentious forms of cursive. Her child’s letter
of thanks for the toy bird and tree had already arrived, and it was
evident that, in her delight, she had just been copying out a number
of classic poems appropriate to such an occasion. But among these was
written a poem of her own: ‘Oh joy untold! The nightingale that, lured
by the spring flowers, to distant woods was gone, now to its valley
nest again repairs.’ She had also copied out the old poems: ‘I waited
for thy song’ and ‘Because my house is where the plum-tree blooms,’
and many other snatches and fragments such as were likely to run
in the head of one to whom a sudden consolation had come. He took up
the papers one by one, sometimes smiling, yet ashamed of himself for
doing so. Then he wetted the pen and was just about to write a message
of his own, when the Lady of Akashi suddenly appeared from a back
room. Despite the splendours by which she was now surrounded she still
maintained a certain deference of manner and anxiety to please which
marked her as belonging to a different class. Yet there was something
about the way her very dark hair stood out against the white of her
dress, hanging rather flat against it, that strangely attracted him.
It was New Year’s night. He could not very well absent himself from
his own apartments, for there were visitors coming and Murasaki was
expecting him....
Yet it was in the Lady of Akashi’s rooms that he spent the night, thus
causing considerable disappointment in many quarters, but above all in
the southern wing, where Murasaki’s gentlewomen made bitter comments
upon this ill-timed defection.
It was still almost dark when Genji returned, and he persuaded himself
that, though he had stayed out late, it could not be said that he
had been absent for a night. To the Lady of Akashi, on her side it
seemed that he was suddenly rising to leave her just as the night was
beginning. Nevertheless, she was enraptured by his visit. Murasaki
would no doubt have sat up waiting for him, and he was quite prepared
to find her in rather a bad humour. But one never knows, and in order
to find out he said: ‘I have just had the most uncomfortable doze. It
was too childish.... I fell asleep in my chair. I wish some one had
woken me. It was the most mistaken kindness....’ But no! She did not
reply, and seeing that for the moment there was no more to be done, he
lay back and pretended to be asleep; but as soon as it was broad
daylight got up and left the room.
Next day there was a great deal of New Year’s entertaining to be done,
which was fortunate, for it enabled him to save his face. As usual,
almost the whole Court was there,—princes, ministers and noblemen.
There was a concert and on Genji’s part a grand distribution of
trinkets and New Year presents. This party was an occasion of great
excitement for the more elderly and undistinguished of the guests; and
it may be imagined with what eagerness it was this year awaited by the
younger princes and noblemen, who were perpetually on the look-out for
adventure and flattered themselves that the new inmate[124] of Genji’s
palace was by no means beyond their reach. A gentle evening breeze
carried the scent of fruit-blossom into every corner of the house; in
particular, most fragrant of all, the plum-trees in Murasaki’s garden
were now in full bloom. It was at that nameless hour which is neither
day nor night. The concert had begun; delicate harmonies of flute and
string filled the air, and at last came the swinging measure of ‘Well
may this Hall grow rich and thrive,’[125] with its animated refrain
‘Oh, the saki-grass so sweet,’ in which Genji joined with excellent
effect. This indeed was one of his peculiar gifts, that whatever was
afoot, whether music, dancing or what not, he had only to join in and
every one else was at once inspired to efforts of which they would not
have imagined themselves capable.
Meanwhile the ladies of the household, in the seclusion of their
rooms, heard little more than a confused din of horse-hoofs and
carriage-wheels, their plight being indeed much like that of the least
deserving among the Blest, who though they are reborn in Paradise,
receive an unopened lotus-bud as their lodging.[126] But still worse
was the position of those who inhabited the old Eastern Wing; for
having once lived at any rate within ear-shot of such festivities as
this, they now saw themselves condemned to an isolation and lack of
employment which every year would increase. Yet though they might
almost as well have renounced the Court and ensconced themselves ‘by
mountain paths where Sorrow is unknown,’ they did nothing of the kind
nor, real though their grievances were, did the slightest complaint
ever cross their lips. Indeed, save that they were left pretty much
to their own devices, they had little else to complain of. They were
housed in the utmost comfort and security. Those of them who were
religious had at least the certainty that their pious practices would
not be interrupted; while those who cared for study had plenty of time
to fill a thousand copy-books with native characters. As regards their
lodging and equipment, they had only to express a desire for it to be
immediately gratified. And sometimes their benefactor actually called
upon them, as indeed happened this spring, so soon as the busy days of
the New Festival were over.
Suyetsumu was after all the daughter of Prince Hitachi, and as such
was entitled to keep up a considerable degree of state. Genji had
accordingly provided her with a very ample staff of attendants. Her
surroundings indeed were all that could be desired. She herself had
changed greatly in recent years. Her hair was now quite grey, and
seeing that she was embarrassed by this and was evidently wondering
what impression it would make upon him, he at first kept his eyes
averted while he spoke to her. His gaze naturally fell upon her
dress. He recognized it as that which he had given her for New Year;
but it looked very odd, and he was wondering how he had come to give
her so unsuitable a garment, when he discovered that the fault was
entirely that of the wearer. Over it she had put a thin mantle of dull
black crepe, unlined, and so stiff that it crackled when she moved.
The woven dress which he had given her was meant to wear under a heavy
cloak, and naturally in her present garb she was, as he could see,
suffering terribly from the cold. He had given her an ample supply of
stuff for winter cloaks. What could she have done with it all? But with
Suyetsumu nothing seemed to thrive, every stuff became threadbare,
every colour turned dingy, save that of one bright flower....[127] But
one must keep such things out of one’s head; and he firmly replaced the
open flap of her curtain.
She was not offended. It was quite enough that year after year, he
should preserve the same unmistakable signs of affection; for did he
not always treat her as an intimate and equal, taking her completely
into his confidence and addressing her always in the most informal
manner imaginable? If this were not affection, what else could it be?
He meanwhile was thinking what a uniquely depressing and wearisome
creature she was, and deciding that he must really make up his mind
to be a little kinder to her, since it was certain that no one else
intended to take the business off his hands.
He noticed that while she talked her teeth positively chattered with
cold. He looked at her with consternation. ‘Is there no one,’ he asked,
‘whose business it is to take charge of your wardrobe? It does not
seem to me that stiff clumsy over-garments are very well suited to
your present surroundings. This cloak of yours, for example. If
you cannot do without it, then at any rate be consistent and wear it
over a dress of the same description. You cannot get yourself up in
one style on top and another underneath.’ He had never spoken to her
so bluntly before, but she only tittered slightly. ‘My brother Daigo
no Azari,’ she said at last, ‘promised to look after those warm stuffs
for me, and he carried them all off before I had time to make them
into dresses. He even took away my sables.[128] I am so cold without
them....’ Her brother evidently felt the cold even more than she did,
and Genji imagined him with a very red nose indeed. Simplicity was no
doubt an engaging quality; but really this lady carried it a little too
far. However, with her it was certainly no affectation, and he answered
good-humouredly: ‘As far as those sables are concerned, I am delighted
to hear what has become of them. I always thought they were really
meant to keep out the rain and snow. Next time your brother goes on a
mountain pilgrimage.... But there is no need for _you_ to shiver. You
can have as much of this white material as you like, and there is
nothing to prevent your wearing it sevenfold thick, if you find you
cannot keep warm. Please always remind me of such promises. If I do not
do things at once, I am apt to forget about them. My memory was never
very good and I have always needed keeping up to the mark. But now that
there are so many conflicting claims upon my time and attention,
nothing gets done at all unless I am constantly reminded....’ And
thinking it safest to act while the matter was still in his mind, he
sent a messenger across to the New Palace for a fresh supply of silks
and brocades.
The Nijō-in was kept in perfect order and repair; but the fact that
it was no longer the main residence somehow or other gave it an air
of abandonment and desolation. The gardens, however, were as
delightful as ever. The red plum-blossom was at its best, and it seemed
a pity that so much beauty and fragrance should be, one might almost
say, wasted. He murmured to himself the lines: ‘To see the springtide
to my old home I came, and found within it a rarer flower than any that
on orchard twigs was hung!’
She heard the words; but luckily did not grasp the unflattering
allusion.[129]
He also paid a brief visit to Utsusemi, now turned nun. She had
installed herself in apartments so utterly devoid of ornament or
personal touches of any kind that they had the character of official
waiting-rooms. The only conspicuous object which they contained was a
large statue of Buddha, and Genji was lamenting to himself that sombre
piety, to the exclusion of all other interest, should have possessed so
gracious and gentle a spirit, when he noticed that the decoration of
her prayer-books, the laying of her altar with its dishes of floating
petals—these and many another small sign of elegance seemed to betray a
heart that was not yet utterly crushed by the severities of religion.
Her blue-grey curtains-of-state showed much taste and care. She sat
so far back as scarcely to be seen. But one touch of colour stood out
amid the gloom; the long sleeves of the gay coat he had sent her showed
beneath her mantle of grey, and moved by her acceptance of this token
he said with tears in his eyes: ‘I know that I ought not now even to
remember how once I felt towards you. But from the beginning our love
brought to us only irritation and misery. It is as well that, if we
are to be friends at all, it must now be in a very different way.’ She
too was deeply moved and said at last: ‘How can I doubt your good will
towards me, seeing at what pains you have been to provide for
me, protect me.... I should be ungrateful indeed....’ ‘I daresay many
another lover suffered just as I did,’ he said, attempting a lighter
tone; ‘and Buddha condemns you to your present life as a penance for
all the hearts you have broken. And how the others must have suffered
if their experience was anything like mine! Not once but over and over
again did I fall in love with you; and those others.... There, I knew
that I was right. You are thinking, I am sure, of an entanglement
beside which our escapade pales into insignificance.’ His only
intention was to divert the conversation from their own relationship,
and he was speaking quite at random. But she instantly imagined that
he had in some circuitous way got wind of that terrible story ...[130]
and blushing she said in a low voice: ‘Do not remind me of it. The mere
fact that you should have been told of it is punishment enough ...’ and
she burst into tears.
He did not know to what she referred. He had imagined that her
retirement from the world was merely due to increasing depression and
timidity. How was he to converse with her, if every chance remark threw
her into a fit of weeping? He had no desire to go away; but he could
not think of any light topic upon which to embark, and after a few
general enquiries he took his leave. If only it were Lady Suyetsumu who
was the nun and he could put Utsusemi in her place! So Genji thought
as on his way back he again passed by the red-nosed lady’s door. He
then paid short visits to the numerous other persons who lived upon
his bounty, saying to such of them as he had not seen for some time:
‘If long intervals sometimes elapse between my visits to you, you must
not think that my feelings towards you have changed. On the contrary,
I often think what a pity it is that we so seldom meet. For time
slips away, and bound up with every deep affection is the fear that
Death may take us unawares....’ Nor was there anything the least
insincere in these speeches; in one way or another he did actually feel
very deeply about each of the persons to whom they were made. Unlike
most occupants of the exalted position which he now held, Genji was
entirely devoid of pomposity and self-importance. Whatever the rank of
those whom he was addressing, under whatever circumstances he met them,
his manner remained always equally kind and attentive. Indeed, by that
thread and that alone hung many of his oldest friendships.
This year there was to be the New Year’s mumming.[131] After performing
in the Imperial Palace the dancers were to visit the Suzaku-in[132] and
then come on to Genji’s. This meant covering a good deal of ground,
and it was already nearing dawn when they arrived. The weather had at
first been somewhat uncertain, but at dusk the clouds cleared away,
and bright moonlight shone upon those exquisite gardens, now clad in
a thin covering of snow. Many of the young courtiers who had recently
come into notice showed unusual proficiency on instruments of one kind
and another. There were flute-players in abundance, and nowhere that
night did they give a more admirable display than when they welcomed
the arrival of the mummers in front of Genji’s palace. The ladies
of the household had been apprised of the ceremony, and they were
now assembled in stands which had been set up in the cross-galleries
between the central hall and its two wings. The lady of the western
side[133] was invited to witness the proceedings in company with
the little princess from Akashi, whose windows looked out on
to the courtyard where the dancing was to take place. Murasaki was
their neighbour, being separated from them only by a curtain. After
performing before the ex-Emperor the dancers had been summoned to give
a second display in front of Kōkiden’s apartments. It was consequently
even later than had been anticipated when they at last arrived. Before
they danced, they had to be served with their ‘mummers’’ portions. It
was expected that, considering the lateness of the hour, this part
of the proceedings, with its curious rites and observances, would be
somewhat curtailed. But on the contrary Genji insisted upon its being
carried out with even more than the prescribed elaboration. A faint
light was showing in the east, the moon was still shining, but it had
begun to snow again, this time harder than ever. The wind, too, had
risen; already the tree-tops were swaying, and it became clear that a
violent storm was at hand. There was, in the scene that followed, a
strange discrepancy; the delicate pale green cloaks of the mummers,
lined with pure white, fluttered lightly, elegantly to the movements
of the dance; while around them gathered the gloom and menace of the
rising storm. Only the cotton plumes of their head-gear, stiff and in a
way graceless as they were, seemed to concord with the place and hour.
These, as they swayed and nodded in the dance, had a strangely vivid
and satisfying beauty.
Among those who sang and played for the dancers Yūgiri and Tō no
Chūjō’s sons took the lead. As daylight came the snow began to clear,
and only a few scattered flakes were falling when through the cold
air there rose the strains of _Bamboo River_.[134] I should like to
describe the movements of this dance—how the dancers suddenly rise
on tip-toe and spread their sleeves like wings and with how delightful
an effect voice after voice joins in the lively tune. But it has truly
been said that such things are beyond the painter’s art; and still
less, I suppose, can any depiction of them be expected of a mere
story-teller.
The ladies of the household vied with one another in the decoration
of their stalls. Gay scarfs and favours hung out on every side;
while shimmering New Year dresses now dimly discovered behind drawn
curtains-of-state, now flashing for a moment into the open as some
lady-in-waiting reached forward to adjust a mat or rescue a fan, looked
in the dawning light like a meadow of bright flowers ‘half-curtained
by the trailing mists of Spring.’ Seldom can there have been seen so
strange and lovely a sight. There was, too, a remote, barbaric beauty
in the high turbans of the dancers, with their stiff festoons of
artificial flowers; and when at last they entoned the final prayer,
despite the fact that the words were nonsense and the tune apparently
a mere jangle of discordant sounds, there was in the whole setting of
the performance something so tense, so stirring that these savage cries
seemed at the moment more moving than the deliberate harmonies by which
the skilled musician coldly seeks to charm our ear.
After the usual distribution of presents, the mummers at last withdrew.
It was now broad daylight, and all the guests retired to get a little
belated sleep. Genji rose again towards mid-day. ‘I believe that Yūgiri
is going to make every bit as good a musician as Kōbai,’[134] he said,
while discussing the scenes of the night before. ‘I am astonished by
the talent of the generation which is now growing to manhood.
The ancients no doubt far excelled us in the solid virtues; but our
sensibilities are, I venture to assert, far keener than theirs. I
thought at one time that Yūgiri was quite different from his companions
and counted upon turning him into a good, steady-going man of affairs.
My own nature is, I fear, inherently frivolous, and not wishing him
to take after me I have been at great pains to implant in him a more
serious view of life. But signs are not wanting that under a very
correct and solemn exterior he hides a disposition towards just
those foibles which have proved my own undoing. If it turns out that
his wonderful air of good sense and moderation are mere superficial
poses, it will indeed be annoying for us all.’ So he spoke, but he
was in reality feeling extremely pleased with his son. Then, humming
the tune[135] that the mummers sing at the moment when they rise to
depart, Genji said: ‘Seeing all the ladies of the household gathered
together here last night has made me think how amazing it would be
if we could one day persuade them to give us a concert. It might be
a sort of private After Feast.’[136] The rumour of this project soon
spread through the palace. On every hand lutes and zitherns were being
pulled from out the handsome brocade bags into which they had been so
carefully stowed away; and there was such a sprucing, polishing and
tuning as you can scarcely imagine; followed by unremitting practice
and the wildest day-dreams.
[114] The year began in the spring. Genji was now 36.
[115] Murasaki’s.
[116] The child born at Akashi.
[117] Served on the evening of the third day of the year, with radish
and oranges.
[118] She had always been in love with Genji.
[119] Kagami = ‘Mirror.’
[120] The first of the cyclical signs.
[121] You are silent as this toy bird and send me no New Year
greetings.
[122] Allotted to the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.
[123] That of father.
[124] Tamakatsura.
[125] Well may this house grow rich and thrive—
Oh, the saki-grass, the saki-grass so sweet—
Of the saki-grass, three leaves, four leaves, so trim
Are the walls of this house made.
[126] And consequently cannot see the Buddha nor hear his Word.
[127] _Hana_ = ‘nose’ and ‘flower.’
[128] See vol. i, p. 200.
[129] _Hana_ = ‘flower’ and ‘nose.’ See above.
[130] Her relations with Ki no Kami, her stepson. See vol. ii,
p. 257.
[131] A band of young noblemen going round dancing and singing in
various parts of the Palace and at the houses of the great on
the 14th day of the 1st month. See vol. i, p. 207.
[132] The residence of the ex-Emperor and his mother, Kōkiden.
[133] Tamakatsura.
[134] ‘In the garden of flowers at the end of the bridge that crosses
Bamboo River—in the garden of flowers set me free, with youths
and maidens round me.’
[135] Tō no Chūjō’s son, famous for the beauty of his voice. See
vol. ii, p. 87.
[136] The _Bansuraku_ or ‘Joy of Ten Thousand Springs.’
[137] The After Feast is held in the Emperor’s Palace.
CHAPTER VI
THE BUTTERFLIES
Towards the end of the third month, when out in the country the
orchards were no longer at their best and the song of the wild birds
had lost its first freshness, Murasaki’s Spring Garden seemed only to
become every day more enchanting. The little wood on the hill beyond
the lake, the bridge that joined the two islands, the mossy banks that
seemed to grow greener not every day but every hour—could anything
have looked more tempting? ‘If only one could get there!’ sighed the
young people of the household; and at last Genji decided that there
must be boats on the lake. They were built in the Chinese style. Every
one was in such a hurry to get on board that very little time was
spent in decorating them, and they were put into use almost as soon as
they would float. On the day when they were launched the Water Music
was played by musicians summoned from the Imperial Board of Song. The
spectacle was witnessed by a large assembly of princes, noblemen and
courtiers, and also by the Empress Akikonomu, who was spending her
holidays at the New Palace.
Akikonomu remembered Murasaki’s response to her present:[138] it had
been tantamount to saying ‘Do not visit me now, but in the spring-time
when my garden will be at its best.’ Genji too was always saying that
he wanted to show her the Spring Garden. How simple it would all
have been if she could merely have walked across to Murasaki’s domain
when the fancy seized her, enjoyed herself among the flowers and gone
away! But she was now an Empress, an August Being hedged round by
sacred statutes and conventions. However, if such liberties were hers
no longer, there were in her service many who could enjoy them in her
stead, and sending for one of the new boats she filled it with some of
the younger and more adventurous of her gentlewomen. It was possible
to go by water all the way to the Spring Garden, first rowing along
the Southern Lake, then passing through a narrow channel straight
towards a toy mountain which seemed to bar all further progress. But in
reality there was a way round, and eventually the party found itself
at the Fishing Pavilion. Here they picked up Murasaki’s ladies, who
were waiting at the Pavilion by appointment. The boats were carved
with a dragon’s head at the prow and painted with the image of an
osprey at the stem, completely in the Chinese style; and the boys
who manned them were all in Chinese costume, with their hair tied up
with bright ribbons behind. The lake, as they now put out towards the
middle of it, seemed immensely large, and those on board, to whom
the whole experience was new and deliciously exciting, could hardly
believe that they were not heading for some undiscovered land. At last
however the rowers brought them close in under the rocky bank of the
channel between the two large islands, and on closer examination they
discovered to their delight that the shape of every little ledge and
crag of stone had been as carefully devised as if a painter had traced
them with his brush. Here and there in the distance the topmost boughs
of an orchard showed above the mist, so heavily laden with blossom that
it looked as though a bright carpet were spread in mid air. Far away
they could just catch sight of Murasaki’s apartments, marked by
the deeper green of the willow boughs that swept her courtyards, and
by the shimmer of her flowering orchards, which even at this distance
seemed to shed their fragrance amid the isles and rocks. In the world
outside, the cherry-blossom was almost over; but here it seemed to
laugh at decay, and round the palace even the wistaria that ran along
the covered alleys and porticos was all in bloom, but not a flower
past its best; while here, where the boats were tied, mountain-kerria
poured its yellow blossom over the rocky cliffs in a torrent of colour
that was mirrored in the waters of the lake below. Water-birds of
many kinds played in and out among the boats or fluttered hither and
thither with tiny twigs or flower sprays in their beaks, and love-birds
roamed in pairs, their delicate markings blending, in reflection, with
the frilled pattern of the waves. Here, like figures in a picture
of fairyland, they spent the day gazing in rapture, and envied the
woodman[139] on whose axe green leaves at last appeared.
Many trifling poems were interchanged, such as: ‘When the wind
blows, even the wave-petals, that are no blossoms at all, put on
strange colours; for this is the vaunted cape, the Cliff of Kerria
Flowers.’[140] And ‘To the Rapids of Idé[141] surely the channels of
our spring lake must bend; for where else hang the kerria-flowers so
thick across the rocks?’ Or this: ‘Never again will I dream of the
Mountain[142] on the Tortoise’s Back, for here in this boat have I
found a magic that shall preserve both me and my name forever from the
onset of mortality.’ And again: ‘In the soft spring sunshine even the
spray that falls from the rower’s oars, sinks soft as scattered
petals on to the waveless waters of the lake.’
So captivated were they by this novel experience that they had soon
lost all sense of whither they were faring or whence they had come. It
was indeed as though the waters had cast a spell of forgetfulness upon
their hearts, and when evening came they were still, as it seemed to
them, gliding away and away across the lake, to the pleasant strains
of the tune called _The Royal Deer_.... Suddenly the boats halted, the
ladies were invited to go ashore, and to their complete surprise found
that they were back again at the Fishing Pavilion.
This place was finished in a manner which combined elegance with
extreme simplicity. The rooms were indeed almost bare, and as now the
rival parties pressed into them, spreading along the empty galleries
and across the wide, deserted floors, there was such an interweaving of
gay colours as would have been hard to out-do. The musicians were again
called upon, and this time played a sequence of little-known airs which
won universal applause. Soon they were joined by a troupe of dancers
whom Genji had himself selected, drawing up at the same time a list of
pieces which he thought would interest such an audience.
It seemed a pity that darkness should be allowed to interfere with
these pleasures, and when night came on, a move was made to the
courtyard in front of the palace. Here flares were lit, and on the
mossy lawn at the foot of the great Steps not only professional
musicians, but also various visitors from Court and friends of the
family performed on wind and string, while picked teachers of the flute
gave a display in the ‘double mode.’[143] Then all the zitherns and
lutes belonging to different members of the household were brought
out on to the steps and carefully tuned to the same pitch. A grand
concert followed, the piece _Was ever such a day?_ being performed with
admirable effect. Even the grooms and labourers who were loitering
amid the serried ranks of coaches drawn up outside the great gates,
little as they usually cared for such things, on this occasion pricked
up their ears and were soon listening with lips parted in wonder and
delight. For it was indeed impossible that the strange shrill descants
of the Spring Mode, enhanced as they were by the unusual beauty of the
night, should not move the most impercipient of human creatures.
The concert continued till dawn. As a return-tune[144] _Gay Springtide
Pleasures_ was added to the programme, and Prince Sochi no Miya carried
the vocal music back very pleasantly to the common mode by singing
_Green Willows_[145] in the words of which Genji also joined.
Already the morning birds were clamouring in a lusty chorus to
which, from behind the curtains, the Empress Akikonomu listened with
irritation.
It would have been hard in these days to find a mote in the perfect
sunshine of Genji’s prosperity and contentment. But it was noticed
with regret by his friends, as a circumstance which must of necessity
be painful to him, that Murasaki still bore him no child. It was
felt, however, that this misfortune was to some extent remedied by
the arrival of his handsome natural daughter (for so Tamakatsura was
regarded by the world at large). The evident store which Genji himself
set by this lady, becoming a matter of common report, together
with the tales of her almost unbelievable beauty, soon induced a large
number of suitors to seek her hand; which was precisely what he had
anticipated. Those of them whose position in life entitled them to
confidence had, through suitable channels, already gone so far as to
make hints in this direction; while there were doubtless many petty
courtiers the flame of whose love burned secretly as a camp fire buried
under a pile of stones.[146]
Tō no Chūjō’s sons were, of course, like every one else, under the
delusion that she was Genji’s child and took a considerable interest in
her. But the principal suitor was Genji’s half-brother Prince Sochi no
Miya. It so happened that he had been a widower for three years; he was
tired of this comfortless state of life and had made it clear not only
that he considered himself a suitable match for Lady Tamakatsura, but
also that he should like the wedding to take place immediately. This
morning he was still in a very emotional condition; with a wreath of
wistaria flowers about his head, he was indulging in languorous airs
which confirmed Genji’s previous suspicion that this prince had lately
fallen seriously in love. Till now, however, Genji had deliberately
pretended not to notice that anything was wrong. When the great tankard
was handed round, Prince Sochi said in a doleful voice to Genji:
‘You know, if I were not so fond of you, I should long ago have left
this entertainment. It has been a terrible night for me ...’ and he
recited the poem: ‘Because my heart is steeped in a dye too near to its
own blood,[147] life do I prize no longer and in the surging stream
shall shortly cast myself away.’ So saying he took the wreath of
wistaria from his own head and laid it on Genji’s, quoting the poem:
‘My wreath shall be thine.’ Genji laughingly accepted it and replied:
‘Watch by the flowers of Spring till the last petal be unfolded; then
will be time enough to talk of whirlpools and despair.’ So saying he
caught hold of his brother and held him fast in his seat, promising
that if he would but stay, he should to-day witness a performance far
more entertaining than what had gone before.
It so happened that this day marked the opening of the Empress
Akikonomu’s Spring Devotions. Most of the visitors not wishing to
miss the ceremonies connected with this occasion, asked leave to
stay on, and retiring to the guest-rooms, changed into their morning
clothes. A few who had urgent business at home reluctantly withdrew
from the palace; but on returning later they found that they had
missed nothing, for it was close upon noon before the actual ceremony
began. The visitors reached the Empress’s apartments in a long
procession, headed by Genji himself. The whole Court was there, and
though the magnificence of the occasion was partly due to Akikonomu’s
own position, it was in large measure a tribute to Genji’s influence
and popularity. At Murasaki’s request an offering of flowers was to
be made to the presiding Buddha. They were brought by eight little
boys disguised some as birds, some as butterflies. The birds carried
cherry-blossom in silver bowls; the butterflies, mountain-kerria in
golden bowls. They were in reality quite ordinary flowers such as you
might find in any country place; but in this setting they seemed to
acquire an unearthly glint and splendour. The boys arrived by water,
having embarked at the landing-stage in front of Murasaki’s rooms.
As they landed at the Autumn domain a sudden gust of wind caught the
cherry-blossom in the silver bowls and some of it scattered along
the bank. The day was cloudless and it was a pretty sight indeed
to see the little messengers come out into the sunshine from behind a
trailing patch of mist.
It had not been found convenient to set up the regular Musicians’
Tent; but a platform had been constructed under the portico that ran
in front of the Empress’s apartments, and chairs had been borrowed
that the musicians might be seated in foreign fashion.[148] The
little boys advanced as far as the foot of the steps, their offerings
held aloft in their hands. Here they were met by incense-bearers who
conveyed the bowls to the grand altar and adding their contents to
that of the holy flower-vessels, pronounced the ritual of dedication.
At this point Yūgiri arrived, bearing a poem from Murasaki: ‘Lover of
Autumn, whom best it pleases that pine-crickets should chirp amid the
withered grass, forgive the butterflies that trespass from my garden of
flowers.’ The Empress smiled. To her own gift of autumn leaves these
Active birds and butterflies were the belated response.
Her ladies, who were at first loyal to the season with which their
mistress was identified, had been somewhat shaken in their allegiance
by yesterday’s astonishing excursion and came back assuring the Empress
that her preference would not survive a visit to the rival park.
After the acceptance of their offerings, the Birds performed the
Kalyavinka[149] Dance. The accompanying music was backed by the
warbling of real nightingales; while afar off, with strangely happy
effect, there sounded the faint and occasional cry of some crane or
heron on the lake. All too soon came the wild and rapid passage which
marks the close.
Now it was the turn of the Butterflies, who after fluttering
hither and thither for a while, settled at the foot of a tangled
thorn-hedge, over which the yellow kerria streamed down in splendid
profusion, and here executed their dance.
The Comptroller of the Empress’s household, assisted by several
courtiers, now distributed largesse to the boy-dancers on her behalf.
To the Birds, cherry-coloured jackets; to the Butterflies, cloaks
lined with silk of kerria hue. These were so appropriate that they
could hardly have been produced on the spur of the moment, and it
almost seemed as though some hint of Murasaki’s intention had reached
the Empress’s quarters beforehand. To the musicians were given white,
unlined dresses, and presents of silk and cloth according to their
rank. Yūgiri received a blue jacket for himself and a lady’s costume
for his store-cupboards. He was also charged to carry a reply from the
Empress: ‘I could have cried yesterday at missing it all.... But what
can I do? I am not my own mistress. “If anything could tempt me to
batter down the flowery, eight-fold wall of precedent, it would be the
visit of those butterflies who fluttered from your garden into mine.”’
You may think that many of the poems which I here repeat are not
worthy of the talented characters to whom they are attributed. I can
only reply that they were in every case composed upon the spur of the
moment, and the makers were no better pleased with them than you are.
On looking back, I see that I have forgotten to mention the presents
which Murasaki distributed among her visitors after the ceremonies
of the day before. They were, as you may well imagine, very handsome
indeed; but to describe all such matters in detail would be very
tiresome. Henceforward communication between the Spring and Autumn
quarters was of daily occurrence, joint concerts and excursions were
constantly planned, and the two parties of gentlewomen began to
feel as much at home in one domain as in the other.
Tamakatsura, after that first encounter on the night when the mummers
danced in front of the palace, had continued her friendship with
Murasaki. The newcomer’s evident desire for cordial relations would in
any case have been hard to withstand. But it was also apparent that
she was extremely intelligent and at the same time very easy to get on
with; so that she was soon a general favourite in the palace.
As has been said, her suitors were numerous; but Genji had not as yet
shown any sign of encouraging one rather than another. His feelings
upon the subject were indeed very fluctuating. To begin with, he
had no confidence in his own capacity to go on playing his present
fatherly part with success. Something must be done soon; and he often
thought that the first step must be to enlighten Tō no Chūjō as to
the girl’s identity. So long as he hesitated to do so, the situation
was very embarrassing. For whereas Yūgiri had formed the habit of
going constantly in and out of her room in a manner which very much
embarrassed her, but which it was impossible to criticize, since all
the world believed him to be her brother (and it must be confessed
that he never attempted to behave with anything else than brotherly
affection), Tō no Chūjō’s sons whose intimacy with Yūgiri brought them
frequently to the house, pressed upon her attentions of an unmistakable
sort, which she, knowing her true relationship to these young men,
was at a loss how to receive. She would very much have liked her real
father at any rate to know of her present position; but she made no
attempt to get into communication with him, for she had complete
confidence that Genji, who would not do so much for her unless he
wished her well, must know far better than she what policy it was best
to pursue. Her docility touched and delighted him; for though it
did not by any means equal Yūgao’s, it served constantly to remind him
of her. But Tamakatsura was, as he soon discovered, a person of very
much stronger character than he had supposed.
The summer came round, bringing with it the distraction of new clothes
and an uncertain yet on the whole extremely agreeable weather. Genji
had very little business at this season, and there was a great deal of
music and entertaining at the New Palace. He heard that love-letters
were pouring in to the Western Wing[150] and with the pleasure that
one always feels at discovering that one’s anticipations are being
fulfilled he hastened thither to examine these missives. He took upon
himself not only to read all her correspondence, but also to advise
her which letters ought to be neglected and which acknowledged with
civility. To this advice she listened somewhat coldly. By far the most
passionate and profuse of her correspondents seemed to be Prince Sochi
no Miya, and Genji smiled as he looked through the thick packet into
which that prince’s letters had been collected. ‘Sochi and I,’ he said,
‘have always been great friends. With none of the royal princes have
I ever been so intimate, and I know that he has always been devoted
to me. The only subject upon which we have ever had any difference of
opinion is just this matter of love-making. He allowed it to play far
too important a part in his life. I am amused and at the same time, in
a way, distressed to find him after all these years behaving exactly
as he did when we were both boys. However, I should like you to answer
him. I know of no other person about the Court with whom it would so
well become a lady of consequence to correspond. He is a remarkable man
in many ways. His appearance alone would entitle him ...’ and more to
this effect, designed of course not to blacken Sochi’s character, but
to portray him in just such a light as would interest an inexperienced
girl. These remarks had, however, an exactly opposite effect to that
which Genji intended.
Then there was Prince Higekuro. He had always seemed to be a
steady-going, capable fellow, successful in everything he undertook.
But glancing at his letters Genji feared that upon the hill of Love,
where, let it be remembered, even Confucius stumbled,[151] this wise
prince too might easily find his undoing. By far the most elegant
letter in the whole collection was one written on very dark blue
Chinese paper, heavily perfumed with some delicious scent. It was
folded up very small, and Genji, whose curiosity would have been
aroused by this fact alone, now spread it out, displaying the poem: ‘Of
my love perchance you know not, for like a stream that is buried under
the ground, a moment it springs into the sunlight; then sinks into the
cavern whence it sprang.’
It was very well written, in a hand which combined fanciful originality
with adherence to the latest fashions. ‘Who wrote this?’ he asked;
but he received only the vaguest replies. Ukon had now joined them
and addressing her, Genji said: ‘I want you to give your mistress
some guidance in the answering of such letters of this kind as may in
future arrive. For the unfortunate situations which sometimes result
from our present freedom of manners we men are not always to blame. It
often happens that a little timely severity on the lady’s part would
avert the quandaries into which we are led by our determination to
treat love as our principal pastime and distraction. At the time (who
should know it better than I?) such severity is of course resented by
the gentleman, who will rail in the accepted style at his lady’s
“cruelty” and “insensibility.” But in the end he will be grateful that
the matter was not allowed to go further.
‘On the other hand it may happen that some suitor, whose rank is not
such that he can be considered as a possible husband, may entertain
very serious feelings indeed, yet through fear of giving offence may
go no further in his communications than to make a few conventional
remarks about the weather or the garden. In such a case, if the lady,
insisting upon seeing in such epistles more than is actually expressed,
administers a rebuff, the result will only be that the affair is
henceforward on a footing of passion, not (as hitherto) of formality.
A civil answer, couched in the same conventional terms as the original
letter, may instead dispel the lover’s romantic notions and lead him
to abandon the quest. But whatever happens the lady has done all that
ought to be expected of her.
‘On the other hand to mistake the idle compliments and attentions which
it is now fashionable to scatter in such profusion, and to treat these
courtly formalities as signs of genuine feeling, is even more dangerous
than to ignore them altogether, and though such a course may lead to a
little momentary excitement, it is bound in the long run to produce a
disagreeable situation.
‘It often happens that a young girl will cast aside all reserve
and pursue without thought of the consequences some quite trivial
inclination, merely in order to convince the world that she is a woman
of feeling. At first the discovery of a new pleasure is in itself
sufficient to carry her through; but repetition palls, and after a few
months excitement gives place to tedium or even disgust.
‘I have, however, reason to believe that both my step-brother and
Prince Higekuro are in this case completely sincere, and whatever her
own feelings may be it is improper that any one in your mistress’s
position should deal too curtly with offers such as these. As for
the rest, I assume that their rank is not such as to make acceptance
conceivable, and there can therefore be no objection to your mistress
meting out among them such varying degrees of kindness or severity as
her fancy dictates.’
While this exposition was in progress at the far end of the room,
Tamakatsura sat with her back towards the speakers, occasionally
glancing across her shoulder with a turn of the head that showed
off her delicate profile to great advantage. She was wearing a long
close-fitting robe, pink plum-blossom colour without, and green within;
her short mantle matched the flower of the white deutzia, then in full
bloom. There was in her style of dress something which made it seem
homely without being dowdy or unfashionable. If in her manners any
trace of rusticity could still be found, it lay perhaps in a certain
lack of self-assurance which she seemed to have retained as a last
remnant of her country breeding. But in every other respect she had
made ample use of the ♦opportunities afforded her by life at the New
Palace. The way she dressed her hair and her use of make-up showed
that she observed those around her with an acute and intelligent eye.
She had, in fact, since her arrival at Court, grown into a perfectly
well turned-out and fashionable beauty, all ready to become, alas, not
his own (reflected Genji with chagrin) but some fortunate young man’s
immaculate bride. Ukon, too, was thinking, as she watched them, that
Genji looked much more fit to be her lover than her father. Yes, they
were surely made for one another; and Ukon doubted whether, however
long he searched, Genji would find her a partner whose looks matched
her so well. ‘Most of the letters that come,’ said the old lady, ‘I do
not pass on at all. The three or four that you have been looking at,
you will agree I could not possibly have returned. But though I
delivered them to my mistress, she has not answered them, and though of
course she will do so if you insist upon it....’ ‘Perhaps you can tell
me,’ broke in Genji, ‘who sent this curious note. Despite its minute
size there seems to be a great deal of writing in it.’ ‘Ah, that one
...’ said Ukon, ‘if I returned it once I returned it a hundred times!
But there was no getting rid of the messenger. It comes from Captain
Kashiwagi, His Excellency Tō no Chūjō’s eldest son. This gentleman
knows little Miruko, my lady’s chambermaid, and it was through her
that the messenger was first admitted. I assure you no one else but
this child Miruko knows anything about the matter at all....’ ‘But how
delightful!’ said Genji, much relieved. ‘Kashiwagi of course holds a
rather low rank, and that is a disadvantage. But no child of such a
man as Tō no Chūjō is to be scorned; and there are, in point of fact
a great many important officials who in public esteem occupy a far
lower place than these young men. Moreover, Kashiwagi is generally
considered to be the most serious and competent of the brothers. To
receive compliments from such a man is very gratifying, and though he
must of course sooner or later learn of his close relationship to you,
for the present I see no need to enlighten him.’ And still examining
the letter, he added ‘There are touches in his handwriting, too, which
are by no means to be despised.’ ‘You agree with everything I say,’ he
continued: ‘but I feel that inwardly you are raising objections all the
while. I am very sorry not to please you; but if you are thinking that
I ought to hand you over to your father without more ado, I simply do
not agree with you. You are very young and inexperienced. If you were
suddenly to find yourself in the midst of brothers and sisters whom
you have never known, I am certain you would be miserable. Whereas if
you will only wait till I have settled your future (in such a way
as your father, upon whom there are so many claims, could not possibly
manage), there will be time enough afterwards to disclose the story of
your birth.’
♦ “opportunites” replaced with “opportunities”
Though he did not say in so many words that he would far rather have
kept her for himself, he more than once came perilously near to hinting
something of the kind. Such indiscretions she either misunderstood
or ignored. This piqued him; but he enjoyed the visit and was quite
unhappy when he discovered that it was high time for him to go back to
his own quarters. Before he left she reminded him, in guarded language,
of his promise to tell her real father what had become of her. He felt
at this more conscience-stricken than he need have done. For in her
heart of hearts Tamakatsura was by no means in a hurry to leave the New
Palace. She would have been glad to have the inevitable introduction to
her real parent safely behind her, chiefly because the prospect of it
destroyed her peace of mind. However kind her father might be, it was
impossible that he should take more trouble about her than Prince Genji
was doing; indeed, Tō no Chūjō, not having once set eyes on her since
she was a mere infant, might well have ceased to take any interest in
her whatever. She had lately been reading a number of old romances and
had come across many accounts of cases very similar to her own. She
began to see that it was a delicate matter for a child to force itself
upon the attention of a parent who had done his best to forget that it
existed, and she abandoned all idea of taking the business into her own
hands.
Genji arrived at Murasaki’s rooms full of enthusiasm for the lady whom
he had just been visiting: ‘What a surprising and delightful creature
this Tamakatsura is!’ he exclaimed. ‘Her mother, with whom I was so
intimate years ago, had almost too grave and earnest a character.
This girl will, I can see, be more a “woman of the world”; but
she is at the same time evidently very affectionate. I am sure she has
a brilliant future before her....’ From his manner Murasaki instantly
saw that his interest in Tamakatsura had assumed a new character. ‘I
am very sorry for the girl,’ she said. ‘She evidently has complete
confidence in you. But I happen to know what you mean by that phrase
“a woman of the world,” and if I chose to do so, could tell the
unfortunate creature what to expect....’ ‘But you surely cannot mean
that I shall _betray_ her confidence?’ asked Genji indignantly. ‘You
forget,’ she replied, ‘that I was once in very much the same position
myself. You had made up your mind to treat me as a daughter; but,
unless I am much mistaken, there were times when you did not carry
out this resolution very successfully....’ ‘How clever every one is!’
thought Genji, much put out at the facility with which his inmost
thoughts were read. But he hastened to rejoin: ‘If I were in love
with Tamakatsura, she would presumably become aware of the fact quite
as quickly as you would.’ He was too much annoyed to continue the
conversation; however, he admitted to himself in private that when
people come to a conclusion of this kind, it is hardly ever far from
the mark. But surely, after all, he could judge better than she? And
Murasaki, he reflected, was not judging this case on its merits, but
merely assuming, in the light of past experience, that events were
about to take a certain course....
To convince himself that Murasaki had no ground for her suspicions
he frequently went across to the Side Wing and spent some hours in
Tamakatsura’s company.
During the fourth month the weather was rather depressing. But one
evening, when it had been raining heavily all day, he looked out and
saw to his relief that at last the sky was clearing. The young
maples and oak trees in the garden blent their leafage in a marvellous
curtain of green. Genji remembered the lines ‘In the fourth month
the weather grew clearer and still ...’[152] and thence his thoughts
wandered to the girl in the Western Wing. He felt a sudden longing, on
this early summer evening, for the sight of something fresh, something
fragrant; and without a word to anyone he slipped away to her rooms. He
found her practising at her desk in an easy attitude and attire. She
was in no way prepared to receive such a visit, and upon his arrival
rose to her feet with a blush. Caught thus unawares and informally
dressed, she was more like her mother than he had ever seen her
before, and he could not help exclaiming: ‘I could not have believed
it possible! To-night you are simply Yūgao herself. Of course, I have
always noticed the resemblance; but never before has it reached such a
point as this. It so happens that Yūgiri is not at all like his mother,
and consequently I am apt to forget how complete such resemblances can
sometimes be.’
A sprig of orange-blossom was stuck among some fruit that was lying on
a tray near by. ‘As the orange-blossom gives its scent unaltered to the
sleeve that brushes it, so have you taken on your mother’s beauty, till
you and she are one.’ So he recited, adding: ‘Nothing has ever consoled
me for her loss, and indeed, though so many years have passed I shall
die regretting her as bitterly as at the start. But to-night, when I
first caught sight of you, it seemed to me for an instant that she had
come back to me again—that the past was only a dream.... Bear with me;
you cannot conceive what happiness was brought me by one moment
of illusion. But now it is over ...’ and so saying he took her hand in
his. She was somewhat taken aback, for he had never attempted to do
such a thing before; but she answered quietly: ‘Wretched will be my lot
indeed, should the flower’s perfume prove hapless as the flower that
was destroyed.’
She felt that things were not going well, and sat staring at the floor,
her chin propped on her fist. This was just the attitude in which she
most attracted him. He noticed the plumpness of her hand, the softness
of her skin, the delicacy of her whole figure. Such beauty could not,
at these close quarters, in any case have failed to move him; coupled
with the memories which every feature inspired, it proved irresistible,
and to-day his discretion broke down as never before. True, he did no
more than make a somewhat vague avowal of his feelings towards her.
But Tamakatsura was instantly terror-stricken; of this there could be
no doubt, for she was trembling from head to foot. ‘Come!’ he said,
‘you need not look so horrified. There is no harm in my having such
feelings, so long as only you and I are aware of them. You have known
for some time past that I was very fond of you, and now you have learnt
that I care for you even more than you supposed. But were I drawn
towards you by the blindest passion that has ever darkened the heart of
man, this would not damage your chances with Sochi no Miya, Higekuro
and the rest. For in their eyes you are my daughter, and it would never
occur to them that my affection for you could in any way hinder their
courtship. My only fear is that you will never find a husband who cares
for you half as much as I do. Such feelings as mine for you are not as
common in the world as you perhaps imagine them to be....’
He spoke all the while as though what he had said to her implied
nothing more than an unusual access of paternal feeling. It had now
quite stopped raining; ‘the wind was rustling in the bamboos,’[153]
and the moon was shining brightly. It was a lovely and solemn night.
Tamakatsura’s ladies, seeing that the conversation was beginning
to take a somewhat intimate turn, had tactfully withdrawn from her
presence.
His visits had for some while been very frequent; but circumstances
seldom favoured him as they did to-night. Moreover, now that he had,
quite without premeditation, confessed to these feelings, they seemed
suddenly to have taken a far stronger hold upon him. Unobtrusively,
indeed almost without her being aware of what was happening, he slipped
from her shoulders the light cloak which she had been wearing since
summer came in, and lay down beside her. She was horrified, but chiefly
through the fear that some one might discover them in this posture.
Her own father, she ruefully reflected, might refuse to admit his
responsibilities towards her and even order her out of his sight, but
she could be certain that he would not submit her to such ordeals as
she was here undergoing.... She did her best to hide her tears, but
before long they burst forth in an uncontrollable flood. Genji was
dismayed. ‘If that is what you feel about it,’ he said, ‘you must
really dislike me very much indeed. I have not attempted to do anything
that the world would consider in the least reprehensible, even were
I in no way connected with you. But as it is, we have been friends
for almost a year. Surely there is nothing very strange in the way I
have behaved? You know quite well that I should never force you to do
anything you would be sorry for afterwards. Do not, please, be angry
with me. Now that you have grown so like your mother, it is an immense
comfort to me simply to be with you....’ He spoke then for a long
while, tenderly, caressingly. For now that she was lying beside him
the resemblance to Yūgao was more than ever complete. But happy though
he would have been to remain far longer at her side, he was still able
to see that his behaviour had been in the highest degree rash and
inconsiderate. It was growing late; at any moment some one might return
to the room and discover them. ‘Do not think the worse of me for what
has happened this evening,’ he said at last, rising from the couch; ‘it
would distress me very much if you did. I know quite well that there
are people who never allow their feelings to get the better of them.
I can only say that I am differently made. But of this at least I can
assure you: whatever you may think of me, such outbursts are not due
in my case merely to some frivolous impulse of the moment. Once my
affections are aroused they are boundless both in time and extent. You
need not fear that I shall ever act in such a way as to harm your good
name. All I ask is that I may sometimes be allowed to talk as I have
talked to-night; and perhaps I may even hope that you will occasionally
answer me in the same spirit.’
He spoke gently, reasonably, but she was now beside herself with
agitation, and made no intelligible reply.
‘I see that I have made a great mistake,’ he said at last. ‘I always
thought that we got on unusually well together; but it is now clear
that the friendship was all on my side. For I cannot think that my
showing a little affection would so much perturb you unless you
definitely disliked me....’ He broke off, and left the room with a
final entreaty that she would speak to no one of what had occurred.
Though Tamakatsura was no longer very young, she was still entirely
innocent, and this made her judge Genji’s conduct more harshly than she
would otherwise have done. He had indeed merely lain down on the
same couch; but she, in her inexperience, imagined that in so doing he
had taken advantage of her to the utmost possible extent. On returning
to the room her gentlewomen at once noticed that she was looking very
distraught, and pestered her with tiresome enquiries about her health.
No sooner had they withdrawn than Ateki,[154] the daughter of her
old nurse, began (irritatingly enough) to congratulate her upon her
guardian’s extraordinary kindness: ‘How gratifying it is,’ she said,
‘that his Excellency is so admirably attentive to you! With all respect
to your own father, I very much doubt whether he would put himself to
half as much trouble on your account.... Prince Genji seems to take a
positive pleasure in looking after you.’ But Tamakatsura had been too
much surprised and shocked by Genji’s conduct to feel, for the moment,
any gratitude for the more than parental solicitude by which Ateki was
so deeply impressed. She had no desire whatever to see him again, and
yet in his absence felt strangely lonely and depressed.
[138] The box of autumn leaves. See above, p. 145.
[139] See vol. ii, p. 292.
[140] Yamabuki no Saki, a place in Ōmi, referred to in the _Gossamer
Diary_. See vol. ii, p. 28.
[141] A place in Yamashiro, also famous for its kerria flowers.
[142] Hōrai, fairyland, the Immortal Island.
[143] The mode of the second, beginning on alto A. Being so high it
was very difficult to play. It symbolized Spring.
[144] The tune which marked the return from the unusual ‘Spring’
tuning to the ordinary mode.
[145] ‘With a thread of green from the willow-tree—Ohé!
The nightingale has stitched himself a hat—Ohé!
A hat of plum-blossom, they say—Ohé!’
[146] Lest the enemy should see it.
[147] He thinks that Tamakatsura is Genji’s daughter, and therefore
his own niece. Union with a brother’s child was ill-viewed.
There are numerous puns, which it would be tedious to explain.
[148] The Japanese, as is well known, squat cross-legged on the
ground. But the use of chairs had spread with Buddhism from
Central Asia.
[149] One of the magical birds in Amida Buddha’s Paradise.
[150] Tamakatsura’s quarters.
[151] The married life of Confucius, like that of Socrates, was very
unhappy.
[152] From a poem written by Po Chü-i in 821, describing the pleasure
of returning to his own house after a spell of duty in the
Palace: ‘I sit at the window and listen to the wind rustling
among the bamboo; I walk on the terrace and watch the moon
rising between the trees.’
[153] See note on p. 235.
[154] See above p. 159. Ateki of course knew the secret of
Tamakatsura’s birth.
CHAPTER VII
THE GLOW-WORM
Genji was now in a singularly fortunate position. The government
of the country lay wholly in his hands; but though his power was
supreme, he was now seldom troubled by the uninteresting details of
public business; for he had some while ago delegated all such minor
decisions to Tō no Chūjō, and the arrangement continued to work very
successfully. In varying ways and degrees his dependants naturally
benefited by his increased leisure and security. Not only was he able
to devote far more time to looking after their affairs, but they could
also feel that, such as it was, their position was now something
permanent and dependable; whereas in the old days, when the powers
arrayed against him were still unshaken, they knew quite well that he
might at any moment find himself far more in need of patronage than
able any longer to dispense it. Most of them, even those who received a
very small share of his attentions, were nowadays fairly well content
with their lot; but the Princess[155] in the Western Wing continued to
view with great apprehension the imprudent turn which her guardian had
lately given to their relationship, and different as were his manners
from those of her persecutor[156] on the Island, she was now scarcely
less alarmed than in the weeks which preceded her flight. She felt that
in first insisting on their playing the part of father and daughter,
and then suddenly revealing himself in another character, he
had taken advantage of her in a very mean way, and despite his
protestations it seemed vain to suppose that, out of consideration for
her at any rate, he would restrain himself sufficiently to avoid an
open scandal. She had no one to whom she could turn, and now that she
was face to face with the actual difficulties of life she realized far
more acutely than she had even done as a child the irreparable loss
which she had sustained in her mother’s death.
Genji, on his side, was exceedingly vexed with himself for having
acted so imprudently. He had not breathed a word about the matter to
any one, and being anxious to convince himself that his behaviour
on that unlucky night had been altogether exceptional, he visited
her frequently and, apart from a few rather ambiguous remarks (which
however he was careful never to let fall in the presence of her
gentlewomen and attendants) he behaved in a manner to which exception
could not be taken. Each time that he began to venture on dangerous
ground she felt her heart beat violently and, if he had been any one
else, would have cut him short and sent him about his business. But as
it was she merely pretended not to notice what he was saying.
She was naturally of a very cheerful and lively disposition, so
that she made friends easily. Prince Sochi and her other suitors,
though they themselves had obtained so little encouragement from her,
continued to hear on all sides nothing but praises of her good looks
and general charm. They therefore redoubled their efforts; but to their
chagrin the rains of the fifth month[157] had already set in without
any sign that their industry was likely to be rewarded.
Among some letters which Tamakatsura was showing to him Genji found
one from Prince Sochi: ‘If you could but find it in your heart
to admit me for one single moment to your presence, you would earn
my undying gratitude, even though I should never see you again. For
I should thus enjoy a respite, the first for many months, from the
tortures which I now endure....’ ‘I have never seen Prince Sochi making
love,’ said Genji as he read the letter. ‘It would be a sight worth
seeing. Please tell him he may come,’ and he began suggesting the terms
in which she should reply. But the idea did not at all appeal to her,
and alleging that she was feeling giddy and could not, at the moment,
possibly handle a pen, she attempted to lead the conversation into
other channels. ‘But there is no need that you should write yourself,’
said Genji, returning to his project; ‘we will dictate a letter between
us.’
Among Tamakatsura’s gentlewomen there was none in whom she placed any
great confidence. The only exception was a certain Saishō no Kimi, a
daughter of her mother’s younger brother, who seemed to have far more
sense than most young women. Hearing that this girl was in difficult
circumstances Tamakatsura had sent for her to see what could be done;
and finding that Saishō was not only the sort of person whom it would
be useful in a general way to have about her, but was also an unusually
good pen-woman, she retained this young cousin in her service. Genji,
who knew that Tamakatsura often used the girl as her amanuensis, now
sent for Saishō and proceeded to dictate a letter. For he was consumed
by an overwhelming curiosity to see how his half-brother, with whose
conduct in all other situations he was so familiar, would conduct
himself at such an interview as this. As for Tamakatsura, she had,
since the occasion of Genji’s unpardonable indiscretion, begun to
pay a good deal more attention to the communications of her suitors.
She had no reason to give any preference to Prince Sochi; but he, as
much as any other husband, represented a way of escape from the
embarrassment in which she found herself. She was, however, far from
having ever thought of him seriously in this connection.
Little knowing that his success was due to a whim of Prince Genji’s
rather than to any favourable impression that his own suit had made,
Sochi no Miya in great elation rushed round to the New Palace and
presented himself at Tamakatsura’s door. He could not complain of his
treatment; for he was at once accommodated with a divan which was only
a few paces from her curtains-of-state. He looked about him. On every
side he recognized such presents and appurtenances as far more commonly
emanate from a lover than from a parent. The air was laden with costly
perfumes. There were hangings, brocades, a thousand trifles any one of
which would have been enough to arouse in Sochi’s heart the suspicion
that Genji, from whom he was convinced that those bounties flowed,
was not her father. And if he was not her father, then inevitably,
as Sochi ruefully recognized, he must be reckoned with as a serious
rival. Tamakatsura herself made no effort to converse with him or even
answer his questions. Her maids seemed quite incapable of replying on
her behalf, and when even Saishō, reputed to be so capable in every
emergency, continued to sit in awkward silence, Genji whispered: ‘What
is the matter with you all? Have you become rooted to your seats? Get
up, do something.... Be civil!’ But all this had no effect. They merely
stared helplessly in front of them.
The evening was now drawing in, and as the sky was very much overcast
the room was almost dark. Beyond her curtains Tamakatsura could just
discern the motionless form of her suitor, gracefully outlined against
the gloom, while from her side a stirring of the evening air would
occasionally carry towards him a fragrance enhanced by a strange
perfume[158] which, though it was familiar to him, he could not then
identify. The room seemed full of diverse and exquisite scents that
inflamed his imagination, and though he had previously pictured her
to himself as handsome, he now (as these perfumes floated round him)
thought of her as a hundred times more beautiful than he had ever done
before. Her curtains were thick and it was now quite dark. He could
not see her and could only guess that she was still near him; but so
vividly did she now appear before his mind’s eye that it was as though
no barrier were between them, and he began to address her in the most
passionate terms. There was now in his style no longer anything of the
professional courtier or hardened man-of-the-world. The long outpouring
to which Genji, ensconced in his corner of her curtained daïs, now
listened with considerable emotion, was natural, direct—almost boyish.
When it was over, Prince Sochi was rewarded by a note from Saishō,
informing him that her mistress had some time ago retired to the inner
room![159] ‘This is too bad!’ whispered Genji, creeping to the door of
her refuge (he had himself been so intent upon his brother’s eloquence
that he had not seen her slip away). ‘You cannot simply disappear while
people are talking to you. You are governed by absurd pre-conceived
notions, and never stop to consider the merits of the case in question.
To treat any visitor, and above all a person of Prince Sochi’s
standing, in the manner I have just witnessed would not be tolerated
in a child; and in your case, seeing that you are a grown woman not
without some experience of Court life, such behaviour is insufferable.
Even if you are too shy to converse with him, you might at least sit
within reasonable distance....’ Genji had never yet pursued her
into the inner room; but she had no doubt that on the present occasion,
in his eagerness to reform her manners, he would have no scruple in
doing so; and reluctantly she left her place of retreat and once more
seated herself near the edge of her curtained daïs. Sochi now attempted
to begin a more general conversation, but no topic seemed to arouse
her interest. Suddenly her attention was distracted by a light which
had begun to glimmer quite close to where she sat. It seemed to move
when Genji moved. She now saw him go to her curtains-of-state and, at
a certain point, hook back the inner curtain, leaving only a single
thickness of light transparent stuff. Here he suspended something
bright, that looked like a paper candle.... What was he doing? She was
dumbfounded.
The fact was that on his way to her apartments earlier in the evening
Genji had encountered an unusual number of glow-worms. Collecting
them in a thin paper bag he had concealed this improvised lantern
under the folds of his cloak and, on his arrival, disposed of it in
a safe corner. Startled by the sudden glow of light, Tamakatsura
snatched up her fan and buried her face behind it, not before Sochi
had caught an enchanting glimpse of her beauty. This was just what
Genji had intended. The attentions which his brother had hitherto paid
to Tamakatsura were, he suspected, due solely to the fact that Sochi
had accepted the current story and imagined her indeed to be Genji’s
daughter. He knew that, despite her fame as a delightful accession to
the Court, Prince Sochi could have but a vague conception of her charm;
and in order that he might the sooner escape from his own dilemma he
was determined that Sochi should no longer merely pay formal court to
the girl, but should really lose his head about her. He imagined that
he was now at any rate indisputably playing the part of a fond
and disinterested parent. A strange delusion! For had he reflected for
a moment he would have seen that nothing would ever have induced him
so crudely to thrust his own daughter, the Princess of Akashi, upon a
suitor’s notice. He now stole away by a back door and returned to his
own apartments.
Sochi was feeling much encouraged. He now discredited Saishō’s note and
imagined that the lady had been sitting during the whole time of his
discourse in the position where the light of the glow-worms revealed
her. ‘After all,’ he thought to himself, ‘I have interested her. She
listens patiently and apparently even likes to be near me.’ And with
that he pulled back the light gauze flap at the part of her curtains
where Genji had removed the thick inner hanging. She was now but a
few feet away from him, and though a bag of glow-worms makes no very
famous[160] illumination, he saw enough by this fitful and glimmering
light to confirm his impression that she was one of the most beautiful
women he had ever seen. In another moment Tamakatsura’s maids, summoned
hastily to the scene, had detached the strange lantern and carried it
somewhere out of sight.
Genji’s stratagem was indeed abundantly successful. This momentary
vision of Tamakatsura huddled disconsolately upon her couch had
profoundly disturbed him. ‘Does the harsh world decree that even the
flickering glow-worm, too shy for common speech, must quench the timid
torchlight of its love!’ So he now recited; and she, thinking that
if she appeared to be taking much trouble about her reply, he would
suppose she attached more importance to the matter than was actually
the case, answered instantly: ‘Far deeper is the glow-worm’s love that
speaks in silent points of flame, than all the passions idle courtiers
prate with facile tongue.’ She spoke coldly; moreover she had now
withdrawn to the far side of her daïs. For some while he pleaded in
vain against this inhospitable treatment. But he soon saw that he would
gain nothing, even should he stay where he was till dawn; and though
he could hear by the water dripping from the eaves that it was a most
disagreeable night, he rose and took his leave. Despite the rain the
nightingales were singing lustily; but he was in no mood to enjoy their
song and did not pause an instant to hear them.
On the fifth day of the fifth month, business at the Stables brought
Genji in the direction of her apartments, and he availed himself of
this opportunity to discover what had happened on the night of Sochi’s
visit. ‘Did the prince stay very late?’ he asked. ‘I hope you did not
let him go too far. He is the sort of man who might very easily lose
control of himself ... not that he is worse than others. It is really
very unusual indeed to meet with any one who is capable of acting with
self-restraint under such circumstances.’ And this was the match-maker
who on the very occasion to which he was now referring, had driven
her into Prince Sochi’s arms! She could not help being amused at
his unblushing inconsistency. But all the while he was warning her
against the very man for whose visit he had himself been responsible.
Tamakatsura scanning him in his holiday clothes thought that he could
not, by any imaginable touch of art or nature, have looked more
beautiful. That thin cloak—what a marvellous blend of colours! Did
fairies preside over his dyeing-vats? Even the familiar and traditional
patterns, she thought, on such days as this take on a new significance
and beauty. And then looking again at Genji: ‘If only we were not on
this tiresome footing,’ she said to herself, ‘I believe I should long
ago have fallen very much in love with him.’
A letter arrived. It was from Prince Sochi, written on thin white
paper in a competent hand, and couched in terms which at the time
seemed very spirited and apposite. I fear, however, that were I to
reproduce it here, this admired letter would seem in no way remarkable,
and I will only record the poem which accompanied it: ‘Shall I, like
the flower that grows unnoticed by the stream though holiday-makers in
their dozens pass that way, find myself still, when this day closes,
unwanted and passed-by?’ The letter was attached to the tallest and
handsomest flag-iris[161] she had ever seen. ‘He is quite right,’ said
Genji; ‘to-day there is no escape for you.’ And when one after another
of her gentlewomen had pleaded with her that this once at any rate she
should answer him with her own hand, she produced the following reply,
which had, however, very little to do with what was going on in her
mind: ‘Better had the flower remained amid the waters, content to be
ignored, than prove, thus swiftly plucked, how feeble were the roots on
which it stood.’
It was an idle repartee, and even the handwriting seemed to Prince
Sochi’s expectant eye somewhat vague and purposeless. He was, indeed,
not at all sure, when he saw it, that he had not made a great
mistake.... Tamakatsura, on the other hand, was disposed to be in
rather a good humour with herself. She had this morning received Magic
Balls[162] of the utmost variety and splendour from an unprecedented
number of admirers. A more complete contrast than that between her
poverty-stricken years on the island and her present pampered existence
could hardly be imagined. Her ideas on a variety of subjects were
becoming far less rigid than when she first arrived at the New
Palace; and she began to see that provided her relationship with
Genji could be maintained upon its present harmless footing she had
everything to gain from its continuance.
Later in the day Genji called upon the lady in the Eastern
Quarter.[162] ‘The young men in the Royal Body Guard are holding
their sports here to-day,’ he said. ‘Yūgiri will be bringing them
back with him to his rooms and is counting on you to prepare for
their entertainment. They will arrive just before sunset. There will
also probably be a great deal of company besides; for ever since a
rumour spread round the Court that we were secretly harbouring in the
New Palace some fabulous prodigy of wit and beauty, an overwhelming
interest has been taken in us, and we have not had a moment’s peace. So
be prepared for the worst!’
Part of the race-course was not far away from this side of the
palace and a good view could be obtained from the porticos and outer
galleries. ‘You had better throw open all the garden-doors along the
passage between this wing and the main house,’ he said. ‘The young
people will see very well from there. The Bodyguard of the Right is
exceptionally strong this year. In my opinion they are a far more
interesting lot than most of the present high officers at Court.’ This
whetted, as it was intended to do, the curiosity of the young people in
that part of the house, and the galleries were soon thronged. The pages
and younger waiting-women from Tamakatsura’s wing also came to see the
sights and were accommodated at the open doors along the passage, the
persons of quality being ensconced behind green shutters or curtains
dyed in this new-fashioned way according to which the colour is
allowed to run down into the fringe. Among the dresses of the visitors
were many elaborate Chinese costumes, specially designed for the
day’s festivity, the colour of the young dianthus leaf tending to
prevail. The ladies who belonged to this wing had not been encouraged
to make any special effort for the occasion and were for the most part
in thin summer gowns, green without and peach-blossom colour within.
There was a great deal of rivalry and harmless self-display, which was
rewarded from time to time by a glance from one of the young courtiers
who were assembled on the course.
Genji arrived on the scene at the hour of the Sheep,[164] and found
just such a concourse of distinguished visitors as he had predicted.
It was interesting to see the competitors, whom he knew only in their
official uniforms, so differently arrayed, each with his following
of smartly dressed squires and assistants. The sports continued till
evening. The ladies, although they had a very imperfect understanding
of what was going on, were at least capable of deriving a great
deal of pleasure from the sight of so many young men in elegant
riding-jackets hurling themselves with desperate recklessness into the
fray. The finish of the course was not so very far from Murasaki’s
rooms, so that her gentlewomen too were able to get some idea of what
was going on. The races were followed by a game of polo played to
the tune of Tagyūraku.[165] Then came a competition of rival pairs
in the Nasori.[166] All this was accompanied by a great din of bells
and drums, sounded to announce the gaining of points on one side and
another. It was now getting quite dark and the spectators could barely
see what was going on. The first part of the indoor entertainment which
came next consisted in the distribution of prizes among the successful
riders. Then followed a great banquet and it was very late indeed when
the guests began to withdraw. Genji had arranged to sleep that
night in the Eastern Wing. He sat up a long while talking to the Lady
from the Village of Falling Flowers. ‘Did you not think to-day,’ he
said, ‘that Prince Sochi was immeasurably superior to any of the other
visitors? His appearance is of course not particularly in his favour.
But there is something in his manners and mode of address which I at
any rate find very attractive. I was able recently to observe him on an
occasion when he had no reason to believe that he was being watched,
and came to the conclusion that those who so loudly praise his wit and
ingenuity have no idea what constitutes his real charm.’ ‘I know that
he is your younger brother,’ she answered; ‘but he certainly looks
considerably older than you. I am told that he has visited here very
frequently during the last few months. But as a matter of fact I had
not till to-day once set eyes on him since I saw him years ago when my
sister was at Court. I confess I then had no idea that he would turn
out so well as he has done. In those days it was his younger brother,
the Viceroy of Tsukushi, whom I used to admire. But I see now that he
had not the same princeliness of air and carriage which you rightly
attribute to Prince Sochi.’ He saw that, brief as was the time she had
spent in Prince Sochi’s company that day, she had already completely
succumbed to his charms. He smiled, but did not draw her on into a
general discussion of his guests and their merits or defects. He had
always had a great dislike of those who cannot mention an acquaintance
without immediately beginning to pick his character to pieces and make
him seem utterly contemptible. When he heard the Lady from the Village
of Falling Flowers going into raptures over Prince Higekuro, he did
indeed find it hard not to disillusion her, particularly as he was just
then beginning to be somewhat alarmed lest this prince, whom he
regarded as rather unsuitable, should in the end turn out to be the
strongest candidate for Tamakatsura’s favour.
He and the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers had for years past
been on terms merely of ordinary confidence and friendliness. It was
assumed on this occasion as on others that they would presently retreat
each to a separate resting-place. How and why had this assumption first
begun? He could not remember, and felt that to-night he would very
gladly have broken the rule. But she seemed to take for granted that
he would presently wish to retire, and so far from resenting this or
seeming to be at all depressed, she evidently felt highly gratified
that her own quarters had been selected as the scene of a festivity
the like of which she had not witnessed in person for a very great
number of years. ‘The withered grass that even the woodland pony
left untouched, to-day with the wild iris of the pool-side has been
twisted in one wreath.’ Thus she expressed her gratitude and pride.
He was touched that so small an event should mean so much to her, and
answered with the verse: ‘The colt whose shadow falls upon the waters
close where the wild-swan’s wing is mirrored in the lake, from iris and
sweet marsh-marigold shall ne’er be far away.’ How easily was she now
contented, and how vague had his own compliments become! ‘Though I so
seldom manage to see you,’ he said, ‘I assure you I am never happier
than when I am here.’ It would have been unlike her to take him to task
for the insincerity of this last speech. She merely accepted it quietly
and they parted for the night. He found that she had given up her own
bed to him, and had all her things carried to another place. Had she
not seemed so convinced that anything in the way of greatest intimacy
was out of the question, he might have felt inclined on this occasion
to suggest a different arrangement.
This year the rainy season lasted much longer than usual, and
whereas the monotony of the downpour is usually relieved by an
occasional day of sunshine, this time there was nothing but one
continuous drizzle for weeks on end. The inhabitants of the New
Palace found it very hard to get through the day and tried one
amusement after another. In the end they mostly betook themselves to
reading illustrated romances. The Lady of Akashi had, among her other
accomplishments, a talent for copying out and finely decorating such
books as these; and being told that every one was clamouring for some
occupation which would help them to get through the day, she now sent
over a large supply to the Princess, her daughter. But the greatest
enthusiast of all was Lady Tamakatsura, who would rise at daybreak and
spend the whole day absorbed in reading or copying out romances. Many
of her younger ladies-in-waiting had a vast stock of stories, some
legendary, some about real people, which they told with considerable
skill. But Tamakatsura could not help feeling that the history of
her own life, should it ever come to be told, was really far more
interesting than any of the tales with which her ladies sought to
entertain her. True the sufferings of the princess in the _Sumiyoshi
Tale_[167] had at certain points a resemblance to her own experiences.
But she could see no reason why for generations past so many tears
of indignation and pity should have been shed over the fate of this
princess at the hands of her unscrupulous lover.[168] Judged as an
episode, thought Tamakatsura, her own escape from the violence of Tayū
was quite as exciting.
One day Genji, going the round with a number of romances which
he had promised to lend, came to Tamakatsura’s room and found her, as
usual, hardly able to lift her eyes from the book in front of her.
‘Really, you are incurable,’ he said, laughing. ‘I sometimes think that
young ladies exist for no other purpose than to provide purveyors of
the absurd and improbable with a market for their wares. I am sure that
the book you are now so intent upon is full of the wildest nonsense.
Yet knowing this all the time, you are completely captivated by its
extravagances and follow them with the utmost excitement: why, here
you are on this hot day, so hard at work that, though I am sure you
have not the least idea of it, your hair is in the most extraordinary
tangle.... But there; I know quite well that these old tales are
indispensable during such weather as this. How else would you all
manage to get through the day? Now for a confession. I too have lately
been studying these books and have, I must tell you, been amazed by
the delight which they have given me. There is, it seems, an art of so
fitting each part of the narrative into the next that, though all is
mere invention, the reader is persuaded that such things might easily
have happened and is as deeply moved as though they were actually
going on around him. We may know with one part of our minds that every
incident has been invented for the express purpose of impressing us;
but (if the plot is constructed with the requisite skill) we may all
the while in another part of our minds be burning with indignation
at the wrongs endured by some wholly imaginary princess. Or again we
may be persuaded by a writer’s eloquence into accepting the crudest
absurdities, our judgment being as it were dazzled by sheer splendour
of language.
I have lately sometimes stopped and listened to one of our young people
reading out loud to her companions and have been amazed at the advances
which this art of fiction is now making. How do you suppose that
our new writers come by this talent? It used to be thought that the
authors of successful romances were merely particularly untruthful
people whose imaginations had been stimulated by constantly inventing
plausible lies. But that is clearly unfair....’ ‘Perhaps, she said,
‘only people who are themselves much occupied in practising deception
have the habit of thus dipping below the surface. I can assure you that
for my part, when I read a story, I always accept it as an account of
something that has really and actually happened.’
So saying she pushed away from her the book which she had been
copying. Genji continued: ‘So you see as a matter of fact I think far
better of this art than I have led you to suppose. Even its practical
value is immense. Without it what should we know of how people lived
in the past, from the Age of the Gods down to the present day? For
history-books such as the Chronicles of Japan show us only one small
corner of life; whereas these diaries and romances which I see piled
around you contain, I am sure, the most minute information about all
sorts of people’s private affairs....’ He smiled, and went on: ‘But I
have a theory of my own about what this art of the novel is, and how
it came into being. To begin with, it does not simply consist in the
author’s telling a story about the adventures of some other person. On
the contrary it happens because the story-teller’s own experience of
men and things, whether for good or ill—not only what he has passed
through himself, but even events which he has only witnessed or been
told of—has moved him to an emotion so passionate that he can no longer
keep it shut up in his heart. Again and again something in his own life
or in that around him will seem to the writer so important that he
cannot bear to let it pass into oblivion. There must never come a
time, he feels, when men do not know about it. That is my view of how
this art arose.
‘Clearly then, it is no part of the story-teller’s craft to describe
only what is good or beautiful. Sometimes, of course, virtue will be
his theme, and he may then make such play with it as he will. But he
is just as likely to have been struck by numerous examples of vice and
folly in the world around him, and about them he has exactly the same
feelings as about the pre-eminently good deeds which he encounters:
they are important and must all be garnered in. Thus anything
whatsoever may become the subject of a novel, provided only that it
happens in this mundane life and not in some fairyland beyond our human
ken.
‘The outward forms of this art will not of course be everywhere the
same. At the Court of China and in other foreign lands both the
genius of the writers and their actual methods of composition are
necessarily very different from ours; and even here in Japan the art
of story-telling has in course of time undergone great changes. There
will, too, always be a distinction between the lighter and the more
serious forms of fiction.... Well, I have said enough to show that when
at the beginning of our conversation I spoke of romances as though they
were mere frivolous fabrications, I was only teasing you. Some people
have taken exception on moral grounds to an art in which the perfect
and imperfect are set side by side. But even in the discourses which
Buddha in his bounty allowed to be recorded, certain passages contain
what the learned call Upāya or ‘Adapted Truth’—a fact that has led some
superficial persons to doubt whether a doctrine so inconsistent with
itself could possibly command our credence. Even in the scriptures of
the Greater Vehicle[169] there are, I confess, many such instances. We
may indeed go so far as to say that there is an actual mixture of
Truth and Error. But the purpose of these holy writings, namely the
compassing of our Salvation, remains always the same. So too, I think,
may it be said that the art of fiction must not lose our allegiance
because, in the pursuit of the main purpose to which I have alluded
above, it sets virtue by the side of vice, or mingles wisdom with
folly. Viewed in this light the novel is seen to be not, as is usually
supposed, a mixture of useful truth with idle invention, but something
which at every stage and in every part has a definite and serious
purpose.’
Thus did he vindicate the story-teller’s profession as an art of real
importance.
Murasaki, who had first taken to reading romances in order to see
whether they were suitable for her adopted daughter, the Princess from
Akashi, was now deeply immersed in them. She was particularly fond of
the _Tale of Komano_[170] and showing to Genji an illustrated copy of
it she said one day: ‘Do you not think that these pictures are very
well painted?’ The reason that she liked the illustrations so much was
that one of them showed the little girl in the story lying peacefully
asleep in her chair, and this somehow reminded Murasaki of her own
childhood. ‘And do you mean to tell me,’ asked Genji, ‘that such an
infant as that has already, at this early point in the story, been
the heroine of gallant episodes? When I remember the exemplary way
in which I looked after you during your childhood I realize that my
self-restraint is even more unusual than I supposed.’ It could not be
denied that his conduct was in many ways unusual; but hardly, perhaps,
exemplary in the common sense of the word. ‘I hope you are very careful
not to allow the little princess to read any of the looser stories,’
he continued. ‘She would realize, I am sure, that the heroines
of such books are acting very wrongly in embarking upon these secret
intrigues; but I had much rather she did not know that such things go
on in the world at all.’ ‘This is really too much!’ thought Murasaki.
‘That he should come straight from one of his interminable visits to
Tamakatsura and at once begin lecturing me on how to bring up young
ladies!’
‘I should be very sorry,’ she said, ‘if she read books in which
licentious characters were too obviously held up to her as an example.
But I hope you do not wish to confine her reading to _The Hollow
Tree_.[171] Lady Até certainly knows how to look after herself, in
a blundering sort of way; and she gets her reward in the end, but
at the expense of so grim a tenacity in all her dealings that, in
reading the book, we hardly feel her to be a woman at all.’ ‘Not only
did such women actually exist in those days,’ replied Genji, ‘but I
can assure you that we have them still among us. It comes of their
being brought up by unsocial and inhuman people who have allowed a few
one-sided ideas to run away with them. The immense pains which people
of good family often take over their daughters’ education is apt to
lead only to the production of spiritless creatures whose minds seem
to grow more and more child-like in proportion to the care which is
lavished on their upbringing. Their ignorance and awkwardness are only
too apparent; and after wondering in what, precisely, this superior
education consisted, people begin to regard not only the children as
humbugs but the parents as well.
‘On the other hand if the children happen to have natural talents,
parents of this kind at once attribute the faintest sign of such
endowment to the efficacy of their own inhuman system, and become
distressingly pleased with themselves, using with regard to some very
ordinary girl or stripling terms of the most extravagant eulogy. The
world consequently expects much more of the unfortunate creatures than
they can possibly perform, and having waited in vain for them to do
or say something wonderful, begins to feel a kind of grudge against
them....’
‘Overpraise,’ he added, ‘does a great deal of harm to the young.
Servants are very dangerous in this respect....’ Nevertheless he did
not object, as Murasaki had often noticed, to the little Princess
from Akashi being praised by any one who came along, and he often put
himself to immense trouble in order that she might escape a scolding
which he knew she thoroughly deserved.
Step-mothers in books usually behave very spitefully towards the
children entrusted to them. But he was now learning by his own
experience that in real life this does not always happen. In choosing
books for Murasaki and her charge he was therefore careful to eliminate
those that depict step-mothers in the traditional light; for he feared
she might otherwise think he was trying to give her a quite unnecessary
warning.
Yūgiri, as has been said before, saw very little of Murasaki; but
it was natural that he should sometimes visit his little sister,
the Princess from Akashi, and Genji did not discourage this. On the
contrary he was anxious to establish an affectionate relationship
between them. For Genji, young though he still was, often thought of
what would happen after his death, and he could imagine circumstances
in which the princess might stand sorely in need of her brother’s help.
He therefore gave the boy permission to visit her and even go behind
her curtains-of-state as often as he chose, though he still forbad him
to enter into conversation with Lady Murasaki’s gentlewomen. So few
were the children of the house that a great deal more trouble was
taken about them than is usually the case. Yūgiri certainly seemed to
have repaid this care. In the ordinary affairs of life he showed great
judgment and good-sense, and Genji had the comfortable feeling that
whatever went amiss, Yūgiri at least could always be relied upon.
The little girl was only seven years old and dolls were still her
principal interest. Yūgiri, who a year or two ago used so often to play
just such games with his little companion at the Great Hall, made an
excellent major-domo of the doll’s-house, though the part, bringing as
it did a host of recollections to his mind, was often a painful one.
Indeed more than once he was obliged to turn away for an instant, his
eyes full of tears. During these visits he naturally met many of the
princess’s other playmates, and a great deal of chattering took place
on every conceivable subject. He took his share in these conversations;
but he did not get to know any of the little girls at all well, nor
did they, so far as he could see, take any particular interest in him.
Was all that side of life forever to be closed to him? Yūgiri asked
himself. But though this was the thought which instantly recurred to
him during these meetings, his outward behaviour seemed only to betoken
complete indifference. His green badge![172] Yes, it was that which lay
at the bottom not only of these smaller troubles but also of the great
disaster[173] which had wrecked all his chances of happiness.
Sometimes the idea came to him that if he simply went straight to
Kumoi’s father and tackled him about the matter—insisted, shouted, made
a great scene—Tō no Chūjō would suddenly give in. But he had suffered
enough already in private; there was nothing to be gained by also
making himself publicly ridiculous. No, the better way was to convince
Kumoi herself by his behaviour, above all by a complete and obvious
indifference to the rest of the world, that so far as his own feelings
were concerned nothing was altered by one jot or tittle since the day
when he first told her of his love.
Between him and her brothers slight difficulties were always arising
which resulted, for the time being, in a certain coldness. For example,
Kashiwagi, Kumoi’s eldest brother, in ignorance of the fact that Lady
Tamakatsura was his sister, continued to pay his addresses to her,
and finding that his letters often failed to reach their destination,
naturally turned to Yūgiri for assistance. Never once did he offer
to perform a similar service in return, though it was presumably as
easy for him to see Kumoi as it was for Yūgiri to see Tamakatsura. The
request irritated him and he firmly refused. Not that they ceased to be
friends; for their relationship, like that of their fathers, had always
been built up of small rivalries and feuds.
Tō no Chūjō had an unusually large number of children, most of whom had
amply fulfilled, as regards both popularity and attainments, the high
promise of their early years. His position in the State had enabled
him to do extremely well for all his sons. As regards his daughters
(who were, however, not so numerous) he had been less fortunate. His
plans for the future of the eldest girl had entirely miscarried;[174]
he had signified his desire to present Lady Kumoi at Court, but had
hitherto received no command to do so. He had not in all these years
ever forgotten the little girl who, along with her mother, had so
mysteriously disappeared, and sometimes spoke of her to those who had
at the time been aware of his attachment to that unhappy lady.
What had become of them both? He imagined that her strange timidity
had driven the mother to take flight with that exquisite child into
some lonely and undiscoverable place. He fell into the habit of staring
hard into the face of every girl whom he met; and the commoner, the
more ill-clad and wretched the creature was, the surer he became that
this was his lost child. For the lower she had sunk, the less likely it
was that she would be able to persuade any one that she was indeed his
daughter. It was impossible, he felt, that sooner or later one or other
of his agents should not get news of her, and then what reparation he
would make for the down-trodden existence that she must now be leading!
He told his sons her child-name and begged them to report to him
immediately if they should ever come across any one who bore it. ‘In my
early days,’ he said, ‘I am afraid I became involved in a great many
rather purposeless intrigues. But this was quite a different matter. I
cared for the mother very deeply indeed, and it distresses me intensely
that I should not only have lost the confidence of the lady herself,
but also have been able to do nothing at all for the one child that
bore witness to our love.’
For long periods, especially if nothing happened to remind him of the
matter, he succeeded in putting it out of his head. But whenever he
heard of any one adopting a stray girl or taking some supposed poor
relation into their house, he at once became very suspicious, made
innumerable enquiries and was bitterly disappointed when it was finally
proved to him that his supposition was entirely unfounded.
About this time he had a curious dream, and sending for the best
interpreters of the day asked them what it meant. ‘It seems to mean,’
they said, ‘that you have at last heard what has become of a child that
you had lost sight of for many years, the reason that you have
failed to discover her being that she is thought by the world at large
to be some one else’s child.’ ‘Heard what has become ...’ he faltered.
‘No, on the contrary I have heard no such thing. I cannot imagine what
you are talking about.’
[155] Tamakatsura.
[156] Tayū.
[157] It is unlucky to marry in the fifth month.
[158] The rare perfume which Genji wore.
[159] Sochi had been addressing her through her curtains-of-state.
She crept away in the darkness as an animal at the Zoo might
slink into its back cage. Genji was, of course, all the time
with her behind her curtains.
[160] _Oboye-naki_ ‘fame-less.’ I retain this idiom as it corresponds
curiously with ours.
[161] Irises were plucked on the fifth day of the fifth month.
[162] Balls made of coloured stuffs, with scent-bags in the middle.
Supposed to ward off disease.
[163] The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.
[164] 1 p.m.
[165] ‘Hitting the Ball Tune.’
[166] A Korean dance.
[167] The story of a misused step-child. It is no longer extant, the
text which bears this name being merely a 15th-century
adaptation of the _Room Below Stairs_.
[168] A disagreeable old man to whom her step-mother tried to marry
her.
[169] The Mahāyāna, the later development of Buddhism which prevailed
in Tibet, China and Japan.
[170] Now lost.
[171] See vol. ii, p. 15. Lady Até refuses suitor after suitor.
Finally she marries the Crown Prince and lives happily ever
after. The book seemed as old-fashioned to Murasaki as Hannah
More’s novels do to us.
[172] The mark of the sixth rank. Genji, it will be remembered, had
refused to promote him.
[173] His failure to win Tō no Chūjō’s daughter, Lady Kumoi.
[174] He had hoped to get Lady Chūjō made Empress.
CHAPTER VIII
A BED OF CARNATIONS
One very hot day Genji, finding the air at the New Palace intolerably
close, decided to picnic at the fishing-hut on the lake. He invited
Yūgiri to come with him, and they were joined by most of the courtiers
with whom Genji was on friendly terms. From the Western River on his
estate at Katsura _ayu_ had been brought, and from the nearer streams
_ishibushi_ and other fresh-water fish, and these formed the staple of
their repast. Several of Tō no Chūjō’s sons had called to see Yūgiri,
and hearing where he was to be found, joined the picnic. ‘How heavy
and sleepy one has felt lately!’ exclaimed Genji. ‘This is certainly
a great improvement.’ Wine was brought; but he sent for iced water as
well. A delicious cold soup was served, and many other delicacies.
Here by the lake there was a certain amount of movement in the air;
but the sun blazed down out of a cloudless sky, and even when the
shadows began to lengthen there was a continual buzzing of insects
which was very oppressive. ‘I have never known such a day,’ said Genji.
‘It does not after all seem any better here than it was indoors. You
must excuse me if I am too limp to do much in the way of entertaining
you,’ and he lay back against his cushions. ‘One does not feel much
inclined for music or games of any kind in such weather, and yet one
badly needs something to occupy the mind. I have sometimes wondered
lately whether the sun was ever going to set.... All the same, the
young people on duty at the Emperor’s Palace are in a much worse
position than we. Imagine not being able to loosen one’s belt and
ribbons on a day like this! Here at any rate we can loll about just as
we please. The only difficulty is to avoid going to sleep. Has not any
of you got some startling piece of news to tell us? You need have no
fear that I may have heard it already, for I am becoming quite senile;
I never hear about anything till every one else has forgotten about
it.’ They all began wracking their brains to think of some exciting
piece of intelligence or entertaining anecdote, but without success;
and presently, since their host had invited them to be at their ease,
one after another of the visitors somewhat timidly took up a position
with his back planted against the cool metal railings of the verandah.
‘Well,’ said Genji at last, ‘as a matter of fact, rarely though this
now happens, I myself have picked up a small piece of information.
It seems that his Excellency Tō no Chūjō has lately rediscovered and
taken to live with him a natural daughter of whom he had lost sight
for many years. Come, Kōbai,’ addressing Kashiwagi’s younger brother,
‘you will be able to tell me if there is any truth in this.’ ‘Something
of the kind has happened,’ answered the young man, ‘though there is a
good deal of exaggeration in many of the stories which are being put
about. The facts are that last spring, in consequence of a dream, my
father asked us to inquire carefully into every case we could discover
of a child claiming paternity by him. My brother Kashiwagi did finally
hear of a girl who seemed to possess absolute proof that she was an
illegitimate child of our father’s, and we were told to call upon her
and verify this, which we accordingly did. That is all I know about
it; and I am sure that there is no one present who has not something
a great deal more interesting than that to talk about. I am afraid
what I have just told you cannot possibly be of interest to any one
but the people actually concerned.’ ‘So it is true! thought
Genji, wondering whether Tō no Chūjō could have been so misled as to
suppose that it was Yūgao’s child whom he had rediscovered. ‘There
are so many of you in the family already,’ he said to Kōbai, ‘that I
wonder your father should search the sky for one stray swallow that
has not managed to keep pace with the flock. I, who nurture so small
a brood, might be pardoned for such conduct; but in your father it
seems somewhat grasping. Unfortunately, though I should feel proud to
acknowledge my children, no one shows the slightest inclination to
claim me as a father. However, it is no mere accident that Tō no Chūjō
is more in request than I am. The moon’s image shows dimly in waters
that are troubled at the bottom. Your father’s early adventures were of
a most indiscriminate character, and if you know all your brothers and
sisters, you would probably realize that, taken as a whole, you are a
very queer family....’ Yūgiri, who knew a mass of stories which amply
confirmed Genji’s last statement, could not help showing his amusement
to an extent which Kōbai and his brothers thought to be in exceedingly
bad taste. ‘It is all very well for you to laugh, Yūgiri,’ continued
Genji; ‘but you would be much better employed in picking up some of
those stray leaves than in making trouble for yourself by pressing in
where you are not wanted. In so large a garland you might surely find
some other flower with which to console yourself!’ All Genji’s remarks
about Tō no Chūjō wore superficially the aspect of such friendly banter
as one old friend commonly indulges in concerning another. But as a
matter of fact there had for some while past been a real coolness
between them, which was increased by Chūjō’s scornful refusal to accept
Yūgiri as his son-in-law. He realized that he had just been somewhat
spiteful; but so far from being uncomfortable lest these remarks should
reach his old friend’s ears, he found himself actually hoping that
the boys would repeat them.
This conversation about the waif whom Tō no Chūjō had recently
acknowledged and adopted, reminded Genji that it was becoming high time
he should himself make a certain long-intended revelation. Tamakatsura
had now lived for over a year at the New Palace; she was definitely
accepted as a member of the Court circle, and there was now no fear
that her father would be in any way ashamed of her. But the views of
Tō no Chūjō were in some ways peculiar. He made an absolutely hard
and fast distinction between the ‘right’ and the ‘wrong’ people. To
those who satisfied his very exacting standards he was extraordinarily
helpful and agreeable. As for the others, he ignored them with a
sublime completeness that no other Grand Minister had ever equalled.
Was it quite certain in which class he would place his own daughter?
Then a brilliant idea occurred to Genji. He would introduce Tō no Chūjō
to Tamakatsura immediately, but not reveal her identity until Chūjō had
once and for all classed her as ‘possible.’
The evening wind was by this time delightfully fresh, and it was with
great regret that the young guests prepared to take their leave. ‘I
should be perfectly contented to go on sitting here quietly in the
cool; but I know that at your age there are many far more interesting
things to be done,' and with that he set out for the Western Wing, his
guests accompanying him to the door.
Knowing that in an uncertain evening light all people in Court cloaks
look very much alike, Genji at once summoned Tamakatsura to him and
explained in a low voice why he had arrived with so large an escort.
‘I have been entertaining Tō no Chūjō’s sons,' he said, ‘Kashiwagi,
Kōbai and the rest. It was obvious that they were very anxious to come
on here with me, and Yūgiri is such an honest soul, it would
have been unkind not to let him come too. Those poor young men, Tō
no Chūjō’s sons, must really soon be told you are their sister. I am
afraid they are all more or less in love with you. But even in the
case of quite ordinary families the sudden arrival of some unknown
young lady causes endless speculation among those who frequent the
house, and though there is intense curiosity to see her, it is apparent
that every one has long beforehand made up his mind to fall in love.
Unfortunately, even before your arrival, my palace had an undeserved
reputation for harbouring bevies of incomparable creatures. Every
visitor who comes here seems to arrive primed up with compliments and
fine speeches, only to discover that there is no quarter in which they
could be employed without impertinence.[175] But you have often asked
me about those particular young men and lamented that you never get
an opportunity yourself of judging whether they are as intelligent as
every one makes out. So I thought you would not mind me bringing them
here, and would perhaps like to have a word with one or the other of
them....’
While this whispered conversation was going on, the young men were
standing in the garden outside. It was not planted in formal borders;
but there was a great clump of carnations and a tangled hedge of tall
flowering plants, both Chinese and Japanese, with great masses of
blossom that stood out vividly in the fading light. True, they had
come that evening hoping to pluck a very different flower; but as
they sat resting in front of the house they could scarcely restrain
themselves from stretching out a hand and filling their laps with these
resplendent blossoms.
‘They are really very remarkable young men,’ Genji went on. ‘There is
not one of them but in his way shows unmistakable signs of genius,
and this is true even of Kashiwagi, who in outward manner is
particularly quiet and diffident. By the way, has he written to you
again? I remember we read his poem together. You cannot, of course,
under the circumstances risk giving him any definite encouragement; but
do not be too hard upon him.’
Even amid these very exceptional young men Yūgiri looked surprisingly
handsome and distinguished, and Genji, pointing to him, said to
Tamakatsura in a whisper: ‘I am terribly disappointed that Tō no Chūjō
should take up his present attitude about that boy. It has come to this
nowadays, that those people will not look at any one who is not part
and parcel of their own gang.[176] A drop of other blood, even if it
be that of the Royal House, seems to them a painful blemish....’ ‘That
was not the way Royal Princes were regarded once upon a time,’ said
Tamakatsura, and quoted the old folk-song _Come to my house_.[177]
‘They certainly seem in no hurry to make ready a banquet for poor
Yūgiri,’ admitted Genji. ‘I am extremely sorry for those two. They
took a fancy to each other when they were mere children and have never
got over it. I know quite well that they have suffered a great deal
through this long separation. If it is merely because of Yūgiri’s low
rank that Tō no Chūjō refuses his consent, he might on this occasion be
content to disregard the comments of the world and leave the matter in
my hands. He surely does not suppose that I intend the boy to remain
in the Sixth Rank for ever....’ Again he was speaking of Tō no Chūjō
with asperity and, like her brothers a few hours ago, Tamakatsura was
perturbed to discover that the breach between them was widening, partly
because such a state of affairs made it all the less probable that
Genji would in the near future reveal her identity to Tō no Chūjō.
As there was no moon that night, the great lamp was presently brought
in. ‘It is now just comfortably warm,’ said Genji, ‘and the only thing
we need is a little more light.’ He sent for a servant and said to him:
‘One tray of bamboo flares! In here, please.’ When they were brought
he noticed a very beautiful native zithern and drawing it towards him
struck a few chords. It was tuned to the difficult _ritsu_ mode, but
with remarkable accuracy. It seemed indeed to be an exceptionally
fine instrument, and when he had played on it for a little while he
said to her: ‘I have all these months been doing you the injustice
of supposing that you were not interested in these things. What I
like is to play such an instrument as yours on a cool autumn evening,
when the moon is up, sitting quite close to the window. One then
plays in concert with the cicadas, purposely using their chirruping
as part of the accompaniment. The result is a kind of music which is
intimate, but at the same time thoroughly modern. There is, of course,
a go-as-you-please, informal quality about the Japanese zithern which
makes it unsuitable for use on ceremonial occasions. But when one
remembers that almost all our native airs and measures originated on
this instrument, one cannot help regarding it with respect. There are
stray references which show that its history stretches back into the
dimmest past; but to hear people talk nowadays one would think it had
been specially invented for the benefit of young ladies, in whom an
acquaintance with foreign arts and usages is considered unbecoming.
Above all, do make a practice of playing it in concert with other
instruments whenever you get the chance. This will immensely improve
your command over it. For though the Japanese zithern is a far less
complicated instrument than its rivals, it is by no means so easy
to play as most people imagine. At the present time there is no better
performer than your father, Tō no Chūjō. You would be astonished at the
variety of tone he can get out of a mere succession of open strings;
it is as though by some magic he were able in an instant to change his
zithern into whatever instrument he pleases. And the volume of sound
which he obtains from those few slender strings is unbelievable!’
Tamakatsura had reached a certain point of proficiency herself. But she
knew that she had much to learn, and longed to meet with a first-rate
performer. ‘Do you think I might one day be allowed to hear him?’ she
asked, not very hopefully. ‘I suppose he sometimes plays when he comes
here to entertainments. Even among those outlandish people on the
Island there were several teachers, and I always supposed that they
knew all about it. But from what you have just said I see that such
playing as my father’s must be something quite different....’
‘It is indeed,’ he said, ‘and you shall certainly hear him play. You
know, I expect, that though it is called the Eastern zithern and is
said to have come from the other side of the country, it is always
played at the beginning of every Imperial concert, being solemnly
carried in by the Mistress of the Rolls. As far as our country is
concerned (about the history of music in other lands I know very
little) it is certainly the parent of all other instruments, and that
perhaps the best performer upon it who has ever lived should be your
own father is certainly a great stroke of luck for you. He does, as you
suggested, play here and at other people’s houses from time to time,
when there is music afoot; but chiefly on other instruments. It is
really very difficult to make him play on the Japanese zithern. Often
he begins a tune and then, for some reason, will not go on. It is
the same with all great artists. They cannot perform unless they are in
the right mood, and the right mood seldom comes. But later on you will,
of course, certainly be hearing him....’ So saying, he began trying
over a few usual chords and runs. Already she wondered how she had
managed to tolerate the clumsy twanging of the island-professors. How
exciting it would be to live with a father, who, according to Genji’s
own showing, played far, far better even than this! It was intolerable
to feel that all the while she might have been hearing him day after
day, in his own home, with nothing to disturb or interrupt him. When,
oh when would this new life begin?
Among other old ballads Genji now sang ‘Not softlier pillowed is my
head,’ and when he came to the line ‘O lady parted from thy kin’ he
could not help catching her eye and smiling. Not only did she find his
voice very agreeable, but his improvisations between verse and verse
delighted her beyond measure. Suddenly he broke off, saying: ‘Now it is
your turn. Do not tell me you are shy; for I am certain that you have
talent, and if that is so you will forget that there is any one here,
once you have become interested in what you are playing. The lady[178]
who was “too shy to do anything but go over the tune in her head”
wanted all the time to sing the _Sōfuren_,[179] and that is a very
different matter. You must get into the habit of playing with any one
who comes along, without minding what he thinks of you....’ But try as
he might, he could not persuade her to begin. She was certain that her
teacher on the island, an old lady of whom it was reported that she had
once been in some vague way connected with the Capital and even that
she was distantly related to the Imperial Family, had got everything
wrong from beginning to end. If only she could persuade Genji
to go on playing a little while longer, she felt sure she could pick
up enough of the right method to prevent a complete catastrophe, and
she sat as near as possible to the zithern, watching his fingers and
listening intently. ‘Why does it not always produce such lovely sounds
as that?’ she said laughing. ‘Perhaps it depends which way the wind is
blowing....’ She looked very lovely as she sat leaning towards him,
with the lamplight full upon her face. ‘I have sometimes known you by
no means so ready to listen,’ he said, and to her disappointment pushed
the zithern from him. But her gentlewomen were passing in and out of
the room. Whether for this or other reasons his behaviour to-night
continued to be very serious and correct. ‘I see no sign of those young
men I brought with me,’ he said at last, ‘I am afraid they grew tired
of gazing at every flower save the one they came to see, and went away
in disgust. But it is their father’s visit to this flower-garden that
I ought all the while to be arranging. I must not be dilatory, for
life is full of uncertainties.... How well I remember the conversation
in the course of which your father first told me how your mother had
carried you away, and of his long search for you both. It does not seem
long ago....’ And he told her more than he had ever done before about
the rainy night’s conversation and his own first meeting with Yūgao.
‘Gladly would I show the world this Child-flower’s beauty, did I
not fear that men would ask me where stands the hedge on which it
grew.’[180]
‘The truth is, he loved your mother so dearly that I cannot bear the
thought of telling him the whole miserable story. That is why I have
kept you hidden away like a chrysalis in a cocoon. I know I ought not
to have delayed....’ He paused, and she answered with the verse:
‘Who cares to question whence was first transplanted a Child-flower
that from the peasant’s tattered hedge was hither brought.’ Her eyes
filled with tears as in a scarcely audible voice she whispered this
reply.
There were times when he himself took fright at the frequency of
his visits to this part of the house, and in order to make a good
impression stayed away for days on end. But he always contrived to
think of some point in connection with her servants or household
affairs which required an endless going and coming of messengers, so
that even during these brief periods of absence she was in continual
communication with him. The truth is that at this period she was the
only subject to which he ever gave a thought. Day and night he asked
himself how he could have been so insensate as to embark upon this
fatal course. If the affair was maintained upon its present footing
he was faced with the prospect of such torture as he felt he could
not possibly endure. If on the other hand his resolution broke down
and she on her side was willing to accept him as a lover, the affair
would cause a scandal which his own prestige might in time enable him
to live down, but which for her would mean irreparable disaster. He
cared for her very deeply; but not, as he well knew, to such an extent
that he would ever dream of putting her on an equality with Murasaki,
while to thrust her into a position of inferiority would do violence
to his own feelings and be most unfair to her. Exceptional as was the
position that he now occupied in the State, this did not mean that
it was any great distinction to figure merely as a belated appendage
to his household. Far better, he very well knew, to reign supreme in
the affections of some wholly unremarkable Deputy Councillor! Then
again there was the question whether he ought not to hand her over
to his step-brother Prince Sochi or to Prince Higekuro. Even were
this course in every way desirable, he gravely doubted his own
capacity to pursue it. Such self-sacrifices, he knew, are easier to
plan than to effect. Nevertheless, there were times when he regarded
this as the plan which he had definitely adopted, and for a while he
could really believe that he was on the point of carrying it out. But
then would come one of his visits to her. She would be looking even
more charming than usual, and lately there were these zithern lessons,
which, involving as they did a great deal of leaning across and sitting
shoulder to shoulder, had increased their intimacy with disquieting
rapidity. All his good resolutions began to break down, while she on
her side no longer regarded him with anything like the same distrust
as before. He had indeed behaved with model propriety for so long that
she made sure his undue tenderness towards her was a thing of the past.
Gradually she became used to having him constantly about her, allowed
him to say what he pleased, and answered in a manner which though
discreet was by no means discouraging. Whatever resolutions he may have
made before his visit, he would go away feeling that, at this point in
their relations, simply to hand her over to a husband was more than the
most severe moralist could expect of him. Surely there could be no harm
in keeping her here a little longer, that he might enjoy the innocent
pleasure of sometimes visiting her, sometimes arranging her affairs?
Certainly, he could assure himself, his presence was by no means
distasteful to her. Her uneasiness at the beginning was due not to
hostility but to mere lack of experience. Though ‘strong the watchman
at the gate’, she was beginning to take a very different view of life.
Soon she would be struggling with her own as well as his desires, and
then all her defences would rapidly give way....
Tō no Chūjō was somewhat uneasy about his newly discovered
daughter.[181] The members of his own household seemed to have a very
poor opinion of her, and at Court he had overheard people whispering
that she was not quite right in the head. His son Kōbai told him, of
course, about Genji’s questions, and Tō no Chūjō laughed saying: ‘I
can quite understand his interest in the matter. A year or two ago
he himself took over a daughter whom he had by some peasant woman or
other, and now makes an absurd fuss over her. It is very odd: Genji
says nothing but nice things about every one else. But about me and
every one connected with me he is careful to be as disagreeable as
possible. But I suppose I ought to regard it as a sort of distinction
even to be run down by him.’ ‘Father, if you mean the girl who lives
in the Western Wing,’ said Kōbai, ‘I can assure you she is the most
beautiful creature you can possibly imagine. Prince Sochi and many
of the others have completely lost their hearts to her.... Indeed,
every one agrees that she is probably one of the handsomest women at
Court.’ ‘You surely do not yourself believe such stories?’ said Tō no
Chūjō. ‘The same thing is always said about the daughters of men in
such a position as Genji’s; and so oddly is the world made that those
who spread such reports really believe in them. I do not for a moment
suppose she is anything out of the ordinary. Now that Genji is Grand
Minister, faced by an opposition that has dwindled to a mere speck and
esteemed as few Ministers before, I fancy the one flaw in his happiness
must be the lack of a daughter to lavish his care upon and bring up to
be the envy and admiration of the whole Court. I can well imagine what
a delight the education of such a child would be to him. But in this
matter fate seems to be against him. Of course, there is the little
girl who was born at Akashi. Unfortunately her mother’s parents are
quite humble people and she can never play the part that would
naturally have been taken by a child of my sister Lady Aoi or of his
present wife, Lady Murasaki. All the same, I have reason to believe
that his schemes for her subsequent career are of the most ambitious
nature.
‘As for this newly-imported princess, it would not surprise me to
discover that she is not his child at all. You know as well as I do
what Genji’s failings are.... It is far more probable that she is
merely some girl whom he is keeping.’ After other somewhat damaging
remarks about Genji’s habits and character, he continued: ‘However,
if he continues to give out that she is his daughter, it will soon be
incumbent upon him to find her a husband. I imagine his choice will
fall upon Prince Sochi, with whom he has always been on particularly
good terms. She would certainly be fortunate in securing such a
husband; he is a most distinguished character....’
Nothing more exasperated Tō no Chūjō at the present moment than the
endless speculations concerning Lady Tamakatsura’s future which were
now the staple of every conversation at Court. He was sick of hearing
people ask ‘What are Prince Genji’s intentions?’ ‘Why has he changed
his mind?’ and so on, while the future of his own daughter, Lady Kumoi,
seemed for some reason not to arouse the slightest curiosity. Why
should not a little of the energy which Genji expended in dangling this
supposed daughter of his before the eyes of an expectant Court be used
on Lady Kumoi’s behalf? A word whispered by Genji in the Emperor’s ear
would suffice to secure her future; but that word, it was very evident,
had never been spoken.
If Genji (and this seemed hardly credible) were waiting to secure Kumoi
for his own son Yūgiri, let him raise the boy to a decent rank. Then,
provided suitable overtures were made on Genji’s side, he was
quite willing to consider the possibility of such a match. As to what
the young man’s feelings in the matter might be—he did not give the
question a moment’s thought, having always regarded Yūgiri merely as a
nuisance.
One day when he had been reflecting upon this problem more earnestly
than usual, Tō no Chūjō determined to thresh the matter out with the
girl herself, and taking Kōbai with him he went straight to her room.
It so happened that Kumoi had fallen asleep. She was lying, a small
and fragile figure, with only a single wrap of thin diaphanous stuff
thrown carelessly across her. It was certainly a pleasure on such a
day to see any one looking so delightfully cool! The delicate outline
of her bare limbs showed plainly beneath the light wrap which covered
her. She lay pillowed on one outstretched arm, her fan still in her
hand. Her loosened hair fell all about her, and though it was not
remarkably thick or long, there was something particularly agreeable in
its texture and in the lines it made as it hung across her face. Her
gentlewomen were also reposing, but at some distance away, in the room
which opened out behind her curtained daïs, so that they did not wake
in time, and it was only when Tō no Chūjō himself rustled impatiently
with his fan that she slowly raised her head and turned upon him a
bewildered gaze. Her beauty, enhanced by the flush of sleep, could
not but impress a father’s heart, and Tō no Chūjō looked at her with
a pride which his subsequent words by no means betrayed. ‘I have told
you often before,’ he said, ‘that even to be caught dozing in your seat
is a thing a girl of your age ought to be ashamed of; and here I find
you going to bed in broad daylight ... you really must be a little more
careful. I cannot imagine how you could be so foolish as to allow all
your gentlewomen to desert you in this way. It is extremely unsafe
for a young girl to expose herself, and quite unnecessary in your case,
since I have provided you with a sufficient number of attendants to
mount guard on all occasions. To behave in this reckless manner is, to
say the least of it, very bad form. Not that I want you to sit all day
with your hands folded in front of you as though you were reciting the
Spells of Fudō.[182] I am not one of those people who think it a mark
of refinement in a girl to stand on ceremony even with her everyday
acquaintances and never to address a word to any one except through a
barricade of curtains and screens. So far from being dignified, such a
method of behaviour seems to me merely peevish and unsociable. I cannot
help admiring the way in which Prince Genji is bringing up this future
Empress[183] of his. He takes no exaggerated precautions of any kind,
nor does he force her talent in this direction or that; but at the same
time he sees to it that there is no subject in which she remains wholly
uninitiated. Thus she is able to choose intelligently for herself
where other girls would be obliged merely to do as they were told. For
the time it may seem that the energies of the mind have been somewhat
diffused and extenuated, but in later life, given the best balanced
and broadest system of education in the world, idiosyncrasies both of
character and behaviour will inevitably reappear. At the present moment
the Princess from Akashi is in the first and less interesting stage. I
am very curious to see how she will develop when she arrives at Court.’
After these preliminaries he embarked at last upon the subject which
he had really come to discuss. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that I have not
been very successful in my plans for your own future. But I still
hope that we may be able to arrange something not too contemptible. I
promise you at any rate that you shall not be made ridiculous. I am
keeping my ears open and have one or two projects in mind, but for the
moment it is exceedingly difficult to arrive at a decision. Meanwhile,
do not be deceived by the tears and protestations of young men who have
nothing better to do than amuse themselves at the expense of confiding
creatures such as you. I know what I am talking about’ ... and so on,
speaking more and more kindly as he went along.
In old days the scoldings which she had received on account of her
intimacy with Yūgiri had been the more distressing to her because she
had not at that time the least idea what all this fuss was about. But
now that she was a little better acquainted with such matters, she
recalled with burning shame time after time when she had mentioned to
her elders things which she now saw it was the wildest folly ever to
have repeated. The old Princess[184] frequently complained that Kumoi
never came to see her. This put the child in great embarrassment, for
the truth was that she dared not go, for Tō no Chūjō would be sure to
think that she was using her duty towards the old lady as a pretext for
clandestine meeting with her lover.
But another question was at this time occupying a good deal of Tō no
Chūjō's attention. What was to be done with this new daughter of his,
the Lady from Ōmi? If, after going out of his way to track her down, he
were now to send her home again merely because certain people had said
disobliging things about her, he would himself figure as intolerably
capricious and eccentric. To let her mix in general society was,
judging by what he had heard and seen of her already, quite out of the
question. But if he continued to keep her, as he had hitherto
done, in the seclusion of her own rooms, it would soon be rumoured at
Court that she was some paragon who, just at the right moment, would
be produced with dazzling effect and carry all before her. This, too,
would be very irritating. Perhaps the best that could be done under
the circumstances was to put her into touch with his daughter Lady
Chūjō,[185] who happened at the moment to be home from Court. It would
then be possible to discover whether, when one got to know her better,
this Lady from Ōmi were really such a monster as some people made out.
He therefore said to Lady Chūjō one day: ‘I am going to send this new
sister of yours to see you. It seems that her manners are rather odd,
and I should be very much obliged if you would ask one of your older
gentlewomen to take her in hand. Young girls are useless in such a
case. They would merely lead her on to greater absurdities in order
to amuse themselves. Her manner is at present, I gather, somewhat too
boisterous’; and he smiled as he recollected some of the anecdotes
which had already reached him. ‘I will gladly do all I can,’ answered
Lady Chūjō. ‘I see no reason to suppose that the poor creature is
anything like so outrageous as people are making out. It is only that
Kōbai, wishing to gain credit for his discovery, tended to exaggerate
her charms, and people are a little disappointed. I do not think there
is any need for you to take alarm. I can quite understand that coming
for the first time among surroundings such as these, she feels somewhat
lost, and does not always quite do herself justice....’ She spoke very
demurely. This Lady Chūjō was no great beauty; but there was about her
a serene air of conscious superiority which, combined with considerable
charm of manner, led most people to accept her as handsome, an
impression shared at this moment by her father as he watched her
lips part in a smile that reminded him of the red plum-blossom in the
morning when its petals first begin to unfold. ‘I daresay you are
right,’ he replied; ‘but all the same I think that Kōbai showed a lack
of judgment such as I should have thought he had long ago outgrown....’
He was himself inclined to think that the Lady from Ōmi’s defects
had probably been much exaggerated, and as he in any case must pass
her rooms on his way back he now thought he had better go and have
another look at her. Crossing the garden he noticed at once that her
blinds were rolled back almost to the top of the windows. Clearly
visible within were the figures of the Lady herself and of a lively
young person called Gosechi, one of last year’s Winter Dancers. The
two were playing Double Sixes,[186] and the Lady of Ōmi, perpetually
clasping and unclasping her hands in her excitement, was crying out
‘Low, low! Oh, how I hope it will be low!’ at the top of her voice,
which rose at every moment to a shriller and shriller scream. ‘What a
creature!’ thought Tō no Chūjō, already in despair, and signalling to
his attendants, who were about to enter the apartments and announce
him, that for a moment he intended to watch unobserved, he stood near
the double door and looked through the passage window at a point where
the paper[187] did not quite meet the frame. The young dancer was also
entirely absorbed in the game. Shouting out: ‘A twelve, a twelve. This
time I know it is going to be a twelve!’ she continually twirled the
dice-cup in her hand, but could not bring herself to make the throw.
Somewhere there, inside that bamboo tube, the right number lurked, she
saw the two little stones with six pips on each.... But how was one
to know when to throw? Never were excitement and suspense more
clearly marked on two young faces. The Lady of Ōmi was somewhat homely
in appearance; but nobody (thought Tō no Chūjō) could possibly call her
downright ugly. Indeed, she had several very good points. Her hair, for
example, could alone have sufficed to make up for many shortcomings.
Two serious defects, however, she certainly had; her forehead was far
too narrow, and her voice was appallingly loud and harsh. In a word,
she was nothing to be particularly proud of; but at the same time (and
he called up before him the image of his own face as he knew it in the
mirror) it would be useless to deny that there was a strong resemblance.
‘How are you getting on?’ he asked on being admitted to the room. ‘I
am afraid it will take you some time to get the hang of things here.
I wish I could see you more often, but, as you know, my time is not
my own....’ ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ she answered, screaming as
usual at the top of her voice. ‘I’m here, a’nt I? And that’s quite
enough for me. I haven’t had the pleasure of setting eyes on you at all
for all these years.... But I’ll own that when I came here and found
I shouldn’t be with you all the time, like what I’d expected, I was
as vexed as though I had thrown a “double-one” at dice.’ ‘As a matter
of fact,’ said Tō no Chūjō, ‘I have not any one at present to run my
messages and look after me generally; I had it in mind that, when you
were a little more used to things here, I might train you to help me
in that way. But I am not at all sure that such a post would suit you.
I do not mean that as a lady-in-waiting in some other family you would
not get on very nicely. But that would be different.... There would be
a lot of other young women.... People would not notice so much.... I
am afraid I am not expressing myself very happily. I only mean that a
daughter or sister is bound to attract attention. People who come
to the house ask “Now which of them is the daughter?” “Show me which
of them is your sister!” and so on. That sort of thing sometimes makes
a girl feel awkward, and it may even be rather embarrassing for the
parents. Of course, in your case. He broke off.
Despite all his ingenuity he was in the end saying just what he had
determined on no account to say. He was merely telling her that he
was ashamed of her. But fortunately she did not take it in bad part.
‘That’s quite right,’ she said. ‘If you was to put me down among all
the fine ladies and gentlemen, I shouldn’t know which way to look. I’d
far rather you asked me to empty their chamberpots; I think I might be
able to manage that.’ ‘What odd ideas do come into your head!’ laughed
Tō no Chūjō. ‘But before we go any further, I have a small request to
make: if you have any filial feeling whatever towards a father whom you
see so seldom, try to moderate your voice a little when you address
him. Seriously, you will take years off my life if you persist in
screaming at me in this way....’ How delightful to find that even a
Minister could make jokes! ‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘I’ve always been
like that. I suppose I was born so. Mother was always going on at me
about it ever since I can remember, and she used to say it all came of
her letting an old priest from the Myōhō Temple into her bedroom when
she was lying-in. He had a terrible loud voice, and all the while he
was reading prayers with her, poor mother was wondering whether, when
I was born, I shouldn’t take after him. And sure enough I did. But I
wish for your sake I didn’t speak so loud....’ It was evident that she
was sorry to distress him, and touched by this exhibition of filial
affection he said to her kindly: ‘The fault, then, is evidently not
yours but your mother’s for choosing her associates among the
pious at so critical a moment in her existence. For it is written: “The
tongue of the blasphemer shall tremble, his voice shall be silenced,”
and it seems that, conversely, the voices of the pious generally tend
to become more and more resonant.’
He himself stood somewhat in awe of his daughter Lady Chūjō. He knew
that she would wonder what had induced him to import, without further
enquiries so incongruous a resident into his household. He imagined,
too, the pleasantries at his expense which would be exchanged among
her people and soon repeated broadcast over the whole Court. He was
on the verge of abandoning the plan, when he suddenly decided that it
was too late to withdraw: ‘I wish you would sometimes go out and see
your sister Lady Chūjō while she is staying here,’ he said. ‘I fancy
she could give you one or two useful hints. It is, after all, only by
mixing in the society of those who have had greater advantages than
themselves, that ordinary people can hope to make any progress. I want
you to bear that in mind when you are with her....’ ‘Well that will
be a treat!’ she cried delightedly. ‘I never thought in my wildest
dreams that, even if you one day sent for me, you would ever make me
into a great lady like my sister. The best I hoped for was that I might
wheedle you into letting me carry pitchers from the well....’ The last
words were spoken in a tiny, squeaky voice like that of a new-fledged
sparrow, for she had suddenly remembered her father’s injunctions.
The effect was very absurd; but there was no use in scolding her any
more, and he said good-humouredly: ‘I see no reason why you should
draw water, or hew wood either. But if I send you to Lady Chūjō, you
must promise me that you have made up your mind never again to model
yourself on that pious personage from the Myōhō Temple.’ She took
this very seriously. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said. ‘When may I go
and see her?’ Tō no Chūjō was now an important person; indeed, he was
reckoned to be the most formidable enemy to the then Minister of State.
But the Lady from Ōmi appeared quite unconscious of the subduing effect
which his presence had upon every one else, and for her part spoke to
him with the utmost confidence and composure. ‘I will enquire which day
will be the best,’ he said. ‘But come to think of it, probably one day
is quite as good as another. Yes, by all means go to-day ...’ and with
that he hastened from the room.
She gazed after him. He was attended by officers of the fourth and
fifth ranks, who made a brave show as they escorted him towards the
main building. But why were they all nudging one another and laughing?
‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I have got a fine gentleman for my papa, and
no mistake. It does seem queer to think what a funny little house I
was brought up in, when by rights I ought to have been in this palace
all the while.’ ‘If you ask my opinion,’ said her friend the dancer,
‘I think he is far too grand for you. You’d be a great deal better off
if you had been claimed by some decent hard-working sort of man, who
wouldn’t be ashamed of you....’ This was too bad! ‘There you go again,’
the Lady from Ōmi cried, ‘trying to put a body down whenever she opens
her mouth. But you shan’t do it any more, indeed you shan’t; for
they’ve made me into a lady now, and you’ll have to wait till I choose
to let you speak. So there!’
Her face was flushed with anger. Seen thus, showing off in the presence
of one whom she now regarded as an inferior, she became suddenly
handsome and almost dignified. Only her manner of speech, picked up
from the absolute riff-raff among whom she had been educated, remained
irredeemably vulgar.
It is indeed a strange thing that a perfectly ordinary remark, if
made in a quiet, colourless voice, may seem original and interesting;
for instance, in conversations about poetry, some quite commonplace
piece of criticism will be accepted as very profound merely because it
is made in a particular tone of voice. Or again, half a verse from the
middle of some little-known poem can make, if produced in the right
tone of voice, a deep impression even among people who have no notion
what the words imply. Whereas if some one speaks in a disagreeable
voice or uses vulgar language, no matter how important or profound
are the thoughts which he expresses, nobody will believe that it can
possibly be worth while to pay any attention to him. So it was with the
Lady from Ōmi. She had a loud rasping voice and in general behaved with
no more regard for the impression she was making on those around her
than a child screaming in its nurse’s lap. She thus seemed far sillier
than she really was. Indeed, her facility in stringing together poems
of thirty-one syllables, of the kind in which the beginning of any one
poem might just as well be the end of any other, was quite prodigious.
‘But I must be getting ready,’ she now exclaimed. ‘My father told me I
was to call on Lady Chūjō, and if I don’t go at once, her ladyship will
think I don’t want to meet her. Do you know what? I think I’ll go this
very night, for though I can see that my papa thinks the world of me, I
shall never get on in this palace unless the ladies are on my side....’
Which again shows that she had more good sense than one would have
supposed.
She now sat down at once and addressed the following letter to Lady
Chūjō: ‘Honoured Madam, though we have been living these many days past
with (as the saying goes) scarce so much as a hurdle between us, I have
not hitherto, as they say, ventured to tread upon your shadow, for to
tell the honest truth I was in two minds whether I should not find
“No Admittance” in large letters on your door. But though I hardly like
to mention it, we are (in the words of the poet) both “tinged with the
purple of Musashi Moor.” If I am being too bold, pray tell me so and
do not take offence.’ All this was written in a rather speckly hand.
On the back was the postcript: ‘By the way, I have some thoughts of
inflicting myself upon you this very same evening. And please forgive
these blots, which (as the saying goes) all the waters of Minasé River
would not wash away, so what is the use of trying?’ In the margin was
the following extraordinary poem: ‘I wonder with as big a query as How
Cape on the Sea of Hitachi where the grasses are so young and green,
when oh when, like the waves on the shore of Tago, shall we meet face
to face?’
‘I’ll write no more,’ she added at the side of the poem, ‘for I declare
I feel as flustered as the foam on the great River at Yoshino....’
It was written on a single sheet of blue poetry-paper, in a very
cursive style, copiously adorned with hooks and flourishes which seemed
to wander about at their own will and stand for nothing at all. The
tails of her ‘_shi_’s were protracted to an inordinate length, and the
lines slanted more and more as the letter went on, till in the end
they seemed in danger of falling over sideways. But so delighted was
she with her own composition that she could hardly bear to part with
it. At last, however, she gave it a final look of admiration, folded
it up very small and attaching it to a carnation-blossom, handed it to
her favourite messenger, a little peasant-boy who did the dirty work
in her part of the palace. He was a good-looking child, and though he
had only been in service for a very short while, he had made himself
quite at home. Sauntering into Lady Chūjō’s apartments, he found his
way to the servants’ sitting-room and demanded that the note should
at once be taken to her Ladyship. For a moment they surveyed him
with astonishment, but presently one of the under-servants exclaimed:
‘Why, it’s the little boy from the northern wing!’, and took the
letter, which ultimately reached the hands of a certain gentlewoman
named Tayū no Kimi. This lady actually carried it into Lady Chūjō’s
presence, unfolded it at her bidding and then held it in front of her.
The great lady glanced at it, smiled, and indicated that it might now
be removed. It happened that a certain Lady Chūnagon was at the moment
in attendance. She caught a side view of the letter where it lay, and
hoping to be allowed to read it properly, she remarked: ‘At a distance,
Madam, that looks an uncommonly fashionable note.’ Lady Chūjō motioned
her to take the letter: ‘I cannot make head or tail of it,’ she said;
‘you will be doing me a service if you can tell me what it is about.
Perhaps I am being stupid over these cursive characters....’ And a few
minutes later: ‘How are you getting on? If my answer has no connection
with the contents of her letter, she will think me very discourteous. I
wish you would write an answer for me, I am sure you would do it very
nicely....’ The young ladies-in-waiting, though they dared not openly
show their amusement, were now all tittering behind their sleeves. Some
one came to say that the boy was still waiting for an answer. ‘But the
letter is just one mass of stock phrases that none of them seem to have
anything to do with what she is trying to say,’ exclaimed Chūnagon in
despair. ‘How can I possibly answer it? Besides, I must make it seem to
come from you, Madam, not from a third person, or the poor creature’s
feelings will be terribly hurt.’
‘It vexes me,’ wrote Chūnagon in her mistress’s name, ‘to think that
we should have been at close quarters for so long without arranging
to meet. By all means come.... And at the side she wrote the poem:
‘Upon the shore of Suma, that is on the sea of Suruga in the land
of Hitachi, mount, O ye waves, to where the Headland of Hako with
pine-woods is clad.’[188]
‘I think you have gone too far,' said Lady Chūjō when she saw the
letter. ‘I certainly hope she will not think it was I who wrote this
ridiculous nonsense....’ 'I assure you, Madam,’ replied Chūnagon,
‘there is more sense in it than you think; quite enough at any rate to
satisfy the person to whom it is addressed.’ And with that she folded
the note and sent it on its way. How quickly these great ladies take
one’s meaning!’ exclaimed Ōmi, as she scanned the reply. ‘Look, too,
how subtly she expresses herself! Merely by mentioning those pine-trees
she lets me know, as plain as could be, that she is waiting for me at
this minute....’ There was no time to be lost. She scented herself by
repeated exposure to the fumes of an incense which seemed to contain
far too generous an admixture of honey, daubed her cheeks with a heavy
rouge, and finally combed out her hair, which being, as I have said,
unusually fine and abundant, really looked very nice when she took
sufficient trouble about it.
The subsequent interview can hardly have been otherwise than extremely
diverting.
[175] Akikonomu, for example, had become Empress.
[176] I.e. the Fujiwaras, the clan to which the writer herself
belonged.
[177] ‘In my house the awnings are at the doors and curtains are
hanging about the bed. Come, my Prince! you shall have my
daughter for your bride, and at the wedding-feast you shall
have the fish you like best, be it _awabi_, oyster or what
you will.’
[178] In some story now lost.
[179] Literally: ‘Thinking of a man, and yearning.’
[180] A reference to Tō no Chūjō’s poem, vol. i, p. 59.
[181] The rustic creature unearthed by Kōbai in his search for
Tamakatsura.
[182] Of these there are several, the shortest of which runs (in
Sanskrit) Namas samanta-vajrānām ham. ‘Praise be to all the
Thunderbolt-bearers. Ay verily.’ Its impressiveness was partly
due to the fact that very few Japanese knew what it meant.
[183] The princess from Akashi.
[184] Tō no Chūjō’s mother, Kumoi’s grandmother.
[185] On leave from the Palace; she was one of the Emperor’s consorts.
[186] Sugoroku, a kind of backgammon.
[187] Japanese windows are made of translucent paper, not of glass.
[188] The Lady of Ōmi’s poem contained three irrelevant place-names.
This one contains four, and is intentionally senseless, for
Chūnagon had not been able to make out what Ōmi’s rigmarole was
about.
CHAPTER IX
THE FLARES
It was now the turn of Lady Ōmi’s eccentricities to become the sole
topic of conversation at Court. ‘All this is very puzzling,’ said
Genji. ‘Her father gave orders that she was to be kept in close
confinement; how comes it, then, that every one seems to know so much
about her? One hears nothing but stories of her ridiculous behaviour.
So far from keeping the poor half-witted creature out of harm’s way he
seems to be positively making an exhibition of her. Here again I think
I see the consequences of his obstinate belief in the impeccability of
his own family. He sent for her without making the slightest enquiry,
convinced that since his blood ran in her veins she must necessarily be
beyond reproach. Finding her an exception to this rule he has taken his
revenge by deliberately exposing her to derision. However, I can hardly
believe that after all the trouble he has taken, it can really give him
much satisfaction that the mere mention of her name should evoke peals
of laughter....’
The fate of Ōmi seemed, incidently, to afford some justification for
Genji’s reluctance to part with Tamakatsura, a fact which she herself
recognized. It was by no means safe to assume that Tō no Chūjō would
treat a second long-lost daughter any better than the first. The old
nurse Ukon, who daily collected for her mistress’s benefit some fresh
anecdote of Ōmi’s discomfiture, vigorously supported the view that Tō
no Chūjō was not a father to be lightly adopted. ‘True,’ thought
Tamakatsura, ‘Genji’s attitude towards me is not quite such as I could
wish. But I am bound to confess that hitherto he has never tried to go
further than I intend he should, and in practical ways no one could
possibly be more kind and considerate.’ Thus gratitude was slowly
replaced by friendship and even by a certain semblance of intimacy.
Autumn had now come, and with it a bitterly cold wind—the ‘first wind’
whose chill breath ‘only a lover’s cloak can nullify.’ He made great
efforts to keep away from the Western Wing, but all to no purpose; and
soon, on the pretext of music-lessons or what not, he was spending the
greater part of every day at Tamakatsura’s side.
One evening when the moon was some five or six days old he came
suddenly to her room. The weather was chilly and overcast, and the wind
rustled with a melancholy note through the reeds outside the window.
She sat with her head resting against her zithern. To-night too, as on
so many previous occasions, he would make his timorous advances, and
at the end of it all be just where he started. So Genji grumbled to
himself, and continued to behave in a somewhat plaintive and peevish
manner during his whole visit. It was however already very late when
the fear of giving offence in other quarters drove him from the room.
Just as he was leaving he noticed that the flares outside her window
were burning very low, and sending for one of his men, he had them
kindled anew; but this time at a little distance from the house, under
a strangely leaning spindle-tree which spread its branches in the form
of a broad canopy, near to the banks of a deep, chilly stream. The thin
flares of split pine-wood were placed at wide intervals, casting pale
shadows that flickered remotely upon the walls of the unlighted room
where she and Genji sat. He caught a glimpse of her hand, showing frail
and ghostly against the dark background of her hair. Her face,
suddenly illumined by the cold glare of the distant torches, wore an
uneasy and distrustful air. He had risen to go, but still lingered.
‘You should tell your people never to let the flares go out,’ he said.
‘Even in summer, except when there is a moon, it is not wise to leave
the garden unlighted. And in Autumn.... I shall feel very uneasy if you
do not promise to remember about this. “Did but the torches flickering
at your door burn brightly as the fire within my breast, you should
not want for light!”’ And he reminded her of the old song in which the
lover asks: ‘How long, like the smouldering watch-fire at the gate,
must my desire burn only with an inward flame?’
‘Would that, like the smoke of the watch-fires that mounts and vanishes
at random in the empty sky, the smouldering flame of passion could burn
itself away!’ So she recited, adding: ‘I do not know what has come
over you. Please leave me at once or people will think....’ ‘As you
wish,’ he answered, and was stepping into the courtyard, when he heard
a sound of music in the wing occupied by the Lady from the Village
of Falling Flowers. Some one seemed to be playing the flute to the
accompaniment of a Chinese zithern. No doubt Yūgiri was giving a small
party. The flute-player could be none other than Tō no Chūjō’s eldest
son Kashiwagi; for who else at Court performed with such marvellous
delicacy and finish? How pleasant would be the effect, thought Genji,
if they would consent to come and give a serenade by the streamside,
in the subdued light of those flickering torches! ‘I long to join
you,’ he wrote, ‘but, could you see the pale, watery shadows that the
watch-flares are casting here in the garden of the western wing, you
would know why I am slow to come....’ He sent this note to Yūgiri, and
presently three figures appeared out of the darkness. ‘I should
not have sent for you,’ he called to them, ‘had you not played “The
Wind’s voice tells me....” It is a tune that I can never resist.’ So
saying he brought out his own zithern. When he had played for a while,
Yūgiri began to improvise on his flute in the Banshiki mode.[189]
Kashiwagi attempted to join in, but his thoughts were evidently
employed elsewhere,[190] for again and again he entered at the wrong
beat. ‘Too late,’ cried Genji, and at last Kōbai was obliged to keep
his brother in measure by humming the air in a low monotone like the
chirping of a meditative grasshopper. Genji made them go through the
piece twice, and then handed his zithern to Kashiwagi. It was some
while since he had heard the boy play and he now observed with delight
that his talent was not by any means confined to wind-instruments. ‘You
could have given me no greater pleasure,’ he said, when the piece was
over. ‘Your father is reckoned a fine performer on the zithern; but
you have certainly more than overtaken him.... By the way, I should
have cautioned you that there is some one seated just within who can
probably hear all that is going on out in this portico. So to-night
there had better not be too much drinking. Do not be offended, for I
was really thinking more of myself than of you. Now that I am getting
on in years I find wine far more dangerous than I used to. I am apt to
say the most indiscreet things....’
Tamakatsura did, as a matter of fact, overhear every word of this, as
indeed she was intended to, and was thankful that he at any rate saw
the necessity of keeping himself in hand. The near presence of the two
visitors could not fail to interest her extremely, if for no other
reason than merely because they were, after all, though themselves
entirely unaware of the fact, so very closely related to her;
and for long past she had surreptitiously collected all possible
information concerning their characters and pursuits. Kashiwagi was,
as to her distress she had frequently ascertained, very deeply in
love with her. Again and again during the course of the evening, he
was on the verge of collapsing altogether; but never was the state of
agitation through which he was passing for a moment reflected in his
playing.
[189] Corresponding roughly with the white notes from D to D.
[190] He was in love with Tamakatsura.
CHAPTER X
THE TYPHOON
This year great pains had been taken to improve the Empress Akikonomu’s
domain; and by now her gardens were aglow with the varied tints of
innumerable frost-stained leaves and autumn flowers. Above all, the new
pergolas made an admirable show, now that their timber, here stripped
of bark, there used in its natural state, was thickly interwoven with
blossoming boughs. And when at morning and evening the sun slanted
across the dewy gardens, it was as though every flower and tree
were decked with strings of glittering pearls. Those who but a few
months back had been carried away by the spring-time loveliness of
the Southern Garden, could not fail, as they gazed upon the colder
beauty of this autumnal scene, with one accord to resume their earlier
preference. The lovers of autumn have, I am persuaded, at all times
embraced the larger part of mankind; and in thus returning to their
allegiance the Empress’s companions were but following their natural
bent.
So delighted was Akikonomu with the scene I have described that she
asked for leave of absence from the Emperor and settled for a while
in her own establishment. Unfortunately the anniversary of the late
Prince Zembō’s[191] death fell in the eighth month, and it was with
great anxiety that she watched Autumn’s almost hourly advance; for she
feared that the best month would be over before she came out of
mourning. Meanwhile she was confined to the house and all amusements
were suspended.
The equinoctial gales were this year particularly violent. Then came
a day when the whole sky grew black, and an appalling typhoon began.
It would have been bad enough wherever one had been to see every tree
stripped of its leaves just when they were at their loveliest, every
flower stricken to the earth; but to witness such havoc in an exquisite
garden, planned from corner to corner with endless foresight and care,
to see those dew-pearls unthreaded in an instant and scattered upon
the ground, was a sight calculated to drive the onlooker well nigh to
madness. As time went on the hurricane became more and more alarming,
till all was lost to view in a blinding swirl of fog and dust. But
while she sat behind tightly closed shutters in a room that rocked
with every fresh blast, it was with thoughts of autumn splendours
irrevocably lost rather than with terror of the storm that the
Empress’s heart was shaken.
The Southern Gardens were just being laid out with wild plants from
the countryside when the high winds began, and that impatient longing
which the poet attributes to the young lespidezas[192] was indeed
fulfilled in all too ample measure. Morning after morning Murasaki too
saw the dew roughly snatched from leaf and flower. She was sitting thus
one day on watch at her window, while Genji played with the little
princess in a neighbouring room. It happened that Yūgiri had occasion
to come across from the eastern wing. When he reached the door at the
end of the passage he noticed that the great double-doors leading into
Murasaki’s room were half-open. Without thinking what he was doing, he
paused and looked in. Numerous ladies-in-waiting were passing to and
fro just inside, and had he made any sound they would have looked
up, seen him and necessarily supposed that he had stationed himself
there on purpose to spy upon those within. He saw nothing for it but
to stand dead still. Even indoors the wind was so violent that screens
would not stand up. Those which usually surrounded the high daïs were
folded and stacked against the wall. There, in full view of any one
who came along the corridor, reclined a lady whose notable dignity of
mien and bearing would alone have sufficed to betray her identity.
This could be none other than Murasaki. Her beauty flashed upon him
as at dawn the blossom of the red flowering cherry flames out of the
mist upon the traveller’s still sleepy eye. It was wafted towards him,
suddenly imbued him, as though a strong perfume had been dashed against
his face. She was more beautiful than any woman he had ever seen. The
hangings of her daïs had broken away from the poles and now fluttered
in the wind like huge flags. Her ladies made vain attempts to recapture
these flapping curtain-ends, and in the course of the struggle (only
half-visible to Yūgiri) something very amusing evidently occurred,
for Murasaki suddenly burst into peals of laughter. Soon however she
became serious again. For here too, though in a lesser degree, the
wind was working irreparable havoc, and at each fresh blast he saw her
turn a despairing gaze towards her newly-planted beds. Several of her
gentlewomen, thought Yūgiri, as his eye accustomed itself to the scene,
were noticeably good-looking; but there was not one whose appearance
could for more than an instant have distracted his attention from the
astonishing creature at whose command they served. Now he understood
why it was that Genji had always taken such pains to keep him away from
her. His father was wise enough to know that no one could possibly
see her thus without losing all control of himself. Genji had indeed,
in forbidding him all access to her rooms, foreseen just such a
contingency as had at this moment occurred. The boy, suddenly realizing
the extreme insecurity of his hiding-place and at the same time
overwhelmed with shame at the mere thought of being discovered in such
a situation, was about to dart into safety, when a door on the left
opened and Genji himself entered the room. ‘What a wind!’ he said as he
surveyed the exposed condition of her daïs. ‘It would really be better
just now if you left all the shutters closed. You probably do not
realize that you and your ladies are at this moment exposing yourselves
completely to the view of any gentleman who may happen to come this
way....’ Yūgiri had already withdrawn his eye from the crack; but the
sound of Genji’s voice aroused in him an invincible curiosity, and he
returned to his former position. His father was bending over Murasaki
and whispering something in her ear; now he was laughing. It seemed to
Yūgiri very odd that this high-spirited, handsome, quite young-looking
man should really be his father. As for Genji’s companion—he could
not imagine that she could ever have been more beautiful than at this
moment. He gazed spell-bound, and would certainly have crouched at
his chink for hours to come, had not the door on the opposite side of
the passage suddenly blown wide open, thus leaving his hiding-place
embarrassingly exposed. Reluctantly he withdrew (as was now possible,
for Murasaki’s attendants had all retired to the far end of the room),
and working his way round to the verandah, he called to Genji as though
he had just arrived from the Eastern Wing. His father answered the
greeting and presently joined him, saying to Murasaki as he left the
room something which evidently referred to the imperfectly fastened
passage-door. ‘Look there!’ Genji was saying crossly; ‘is not that just
what I told you? You must really be more careful....’ ‘This,’
thought Yūgiri, ‘is indeed a tribute to the devotion of her guards
during all these years! Only a tempest capable of hurling rocks
through the air and uprooting whole forests can so far disarm their
vigilance that for a few seconds she is exposed to the curiosity of the
passer-by.’ He was bound to confess that towards him at any rate the
dreaded hurricane had done its best to act a benevolent part.
Several retainers now arrived, reporting that the typhoon was assuming
a very serious aspect. ‘It is from the north-east,’ they said, ‘so that
here you are comparatively protected and have no notion of its real
violence. Both the racing-lodge and the fishing-pavilion are in great
danger....’ While those people were busy making fast various doors and
shutters, and repairing the damage of the previous night, Genji turned
to Yūgiri and said: ‘Where did you arrive from just now?’ ‘I spent the
night at my grandmother’s,’ he replied. ‘But every one says that we are
in for a very bad storm, and I felt I ought to come back here and see
if I could be of any use.... But as a matter of fact it is far worse
in the Third Ward than here in the Sixth. The mere noise of the wind,
quite apart from everything else, is terrifying at my grandmother’s,
and if you do not mind I think it would be a good thing if I went back
there at once. She is as frightened as though she were a child of two,
and it seems unkind to leave her....’ ‘Yes, by all means go back at
once,’ answered Genji hastily. ‘One sometimes thinks that the notion of
old people slipping back into a second childhood is a mere fable; but I
have learnt lately from instances in my own family that it does really
happen. Tell her, please, that I have heard how bad things are in the
Third Ward and should certainly come myself, were I not satisfied that
you will be able to do quite as much for her as I could.’
Yūgiri had a high sense of duty. It was his practice at this time
to visit his grandmother at least once a day, and it would have been a
ferocious wind indeed that could deter him either from setting out for
the Third Ward or returning thence at the hour when his father usually
asked for him. There were of course ‘times of observance’ when he was
obliged to remain shut up in the Emperor’s Palace for several days on
end. But otherwise neither pressure of public business nor attendance
at state ceremonies and festivals, however much they might impinge upon
his leisure, ever prevented him from calling first at the New Palace
and then upon the old Princess, before he dreamt of embarking upon any
amusement of his own. Still less upon such a day as this, when, bad
as the storm was already, there seemed every prospect that it would
soon develop into something more alarming still, could he have brought
himself to leave the old lady in solitude.
She was, indeed, delighted that he had not failed her. ‘This is the
worst typhoon there has ever been in my lifetime,’ she said; ‘and I
can assure you I have seen a good many.’ She was trembling from head
to foot. Now and again came a strange and terrifying sound; some huge
bough that a single breath of the hurricane had twisted from its trunk,
crashed in splinters to the ground. Apart from all other dangers,
showers of tiles were falling from every roof. To go into the streets
at all on such a day was indeed no very safe undertaking, and for a
while she listened with mingled gratitude and alarm to the recital of
his perils, and escapes.
The old Princess’s lonely and monotonous existence contrasted
strangely with the brilliant scenes amid which she had moved during
the days of her husband’s remarkable ascendancy. Indeed, that the
visits of this staid young grandson should mean so much to her showed
only too plainly how far she had fallen from the days when her
ante-chambers were thronged by the fashionable world. True, her name
was still widely known and even reverenced in the country at large; but
this was small consolation for the fact that her own son, Tō no Chūjō,
had for some time past been far from cordial in his manner towards her.
It was very good of Yūgiri to come on such an evening. But why was
it that he looked so thoughtful? Perhaps the noise of the hurricane
distracted him. It was certainly very alarming.
If Yūgiri fell into a meditative mood in this house, it was generally
with memories of his little playmate[193] that his mind was employed.
But to-night he had not, as a matter of fact, thought of her once;
nor did the tempest disturb him. It was the face he had seen this
morning, in the course of his unintended eavesdropping, which now
continually haunted him, till he suddenly checked his imagination and
asked himself remorsefully what had come over him that in this of all
places another face than Kumoi’s should have filled his thoughts during
a whole evening. And if it was a crime in him that he should presume
to court Tō no Chūjō’s daughter, what view would his elders take if
they should discover that he spent his leisure in thinking of Genji’s
wife? He tried hard to think of other things; but after a moment or
two the recollection of what he had seen that morning sprang back
into his mind. Was all this a mere aberration on his part? He could
not believe it; surely her beauty was indisputably of the kind that
occurs only once or twice in a century—that a whole epoch may utterly
lack? There was nothing to be wondered at in the impression which the
sight of her had made upon him; if there was anything strange in the
matter at all, it was that Genji, having such a wife as this, could
ever have taken any interest in such creatures as the lady in the
Eastern Wing.[194] That did indeed require some explanation. It was
heart-rending that the most beautiful woman of her generation should
fall to the lot of one whose other intimacies proved him so completely
lacking in discrimination.
It was characteristic of Yūgiri’s high sense of propriety that when in
his imaginings he became better acquainted with this lovely creature,
it was not with Murasaki herself but with someone in every respect
exactly like her that he pictured himself spending hours of enchanted
bliss. Yes, that was what he needed; without it life, he had began to
discover, was not worth living at all.
Towards dawn the wind became somewhat dank and clammy; before long
sheets of rain were being swept onward by the hurricane. News came
that many of the outbuildings at the New Palace had been blown to the
ground. The main structure was so solidly built as to defy any storm.
In the quarters inhabited by Genji there was, too, a continual coming
and going, which served to mitigate the strain of those alarming hours.
But the side wings of the palace were very sparsely inhabited. Yūgiri’s
own neighbour, for example—the Lady from the Village of Falling
Flowers—might easily be by this time in a pitiable state of panic.
Clearly it was his duty to give her his support, and he set out for
home while it was still dark. The rain was blowing crossways, and no
sooner had he seated himself in his litter, than an icy douche poured
in through the ventilator and drenched his knees. The town wore an
inconceivably desolate and stricken air. In his own mind too there was
a strange sensation; it was as though there also, just as in the world
outside, the wonted landmarks and boundaries had been laid waste by
some sudden hurricane. What had happened to him? For a moment he could
only remember that it was something distressing, shameful.... Why,
it was hideous! Yesterday morning.... That was it of course. He was
mad; nothing more nor less than a raving lunatic. He had fallen in love
with Murasaki!
He did indeed find his neighbour in the eastern wing sadly in need of
a little support and encouragement. He managed however to convince
her that the worst danger was over, and sending for some of his own
carpenters had everything put to rights. He felt that he ought now
to greet his father. But in the central hall everything was still
locked and barred. He went to the end of the passage and leaning on
the balustrade looked out into the Southern Garden. Even such trees as
still stood were heeling over in the wind so that their tops almost
touched the ground. Broken branches were scattered in every direction
and what once had been flower-beds were now mere rubbish heaps, strewn
with a promiscuous litter of thatch and tiles, with here and there
a fragment of trellis-work or the top of a fence. There was now a
little pale sunshine, that slanting through a break in the sky gleamed
fitfully upon the garden’s woe-begone face; but sullen clouds packed
the horizon, and as Yūgiri gazed on the desolate scene his eyes filled
with tears. How came it, he asked himself, that he should be doomed
time and again to long precisely for what it was impossible for him to
obtain. He wiped away his tears, came close to Genji’s door and called.
‘That sounds like Yūgiri’s voice,’ he heard Genji say. ‘I had no notion
it was so late....’ He heard his father rise. There was a pause, and
then Genji laughed, perhaps at some remark that had been inaudible. ‘No
indeed,’ he said. ‘You and I have fared better than most lovers. We
have never known what it was to be torn from each other at the first
streak of dawn, and I do not think that after all these years we should
easily reconcile ourselves to such a fate.’ Even to overhear such
a conversation as this gave Yūgiri a certain kind of pleasure. He could
not make out a word of what Murasaki said in reply and judging from
the laughter with which the conversation was constantly interrupted
it was not of a very serious description. But he felt he could say to
himself ‘That is what happens when they are alone together,’ and he
went on listening. Now, however, there was a noise of swift footsteps.
Evidently Genji was about to unbolt the door with his own hands.
Conscious that he was standing far closer to it than was natural Yūgiri
stepped back guiltily into the corridor. ‘Well,’ asked Genji, ‘was
the Princess pleased to see you last night?’ ‘Yes, I think she was,’
answered Yūgiri. ‘She seems to be very much upset about something that
has happened between her and my uncle Tō no Chūjō. She cried a great
deal and I was very sorry for her.’ Genji smiled. ‘Oh, I know all about
that business,’ he said. ‘She will soon get over it. You must persuade
her not to brood upon such matters. He thinks she has been indiscreet,
and is doing his best to make her feel uncomfortable about it. He cares
immensely about the impression which his conduct makes on other people;
and as regards his mother—he has always gone out of his way to convince
the world that he is a paragon of filial devotion. So far as outward
show is concerned, this is true enough. But I fancy that it is all done
chiefly for the sake of appearances. The truth of the matter is that he
has no very deep feelings towards anybody. This may seem a hard thing
to say; but, on the other hand, I freely admit his good qualities. He
is extremely well-informed and intelligent; he is musical to an extent
which has become very rare in these days. In addition to all that,
he is good-looking. As I have said, I think his feelings somewhat
superficial. But we all have defects of one sort or another.... By
the way, I ought to find out how the Empress has been getting on
during this appalling hurricane. I wish you would find out if there is
anything I can do for her ...’ and he gave Yūgiri a note in which he
said: ‘I am afraid the wind prevented you from getting much sleep. I
myself find it a great strain and am feeling rather shaky; otherwise I
should have come round to see you long ago....’
On approaching the Empress’s apartments he saw a little girl with a
cage in her hand trip lightly into the garden; she had come to give the
tame cicadas their morning sip of dew. Further off several ladies were
wandering among the flower-beds with baskets over their arms, searching
for such stray blossoms as might chance to have survived the tempest.
Now and again they were hidden by great wreaths of storm-cloud that
trailed across the garden with strange and lovely effect. Yūgiri called
to the flower-gatherers. They did not start or betray the least sign of
discomposure, but in an instant they had all disappeared into the house.
Being still a mere boy at the time when Akikonomu came to Genji’s
house, he had been allowed to run in and out of her rooms just as
he chose, and had thus become very intimate with several of her
gentlewomen. While he was waiting for the Empress’s reply, two of these
old acquaintances, a certain Saishō no Kimi, and a lady called Naishi,
came into view at the end of the passage. He hailed them and had a long
conversation. He used to think Lady Akikonomu a very splendid person;
and he was still obliged to confess, as he now looked about him, that
she lived in very good style and had shown excellent taste in the
furnishing of her quarters. But since those days he had learnt to judge
by very different standards, and a visit to this part of the palace no
longer interested him in the slightest degree.
On his return to Murasaki’s rooms, he found all the shutters
unbarred. Everything had resumed its normal course. He delivered the
Empress’s reply, in which she said: ‘It may be very childish, but I
own I have been much upset by the storm. I made sure that you would
come and see to things here.... It would still be a great help to me
if you could spare a moment....’ ‘I remember said Genji, ‘that she was
always very easily upset by anything of this kind. I can imagine what
a panic she and her ladies must have worked themselves up into during
the course of the night! It was wrong of me not to see after her ...’
and he started off towards the Empress’s apartments. But he found he
had forgotten his cloak, and turning back to the high daïs he raised
a corner of the curtain and disappeared within. For a moment Yūgiri
caught sight of a light-coloured sleeve; his heart began to beat so
loud that it seemed to him every one else in the room must be able to
hear it, and he quickly averted his eyes from the daïs. There was an
interval during which Genji was presumably adjusting his cloak at the
mirror. Then Yūgiri heard his father’s voice saying: ‘I cannot help
thinking that Yūgiri is really looking quite handsome this morning. No
doubt I am partial, and to every one else he looks a mere hobbledehoy;
for I know that at the between-stage he has now reached young men are
usually far from prepossessing in appearance.’ After this there was a
pause during which he was perhaps looking at his own countenance in
the mirror, well content that the passage of time had as yet done so
little to impair it. Presently Yūgiri heard him say very thoughtfully:
‘It is strange; whenever I am going to see Akikonomu I suddenly begin
to feel that I am looking terribly shabby and unpresentable. I cannot
think why she should have that effect on one. There is really nothing
very remarkable about her, either in intellect or appearance. But
one feels, I think, that she is all the while making judgments, which
if they ever came to the surface, would seem oddly at variance with
the mild femininity of her outward manner....’ With these words Genji
re-appeared from behind the curtains. The look of complete detachment
with which Yūgiri imagined he met his father’s gaze was perhaps not so
successfully assumed as the boy supposed; for Genji suddenly halted
and returning to the daïs whispered to Murasaki something about the
door which had been left unfastened yesterday morning. ‘No, I am sure
he didn’t,’ answered Murasaki indignantly. ‘If he had come along the
corridor my people would have noticed. They never heard a sound....’
‘Very queer, all the same,’ murmured Genji to himself as he left the
room. Yūgiri now noticed that a group of gentlemen was waiting for him
at the end of the crossgallery, and he hastened to meet them. He tried
to join in their conversation and even in their laughter; but he was
feeling in no mood for society, and little as his friends expected
of him in the way of gaiety, they found him on this occasion more
obdurately low-spirited than ever before.
Soon however his father returned and carried him off to the Eastern
Wing. They found the gentlewomen of this quarter engaged in making
preparations to meet the sudden cold. A number of grey-haired old
ladies were cutting out and stitching, while the young girls were busy
hanging out quilts and winter cloaks over lacquered clothesframes.
They had just beaten and pulled a very handsome dark-red underrobe,
a garment of magnificent colour, certainly unsurpassed as an example
of modern dyeing—and were spreading it out to air. ‘Why, Yūgiri,’
said Genji, ‘that is your coat, is it not? I suppose you would have
been wearing it at the Emperor’s Chrysanthemum Feast; but of course
this odious hurricane has put a stop to everything of that sort.
What a depressing autumn it is going to be!’
But Yūgiri could not summon up much interest in the round of visits
upon which his father had embarked, and slipped away to the rooms of
his little sister, the Princess from Akashi. The child was not there.
‘She is still with Madam,’ her nurse said. ‘She went later than usual
to-day. She was so frightened of the storm that it was a long time
before she got to sleep, and we had a job to get her out of bed at
all this morning.’ ‘When things began to be so bad,’ said Yūgiri, ‘I
intended to come round here and sit up with her; but then I heard that
my grandmother was very much upset, and thought that I had better go to
her instead. What about the doll’s house? Has that come to any harm?’
The nurse and her companions laughed. ‘Oh, that doll’s house!’ one of
them exclaimed. ‘Why, if I so much as fanned myself the little lady
would always cry out to me that I was blowing her dolls to bits. You
can imagine, then, what a time we had of it when the whole house was
being blown topsy-turvy, and every minute something came down with a
crash.... You’d better take charge of that doll’s house. I don’t mind
telling you I’m sick to death of it!’
Yūgiri had several letters to write, and as the little girl was still
with her step-mother he said to the nurse: ‘Might I have some ordinary
paper. Perhaps from the writing-case in your own room....’ The nurse
however went straight to the little Princess’s own desk and taking
the cover off her lacquered writing-case laid upon it a whole roll of
the most elegant paper she could find. Yūgiri at first protested. But
after all, was not a rather absurd fuss made about this young lady
and her future? There was nothing sacrosanct about her possessions;
and accepting the paper, which was of a thin, purple variety, he
mixed his ink very carefully and, continually inspecting the
point of his brush, began writing slowly and cautiously. The air of
serious concentration with which he settled down to his task was very
impressive; more so, indeed, than the composition itself, for his
education had been chiefly upon other lines.
The poem was as follows: ‘Not even on this distracted night when
howling winds drive serried hosts of cloud across the sky, do I for
an instant forget thee, thou Unforgettable One.’ He tied this to a
tattered spray of miscanthus that he had picked up in the porch. At
this there was general laughter. ‘It’s clear you haven’t read your
Katano no Shōshō’[195] said one of the nurses, ‘or you would at least
choose a flower that matched your paper....’ ‘You are quite right,’
he answered rather sulkily, ‘I have never bothered my head about such
matters. No doubt one ought to go tramping about the countryside
looking for an appropriate flower; but I have no intention of doing
so....’ He had always seemed to the nurses and other such ladies of the
household very difficult to get anything out of. Apparently he did not
care what impression he made upon them; and as a matter of fact they
were beginning to think him rather priggish and stuck-up.
He wrote a second letter, and sending for his retainer Uma no Suké put
this and the original note into the man’s hand. But evidently the two
letters were to go in quite different directions.[196] For Uma no Suké,
having scanned the addresses, entrusted one to a page boy and the other
to a discreet, responsible-looking body-servant. These proceedings were
accompanied by a great many whispered warnings and injunctions.
The curiosity of the young nurses knew no bounds; but it remained
wholly unsatisfied; for hard though they strained their ears, they
could not catch a word.
Yūgiri was now tired of waiting and made his way to his grandmother’s
house. He found her quietly pursuing her devotions, surrounded by
gentlewomen not all of whom were either old or ill-looking. But in
dress and bearing they formed a strange contrast to the chattering,
frivolous young creatures from whom he had just parted. The nuns too,
who had come to take part in the service, were by no means decrepit or
disagreeable in person, a fact which gave an additional pathos to their
assumption of this sombre and unbecoming guise.
Later in the day Tō no Chūjō called, and when the great lamp had been
brought in, he and the old Princess had a long, quiet talk. At last
she screwed up her courage to say: ‘It is a very long time since I
saw Kumoi ...’ and she burst into tears. ‘I was just going to suggest
sending her round here in a day or two,’ said Tō no Chūjō. ‘I am not
very happy about her. She is certainly thinner than she used to be, and
there is sometimes a peculiar expression in her face.... It is almost
as though she had something on her mind. I do not understand how it
is that, while I have never had a moment’s anxiety over my boys, with
these daughters of mine something goes wrong at every turn. And never
through any fault of mine....’ He said this with an intonation that
clearly showed he had not entirely forgiven her. She was sorely wounded
by this obstinate injustice, but did not attempt to defend herself.
‘Talking of daughters,’ he went on, ‘you have probably heard that I
have lately made a very unsuccessful addition to my household. You have
no idea what worries I am going through....’ He spoke in a doleful
tone, but no sooner were the words uttered than he burst out laughing.
‘I cannot bear to hear you talking in that way,’ said the old Princess.
‘Of one thing I am quite sure: if she is really your daughter she
cannot be so bad as people are making out.’ ‘I think, all the same,’
said Tō no Chūjō, ‘that it might be possible to put too great a strain
upon your habitual indulgence towards everything connected with me.
That being so, I have no intention whatever of introducing her to you.’
[191] Her father; Rokujō’s husband, who died early.
[192] ‘I await your coming eagerly as waits the young lespideza, so
heavy with dew, for the wind that shall disburden it.’
[193] Kumoi.
[194] The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.
[195] A tale of the ‘perfect lover,’ very popular in Murasaki’s day,
but now lost. Cf. vol. i, p. 39.
[196] One to Kumoi, one to Koremitsu’s daughter.
Transcriber’s Notes
1. Italicised words are indicated by _underscores_.
2. Footnotes have been renumbered and moved to the end of each
chapter.
3. Misspelled words have been corrected (see below). Archaic,
inconsistent and alternative spellings have been left unchanged.
Hyphenation has not been standardised.
4. Punctuation has been silently corrected.
5. “Edit Distance” in Corrections table below refers to the
Levenshtein Distance.
Corrections:
Page Source Correction Edit distance
84 Prince Zembo’s first Prince Zembō’s first 1
134 do someting do something 1
147 at the Nijo-in at the Nijō-in 1
231 the opportunites the opportunities 1
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