FUJI NO URABA
Despite his friendship for the little Princess, Yūgiri had shown no
interest in the recent proceedings at the New Palace. He had indeed
lately heard that the ‘watchman of the gate,’[58] worn out by a vigil
so unexpectedly prolonged, already showed signs of collapse. The boy,
extremely sensitive to rebuffs, would far rather that the first step
should be taken by the other side, and though constantly planning to
approach his uncle, he felt when it came to the point unable to do
so unless Chūjō’s manner towards him in some way indicated that the
rumoured change of attitude had really taken place.
Meanwhile Kumoi, convinced that Yūgiri’s engagement to the Nakatsukasa
girl would soon be announced, was doing her best to wipe out from her
thoughts all memory of the lover who had betrayed her. Thus, though in
effect the way was now clear, a tangle of misunderstandings made it
impossible for either side to advance. Her father, whose ill-judged
obstinacy was responsible for the whole situation, was by now willing
to make any compromise. Above all it was essential, at the cost of
whatever humiliation, to forestall Prince Nakatsukasa’s definite and
final offer, which did not seem yet to have been made. For after all
that had happened it might be exceedingly difficult to procure the girl
an even tolerable alliance. Despite all the precautions of her family
Kumoi’s early friendship with Yūgiri had become known, and innocent
though it had been, she would inevitably share in the discredit
which attaches to the jilted. He foresaw indeed that belated efforts
to find her a husband would involve both him and the girl herself in
even greater humiliations than would ensue from an immediate surrender.
This time he determined to approach the boy himself; but though they
occasionally met and were to outward appearances on perfectly good
terms, he found it very difficult to embark suddenly upon such a
subject as this. To send for Yūgiri on purpose to discuss the matter
seemed to be making altogether too much fuss about it, and would indeed
mark a point of surrender beyond what, even in his present mood, he was
prepared to bring himself to. At last, however, circumstances afforded
just such an occasion as he sought. On the 20th day of the third month,
the anniversary of his mother’s[59] death, a memorial service was held
at the Gyokurakuji.[60] There was a great gathering of princes and
noblemen, among whom Yūgiri, now grown to his full stature and to-day
magnificently accoutred, cut no discreditable figure. The presence of
Tō no Chūjō, who was of course in charge of the proceedings, always had
the effect of damping Yūgiri’s spirits, and his particularly subdued
cautious manner did not to-day escape his uncle’s notice. A special
recitation of the scriptures was also held at Genji’s expense, and
Yūgiri himself, as grandson of the deceased, was naturally responsible
for many of the arrangements. They were all going home late in the
afternoon amid a shower of falling blossoms, when Tō no Chūjō, overcome
by the memories which had crowded to his mind during this melancholy
celebration, paused for a moment to gaze upon the scene about him.
Yūgiri too was deeply moved by the beauty of the evening and had also
halted. There was a rainy feeling in the air, and some of their
companions shouted to them to come on quickly if they did not want to
catch a wetting. Turning round Tō no Chūjō saw that, like himself,
Yūgiri was spellbound by the sadness of the closing day, and pulling
him gently by the sleeve he said: ‘What does this mean? All day you
have been doing your best to avoid me. I should have thought that on
such an occasion you would have been willing to call a truce. I feel
that to-day I have reached a turning-point in my life. I am beginning
to be an old man, and I cannot afford to lose the affection of those
who are growing up around me....’ ‘I remember,’ Yūgiri answered, ‘that
before she died my grandmother begged me if I were ever in trouble to
come first to you for advice. And I would gladly have done so, had you
not made it clear that you had no wish at all to see me....’ But there
the conversation ended; for the wind had suddenly risen, bringing with
it a violent storm of rain, and the whole party were obliged to make
for home as fast as they could.
Never before had Tō no Chūjō addressed such words to him; and though
there was no direct allusion to the trouble over Kumoi, he could not
help feeling that they were meant as a definite hint of encouragement.
For Yūgiri’s thoughts were continually occupied by this subject, and he
was apt to see a reference to it in the most ordinary remarks. Of this
he was conscious, and all night long he turned over in his mind what
Chūjō had said to him.
But in point of fact Yūgiri’s years-long patience had at last triumphed
completely. If there was a slight further delay it was only because Tō
no Chūjō was waiting for a not too inappropriate occasion upon which to
make his full and unqualified surrender.
Early in the fourth month, one evening when the unusual magnificence
of the wistaria in his courtyard (it had never been so profuse in
blossom or so splendid in colour as this year) induced him to invite
a few friends with whom to feast and make music, when the dusk was
already gathering and the beauty of the flowers, as they gleamed in the
half-night, was even more dazzling than before, Tō no Chūjō plucked a
spray of the blossom and asked his son Kasiwagi to deliver it to Yūgiri
with the message: ‘I should very much like to continue our conversation
of a few days ago, and if you have nothing better to do, please come
round and see me....’ Attached to the wistaria spray was the poem: ‘The
wistaria in my garden is at its deepest hue, and now not many nights
are left in which to see it shining through the dusk.’ Yūgiri could
not for a moment doubt that this was the signal he had waited for. He
thanked Kashiwagi for bringing the message and handed to him the poem:
‘Alas, I fear lest groping through the dusk I now may miss the hour
when these deep-coloured blossoms shed their splendour on the night.’
‘I am ashamed of this poem,’ he said to Kashiwagi, ‘and beg you to
amend it in any way you can.’ ‘Are you not coming straight back with
me?’ said the other. ‘No,’ answered Yūgiri decisively. ‘My retainers
would be a trouble to you,’ and he sent Kashiwagi away. This took place
in Genji’s presence, and looking at the poem, he said: ‘This of course
is all you could desire. Well, I am glad it has happened at last. No
doubt the other day’s proceedings awakened in him the feeling that he
had often treated his mother very badly, and his present surrender
is a sort of propitiation....’ This confident, off-hand tone jarred
on Yūgiri. ‘I don’t think this invitation means anything out of the
ordinary,’ he replied, blushing. ‘The wistaria is in bloom and they are
having some music in the courtyard. It is quite natural that he should
send for me....’ ‘Well, in any case,’ replied Genji, ‘he is evidently
anxious to have you there, or he would not have sent Kashiwagi
on purpose. You had better go at once.’ To a casual observer Yūgiri
would have appeared at this moment apathetic—impassively obedient. But
his heart within staggered with excitement, and in sheer intensity
of expectation he almost fainted away. ‘Wait a minute!’ his father
called after him. ‘That dark cloak will not do at all! It was well
enough while you were a young nobody and did not attend the Council.
But now you have every right to make a better show.... Let me lend
you something,’ and sending a servant to his wardrobe, he presently
displayed a whole pile of the most magnificent Court cloaks, one of
which Yūgiri carried off to his own room. By the time his toilet was
complete twilight had turned to darkness. He hurried to his uncle’s
house, arriving just when Tō no Chūjō, to his chagrin, had decided that
it was useless to expect him. He was led into the house by a band of
some seven or eight young men, headed by Kashiwagi. A seat of honour
had been set apart for him by Tō no Chūjō, who for the moment was
absent, having gone to change his Court hat for a more comfortable form
of head-dress. His wife and some young ladies-in-waiting helped him
to change. ‘You must take a peep at our new guest,’ he said to them.
‘I saw him arriving a moment ago. He has really grown up into a most
distinguished-looking young man; and he dresses admirably. He looks
to me as though he would turn out to have more strength and decision
of character than his father. Genji of course was always very good
company; when one is with him, one is indeed so completely carried
away by his high spirits and charm that the worries and difficulties
of everyday life seem suddenly to lose all reality. But in public
affairs he seems to me to suffer from a certain lack of earnestness, of
gravity.... However, that may be a fault on the right side. Certainly
this son of his has not inherited any such defect; I hear that he
is a better scholar than his father, and is indeed a most serious and
persevering character....’ Tō no Chūjō now rejoined his guests, and
after the usual compliments had been exchanged he said to Yūgiri: ‘You
should have come when the spring flowers were at their best. It was an
astonishing sight this year. Every imaginable colour. But the spring
treated us badly; never has its stay been so short. And now all that
is left us to console ourselves with is these wonderful blossoms here,
which are already almost in summer bloom. For my part I take an immense
delight in them, and I hope that to you as well their colour has
to-night a special significance ...’[61] and he smiled reassuringly.
The moon had now risen, and having admired by its light what little
was to be seen of the wistaria blossom, they settled down again to
music and drink. Seeing that Yūgiri’s shyness required overcoming by
some more drastic procedure than mere friendly encouragement, Tō no
Chūjō affected to be more drunk than he actually was, and under cover
of this pretence pressed the drink upon Yūgiri with a boisterous
insistence. But the boy was determined to keep all his wits about
him, and over and over again refused. ‘I hear,’ said Tō no Chūjō,
‘that you are becoming such a scholar as in these latter days we never
hoped to see again. Perhaps that is why you are so cold towards your
old acquaintances who can boast no such world-wide reputation. But
even in your learned books I fancy there is a good deal about “family
visits,” and there is a certain person,[62] very dear to those of your
persuasion, who made such small formalities the groundwork of his
teaching. You must know far more about all this than I do, and it can
only be for some very particular reason that you so determinedly avoid
your uncle’s house....’ Such a complaint came quite naturally
amid the general sentimentality induced by wine and music. ‘Come,’
answered Yūgiri, ‘did nothing else attach me to you, the memory of my
mother and grandmother would alone make me ready to serve you with my
last breath, and I cannot conceive what I have done to merit such a
reproach. It was you who in the first place gave me to understand that
I was not welcome....’ Tō no Chūjō held his peace; but when a suitable
opportunity occurred he rose to his feet and sang the old song: ‘If
like the leaf ...’[63] while Kashiwagi, evidently at his father’s
bidding, plucked a spray of wistaria blossom, the deepest-coloured and
longest he could find, and twined it round the guest’s wine-cup. Yūgiri
modestly protested; whereupon Tō no Chūjō recited the verse: ‘That as
token of kinship this flower you should invoke I waited[64] till the
blossom hung lower than the pine-boughs; then at last I humbled my
pride.’
Yūgiri, holding the cup, made a slight obeisance, and answered:
‘Strange that through so many dewy springtimes I was doomed to pass
before I met the season when this flower for me its blossom should
unfold.’ So saying he handed the cup to Kashiwagi, and as it went
the round every one in turn produced the best he could in the way of
a poem. But amid the confused revel it was not likely that anything
very good should come to light, and the verses that followed were even
more ragged than those I have already quoted. The moon was only seven
days old, and across the mirror of the silent lake hung a thin veil
of mist. The trees still lacked their full profusion of summer green,
and it was over bare and lonely-looking boughs that the wistaria, not
merged as at a later season in the general mass of leafage, hung
its heavy loads of blossom. Kōbal, whose voice was always in request
upon such occasions, sang ‘The Hedge of Reeds’[65] very charmingly.
‘Come,’ broke in Tō no Chūjō, ‘no one has broken down any hedges here!’
and next time the refrain came he drowned it with the words: ‘Welcome
to this ancient house!’[66] Soon all trace of embarrassment on either
side had completely disappeared, and the party was kept up with a great
deal of noisy singing and other merriment till a very late hour in the
night. At last Yūgiri thought the time had come for a hint on his side,
and pretending to be much more drunk than he really was, he said to
Tō no Chūjō: ‘I am afraid I am not good for much more of this. Could
you possibly allow me to sleep here to-night? My head goes round, and
I doubt whether, even if I managed to set out for home, I should ever
get there safely.’ ‘Kashiwagi!’ cried Tō no Chūjō, ‘a bed for Yūgiri!
I would see to it myself, but I am already far more drunk than an old
person of my age has any right to be, and I must ask you to continue
the concert without me.’ So saying, he went straight to his room. ‘I
know what it is,’ said Kashiwagi, turning to Yūgiri. ‘“You came to
see the flowers, and with the flowers you would stay.” I’ll do what
I can for you. But it may not be so easy as you suppose.’ ‘This is
no wild fancy of the moment,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘Is not the pine-tree
called “the lover of these flowers,” and does he not all the year “wait
changeless till at their own time the blossoms come”? Bring me to
her....’
Kashiwagi was not sure that this was what his father had intended, and
was somewhat loath to take so great a responsibility; but he greatly
admired Yūgiri and had always hoped that matters would end in this
way. It was therefore without any great misgiving that he now led the
way to his sister’s room....
* * * * *
Next day was the Festival of Buddha’s Baptism.[67] The priests carrying
the sacred image arrived somewhat late, and it was evening when the
little girls sent from the various quarters of Genji’s household
arrived with their thank-offerings and alms. This part of the ceremony
was carried out in Genji’s palace exactly as at Court, while Genji’s
levée on the evening of the festival was even better attended than
that held by the Emperor; so that the priests in charge of the image,
who had got through the ordeal of appearing before the Emperor pretty
comfortably, felt much less sure of themselves at this second and, as
it seemed to them, far more critical gathering. But these proceedings
did not in the least interest Yūgiri, who at an early hour put on his
best clothes and hurried away towards Tō no Chūjō’s house. Several
of the younger ladies-in-waiting at the New Palace, without being
actually in love with him, had always taken a considerable interest
in his doings, and were not best pleased to hear that his prolonged
bachelordom had at last come to a close.
The accumulated longing of years, satisfied at last in a manner beyond
the wildest dreams of either, made the union of these two young people
into a basket[68] that certainly let no water through. Tō no Chūjō,
too, liked Yūgiri more and more as he got to know him better, and
lavished upon him every sort of attention. He could not help still
feeling a little sore at having had to surrender in so abject a
manner. At the same time he had a great respect for the tenacity and
single-heartedness which Yūgiri had displayed in the face of every
discouragement during these last years, and he bore the boy no grudge
at all. There was a certain feeling against him in the household, for
Kumoi had now grown to be indubitably prettier and in every way more
interesting than her sister, Lady Chūjō. This had for some time past
excited the jealousy of Lady Chūjō’s mother and of such gentlewomen as
sided with her; and this faction in the household did its best to keep
Yūgiri in his place. But Kumoi’s mother[69] and many other people were
delighted to hear of the engagement.
[68] There is a proverb ‘It is no use pouring water into a basket.’
_Augo_ means ‘union,’ and also ‘basket,’ ‘wicker panier.’
[69] A princess with whom Tō no Chūjō had had an intrigue in early
days. Subsequently she morganatically married a Provincial Inspector.
The Akashi Princess’s actual move into the Crown Prince’s palace was
fixed for the 20th of the fourth month. Meanwhile Murasaki expressed
a desire to visit the August Birthplace.[70] The other ladies of the
household were eager to accompany her; but she did not like the idea of
a huge miscellaneous excursion, and in the end she confined the party
to her own gentlewomen and servants. Even as it was there were twenty
coaches, but everything was done as unostentatiously as possible, and
the number of outriders was extremely small. The visit to the Shrine
was made very early on the morning of the Festival,[71] and Murasaki
was back in time to view the processions from the usual Stand. There
was a good deal of rough hustling and pushing among the grooms and
outriders of various ladies, each of whom was determined to secure a
prominent place for her equipage; but as soon as Murasaki’s carriage
came in sight the rest fell back respectfully to let her pass. Genji,
who was already waiting in the Stand, could not but recollect how
at that other Kamo Festival years ago there had been an awkward clash
of coaches. ‘I am glad you got through without any trouble,’ he said.
‘There is often a good deal of ill-feeling on these occasions. I am
afraid the favourite of the moment is apt to abuse her power, sweeping
mercilessly aside all who stand in her path. Yūgiri’s mother was by no
means given to self-assertion. Yet her death was due to the resentment
she incurred by allowing her servants to behave with insolence during
one of these holiday encounters. It was the present Empress’s mother
who suffered upon that occasion; and it is strange that whereas her
child has reached the highest position to which any lady can aspire,
poor Aoi’s son has only just begun to get on, even in the most modest
way. We must never forget how uncertain everything in this world is. I
have no reason to suppose that things will not now go smoothly with me
to the end. But should you survive me, you might easily find yourself
in a very precarious position....’
A number of princes and noblemen had now assembled near Murasaki’s
Stand to pay her their respects, and Genji joined them. Kashiwagi was
to-day the representative[72] of the Imperial Bodyguard, and it was at
his father’s house that the gentlemen who now accompanied him had that
morning assembled.
Koremitsu’s daughter, who, as will be remembered, now held a post in
the Bedchamber, was also present as representative of her office. She
was just now having a prodigious success at Court, and to-day her coach
was attracting as great a throng of admirers as that of any lady from
the Palace, the Crown Prince’s apartments or the Sixth Ward.[73] Among
those who paid their respects to her this morning was Yūgiri.
He had courted her in old days, in a somewhat half-hearted way it is
true, but the news of his sudden engagement to the daughter of so
eminent a house piqued her more than she would have expected. ‘If on no
other day, then surely with this wreath[74] about your brow, lady, you
call to mind that once we met!’[75] Such was the poem that he handed
into her coach, and distracted though she was by the importunities
of her admirers, she was touched that he should remember her at such
a moment, and despite the fact that a carriage-seat is no place for
writing verse, she answered him with the poem: ‘That “hollyhock” spells
“meeting” is for scholars to conclude. They know it not who pluck the
flowers, nor they that weave them as a crown about their brow.’ It was
not meant seriously; but Yūgiri felt that it was a snub and retired,
somewhat surprised to find that in his present happiness any other
woman’s reply could make the slightest difference to him.
It was usual, when the Heir Apparent’s consort was of very immature
age, for her to be accompanied at Court by her mother or guardian.
Murasaki had adopted the Akashi Princess in its infancy, and according
to the usual practice it would now be she who followed the girl to
the Eastern Palace. But Genji would not sanction a plan that involved
continual and prolonged absence from home, and the opportunity seemed
an excellent one for restoring the child to the care of her true
mother, the Lady of Akashi. Murasaki had long felt that the separation
of the girl from her mother, though from a worldly point of view
advantageous to her, was an arrangement too inhumane to be otherwise
than temporary. The little Princess herself, now that she was of an
age to understand the situation, was obviously becoming more and more
dissatisfied with it. To stand in the way of a reunion which
promised so much happiness on both sides was out of the question, and
on her own initiative Murasaki said to Genji: ‘Would it not be possible
for the Lady from Akashi to go with the child to the Eastern Palace?
She still needs a lot of looking after, and almost all her ladies are
far too young to be much use in that respect. She has her nurses, of
course, who will do all they can. But there are many points which
people of that kind cannot reasonably be expected to decide. Were I
myself to take charge of her I could not possibly be on the spot all
the time. I would much rather she had some one who could give undivided
attention....’ What a comfort that she took so sensible a view! Genji
hastened to inform the mother of this decision, and her delight was
touching to behold. Indeed, her only anxiety was lest after all these
years of retirement she should herself have become too dowdy to mingle
with the bevy of resplendent young creatures who had been chosen for
her daughter’s service, and she began hastily providing herself with a
new outfit.
Her mother, the old recluse’s wife, heard with profound relief that
the little girl’s prospects were now finally assured, and henceforward
she clung desperately to life, despite many infirmities and troubles,
in the one hope that she might see her grandchild again before she
went down into the grave. But she lived a long way from the Court, and
at last began to wonder disconsolately whether the meeting would ever
really take place.
On the night of the actual Presentation Murasaki accompanied the child
in the hand-litter which was to convey her to the Eastern Palace. It
was open to the Lady of Akashi to follow on foot, and as far as she
herself was concerned she would have been ready enough to do so. But
she feared that her presence would spoil the effect of the Princess’s
entry, and remained for the time being in her own apartments,
feeling, as may well be imagined, very unwanted and forlorn. The
ceremony of introduction was, at Genji’s request, performed with as
little publicity as possible. But it is in any case an elaborate
affair, such as is bound to arouse a good deal of interest. While
dressing the little Princess in all the finery that this trying
occasion demanded, Murasaki could not help passionately wishing that
this lovely child were really hers. And to Genji as well as to Yūgiri
the same thought occurred: if only this one thing were not lacking,
surely Lady Murasaki would be the happiest, the most fortunate woman on
earth!
After three days she left the Palace, and on the way out met the
child’s own mother, who had now come to take charge. They got into
conversation, and Murasaki said: ‘Seeing the little Princess in these
grown-up clothes has reminded me how long it is since you first came
to live with us. I think, having been neighbours all these years, we
ought by now to know one another a little better than we do....’ It
was not an easy conversation to get started, but Murasaki’s manner was
so obviously kindly and sympathetic that a friendship was soon struck
up between them. Murasaki, for her part, was so much attracted by
the other’s manner and way of speaking that she soon well understood
Genji’s admiration for her; while the Lady of Akashi could not fail to
be delighted by Murasaki’s noble bearing and faultless beauty. She felt
it to be perfectly natural that among all the women who had received
Genji’s favours, this lady should always have held the unquestioned
supremacy; she thought indeed at this moment that even to have been
set beside her as the humblest participant in Genji’s affection was an
honour of which she might justly be proud.
Murasaki’s return was attended by great pomp and solemnity. She was
permitted the use of a hand-litter, a privilege usually restricted to
the Emperor’s consorts, and the Lady of Akashi, as she watched her
leave the Palace, once more felt for a moment painfully conscious of
her own utter inferiority.
The sight of her lovely child, waiting for her with a doll-like and
neat composure, was more than she could bear, and so near are the
outward signs of grief and joy that no one seeing her then could have
guessed that the tears which now rushed to her eyes were those of
the purest and tenderest delight. For years it had seemed as though
fate were utterly against her, and she were destined to drift on only
into greater depression and obscurity. But now a brighter prospect
had opened, and remembering her pious father’s constant prayers and
oblations she could not but think that it was the God of Sumiyoshi who
had at last set her fortunes on a fairer course.
The little Princess had been so carefully brought up by Murasaki that
she needed very little guidance. Every one in the Eastern Palace was
at once charmed by her beauty and friendly disposition, not least the
Crown Prince himself. For, mere child though he was, he could not fail
to perceive that she far outshone all other companions whom fate had
put in his way. Those whose designs had been frustrated by the little
Princess’s arrival made a point of speaking disparagingly in his
Highness’s presence of the child’s mother, saying with mock sympathy
that it would be a great handicap to her at Court to have so homely a
creature always at her side. But such remarks had no effect. Not only
was the child unusually quick-witted, but it soon became apparent that
she already possessed considerable will and character of her own. Her
every whim was now gratified, and as many of her ladies had admirers
among the most fashionable young noblemen at Court, her rooms became
the scene of the most dazzling fêtes and receptions. It was indeed
all the Lady of Akashi could do to keep the ladies-in-waiting in
proper trim for all these festivities, after she had attended to
the Princess’s outfit and made the necessary household arrangement.
Murasaki managed occasionally to visit them, and was delighted to find
that there was in the Lady of Akashi’s manner towards her no longer any
of the distrust and coldness which had for so long made it wellnigh
impossible for them to meet.
Genji, who could never think of himself as living to any great age,
was profoundly thankful that he had now provided for his daughter in
a manner which seemed to make her happiness assured. And even Yūgiri,
whose excellent qualities of heart had seemed at one time likely to
condemn him to a state of permanent unsettledness and despondency,
was now happily provided for.... It seemed in fact to Genji at this
time that all the worst dangers and difficulties of his life had
been successfully overmounted, and that he might now even manage to
arrive at the finish without any very serious disaster. Were he to die
now his only anxiety would be on Murasaki’s behalf; but so long as
Akikonomu, who had always regarded her as a second mother, retained
her influence, Murasaki was not likely to come to any great harm.
Moreover, as foster-mother of a future Empress she would be certain of
a considerable position at Court even in the event of Akikonomu’s death
or retirement.
He sometimes had qualms about the Lady from the Village of Falling
Flowers. She, poor thing, certainly did not have a very gay time of
it; but for the moment she had Yūgiri to keep an eye on her. Generally
speaking, he could remember no time at which his affairs had been in
such hopeful trim.
Next year would see his fortieth birthday, and he heard that both at
Court and in the country at large great preparations were afoot for
celebrating this event. Already in the autumn of the present year he
was proclaimed equal in rank to an Imperial Parent, and his fiefs
and patronage were correspondingly increased. His actual power
had for a long time past been absolute and complete, so that these
changes brought him no great advantage. Indeed, in one respect they
were inconvenient; for in defiance of a very well-established precedent
he was burdened with the special retinue of his new rank, which,
magnificent though it made his public appearances, rendered his comings
and goings in the Palace very burdensome, and he was no longer able to
meet the Emperor so often as he desired.
Ryōzen still felt acutely the illegality of his own position and would
at any moment have been prepared to resign the Throne, had not Genji
refused to sanction such a step, pointing out that it would have a
disastrous effect on public opinion if it became known that the true
line of succession had been impaired.
Tō no Chūjō of course succeeded to the position which Genji had
vacated, and Yūgiri at last became a Palace Counsellor. On the day
when the new officers went to Court to receive their Investiture Tō no
Chūjō was greatly struck by the improvement in the boy’s carriage and
appearance. For the first time he felt that Kumoi would after all be
far better off with this young man as her devoted slave and protector
than she would ever have been in the Palace, where she could not at
best hope for more than a perfunctory share of the Emperor’s attention.
Yūgiri’s new estate required more spacious quarters than were available
in his father’s palace, and soon after his promotion he moved into
his grandmother’s old house in the Third Ward. It was somewhat out
of repair, but the damage was soon put to rights, and the Princess’s
former apartments were modified to suit the requirements of the
newly-married pair. For both of them the place was full of old and
tender memories. They could remember as clumps of scraggy, freshly
planted trees, plantations that now yielded an ample shade, and
one bed of miscanthus, planted by the old Princess herself, had by
now grown so thick and tangled that they were obliged to thin it out
and cut it back, lest it should keep the sun off the plants around.
The moat too needed clearing out and, when fresh water-plants had
been set in it, looked very inviting. One lovely autumn evening the
young pair stood by the water, talking of their childhood and of all
the tribulations that were now happily overcome. Kumoi, among much
that it was delightful to recall, could not help remembering several
small incidents that had seemed to her of no significance at the
time, but now made her somewhat uncomfortable in the presence of her
grandmother’s old servants, most of whom had joyfully welcomed the
opportunity of returning to their old positions. Yūgiri, gazing into
the water, recited the poem: ‘Guardian of secrets, thou only could’st
tell whither her soul is fled, but speakest not, O rock-fed wellspring
of our house.’ To this Kumoi answered: ‘Of her that is departed no
shadow haunts thy waters, O springlet, as calm and unrepentant thy
waves flow onward to their goal!’
At this moment Tō no Chūjō, drawn hither by the beauty of the autumn
leaves, came into the garden for a while on his way back from the
Palace. The house, full once more of movement and life, looked
(thought Tō no Chūjō) just as he had known it on many an autumn day in
his parents’ lifetime, and as he wandered from one familiar spot to
another it affected him strangely to find those whom he had recently
thought of as mere children playing the part of dignified masters and
possessors amid the scenes where he himself had once submitted to his
elders’ rule. Yūgiri too seemed slightly embarrassed by the situation;
he blushed noticeably when giving orders, and his manner was oddly
subdued. They were, thought Tō no Chūjō, a singularly handsome and
well-matched pair. Kumoi, indeed, was no very exceptional beauty;
but the boy was certainly as graceful and well-built as any young man
he knew. Glancing among some papers covered with practice-writing,
Chūjō noticed the poems about the wellspring which the young pair had
just composed. Deeply moved, he said: ‘I too have it in my heart to
invoke the spirit of this familiar stream; but for one who stands so
near the margin of the grave....’[76] Nevertheless, he took a brush and
wrote the verse: ‘Long must it be indeed since the old tree withered;
for already its seedlings spread their green roots across the shaded
earth.’ Some of the old Princess’s aged servants were sitting in a
group near by, croaking mysterious tales of vanished wonders. Among
them was Yūgiri’s old nurse. She had never forgiven Tō no Chūjō for his
former harshness towards her young master, and overhearing the recital
of his ‘seedling’ poem, she was unable to restrain her indignation and
burst out with the lines: ‘Some of us have tended these two seedlings
since first they put forth leaf, and have not only at this last hour
discovered that they cast upon the earth a pleasant shade.’ This
encouraged several of the other aged dames to vent their views, and
Yūgiri for his part was much amused by their quaint impromptus. But
Kumoi found their fulsome compliments somewhat embarrassing, and was
glad when their inspiration ran out.
Late in the tenth month the Emperor declared his intention of visiting
Genji in the New Palace. Knowing that the maple leaves would be
particularly lovely at this season, he invited the ex-Emperor Suzaku to
accompany him. The visit of a reigning sovereign and his predecessor
to the house of a subject had seldom if ever occurred before, and the
event aroused great interest throughout the country. The simultaneous
reception of two such august visitors was a matter that required much
forethought, and the dazzling preparations which Genji set afoot
cost him hours of deliberation.
The guests arrived at the hour of the Serpent.[77] The first ceremony
was a parade of the Bodyguards of the Right and Left, who lined up
beside their horses exactly as at the Imperial Race-meeting in the
fifth month. Early in the afternoon the Emperor proceeded to the
Main Hall. All the plank bridges and galleries along which he passed
were carpeted with costly brocades, and his progress was screened
from the public gaze by heavy canvas curtains painted with landscape
scenery. At the Eastern Lake the party embarked on boats, and the head
cormorant-fisher from the Palace, combined with Genji’s men, gave a
display with his birds, who brought up a number of small gibel in their
beaks. This fishing display was not part of the original programme, but
was improvised at the last moment, lest the royal personages should be
bored on the way from the parade-ground to the main palace. Every knoll
in the gardens was crowned by the scarlet of maple leaves; but nowhere
were they in better colour than in Akikonomu’s Western Garden, and in
order that his Majesty might in passing have a better view of them,
part of the wall that divided her domain from the Great Gardens had
been hastily removed.
The seats of the two visitors had been placed side by side in the Great
Hall, with Genji’s at a considerable distance; but at the Emperor’s
request Genji’s seat was brought into line with theirs. This treatment,
which to those present appeared in the highest degree flattering, was
indeed far less than the Emperor would have liked to do for Genji,
before whom the laws of filial piety demanded that he should kneel in
humble reverence. The fish caught on the lake were to be submitted to
the Emperor’s approval by the Colonel of the Bodyguard of the
Left. Meanwhile Genji’s falconers returned from the Northern Fields
with a string of birds which were handed over to the Colonel of the
other Guard, who entering the Main Hall by the eastern doors submitted
the game kneeling at one side of the steps,[78] while the fish were
displayed on the other side. Tō no Chūjō, at his Majesty’s command,
directed the cooking of these viands, which were served to the Emperor
himself, while the princes and noblemen in attendance were offered a
repast of the most appetizing kind, in which every dish was served in
a manner to some degree out of the ordinary. When every one had had as
much as he wanted and dusk was setting in, the musicians were sent for.
It was not a formal concert, but there was some very lively dancing
by various young pages from Court. The ex-Emperor Suzaku could not
but remember the dancing at the Festival of Red Leaves years ago, an
occasion which often came back to his mind. When the Ga-ō-on[79] was
played, Tō no Chūjō’s sons, ten in all, danced to it with such success
that the Emperor rewarded them with the gift of his own cloak, which
Tō no Chūjō received on their behalf with an elaborate _budō_.[80]
Genji was meanwhile recalling the day when he had been Tō no Chūjō’s
partner in the Dance of the Blue Waves, and plucking a chrysanthemum he
addressed to him the poem: ‘Though like this flower you have as time
goes by put on a deeper hue, do you recall a day when in the autumn
wind your sleeve flapped close to mine?’ Yes, then indeed (thought Tō
no Chūjō) they were partners, and there was little to choose between
them in rank and prospects. But now, despite the very important
position he held, he knew well enough that, compared with Genji, he was
in popular estimation a very insignificant person indeed. ‘Not
to a flower shall I compare thee, who hidest amid the pomp of regal
clouds, but to a star that shines out of an air stiller and clearer
than our own.’ Such was Tō no Chūjō’s answer. By now the evening wind
was stirring among the red leaves that lay heaped upon the courtyard
floor, weaving them into patterns of brown and red. Here some pretty
little boys, children of various noble houses, were imitating in play
the dances of their elders. They wore blue and crimson tunics, and
shirts of yellow with dark-red facings. Apart from their little Court
hats they had no formal insignia, and it was a pretty sight to see them
capering about amid the maple leaves, through which the setting sun now
slanted its last rays. The professional musicians were not called upon
to give any very exacting performance, and at an early hour the private
playing began, led by the Emperor, who sent to the Palace Library for a
selection of zitherns. Prompted by the beauty of the season and hour,
one after another of the great personages there present called for his
instrument and gave vent upon it to the feelings of the moment. Suzaku
was deeply moved at hearing the familiar tones of Uda no Hōshi.[81]
Turning to the Emperor he recited the verse: ‘Though, watcher of the
woods, through many rainy autumns I have passed, such tints as these
it never was my lot in any devious valley to behold.’ He said this in
his usual tone of gentle complaint. The Emperor answered: ‘You speak
as though mere leaves were on the ground; here rather has autumn woven
a brocade that, could it be an heirloom, after-ages would covet to
possess.’
Now that he was grown to full manhood the Emperor’s likeness to Genji
was astonishingly complete. Equally striking was his resemblance to
Yūgiri. The latter of course had not that complete self-possession
and authority of manner which His Majesty had naturally acquired
during his years of rule; but Yūgiri had distinctly the better
complexion. He was now called upon to play the flute; among the
courtiers who, drawn up along the steps, were singing the words of the
tune was Tō no Chūjō’s son Kōbai, long famous for the beauty of his
voice. It was indeed a memorable occasion, and one which it seemed that
some special Providence must have contrived.
[58] Tō no Chūjō. Reference to a passage in the _Ise Monogatari_.
[59] Princess Omiya.
[60] The mausoleum of the Fujiwara family.
[61] Purple, a presage of high rank.
[62] Confucius.
[63] ‘If like the leaf of the wistaria through which the sun darts his
rays transparently you give your heart to me, I will no more mistrust
you.’
[64] The usual pun: _matsu_ = ‘pine-tree,’ and ‘wait.’
[65] ‘About that broken place in the reed-hedge, in the front hedge,
some one has told my mother. I think it was that chatterbox my younger
brother’s wife. For she saw you climbing over, and she it must have
been who told.’
[66] From another old song.
[67] 8th day of the fourth month. Images of the Infant Buddha (four
inches high, with right hand raised towards the sky) are carried in
procession and sprinkled with water. The festival commemorates the
occasion when the Rain Dragons sprinkled the head of the Infant Buddha.
[70] The place at the Kamo Shrine where the Goddess Tamayorihime gave
birth to Wake-ikazuchi, the Thunder God. It is this event which the
Kamo Festival commemorates.
[71] Fourth month.
[72] Each of the Palace departments was officially represented at the
Kamo Festival.
[73] Genji’s palace.
[74] Wreath of hollyhock, _ao-hi_; also means ‘Day of meeting.’
[75] _Katsu_, once; _katsura_, ‘laurel’, also used for festival wreaths.
[76] He speaks of himself as though he were an old man.
[77] 9 a.m.
[78] Of the Imperial Dais.
[79] ‘Thanking for the Prince’s Favour,’ a Chinese dance.
[80] A form of obeisance so elaborate as to be almost a dance.
[81] Name of a famous Japanese zithern.