CHAPTER VI

WAKANA

(‘Young Shoots’)

PART I

For years past the ex-Emperor Suzaku had been ailing, though it was

hard to say exactly what was wrong with him. Soon after his visit to

Genji’s palace he became much worse, and began preparing himself for

admission to the priesthood. He would indeed long ago have entered a

monastery, had not his mother Lady Kōkiden, masterful as ever in her

extreme old age, obstinately opposed such a step. But now she was dead,

and the only remaining difficulty was the question of his family.

Oborozuki remained childless; but Lady Jōkyōden had borne him four

children: one boy (the present Heir Apparent) and three girls. But

he had another daughter, born to him by a certain Princess Wistaria,

a younger sister of Lady Fujitsubo. Suzaku was extremely fond of

this princess, and their daughter, Princess Nyosan, was undoubtedly

his favourite child. But under the influence of Kōkiden, who had

subsequently thrust Oborozuki upon him, he kept Nyosan’s mother very

much in the background. After his abdication her life became more than

ever dull and purposeless. In a short while she pined away and died.

Nyosan was, at the point we have reached in our story, about thirteen

years old. Already the retreat that Suzaku had built for himself on

the Western Hills was nearing completion; soon he would be immured for

ever, and his one anxiety was to get this child started in life before

he disappeared. The first consideration was her Initiation, which

could not any longer be delayed. When Suzaku gave his children toys, it

was always Nyosan who had the first choice, the others never getting

the smallest trinket unless she had first refused it. You may imagine

then with what care he now ransacked his treasury for rare and costly

objects that might add splendour to the coming celebration.

Hearing that Suzaku was on the point of departure from the City,

his son the Heir Apparent, accompanied by Lady Jōkyōden, came to

pay him a farewell visit. Suzaku had never cared much for this Lady

Jōkyōden, who had indeed been imposed upon him solely out of political

considerations; but as mother of the future sovereign she was a person

of great consequence at Court, and there were now many matters that

he was glad to talk over with her. Having discussed his son’s future,

about which he felt no forebodings, he said to his visitors: ‘It is

the girls that I am worried about. I cannot imagine what will become

of them. I have so often seen this sort of thing happen before. It is

torture to foresee in every detail how they will be taken advantage of

and insulted. When I say “they,” of course all this does not really

apply to your children, you will no doubt see to it that they get

properly settled. It is about Nyosan that I am chiefly troubled. I wish

you would undertake to look after her....’ But this was asking a good

deal. Nyosan’s mother, for whom the Emperor cared far more than for

Jōkyōden, had behaved very disagreeably to her when their rivalry was

at its height, and though Jōkyōden had no intention of avenging herself

upon a defenceless orphan, she saw no reason why she of all people

should be expected to assume responsibility in the matter.

Day and night Suzaku brooded over the future of this favourite child.

Meanwhile his weakness steadily increased and by the end of

the year he was no longer able to leave his bed. To visitor after

visitor he poured out the same tale of perplexity, and received much

sympathy, though nothing in the way of practical suggestions. Genji

sent frequently to enquire and even promised to come in person, but

ultimately sent his son Yūgiri instead. ‘I am afraid your father has

a grudge against me,’ said Suzaku. ‘I have myself always regarded him

with the utmost affection; but at one time the powers arrayed against

him were very strong, and I allowed certain measures to be taken....

People are always coming here and warning me to be on my guard....

“Some day he will find a way of getting even with you,” they say. “Many

a man has waited far longer than this to settle an old score,” and

so on. But I am bound to say nothing comes of it. I cannot remember

a single occasion on which Genji has shown me the slightest trace of

ill-will. It is of course to him that I should most naturally turn for

help in my present difficulties. But I know how trying people are when

they talk about their own children; and so I have ended by discussing

the matter with all and sundry, rather than with Genji, whose sympathy

I was particularly anxious not to lose. But my visit to his palace this

autumn made me feel how unfortunate it is that I see him so seldom. I

wish you could persuade him to come here one day....’ ‘I am sure he

would be delighted to come,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘Of course I know nothing

of what happened between you in the past. But lately he has frequently

discussed political affairs with me, and I have never heard him mention

you in a way to suggest that he bears you ill-will for what happened in

the past....’ While Yūgiri spoke, a new idea entered the ex-Emperor’s

head. How would it be to confide to this competent and agreeable young

man the care of the daughter whose future was causing him so much

anxiety? ‘I hear you have now got a house of your own,’ he said to

Yūgiri. ‘I have known for a long time past of your difficulties over

this matter and was extremely sorry for you. However, now your troubles

have all ended in a manner completely satisfactory to you, I suppose.

But what I feel about it is that really, after all that happened, Tō no

Chūjō hardly deserves you as his son-in-law. Indeed, I must confess, in

that respect I feel somewhat jealous of him....’ For a moment Yūgiri

was mystified; but then he remembered having heard that Suzaku was in

a great state about one of his daughters.... However, he was shy of

letting it be seen that he understood this hint, and only answered: ‘I

am sure you need not be jealous of anything that concerns me. As you

know well enough, I am a very insignificant person....’

That was the end of the conversation. Some of the gentlewomen who had

caught a glimpse of Yūgiri as he passed were loud in their admiration

of his costume and person. But an older lady-in-waiting croaked out

indignantly: ‘Nothing to what his father was at that age! You don’t

see such men nowadays. He really _was_ a handsome young gentleman.’

‘She is quite right,’ said Suzaku, overhearing this outburst. ‘There

will never be any one like Genji. He has aged, of course; but I think

that the extraordinary vividness and radiance of his expression—the

quality which in his infancy won for him the name of Hikaru[82]—has if

anything increased as time goes by. His face when in repose has now a

nobility and dignity that in his younger and more irresponsible days

were lacking; but I still think that he is never so attractive as when

laughing and talking sheer nonsense. Then he is the real Genji whose

like has never been seen in the world before.’

One day when the little princess had been brought to his bedside,

seeing her so childlike and helpless, the ex-Emperor exclaimed:

‘What I should really like would be for some one to take a fancy to

her and bring her up privately, with a view to making her his wife

later on. Then I should feel that both her education and her subsequent

career were safely provided for....’ He called the head nurse to

him, and having discussed one or two matters connected with Nyosan’s

Initiation, he said to her presently: ‘You have probably heard the

story of Lady Murasaki’s upbringing. I wish I could find some one

who would adopt my little girl in that fashion. Outside the Imperial

Family it is difficult to think of any one suitable; and in the Palace,

Akikonomu has everything so much her own way that the other ladies

of the Household come off very badly. If Nyosan had strong backing

at Court, I might risk it; but as things are ... I wish, by the way,

I had thought of approaching this young Yūgiri while he was still

available. I feel certain that he has a great future before him.’ ‘You

would have had to think of this a very long time ago if you wished

to secure Prince Yūgiri,’ the nurse assured him. ‘For years past he

has been waiting for this daughter of Tō no Chūjō, and I do not think

you would have found it an easy matter to interest him in any other

proposal. Genji himself is far more promising. Of one thing you may be

quite certain: if he once took a fancy to our young lady he would never

abandon her. Why, I hear that despite all his other preoccupations he

still goes on visiting Princess Asagao and all those other ladies about

whom we used to hear so much in early days.’ ‘Come,’ said Suzaku, ‘the

fact that so many youthful affairs are still in his hands does not

particularly recommend him for our present purpose....’ But the idea

stuck in his head. Although Nyosan would in Genji’s household grow up

as one among many, she would at least enjoy the advantage of having

come there as a child, an orphan whose interests Genji was pledged to

defend. ‘If any one were looking for a place where a young girl

could be sent to pick up a little knowledge of the world, I cannot

imagine anywhere better than Genji’s palace. I only wish that I could

spend the little that remains to me of life in surroundings half so

pleasant and entertaining! Were I a girl I should certainly have fallen

in love with Genji. Indeed, when I was young I did feel something

of the kind; and I entirely understand how it is that he carries

everything before him....’ Suzaku paused. Perhaps he was thinking of

his own failure with Oborozuki.[83]

The longer Suzaku reflected, the more difficult did it appear to

find any one more promising than Genji. There was certainly no one

else who could do more for her if he chose. And as for the other

ladies in Genji’s household—their presence would not necessarily be

a disadvantage; Genji could easily prevent that, if he was by way of

taking any trouble about her at all. A man living in retirement with

plenty of time on his hands, of rare charm, settled habits—what more

could be asked? One or two other names did, however, cross his mind.

There was Prince Sochi. No one could say she was marrying beneath her,

for he too was the child of an Emperor, and there was indeed in that

way nothing to choose between them. But Suzaku regarded him as weak,

frivolous, irresponsible; and there were stories.... No; certainly he

would not do.

His mind roamed from possibility to possibility. For a moment he even

considered Tō Dainagon, the Superintendent of his household, who would

himself never have dreamed of applying for the Princess’s hand, but

had offered ‘to look after her affairs,’ in the event of her being

left an orphan. And admirably he would do it; Suzaku felt sure, for

this gentleman was a model of painstaking devotion. But he was, after

all, a mere junior official, without influence or distinction of

any kind. Things had indeed come to a pretty pass if for an Emperor’s

daughter no better match than this could be found! His thoughts again

took a more ambitious turn. Oborozuki told him that her sister’s son

Kashiwagi was secretly anxious to form a connection with the Imperial

House. Perhaps it was this ambition that kept him still unmarried, and

though many people would have laughed at such aspirations, Suzaku was

by no means ready to condemn them. They showed at least that Kashiwagi

had definite aims in life, and this fact alone sufficed to mark him out

from among the ordinary run of easy-going young courtiers who lived

solely for the pleasures of the moment.

As a scholar his talents were respectable, and in the natural course

of things he would one day be at the head of the Government.... A

brilliant match for any other woman; but when it came to imagining him

as Nyosan’s husband, Kashiwagi (as indeed every one else of whom Suzaku

thought) seemed somehow hopelessly inadequate. Indeed, he worried a

thousand times more over Nyosan, who had already received numerous

flattering offers, than over the other sisters who could scarcely

muster one wretched suitor apiece.

The ex-Emperor might never have reached a decision at all, had not the

Crown Prince taken a very firm line on the subject. The young man did

not of course openly venture to advise his father on such a point; but

it came round to Suzaku that his son was in the strongest possible way

opposed to Nyosan’s marrying a commoner.[84] The matter was one that

did not merely concern her happiness, but would create a precedent and

thus affect the stability of the Imperial Family.

The only course the Crown Prince favoured was one that had already

occurred to Suzaku: Genji must be persuaded to take charge of the girl.

At last Suzaku allowed his mind to be made up for him, and employed

Sachūben,[85] the brother of Nyosan’s head nurse, to obtain Genji’s

views on the matter. Genji had of course for some while past known that

the question of Nyosan’s future was tormenting the ex-Emperor, and was

anxious to assist him. ‘But there can be no suggestion of my adopting

the child,’ he said. ‘The ex-Emperor is, I fear, failing rapidly, and

no doubt in the ordinary course of things I shall survive him by a

certain number of years. In that case I shall be glad to do what I

can in a general way to help all his children. But I cannot accept

a special responsibility for any particular child.... As for taking

her as a concubine, considering the difference of age between us, the

question is too absurd to discuss. However, there is no necessity for

so strange a choice. Yūgiri, for example, has not got far at present;

but he has a brilliant future before him.... However, I quite see the

difficulty there. Yūgiri is a faithful fellow, and perhaps at present

he would be unwilling. No doubt Suzaku is right not to suggest it.’

Not to be put off by this first refusal, Sachūben now gave so harrowing

a picture of the effect such a reply would have upon the ex-Emperor’s

already precarious condition that Genji could not help smiling: ‘I know

that he is ill and she is his favourite child,’ he said. ‘But that

surely does not give him the right to impose her willy-nilly on any one

he pleases. Am I to have no say in the matter at all? But for my part

I do not see wherein lies his difficulty. Why not simply send her to

the Palace? She would have competitors, of course; but the last arrival

does not always do worst. His own mother’s[86] career was a case in

point. While my father was Crown Prince, and during the early part

of his reign, Kōkiden carried all before her; but later on she was

completely superseded by Lady Fujitsubo. Lady Wistaria, Nyosan’s

mother, was a sister of Fujitsubo. I hear the child is exceedingly

good-looking, rather in Fujitsubo’s style, they say; though of course

to a far less remarkable degree.... Why should not the same thing

happen again? With birth and good looks both on her side it would be

strange indeed if she did not make her way....’

But even while giving this advice he felt a certain curiosity to see

the child for himself.

Three days after Nyosan’s Initiation the ex-Emperor received the

tonsure. However commonplace, however uneventful a man’s life has

been, this final ceremony is always painful to witness. But here was

one, who had formerly stood upon the highest pinnacle of glory, ready

now to obliterate at a stroke all that remained to him of comeliness

and youth. A murmur of horror ran through the ranks of his gentlemen

and attendants as the priests began to set about their fatal work.

Oborozuki was at his side, and unable to bear the sight of her woe,

Suzaku said: ‘I always thought the hardest thing would be parting with

my children; but they, fortunately, seem cheerful enough on their

side—which is a great help to me. Whereas you, with your tearful

faces....’

Though he was not fit to be out of bed, they had carried him to a

chair, where despite great weakness and discomfort he remained till the

Abbot of Hiyeizan, attended by three senior priests, had administered

to him the rules of the Tendai Sect, arrayed him in the habit of their

order and performed such other rites as mark a final severance from the

world. During these proceedings even the officiating priests could not

restrain their tears, and such a storm of sobbing broke out among the

princesses, consorts and miscellaneous gentlewomen who thronged

the room, that Suzaku devoutly wished he were already safely installed

in his mountain retreat. It now seemed unlikely, however, that he would

ever be able to perform the journey. And if he had thus irrevocably

deprived himself of the quiet monastic days with which he had always

hoped to close his life, it was (as he now confessed to himself) solely

his perpetual worrying about Nyosan’s future that had kept him in the

Capital till too late.

After the ceremony he received numerous visitors, including the

reigning Emperor. As the result of all this excitement Suzaku rallied

slightly, and hearing of this Genji went to pay his long promised

visit. He was received quite informally and accommodated in the seat

commonly used by Suzaku when in health, a few extra hangings and

ornaments having been added to smarten it. For a moment it was a great

shock to Genji to see the companion of his youth arrayed in this solemn

and penitential garb. Controlling himself by an effort, he said at

last: ‘Ever since my father’s death, which for the first time impressed

me strongly with the shortness and futility of human existence, I have

been making plans to compass what you have now successfully achieved. I

wish I had your strength of mind. The sight of you in those robes makes

me feel thoroughly disgusted with my own continual procrastination. If

you, who have known what it is to be lord of all the land, can bring

yourself to take this step, there is certainly no reason why a humble

person like myself should shrink from it. But every time I think that

the last obstacle has been removed, some fresh difficulty crops up....’

They talked much of old times, and finally Suzaku said: ‘You have no

need to apologize in my presence for your slowness in breaking with

the world. I myself have delayed from day till day, until it looks

as though the better part of my plan will never be fulfilled.

But though I doubt whether I shall ever reach my retreat among the

Western Hills, I hope I may live long enough to get through a few quiet

prayers here in my own house. What now bothers me is that I have not

been nearly so strict in my observances as I might have been, though

all the while my thoughts were certainly turned to holy things, for it

was only in the hope of spending a few last years in a sacred place

that I struggled on against all this illness and pain....’ Having

mentioned several small matters concerning which Genji could be useful

to him, Suzaku continued: ‘You have heard no doubt that I am very much

exercised in mind over the future of my daughters. There is one in

particular I should feel profoundly thankful to leave in the charge

of some responsible person who would really give proper attention to

her....’

‘Surely he is not going to start that business all over again?’ thought

Genji in alarm. Yet in a way he was not sorry to return to the subject,

for he had a certain secret curiosity concerning this little princess.

‘I quite understand,’ he said, ‘that a girl of Nyosan’s rank needs, far

more than any one of ordinary birth, to be provided from the outset

with a settled home. But failing this, she will surely come to very

little harm with her brother the Crown Prince to keep an eye upon her.

He is a young man of remarkable abilities, and the whole country looks

up to him with confidence and respect. He would in any case consider it

his duty to take so near a relative under his especial protection; and

if you mention the matter to him in advance, still less will you have

any need to worry about her future. Later on your son will of course

succeed to the Throne, and if to provide for a woman’s happiness were

as easy as to make new laws, Nyosan would indeed be assured of perfect

felicity. But I admit that in the last resort there is very little

that even an Emperor can do for women, save to admit them to his

household, which in this case does not come into question. So if you

want here and now to make a permanent provision for her whole future,

you must arrange with some one to adopt her after your death, and

either marry her himself or promise to effect her marriage with some

one previously selected by you. Then you surely need not fear that any

misgivings will disturb you in the life beyond the grave....’ ‘What is

the use of telling me this?’ Suzaku asked. ‘Naturally I have thought

of it all long ago. But it is not so easy as you make out. It is a

difficult matter even for a reigning Emperor to find suitable alliances

for several daughters. And for me, who have not only long ago resigned

the Throne, but am on the verge of retiring to a monastery (if indeed

I do not die before I succeed in getting there), the whole business is

so perplexing that I verily believe half my illness is due to worrying

about it.... I cannot afford to let another day go by without getting

this thing settled.... I know it is asking a great deal of you, but do,

I beseech you, consent to taking this one daughter of mine under your

protection. As to finding her a husband, I will leave that to you. I am

sure your choice would be all that I could desire. Were Yūgiri still

available, his is the name I should suggest. But unfortunately Tō no

Chūjō has anticipated me....’

‘Yūgiri,’ replied Genji, ‘has a great deal of steady-going good sense,

and I think he would have made her an excellent husband. But he has

had very little experience, and I doubt whether in any case I could

recommend him as sole protector to a girl in Nyosan’s position. As

regards myself, I think it is quite true that if she is left an orphan

she would under my care suffer the smallest possible inconvenience from

the change in her position. Well, if I have hesitated to say “yes,” it

is only because it is likely enough, after all, that I shall not long

survive you.’

It was unbelievable. Genji had consented; and apparently in the

most whole-hearted way, for it was henceforward assumed on both sides

that he would in due course marry[87] Nyosan himself.

Murasaki had already heard some rumour of Suzaku’s intention. Her

first feeling was one of alarm. But then she reminded herself of all

the groundless and unnecessary misery she had suffered on finding

that Genji was still visiting Princess Asagao. So determined was she

not to attach undue importance to the affair that on his return she

refrained even from asking him whether the subject had been discussed.

He meanwhile naturally assumed that she knew nothing about the matter,

and was wondering what line she would take. If there were to be

difficulties, they could only last for a very short time. Murasaki

would soon realize that the presence of this girl in the house, even

as his wife, would make no difference whatever to her own position.

But he knew that promises and assurances on his side would be of no

avail. Time alone would convince Murasaki that nothing could change

his feelings towards her; meanwhile, it was possible that a rather

troublesome period was ahead. It was now so long since the slightest

difficulty or suspicion had arisen between them that the idea of saying

anything likely to upset her or interfere even for a few moments

with the habitual tenderness of the hours they spent alone together

was extremely painful to him. That night at any rate, he thought,

matters might be left as they were, and he made no reference to his

conversation with Suzaku.

Next day the weather was wretched, and while storms of snow swept a

sullen sky he sat with Murasaki, laying plans for the future, and

recalling many episodes of their common past.

‘I thought I had better go and see the ex-Emperor before it was too

late,’ said Genji at last. ‘It was in many ways a painful meeting. He

seems unable to think about anything but who is going to look after

this daughter of his, little Princess Nyosan. He at once attacked me

on the subject, and considering the pitiable state he was now in, I

felt it was impossible to refuse.... I know that tiresome stories will

be put about, I cannot help that.... As a matter of fact he made a

similar proposal to me some time ago, but indirectly, through a servant

of mine. On that occasion I refused unhesitatingly, for I did not at

all like the idea of taking on fresh responsibilities at my age. But

when, during my visit, he returned (as I had thought it impossible

he should do) to the same subject, and besought me passionately not

to persist in my refusal, I could not help feeling that it would be

inhuman to hold out.... She will not in any case come here until Suzaku

moves into his mountain retreat. I can quite understand that you would

rather I had not consented. But please believe me that, at the worst,

nothing can happen which will make the slightest difference to you.

Try to enter into Suzaku’s feelings. I am sure that if you do so, you

will be glad that I am helping him in this way. With a little tact and

forbearance on both sides, I do not see why there should be any great

difficulty....’

He had only to tease her a little—pretend jokingly to admire some quite

absurd and impossible individual, and instantly Murasaki would fall

into a panic, certain that here was the beginning of a final disastrous

episode. Yet now, for some reason, she felt that at all costs he must

not see what was passing through her mind, and she answered quietly:

‘Poor Suzaku! I do not see how under such circumstances you could

possibly have refused. Nor should I dream of raising any objection on

my own account. Indeed, I shall be very unhappy if I do not quickly

succeed in convincing her that, as far as I am concerned, she is doubly

welcome here. For not only am I touched by her father’s plight, but

I also recollect a fact of which she no doubt is fully aware, though

you have not mentioned it: her mother, Lady Wistaria, was my father’s

sister. I should be thought churlish indeed if I did not make a cousin

feel at home in my house....’

He knew her too well not to guess that, behind this tone of complete

reasonableness and accord, there might easily be hidden quite other

thoughts and feelings. But if this did indeed, quite contrary to what

he had expected, turn out to be her real attitude, if she managed both

to make the little princess feel at her ease, and at the same time to

be happy herself, then he would have more reason than ever to prize

her as the greatest treasure that life had yielded to him. ‘There are

sure to be all sorts of absurd rumours ...’ he said. ‘Do not pay any

attention to them. Remember that, as regards matters of this kind, the

most circumstantial accounts frequently lack the slightest foundation

in fact. It is best to observe for oneself, and not let outside stories

affect one’s judgment. So whatever you may hear, wait till your own

experience confirms it before you decide that I am not treating you as

I should....’

After all, she thought to herself afterwards, the care of this girl

was a duty that he could not possibly have avoided. It had fallen upon

him as it were from the sky, and to be cross with him for accepting

it would be ridiculous. If Nyosan had been some girl that he had

taken a fancy to or gone out of his way to befriend, the case would

have been different. But it was perfectly true that this step had

been imposed upon him; and Murasaki was determined to show the

world that she was not going to lose her head. But she knew that once

people take a dislike to one, it does not make much difference how one

behaves.... For example, her stepmother had even held her responsible

for Makibashira’s fall; it was Murasaki’s jealousy (so this woman

asserted) that had forced Genji to plant Tamakatsura in Higekuro’s way!

No doubt her tortuous imagination would not fail to supply equally

complicated slanders in the present case. For though generous and

long-suffering, Murasaki was capable of making judgments that were by

no means devoid of sharpness. And now, though as yet all was well,

there came back to her again and again the thought that perhaps the

dreaded turning-point had come. His confidence, his devotion, the whole

sovereignty in his affections that had been so long her pride, would

begin to slip away from her....

But during all this time there was nothing in her behaviour which could

have suggested to her companions that any such fears were passing

through her mind.

So the year drew to a close. Suzaku was still lying bedridden in the

Capital, but he had now made up his mind that Nyosan was to move into

the New Palace at once. Not only were the various aspirants to her hand

much put out at hearing that Genji was to take possession of her, but

the Emperor himself, who had counted on being given a chance of adding

her to his establishment, was distinctly disappointed. However, he

did not think it worth while disputing the matter, and decided to let

things take their course. This year, as has already been said, Genji

was to celebrate his fortieth birthday, and resolutions were passed by

the Government concerning the festivities that were to mark this event.

The prospect was a formidable one for Genji, who had always disliked

pompous anniversaries and commemorations. The whole country seemed

bent upon devising elaborate and costly methods of disturbing his

peace, all of which he discouraged firmly.

But there was one small attention which he had no chance of

forestalling. On the third day of the first month, being a day of

the Rat, Tamakatsura determined to take upon herself the customary

presentation of spring shoots.[88] She allowed no breath of this

intention to leak out beforehand; but as wife of a State Minister she

could not appear without a considerable escort, and her arrival at

Genji’s palace made far more of a stir than she desired.

Genji’s seat was in the side-room opening out of the great Front Hall.

His dais was surrounded by newly-painted screens, and there were fresh

white canvas hangings round the walls; but the special stools, tables

and stands used in the formal celebration of a fortieth birthday had

all been dispensed with. The forty little mats laid out around him,

his cushions and seat—indeed all the details of his installation were

very daintily chosen. The four boxes containing the customary presents

of clothing were displayed upon two stands of mother-of-pearl inlaid

with enamel. These clothes (complete outfits for both winter and

summer), together with the incense jars, medicine boxes, inkstand,

hairwashing appliances, comb boxes and such things were all of the

finest. The mirror-stand was of cedar-wood, and the mirror itself,

though no other substance was inlaid in the metal nor was any sort

of colouring applied to it, was grained on the back with a delicate

leaf-pattern. All these arrangements had been devised by Tamakatsura

herself, who had a particular gift for the happy ordering of such small

elegancies. The whole affair was very quiet and informal. Tamakatsura

had audience with him before he took his place on the birthday throne.

It was a long while since they had met, and, in the mind of each,

recollections of a curious, possibly even of an embarrassing kind

must have arisen. He seemed to her very young to be celebrating such

an anniversary, and looking at him she found herself wondering for a

moment whether there had not been some mistake! Could this be the head

of a household, the founder of a family? It was very difficult after

all these months of separation to know what tone to take up or even

what to talk about. But soon she found herself carrying on very much

the same sort of conversation as in the old days. She had brought with

her her two little boys.[89] Genji had often asked to see them, but

hitherto she had refused, and on this occasion it was only in obedience

to her husband’s absolute command that she had brought them to the New

Palace. They were handsome little fellows, both dressed exactly alike

in miniature Court cloaks and breeches, with their hair parted in the

middle and done up in a loop on either side. Speaking of growing old,

he said to her: ‘Please do not think that I do it on purpose. I should

have been perfectly content to remain just as I was; and indeed I could

keep up the pretence fairly well, did not such creatures as these, whom

I now see springing up on every side, convict me of being, in age at

any rate, a grandfather. Perhaps indeed I really am one; for I hear

very little of Yūgiri nowadays, and am not at all sure he would think

it worth while to tell me. However, I had quite made up my mind to go

on being young for a little while longer, when you of all people come

to warn me that I have overstepped the fatal mark....’

She too had outwardly suffered very little from the passage of the

years, though she seemed less diffident and retiring.

At the Presentation of the Spring Shoots, which followed a few

minutes later, she recited with great dignity and composure the

congratulatory poem:

‘With these new shoots fetched from the green hillside, young

pine-boughs have I brought to crown your fortunes with eternal Spring.’

The young shoots were presented for his inspection on four trays of

sandal-wood. Taking the great wine flagon in his hand, he recited the

answer: ‘Though loth to pile the years about my head, not lightly shall

I quit the field where Spring by Spring these pines spread wider shade.’

A number of visitors were assembled in the southern side-room. Prince

Hyōbukyō had made up his mind to stay away; but his absence being

noted, a special messenger was sent to summon him. Being nearly

related to so many of those who were concerned in to-day’s ceremony,

he could not, without marked discourtesy, have persisted in his

refusal, and towards noon he at last arrived. The spectacle of his

son-in-law Higekuro flaunting his new bride in the face of the company

was more than he could have been expected to bear with equanimity.

But Makibashira’s two children were there, and for their sakes he

did his best to be friendly, taking a hand, whenever he was wanted,

in the small arrangements of the ensuing ceremony. The presents, in

forty baskets and forty boxes, were offered by a band of noblemen

and courtiers, led by Yūgiri. The great flagon went round, and Genji

tasted the broth that had been brewed with Tamakatsura’s offering. The

August Cup and other utensils were daintily laid out on four low tables

of sandal-wood. The ex-Emperor was still thought to be in danger,

and consequently no professional musicians were employed. But the

flute-music was in charge of Tō no Chūjō, who was determined that an

occasion of such importance should not be marred by lack of music, and

had drawn up an excellent programme. As for other instruments, he

saw to it that the rarest and oldest of every kind should be produced,

setting the example himself by bringing out a Japanese zithern that

had for centuries been one of the most treasured possessions in his

family. He, the greatest performer of the time, played on it himself,

with delightful but somewhat embarrassing effect. For every one else

suddenly became shy, and when Genji asked Kashiwagi to play something,

the young man for a long while refused. But at last he overcame his

reluctance, which was a good thing, for his performance was by no

means inferior to that of his father. Every one was both pleased and

surprised; for such talent is very rarely inherited. And here must

be noted a point that is often overlooked: it is far easier to learn

ancient Chinese tunes, though every note has to be played exactly as

it is handed down, than to improvise upon the Japanese zithern, where

one has complete freedom, save for the necessity of giving scope to the

accompanying players. It was just in this way that Kashiwagi excelled.

He was now playing in concert with a full orchestra; but managed in the

most astonishing way to keep in touch with all the other instruments.

Tō no Chūjō had, in his solo, played with his zithern tuned very

low, so that the strings vibrated with a dull, rumbling sound. But

Kashiwagi’s was tuned to the ordinary high pitch, and this (by

contrast) gave to his playing a quality of lightness and gaiety. Never

had the company heard him in such good form.

About the middle of the second month Nyosan moved into the New Palace.

Great preparations were made for her reception; the room where the

Presentation of Young Shoots had taken place was set apart for her own

use, while several rooms in the neighbouring wing and galleries were

made ready for her attendants, after a great sweeping and scrubbing.

She brought her own furniture with her, just as is done by a

new arrival at the Emperor’s Palace. Her coming took on the aspect

of a great public ceremony, being attended by the whole Court. Genji

(though, his rank being equal to that of a retired Emperor, he was

under no obligation to do so) went out to assist her in alighting from

her coach.

The exchange of compliments[90] on the third day was carried out

in the most formal manner. Murasaki had naturally not been slow to

realize—what Genji had not hitherto definitely disclosed—that Nyosan

had come as a bride. The discovery came as a cruel blow, yet even so

there was no reason to suppose that the new-comer was likely in any

sense to take Murasaki’s place. After all, this was not the first time

that she had been called upon to suffer the presence of a rival in

the house. But hitherto these rivals had been without exception her

inferiors in birth, and not much less than her equals in age; whereas

Nyosan was a person of quite as much social consequence as herself,

and, into the bargain, was just entering upon that season of sunshine

and flowers to which Murasaki was already bidding farewell.

But she did not show, or hoped she did not show, any of these feelings,

and in the preparations for Nyosan’s arrival she gave Genji all the

help she could. While side by side they were devising plans for these

new household arrangements, she seemed to enter with the greatest

interest into every detail; and looking at her fondly, Genji wondered

whether any other woman in the world would have done the same. The

little princess, though now well on in her thirteenth year, was

very small for her age, and indeed still looked a mere child. Her

conversation and behaviour also savoured solely of the nursery,

and Genji could not help remembering how lively, how full of character

and imagination little Murasaki had been when twenty years ago he had

carried her to his home. But perhaps it was a good thing that the

new-comer was, except in actual years, so very much of a child. She

would certainly be less likely to get into scrapes. But unfortunately,

Genji reflected, people who do not get into scrapes are a great deal

less interesting than those who do.

During the first three nights Murasaki saw nothing of him, and though

this was quite natural under the circumstances, she felt it deeply;

for it was now several years since they had thus been separated. Each

evening she perfumed his clothes with more than ordinary care. Never

had she seemed to him more complete, more all-sufficing than at these

moments; and watching her grave, eager face as she bent over the work,

he wondered that a dying man’s pleadings and lamentations should have

sufficed to lead him into such a course. But stay! Did not his own

restlessness, his own insatiable curiosity have something to do with

this rash consent? There was Yūgiri. Young though he was, it had been

justly assumed that it was not worth while even approaching him with

the proposal to which Genji had so readily consented. ‘Just once more,’

he said on the third night. ‘After this I shall not have to desert you

again; or, if I ever do so, you may be certain it will not be at my own

desire. I must not give Suzaku the impression....’

His predicament seemed to her a strange and rather absurd one. ‘If it

is Suzaku and not yourself whom you are trying to please,’ she said,

smiling, ‘I am sure you can judge better than I can what will suffice

to keep him happy.’

In the end it was at Murasaki’s persuasion that, far later than he had

intended, he made his way to Nyosan’s room. But it was with aching

heart that she watched him cross the threshold, clad in the soft, fine

cloak that she had scented with her own hands.

If all this had happened a few years ago, at the time when she lived

constantly on the watch for the first signs of some such trouble, she

would have been better able to meet it. But lately she had grown used

to life running in an even tenour that seemed incapable of change,

and even if it had been a mere matter of rumour or suspicion, her

sense of security would have received a rude shock. As it was, she

knew that henceforward, come what might, she would not have many easy

moments; but of this she did not breathe a word to any one. Not so her

gentlewomen, among whom there was to-night a great deal of indignant

nudging and whispering: ‘Who would have thought we should ever live to

see such a day!’ ‘Well, this isn’t the first time he’s taken a fancy to

some one....’ ‘Of course not; but none of the others was anything to

worry about, so far as I ever heard. I don’t mean that even now there

is any real danger. But small difficulties are bound to crop up now

and again. It is not going to be any too pleasant a time for most of

us....’ Murasaki affected to be unconscious of these dialogues, and sat

talking, spiritedly enough, till a late hour in the night. Anxious that

her women should have no excuse for spreading in the world at large the

impression that she was taking up a hostile line towards Nyosan, she

said at last: ‘I am so glad that this young princess has come to live

with us. For though we are already so large a household, His Highness

badly needs new society. I think he will get on very well with her, and

she will make a fresh interest in his life. I too shall be delighted

to have her here, for since the Akashi Princess went away there has

been no one for me to play games with, and oddly enough I still enjoy

them just as much as when I was a child. It is too bad that people

are saying I am opposed to her living here. Nothing could be further

from the truth. Perhaps if His Highness were to take some one of my

own rank, or some one whom I regarded as very inferior, too much into

his confidence, I might for a time feel a little bit jealous. But as

it is, I am glad that he should have found any way of assisting this

unfortunate creature....’

With such sentiments as these it was hard for Nakatsukasa and Chūjō

no Kimi to keep patience, and they exchanged glances which clearly

meant: ‘Sympathy can be carried too far!’ Formerly they had both been

in Genji’s personal service; but for a long while past they had waited

upon Murasaki, and were both devotedly attached to her.

Meanwhile speculation was rife among the other ladies of the household

as to how this new development would affect Murasaki’s position; and

for the first time they felt a certain satisfaction in their own poor

estate, which, humdrum though it was, could never land them in one

of these humiliating predicaments.... To each of them separately it

occurred that it would be kind to call upon Murasaki, and they arrived

in rapid succession, thus bringing home to her in the most painful

fashion the fact that she had become an object of sympathy.

Again and again Murasaki told herself that life was very short. Soon

this and all else would be over; what sense could there be in minding

things so much? But when night came she felt she could not rest, and

it was only to avoid the comments of those about her that at last she

crept under the bedclothes. And though such nights as the one I am

describing had become common enough since Nyosan’s arrival, Murasaki

still felt awkward and lopsided as she tried to arrange herself in bed.

This reminded her of the days when he was at Suma. She found herself,

strangely enough, wishing that he were now equally far away.

Simply to know that he was alive—that was all she asked; and she

afflicted herself afresh by imagining him at the ends of the earth,

while she remained alone in the Capital. To vary this, she imagined her

own death, rapidly followed by his. Here she checked herself. A pretty

pass things had come to when she had to conjure up such visions in

order to allay the torment of reality!

A dismal wind was howling. She tried in vain to sleep, lying dead

still, that the gentlewomen who were near her might think she was

asleep despite the storm; and she was lying thus when a dreary

cock-crow seemed to tell that the night was past. But opening her eyes

she saw that it was still dark.

She had not all this while thought of Genji with any rancour or

hostility, but her distress was vivid enough to find a way into his

dreams, and it was after a terrifying vision of her that he woke up

with a start and hearing the cock crow told Nyosan he must be gone,

for it had been agreed that he should leave at daybreak, and now, in

his anxiety to discover whether Murasaki was in some special need of

him, he affected not to notice that, despite the crowing of the cock,

it was still black night. Nyosan was still so young that she liked

to have her nurses sleeping close at hand, and when Genji opened the

passage-door, they sat up and craned their necks after him. In the

east a faint semblance of light was beginning to show, dimly reflected

by the snow that lay on the path. The perfume of his dress lingered

where he had passed, and one of the nurses whispered, ‘Though black the

night....’[91]

The snow only remained in patches here and there, but the sand of the

garden-paths was very white, and often he was in doubt whether he was

going to tread on sand or snow. While he knocked at the outer door

of Murasaki’s room, he murmured to himself those lines of Po Chū-i:

In broken places of the Castle wall snow is still left;

Down streets unwoken by the morning drum no foot has yet stirred.

It was a long time before there was any answer to his summons, for

her people were quite unused to answering the door at such an hour,

and when at last they undid the bolts, he grumbled: ‘You have kept me

standing here till I am half frozen. A poor reward for hurrying home so

early! I wish now that I had not bestirred myself....’

He came to Murasaki’s bedside and pulled back the coverlet. As he

did so, with a quick movement she hid the sleeve of her dress, that

was still wet with the tears she had shed during the night. He began

treating her as though nothing were amiss, speaking with the utmost

tenderness and affection. But coax and pet as he might, she remained

serious and preoccupied, turning from him sorrowfully as though she

felt he had no right to have come. He sat watching her, full of

admiration and delight. Certainly it was not in search of beauty that

he had need to go abroad at night! He spent all day with her, recalling

a thousand tender passages in their past life together, begging her

not to shut her thoughts away from him. When night came he sent a note

to Nyosan’s quarters saying that the snowy weather had upset him and

that it was thought best he should remain where he was. The nurse, who

took his message, knew very well what to make of it, and came back in a

minute or two, saying curtly: ‘I have told my Lady.’ Evidently Nyosan’s

people were not best pleased with the excuse. What if they should carry

their complaint to the ex-Emperor? This was only the fourth night after

the marriage. Perhaps after all it was rather soon to begin suspending

his nightly visits; he had better invent some fresh excuse and go

to Nyosan at any rate this one time more. But a moment later, looking

at Murasaki, he wondered how it could ever have occurred to him as

possible to leave her. Meanwhile she on her side felt that he had

treated Nyosan almost contemptuously, and wished that he would take the

trouble to manage things a little better....

Next morning he sent a note of apology to Nyosan’s apartments, and

though it was not to be supposed that at her age she was very critical

in such matters, he trimmed his brush with the utmost care and wrote on

exquisitely white paper: ‘No deep drift bars my path, but with their

whirling these thin, parched snowflakes have bewitched my dizzy brain.’

This he tied to a sprig of plum-blossom, and sending for one of his

servants, bade him take it not across the garden,[92] but by way of the

western gallery. The answer was long in coming, and tired of waiting

he went back to Murasaki in the inner room. He was still carrying in

his hand the rest of the plum-branch from which he had detached the

spray, and conscious that Murasaki was looking at it curiously, he

said: ‘How pleasant it would be if all flowers had so delightful a

scent as this! However, it is a good thing for the other flowers that

the cherry-blossom cannot borrow this smell. The rest would seem to us

mere weeds, and we should never give them another thought again. The

plum-flower, however, has this advantage over the others, that it comes

first. Our eyes have not yet been sated with blossom, and we accord to

this earliest comer what is perhaps an undue attention. Then, wisely,

it vanishes, before the cherry has reached its prime....’

At this moment (when he had almost given up expecting it) Nyosan’s

answer at last arrived. It was on thin crimson paper, and the extreme

ingenuity and daintiness with which it was folded made his heart beat

fast as he opened it. Alas, her writing was still quite unformed,

and he wished that it had been possible to prevent Murasaki from

seeing it some while longer. Not that the letter contained anything in

the slightest degree intimate. But considering the writer’s rank and

what would naturally be expected of her, it seemed a shame to show so

childish a production. But to conceal it from Murasaki would be sure to

lead to misunderstandings, so he let her read what she could see of it

over his shoulder as she lay beside him. The poem ran: ‘So light the

last spring snow that, should the least waft of unkindness come, those

thin flakes soon would vanish down the windy cross-roads of the sky.’

It was indeed a childish, scrawling hand, far behind what one would

have expected in a girl of Nyosan’s years; but Genji merely glanced at

it and put the letter away. If it had come from any one else he would

certainly have discussed this strangely backward letter with Murasaki

and attempted to account for its inefficiency. As it was, he merely

said with a sigh: ‘Well, well! That at any rate must prove to you that

you have small ground for anxiety.’

During the day he paid a short visit to Nyosan’s rooms. He had taken

more trouble than ever with his costume, wishing her to feel that his

failure to appear last night was not due to carelessness or disrespect.

Her younger gentlewomen were easily mollified by the magnificence of

his get-up; but the head nurses regarded last night’s non-appearance

as a very grave omen. ‘Come, come,’ they said. ‘It’s no use his

trying to mend matters by wearing his smartest clothes.’ The little

princess was certainly very pretty; but all her surroundings were so

exquisitely appointed and she herself so marvellously dressed, that

looking at her one began to wonder whether, apart from her clothes and

grand belongings, she had any existence at all. It could not be said

that she was particularly shy; but her friendliness and composure

were those of a child that barely distinguishes between friends and

strangers, rather than of a young lady to whom experience has taught

the art of self-possession. Her father Suzaku, though always somewhat

effeminate and over-sensitive, or at any rate constantly criticized on

this score by his subjects, was assuredly not lacking in feeling for

the elegancies of life, and to Genji it was incomprehensible that he

should have allowed his favourite child to grow up backward in just

those accomplishments to which he himself had always paid the greatest

attention. Genji was upset, for the girl’s deficiencies were such as

must inevitably make her an uninteresting associate for some while to

come. However, he did not take an actual dislike to her, and soon began

attempting to draw her into conversation. She agreed with everything he

said, but did not succeed in introducing any fresh topic of her own,

and not so many years ago he would have set her down as a hopeless

simpleton. But recently he had grown much more tolerant. If one was

going to dismiss people because of a single shortcoming, there would

soon be no one left. He had made up his mind henceforward to get as

much pleasure as possible out of what was interesting in the people

he met and forget about their bad points. To be bored by this girl,

for whose hand in marriage the whole Court would in a short while have

been scrambling, was really too perverse. Yet far more than at any time

before Nyosan’s arrival he now felt how unique Murasaki was. Surely his

adoption of her was the one step in his life that he would never have

cause to regret. Such time as he spent with Nyosan (whether by day or

night) he found himself grudging more and more, till he was frightened

at his own increasing inability to live more than an hour or two on end

in any but Murasaki’s company.

The Crown Prince had taken an immense fancy to his little bride from

Akashi, and never allowed her out of his sight. One day she

announced that she was tired of Court and had decided to go home for a

while to Genji’s palace. But the Crown Prince would not hear of it. She

was obliged to give way; not however without considerable resentment,

for this was the first time in her life that she had ever failed to

get her way. In the summer she was not very well, and it was agreed in

principle that she should be allowed a short leave of absence. But day

after day her departure was deferred, and she began to feel as though

her marriage had sentenced her to perpetual captivity. Presently it

became clear that there was a special reason for her indisposition. Her

attendants would indeed have reached this conclusion sooner had she not

been so very young[93]; but as soon as it was apparent that she needed

rest and care, leave of absence was granted, and she moved into the

New Palace. Her old rooms were no longer available, and she was put

into a suite that opened out of Princess Nyosan’s quarters, her mother

of course accompanying her. This was the first time that the Lady of

Akashi had inhabited the New Palace without being separated from her

child, and her delight knew no bounds.

One day when Murasaki and Genji were about to visit the Crown

Princess’s rooms, Murasaki said to him: ‘Would not this be a good

opportunity for me to make Nyosan’s acquaintance? That dividing-door

could so easily be opened.... I have for some time past been meaning

to visit her, but it has always been very difficult to arrange. This

seems the best chance that is likely to turn up....’ ‘Certainly,

nothing could be easier,’ replied Genji, ‘you have only to walk in.

It is impossible to treat her otherwise than as a child. So far from

standing on ceremony with her, I hope you will help me to correct her

faults. It is the kindest thing you can do....’ He went to Nyosan,

and in the course of conversation said to her: ‘Later on this evening

Lady Murasaki will be visiting your neighbour, the Crown Princess.

It is an excellent opportunity for you to make her acquaintance, and

I hope you will allow her to come straight through into these rooms.

Murasaki is a delightful person, and she is just as fond of games as

you are. I believe you would have great fun together.’ Nyosan looked

rather scared. ‘I should not know what to say to her....’ she answered

helplessly. ‘Oh, that would be all right,’ he hastened to assure her.

‘She would talk, and you are quite good at finding things to say if

some one helps you out by leading the way. In any case, make friends

with her. That is all I ask.’

So anxious was he for them to get on well together that he had for some

time past been positively dreading the inevitable encounter, and had

done nothing on his side to promote it. For he feared that Murasaki

would, when it came to the point, find Nyosan’s childish ways merely

tiresome and her insipid conversation exasperating. However, this time

it was Murasaki herself who had suggested the meeting, and there could

be no sense in opposing it.

Meanwhile Murasaki went to her room to get ready for the visit. Even

while she did so she assured herself that, despite all the care she

was taking in her preparations and the feeling (dictated by all the

circumstances of the visit) that she was about to pay her court to a

reigning power, Nyosan was neither her superior in this household, nor

to any considerable extent in the world at large. While waiting for

Genji to fetch her, she began doing a little writing-practice, not

composing the poems, but writing old ones that she knew by heart. She

was not feeling depressed, but only the most desolate and love-lorn

verses came into her head, and by an odd accident each seemed in some

special way to fit her own case.

Coming from the presence of younger women, such as Nyosan, Genji

always expected that Murasaki would appear to him inevitably (and he

was willing to make allowance for it) a little bit jaded, a trifle

seared and worn. Moreover, he had lived with her so long, knew her,

as he supposed, so well by heart that, even had not age touched her

charms, it would scarcely have been strange if they no longer had power

to excite him. But as a matter of fact it was just these younger women

who failed to provide any element of surprise, whereas Murasaki was

continually astounding him; as indeed she did to-night, dressed in all

the splendour that the coming visit demanded, her clothes scented with

the subtlest and most delicious perfumes, her whole person ever more

radiant this year than last year, to-day than yesterday.

Seeing him enter, she hid the papers on which she had been writing

under the inkstand; but he rescued them before she could protest. Hers

was not a hand of the sort that occurs once in a generation, and is

remembered for ever afterwards. But there was great beauty in it, and

scanning the papers he found the verse: ‘Is autumn[94] near to me as

to those leafy hills, that even while I watch them grow less green?’

Taking her brush he wrote beside her poem: ‘Look to the moat! Sooner

shall yon bird’s emerald wings grow white, than autumn bind its frosts

about my Love.’

Again and again, from small indications that she gave him

unintentionally and unawares, he saw that she was very unhappy. If he

made no allusion to this, it was not either that he failed to observe

it, or that he did not know what struggles she made to conceal her pain.

With Murasaki the Crown Princess was quite as much at home as

with her own mother, and this part of the visit naturally passed off

agreeably enough. The girl had grown very good-looking, and Murasaki,

to whom her existence had once been a reminder of unpleasant things, no

longer felt in her society anything but the most unfeigned pleasure.

After a short conversation she proceeded through the dividing door

into Nyosan’s apartments. The little princess’s childish lack of

conventional small-talk proved to be the reverse of embarrassing, for

it enabled Murasaki from the start to treat her as a young relative

who had been put into her care. It was necessary first of all to

explain the rather complicated chapter of family history which made

them cousins. Sending for Nyosan’s head nurse, she said: ‘We have

been working things out, and it certainly seems beyond doubt that

your mistress and I are connected by family ties in many directions.

I hope you do not think it rude of me to have been so long in coming.

It seemed so difficult to arrange. But your mistress and I have now

made great friends, and I hope you will not only allow me to visit you

again, but also bring her to my rooms. Please consider henceforward

that, if we do not frequently come together, the fault will lie on

your side.’ ‘Well, madam,’ replied the nurse, ‘what with her mother

dead and her father shut away in a monastery, I am sure my little lady

would have a sad time of it, were it not for kindness such as yours.

But I know quite well that her father would never have brought himself

to leave the City if he had not been certain that you would welcome us

as you have done to-day, and make it your business to watch over our

young lady with a friendly eye. For, madam, as you see, she is very

young in her ways, and not only needs your help, but is used to being

guided by those about her, and fully expects you to take her under

your wing.’ ‘The ex-Emperor’s appeal was couched in such terms,’

answered Murasaki, ‘that Prince Genji could never have dreamed of

rejecting it; and I for my part was only sorry that it lay in my power

to do so little for this poor child’s happiness.’ Then turning abruptly

from this serious conversation, to which Nyosan had herself paid very

little attention, Murasaki began talking about picture-books and

dolls with such knowledge and enthusiasm, that Nyosan at once decided

she was not so dull as most grown-up people, nor indeed like one at

all. Henceforward they met very often, or when that was impossible,

exchanged little notes concerned exclusively with the behaviour of

Nyosan’s dolls and the fortunes or reverses of her other toys.

At the first news of Nyosan’s removal to the New Palace, people had

hastened to make the obvious prediction that Murasaki’s day would soon

be over. When, however, as time passed, it became abundantly clear that

Genji, so far from being exclusively interested in the new arrival,

was treating Murasaki with an even greater consideration than before,

they waxed indignant on Nyosan’s behalf, and said that if Murasaki had

him so completely in her power he ought never to have taken the little

princess into his house. Now came the news (disconcerting to gossip of

either kind) that perfect harmony prevailed between the two ladies, and

to these outside observers the situation lost all further interest.

The Crown Princess was now nearing her time. From the beginning of

the next year a service of continual intercession was kept up in

Genji’s palace, and in every Buddhist temple or shrine of the old

faith throughout the land prayers were said on her behalf. A previous

experience[95] had made Genji particularly nervous about such events,

and though it was a grief to him that Murasaki had never borne a

child, he was in a way relieved that he had never been called upon

to endure the agonies of suspense that such an event would have

inflicted upon him. The Princess’s extreme youth was another source of

anxiety, and when at the beginning of Kisaragi[96] her strength showed

signs of failing, not only Genji but all those in charge of her began

to take serious alarm. After careful investigation, the magicians

decided that the situation of her present room was unfavourable, and

insisted upon a change. To move her away from the palace altogether

would clearly be a very risky undertaking, and she was carried to the

Central Hall of her mother’s former apartments in the northern wing.

These had the advantage of being surrounded on every side by passages

and covered galleries in which it was possible to accommodate the

huge band of priests (with their altars and other gear) that had now

assembled in the palace. For every healer of any repute in the country

had been summoned to work his spells.

The Lady of Akashi, quite apart from the anxiety that she must in any

case feel at such a time, was in a state of the utmost suspense; for

the safe delivery of an heir would mean that all her sacrifices had not

been made in vain. On this occasion her mother, now a very old lady

indeed, had come up from the country, unable to bear the anxiety of

being at a distance from all news.

The Crown Princess knew very little about the circumstances of her

birth; but once admitted to her bedside, the old grandmother was soon

pouring out a tremulous flood of anecdotes and lamentations that,

confused though it was, for the first time did something towards

enlightening her. The girl had at first stared at this extraordinary

visitor, wondering who on earth she could be; but she was just aware of

the fact that she possessed a grandmother, and when it became evident

that this talkative old woman was certainly she, the Princess

tried to be as civil as she could. The visitor began describing Genji’s

life at Akashi, and the despair into which they had fallen at the time

of his sudden recall. ‘We never thought we should any of us set eyes

on him again,’ she said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear! If only I could have known

then that it was all going to work out for the best.... It was your

coming into the world that saved us. I don’t believe that but for you

we should ever have heard a word from him after he went away.’ And

she burst into tears of gratitude and joy. The Princess also wept,

partly because it always moves one to hear about one’s childhood,

partly because this revelation of the true facts about her birth had

come to her as something of a shock. She had always known that her

mother was not quite of the same class as the people with whom she now

associated. But the careful education she had received at Murasaki’s

hands, combined with the admiring attitude of all her companions at

Court, had destroyed in her the last trace of diffidence or timidity.

She had long felt herself to be in every way on an equality with the

greatest ladies in the land. With burning cheeks she recalled occasion

upon occasion when she had spoken scornfully of persons who were (as

she now realized) very far indeed from being her inferiors. The true

facts about her origin were probably known to most people at Court,

and though in her presence no sarcastic comment had ever been made,

she could imagine the mirth that (behind the scenes) had always been

provoked by her ignorant self-conceit. Akashi![97] Born at Akashi! What

a hideous thought! That things were as bad as that she had never for a

moment suspected; for it was her nature to turn away instinctively

from enquiries that were likely to yield unpleasant information. Well,

here indeed was a disagreeable and humiliating surprise. She wondered

how she would ever be able to hold up her head again.

She was obliged next to listen to a long account of her grandfather’s

odd ways; he had become, it seemed, a kind of rishi, living in the

world but not of it. A queer place she came from and queer people

she belonged to, thought the Princess, remembering the high line she

had always taken on questions of birth and breeding. At this moment

her mother entered, and noticed at once that she was looking very

rueful indeed. In the passages outside there was a great stir, for

the priests and magic-workers drawn from every quarter of the land

were just assembling to recite the Rites of the Day. But actually

in the Princess’s room all was quiet, and availing herself of this

opportunity the old nun had installed herself at the bedside and seemed

to have taken complete possession of her grand-daughter and all that

appertained to her.

‘I wish she wouldn’t do that,’ thought the Lady of Akashi as she

entered. ‘She might at least put up a small screen. Any one seeing

her planted at the bedside like that will wonder how on earth she

got there. You would think she was the herb-doctor come to give the

child a pill. How tiresome people do become at that age.’ The old

lady saw in a moment that she was thought to have taken too much upon

herself. But she was getting very hard of hearing, and, as was usual

when she was afraid she had missed some remark, she cocked her head on

one side: ‘Eh? Eh?’ ‘Really, she’s not so old as all that,’ thought

the Lady of Akashi. ‘She can’t be more than sixty-five, or at the

most sixty-six.’ The old lady looked very neat and respectable, even

dignified, in her nun’s robe; but her appearance was spoilt for

the moment by the fact that her eyes were red and swollen with weeping.

The Lady of Akashi knew only too well what this meant: her mother had

been reminiscing, and turning to the Princess she said nervously: ‘I

can see that grandmother has been telling all sorts of extraordinary

tales about the days of long ago. You must not believe everything she

says; for she is apt to mix up all sorts of fairy-stories, legends

and marvels with things that really happened. I am sure she has been

treating you to the oddest extracts from our family history.’ Her

suspicions were confirmed by the Princess’s extreme quietness; it was

only too evident that the old nun had chattered with the greatest

possible indiscretion. The Lady of Akashi had long ago decided that

the moment of the Crown Prince’s ascent to the Throne would be the

right occasion for revealing to the Princess in their entirety the

painful facts concerning her birth. As Empress she would have reached

the utmost limit of a woman’s ambition, and intelligence such as

this, disagreeable though it might be, could not greatly depress her.

But at the present moment it might have a very upsetting effect, and

she regretted that her mother should have thought fit to take such a

liberty.

The Rites of the Day were now over, and there was a great clatter as

the priests left their work. To distract the Princess’s thoughts her

mother now brought her some fruit, coaxing her with: ‘Could you not

manage just one of these?’ and such-like motherly phrases. The old

nun’s delight in the presence of her lovely grandchild manifested

itself in the most curious way. For whereas tears streamed from her

eyes and her brows were contracted into what looked like the most

disapproving frown, her lips were parted in a perpetual smile of

delight, revealing a painfully toothless mouth. So truly alarming was

the old lady’s expression that she was positively afraid of the effect

it might have upon the invalid, and tried to catch her mother’s

eye, apparently without success.

Presently, however, the old nun recited the verse: ‘Blame not the tears

of love that like a running tide have stranded this old bark upon a

profitable shore.’ ‘When I was young,’ she added, ‘people of the age I

am now were privileged to weep as often as they felt inclined.’

‘Following the pathway of that bark across the foam, I would retrace

its course and find the felt-roofed hut whence it was launched upon the

deep.’ Thus the young Princess wrote upon the sheet of paper that was

topmost in her writing-case; and the Lady of Akashi: ‘Though he that

lingers on that shore long since of every worldly thought has cleared

his breast, perchance of the heart’s darkness[98] a little clings to

him and clouds his nature still.’

There was then talk of the morning upon which they had parted with the

old recluse. The Princess, who was at that time a mere infant, had not

the haziest remembrance of this episode, but she could well believe

that it had been very affecting.

About the middle of the third month she had an extremely painless and

easy delivery, strangely at variance with what seemed to be portended

by her previous weakness and distress. It was with intense relief that

Genji heard of this event. The child was a boy; so that everything

had turned out in the happiest manner possible. Her present temporary

quarters were inconveniently far from the front of the house, but it

was pleasant for her to be so near her mother, and pleasant too for

the old nun to watch the arrival of the presents which poured in from

every side. She could indeed feel that the storm-tossed voyage of her

life had cast her up at last upon ‘a profitable shore,’ as she herself

had said. But this arrangement could not continue, as it was too

much at variance with traditional practice, and it was decided that

the Princess must be moved back into her own apartments. Here she was

visited by Murasaki, who found her sitting up in her white jacket,

holding the little boy in her arms. It was a pretty sight; but it was

hard indeed for Murasaki to accustom herself to the idea that the

little Princess from Akashi was a mother!

Not only was she herself without experience of this kind; but it so

happened that she had never before been brought into contact with such

events, for this was the first child to be born in the house. Her

delight in handling and attending to the child was so obvious that

the Lady of Akashi had not the heart to deprive her of these offices,

contenting herself with the bathing of the infant. She even consented

to play this part on the official occasion when the Crown Prince’s

envoy came to administer the Bath of Recognition,[99] and the man, who

had some general notion concerning the true state of affairs, thought

how disagreeable it must be for the Princess to be continually reminded

by her mother’s shortcomings of this flaw in her lineage. But to his

surprise he found during the performance of his duties that the Lady

from Akashi had dignity and high breeding enough to be the mother of

the grandest imaginable Princess.

Any further account of the birth-ceremonies would not be of special

interest, and I shall therefore hurry on with my story. It was on the

sixth night after the child’s birth that the Princess moved back into

her own quarters. On the seventh night the Emperor himself sent his

presents. Suzaku’s vows forbad that any gift from him should figure on

such an occasion; but it was generally understood that a magnificent

largesse from the Public Treasury, brought by Tō no Ben and Senji,

two officials of the Imperial Purse, was due to Suzaku’s instigation.

Presents of silk came in abundance, the Empress Akikonomu’s offering

exceeding that of the Emperor himself. The various princes and

Ministers vied with one another in the magnificence of their gifts,

and even Genji, who hated display and was apt to cut down all public

demonstrations to the minimum, this time saw to it that everything

should be carried through with the utmost splendour. Indeed the whole

Court was in such a state of chatter and excitement that my head was

in a whirl, and I forgot to make any note of the many beautiful and

interesting ceremonies that took place in the Palace at the time of

this little Prince’s birth.

Genji, too, constantly took the child in his arms. ‘Yūgiri,’ he once

said, ‘has never invited me to make the acquaintance of his children,

so that it is a great treat for me to be allowed to handle this pretty

fellow....’

The child was filling out fast. It was high time to find nurses for

him, but Genji, rather than employ persons whom he did not know, spent

some time searching round among those in his employ for ladies of good

birth and intelligence with whose record he was thoroughly familiar.

Through all this period the behaviour of the Lady of Akashi provoked

universal admiration. She had shown dignity without touchiness,

humility without disagreeable self-abasement. Hitherto Murasaki had

always continued to feel a slight discomfort in her presence. But

after the birth of the Prince they became much better friends. Though

childless herself, she was extremely fond of children. She made the

Guardian Dolls[100] and other toy figures with her own hands, and would

sit for hours working their joints and making them do tricks.

During the third month there was a spell of delightful weather,

and on one of these bright, still days Prince Sochi and Tō no Chūjō’s

son Kashiwagi called at the New Palace. ‘I am afraid things are very

quiet here,’ Genji said to them. ‘At this time of the year, when

there are no public or private festivities of any kind, it is harder

than ever to keep people amused. I wish I could think of some way to

distract you.... Yūgiri was here just now. I cannot think what has

become of him. I suppose we shall have to watch some more of this

shooting on horseback; though I confess that for my part I am sick to

death of it. I expect Yūgiri caught sight of some of the young men

who always clamour for it, and that was why he vanished so soon.’ ‘I

saw Yūgiri,’ some one said. ‘He is in the fields near the Racecourse,

playing football. There are a lot of them there....’ ‘I am not myself

very fond of watching football,’ said Genji. ‘It is a rough game. But I

feel that to-day we all need something to wake us up ...’ and he sent a

message to Yūgiri asking him to come round to the front of the house.

The young man presently appeared accompanied by a band of courtiers. ‘I

hope you have not left your ball behind,’ he said to them. ‘How have

you arranged the teams?’ Yūgiri told him how they had been playing,

and promised to find a fresh ground where the game could be seen from

the windows of the house. The Crown Princess having now rejoined her

husband, her apartments were vacant, and as there was a large stretch

of ground not intersected by rivulets or in any other way obstructed,

this seemed the best place to set up the posts. Tō no Chūjō’s sons,

both young and old, were all expert players. Neither the hour nor

the weather could have been bettered, for it was the late afternoon,

and there was not a breath of wind. Even Kōbai abandoned himself

with such excitement to the game that Genji said: ‘Look at our Privy

Counsellor![101] He has quite forgotten all his dignities. Well, I

see no harm in a man shouting and leaping about, whatever his rank may

be, provided he is quite young. But I am afraid I have long passed the

age when one can go through such violent contortions without becoming

ridiculous. Look at that fellow’s posture now. You must admit it would

suit a man of my years very ill.’

Yūgiri soon induced Kashiwagi to join in the game, and as, against a

background of flowering trees, these two sped hither and thither in the

evening sunlight, the rough, noisy game suddenly took on an unwonted

gentleness and grace. This, no doubt, was in part due to the character

of the players; but also to the influence of the scene about them.

For all around were great clumps of flowering bushes and trees, every

blossom now open to its full. Among the eager group gathered round the

goal-post, itself tinged with the first faint promise of green, none

was more intent upon victory than Kashiwagi, whose face showed clearly

enough that there was a question of measuring his skill against that

of opponents, even in a mere game; it would be torment to him not to

prove himself in a different class from all the other players. And

indeed he had not been in the game for more than a few moments when it

became apparent, from the way in which he gave even the most casual

kick to the ball, that there was no one to compare with him. Not only

was he an extremely handsome man, but he took great pains about his

appearance and always moved with a certain rather cautious dignity and

deliberation. It was therefore very entertaining to see him leaping

this way and that, regardless of all decorum. The cherry-tree[102] was

quite near the steps of the verandah from which Genji and Nyosan were

watching the game, and it was strange to see how the players,

their eye on the ball, did not seem to give a thought to those lovely

flowers even when they were standing right under them. By this time

the costumes of the players were considerably disordered, and even the

most dignified amongst them had a ribbon flying loose or a hat-string

undone. Among these dishevelled figures a constant shower of blossom

was falling. Yūgiri could at last no longer refrain from looking up.

Just above him was a half-wilted bough. Pulling it down, he plucked a

spray, and taking it with him, seated himself on the steps with his

back to the house. Kashiwagi soon joined him, saying: ‘We seem to have

brought down most of the cherry-blossom. The poet[103] who begged the

spring wind “not to come where orchards were in bloom” would have been

shocked by our wantonness....’ He turned his head and looked behind him

to where Nyosan and her ladies were dimly visible beyond their curtains.

Kashiwagi had been on intimate terms with the ex-Emperor Suzaku, and

at the time when her future was still in question had corresponded

occasionally with Nyosan. Suzaku was aware of this, and seemed on

the whole to encourage it. Kashiwagi was therefore both surprised

and disappointed when her marriage with Genji was announced. He had

become very much interested in her, and through one of her gentlewomen

with whom he happened to be acquainted he still heard a great deal

about her. This, however, was but a poor consolation; and to make his

chagrin the greater, he heard rumours that Nyosan was very inadequately

appreciated at the New Palace, Lady Murasaki still retaining an

undiminished hold over His Highness’s affections. Kashiwagi might be

her inferior in birth and thus unsuited to claim her as a wife; but

at any rate she would not in his house have been subjected to the

humiliations that he supposed her now to be enduring. Tired of

merely hearing news about her health and employments, he made friends

with a certain Kojijū, the little daughter of Nyosan’s nurse, and

tried to persuade her to carry messages. One never knew what might not

happen. After all, Genji was always talking of retiring to a monastery.

Some day he might really do so, and then would come Kashiwagi’s second

chance. Meanwhile he continued to plot and scheme for a renewal of the

acquaintance.

And now on the day of the football match he found himself not many

steps away from her. As usual, her gentlewomen were not under very good

control, and a patch of bright sleeve or skirt constantly obtruded, as

some spectator, in her excitement, tugged back a corner of the curtains

through which the ladies of the house were watching the game. And

behind the curtains there showed all the time gay strips of colour,

flashing like prayer-strips at the roadside on a sunny spring day. The

Princess’s screens-of-state were carelessly arranged; she was not in

the least protected on the side from which she was most likely to be

seen. Still less was she adequately prepared for such an accident as

now occurred; for suddenly a large cat leapt between the curtains in

pursuit of a very small and pretty Chinese kitten. Immediately there

was a shuffling and scuffling behind the screens, figures could be

seen darting to and fro, and there was a great rustling of skirts and

sound of objects being moved. The big cat, it soon appeared, was a

stranger in the house, and lest it should escape it had been provided

with a leash, which was unfortunately a very long one, and had now

got entangled in every object in the room. During its wild plunges

(for it now made violent efforts to get free) the creature hopelessly

disarrayed the already somewhat disorderly curtains, and so busy were

those within disentangling themselves from the leash that no one

closed the gap. In the foreground was plainly visible a group of

ladies in a state of wild excitement and commotion. A short way behind

them was a little figure standing up, dressed in a long robe without

mantle. It was a red plum-blossom gown, with many facings, that showed

one overlapping another, in different tinges of the same colour, like

the binding of a book. Her hair, shaking like a skein of loose thread,

was prettily trimmed and thinned out at the ends, but still reached to

within a few inches from the ground. The contrast between the numerous

overlapping thicknesses of her dress and her own extreme slimness and

smallness was very alluring, her movements were graceful, and her hair,

above all when seen with her head in profile, was unusually fine.

Kashiwagi, as he peered through the growing darkness, wished that the

accident had happened somewhat earlier in the evening. At this moment

the cat gave a frenzied scream, and Nyosan turned her head, revealing

as she did so a singularly unconcerned and confident young face. Yūgiri

feared that he would be held responsible for this indiscretion, and

was on the point of going up to the window and protesting; but he felt

that this would draw further attention to the incident, and contented

himself with clearing his throat in a loud and significant manner.

Nyosan immediately vanished amid the shadows, rather too rapidly to

suit the taste of Yūgiri, who had a considerable curiosity about the

girl, and would, had he dared, gladly have availed himself of this

opportunity to look at her for a little while longer. But by now the

cat had been extricated; the screens and curtains were restored to

proper order, and there was no chance that the intriguing vision of a

moment ago would be repeated. And if it was with a slight feeling of

disappointment that Yūgiri saw his hint so rapidly obeyed, it may be

imagined how loud Kashiwagi’s heart had all this while been beating.

From the first moment of her appearance there had been no doubt

which was she, for she was differently dressed from any of the ladies

about her, they wearing Chinese cloaks, and she an under-robe without

cape or mantle. He hid, or hoped that he hid, the excitement through

which he was passing. But Yūgiri guessed easily enough what impression

such an episode was likely to have made, and being still in a way

identified with this house, he blushed for Nyosan’s immodesty. The

cat was now straying at large, and to distract his thoughts Kashiwagi

called it to him. The creature jumped into his lap and began purring

complacently. It had not long ago been in Nyosan’s own arms; of this

he was sure, for its soft fur still exhaled a strong perfume of the

royal scent that only she could wear. At this moment Genji arrived,

and seeing Kashiwagi fondling the Princess’s cat with an expression of

dreamy tenderness, he said sharply to the young men on the steps: ‘You

had better not sit so close to the house. It is embarrassing for the

people in the room behind.... Won’t you come in here?’ and he led them

through a neighbouring door. They were soon joined by Prince Sochi, and

a lively conversation began. The football players now began to arrive,

taking their seats on straw cushions lined up along the verandah,

and refreshments were served, first and foremost the usual Camellia

cakes,[104] then pears, oranges and other such fruits, the exhausted

players stretching for them greedily as the tray came their way.

Finally, the great wine-flagon went round, accompanied only by dried

fish.

Kashiwagi took very little part in the conversation and gazed all the

while straight in front of him, apparently at the flowering trees in

the garden. But Yūgiri knew well enough what vision it was that floated

before his friend’s eyes. The whole episode was very unfortunate.

It must certainly have given Kashiwagi the impression that the

Princess was extremely loose in her ways. He could not imagine Murasaki

allowing herself to be exposed like this, and the fact that such things

could happen showed plainly how right the world was in declaring

Genji to be reprehensibly inattentive to his new wife. Of course the

Princess’s lack of precaution was not due to shamelessness, but rather

to the unsuspecting and serene self-confidence of extreme youth. All

this no doubt was very attractive; but if he were in Genji’s place he

should find it also somewhat perturbing.

Kashiwagi for his part was not occupied in censoring either Nyosan or

her attendants for the carelessness to which he owed his vision of

her. Rather he regarded the affair as a happy accident—an omen, if one

liked to consider it so, that his attachment was destined to ripen into

something less shadowy than had hitherto seemed probable.

Genji began talking to Kashiwagi of his early rivalries with Tō no

Chūjō: ‘At football,’ he said, ‘your father was always far ahead of

me. I do not suppose that you have actually learnt your skill from

him, for such things cannot be taught; but no doubt you inherit an

aptitude for the game. This evening you certainly gave us a masterly

display....’ Kashiwagi laughed. ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that of all

my father’s talents this is the only one I have inherited. I am sorry

for my descendants; apart from this one trifling gift, they will have

nothing to inherit at all.’ ‘Never mind,’ said Genji, ‘so long as there

is something at which you are better than other people, you deserve

a place in history. You shall figure in your family records as a

footballer; that would be rather amusing....’

While they talked and laughed the conviction was borne in upon

Kashiwagi that no one in the world could possibly turn from Genji

to him. Nyosan might like him, but there was no conceivable way in

which she would not be the loser by such an exchange. His hopes, so

high a moment before, suddenly sank to nothingness. She who had been

so near in a moment became in his thoughts utterly inaccessible and

remote, and he left the New Palace in the depths of despair.

He drove away in the same carriage as Yūgiri, and said to him

presently: ‘One ought really to visit Genji more often; particularly

at this time of year, when there is so little to do. He said he hoped

we should come again before the blossom was all gone. It is getting

very near the end of Spring now. Do meet me here one day this month,

and bring your bow....’ A day was fixed upon, but this was not what

was really in his mind. He was trying to find some way of introducing

Nyosan’s name into the conversation, and presently he said: ‘Genji does

not seem to worry much about any one except Lady Murasaki. I wonder

how the young Princess feels about it. She is used to being made such

a fuss of by her father that I cannot help thinking she must find her

new life rather wretched.’ ‘You are entirely wrong,’ Yūgiri replied.

‘My father’s relations with Murasaki are of a kind it is difficult

for outside people to understand. He adopted her when she was still a

child, and there is naturally a great intimacy between them. He would

not for the world do anything to hurt her feelings; but if you suppose

this means he does not care for Nyosan, you are very much mistaken.’

Yūgiri had raised his voice. ‘Don’t talk so loud,’ Kashiwagi rebuked

him, ‘the grooms can hear every word you say. For my part I am certain

that she is often very unhappy, and I do not think any one has a

right to put a girl of her birth and breeding into such a position as

this....’ He seemed to take the matter very much to heart.

Kashiwagi still lived in his father’s house, all alone in the

eastern wing. It was not a very lively form of existence for a man of

his age, but this solitude was entirely of his own seeking. Sometimes

he felt wretched, and thought of marrying the first girl who came his

way. But then he remembered that his father was Grand Minister. There

was no reason at all why he should content himself with a plebeian

marriage, and he determined to remain as he was until he obtained the

bride to whom he considered himself in every way entitled. To-night he

sat all alone in his room puzzling till his head ached.... How should

he ever manage to see her again, how contrive to catch even so hasty

and unsatisfying a glimpse as he had enjoyed to-day? With other women

it was different. There was always the chance that some religious

vow or omen of the stars might drive them into the open. And if such

things did not spontaneously occur, they could easily be arranged....

But with Nyosan these simple and recognized expedients would be of no

avail. Nothing was more improbable than that she should ever leave her

apartments; and it was difficult enough even to let her know of his

feelings. However, he wrote a letter (by no means the first with which

Nyosan’s maid Kojijū had in recent days been entrusted): ‘Madam, one

day not long since, the springtime lured me to trespass within the

barrier that hides your sovereign precincts from the grosser world,

an audacity for which I fear you condemn me with the bitterest scorn.

On that occasion, Madam, like the poet[105] of old, “I saw, yet did

not see.” Since when such a turmoil has reigned in my heart as only

the vision of what those baffling shadows hid from me can ever put to

rest.’ With this was the poem: ‘Though flowers of sorrow only, my hand

could reach on the high tree, would I were back amid the shadows

of that provoking night.’

Kojijū knew nothing about the ‘day not long since,’ and thought that

the letter was an unusually pointless collection of stock lamentations.

Waiting for a moment when Nyosan was alone she brought in the letter,

saying: ‘I wish your Kashiwagi were a little less faithful. I am tired

of bringing these continual messages. Why then do I accept them? you

ask. I suppose it is because I can see that he would be in despair if

I refused. But why should I mind his being in despair? Really, I have

not the least idea....’ and she burst out laughing. ‘What odd things

you say,’ replied Nyosan, taking the letter. By the allusion to ‘seeing

yet seeing not’ she understood at once that he had caught sight of

her during that unfortunate accident with the curtains. She blushed,

not however at the idea of Kashiwagi’s having seen her, but at the

recollection that Genji had more than once warned her not to expose

herself in Yūgiri’s presence. Now she remembered that Yūgiri had on

that occasion been sitting at Kashiwagi’s side. What one saw, the other

too would have seen. Her sole concern was lest Yūgiri should mention

her carelessness to Genji, and then she would get a scolding. As had

often occurred before, the task of writing an answer fell to Kojijū.

Only a conventional acknowledgment was necessary, and she dashed off

the following: ‘Why you should speak of “seeing, yet not seeing” passes

my comprehension. Despite the embarrassment in which your proximity

placed us, you certainly posted yourself at a point of vantage where

nothing was likely to escape you.’ With this was the poem: ‘Feel what

you will, but tell not to the world that where no hand may reach, upon

the mountain cherry’s topmost bough your heart you fain would hang.’

The promised archery meeting at the New Palace took place on

the last day of the third month. Kashiwagi felt very little inclined

for company, and if he accepted the invitation it was only in the

vague hope of some second accident such as that which had occurred

at the football match. Yūgiri at once noticed that his friend was

still particularly silent and distracted. He knew well enough what

this meant, and was genuinely distressed not only at the prospect of

unpleasant scenes in which he would himself be involved, but also on

Kashiwagi’s account. For Yūgiri was extremely fond of him, and could

never bear to see him, even for small everyday reasons, depressed or in

ill-humour.