CHAPTER III

THE MAIDEN

In the spring of the next year[55] the National Mourning for Lady

Fujitsubo came to an end. Gay colours began to appear once more at

Court, and when the time for summer dresses came round it was seen

that the fashions were smarter than ever; moreover, the weather was

unusually agreeable and there was every prospect of a fine spell

for the Kamo Festival.[56] Lady Asagao gave no outward sign of what

reflections passed through her mind while she witnessed the ceremonies

in which she herself had a few years ago taken the leading part. But

she gazed fixedly at the laurel tree[57] in front of her window; and

though there was much beauty in those lank branches, swept to and fro

by the roving winds, yet it seemed as if it must be for some other

cause that again and again her eyes returned to it. In her ladies, at

any rate, the sight of this tree aroused a host of reminiscences and

suitable reflections.

From Genji came a note in which he said: ‘Does it not give you a

strange feeling to witness a Day of Cleansing in which you take no

part?’ And remembering that she was still in mourning for her father,

he added the poem: ‘Little thought I that, like a wave in the swirl of

the flood, you would come back so soon, a dark-robed mourner swept

along time’s hurrying stream.’

It was written on purple paper in a bold script, and a spray of

wistaria[58] was attached to it. Moved by all that was going on around

her she replied: ‘It seems but yesterday that I first wore my sombre

dress; but now the pool of days has grown into a flood wherein I soon

shall wash my grief away.’[59] The poem was sent without explanation

or comment and constituted, indeed, a meagre reply; but, as usual, he

found himself constantly holding it in front of him and gazing at it as

though it had been much more than a few poor lines of verse.

When the end of the mourning actually came, the lady who acted as

messenger and intermediary in general was overwhelmed by the number

of packages[60] from the Nijō-in which now began to arrive. Lady

Asagao expressed great displeasure at this lavishness and, if the

presents had been accompanied by letters or poems of at all a familiar

or impertinent kind, she would at once have put a stop to these

attentions. But for a year past there had been nothing in his conduct

to complain of. From time to time he came to the house and enquired

after her, but always quite openly. His letters were frequent and

affectionate, but he took no liberties, and what nowadays troubled her

chiefly was the difficulty of inventing anything to say in reply.

To Princess Nyogo, too, Genji sent good wishes on the occasion of her

coming out of mourning. This delighted her, and the old lady observed

to her maids, whilst reading the letter: ‘How strange it is to get this

very nice letter from Prince Genji! Why, it seems only yesterday

that he was a baby-in-arms, and here he is, writing such a sensible,

manly letter! I had heard that he had grown up very good-looking;

but what pleases me is that he evidently has a quite exceptionally

nice disposition.’ These outbursts of praise were always greeted with

laughter by the younger ladies-in-waiting, among whom Princess Nyogo’s

weakness for Genji was a standing joke.

The old lady next bustled off to her niece’s rooms. ‘What do you

say to this?’ she asked, holding out the letter; ‘could anything be

more friendly and considerate? But he has always regarded this house

as a second home. I have often told you that your poor father was

bitterly disappointed that the circumstances of your birth made it

impossible for him to offer your hand to this Prince. It was indeed

definitely arranged that he should do so, and it was with the greatest

reluctance that he consented to your departure. He talked to me about

this constantly in after years, and it was obvious that he bitterly

regretted not having arranged the marriage at a much earlier period in

your life. What held him back from doing so was that my sister Princess

Ōmiya had already arranged for the marriage of her daughter, Lady Aoi,

to Prince Genji and, frightened of giving offence, he let time slip by

without doing anything towards the accomplishment of this favourite

project. But Lady Aoi’s death has removed the one insurmountable

obstacle which before made it out of the question that any person of

consequence should offer to this Prince his daughter’s hand. For though

there are now several ladies in his household, none of them is of the

highest rank. Such a person as yourself, for example, would necessarily

assume the foremost place, and I confess I cannot see why, if an offer

came your way, it would be such a bad thing for you to accept it. At

any rate, that is how I feel. He must be very fond of you, or he

certainly would not have started writing again directly you came back

from Kamo....’

Princess Asagao thought her aunt’s way of looking at things very old

fashioned and mistaken: ‘Having held out for so long against the

reproaches of my father, who was, as you will remember, by no means

used to being gainsaid, it would be a strange thing if I were now to

yield, after all that has happened since, to your or any one else’s

friendly persuasions.’ She looked so reluctant to discuss the subject

further that her aunt did not proceed. The whole staff of the Palace,

from dames-of-honour down to kitchen-maids, being all of them more or

less in love with Genji themselves, watched with great interest to see

how he would fare at Princess Asagao’s hands, the majority prophesying

for him a heavy discomfiture. But Genji himself firmly believed that

if only he went on quietly displaying his devotion, sooner or later

there would come some sign that she was ready to yield. He had long

ago realized that she was not a person who could ever be hustled into

acting against her own better judgment and inclination.

It was high time to be thinking about the Initiation of Yūgiri, Aoi’s

son, who was now twelve years old. It would in many ways have been

better that the ceremony should be performed in Genji’s palace. But it

was natural that the boy’s grandmother should be anxious to witness

it, and in the end it was decided that it should be performed at the

Great Hall. Here the boy had the support of his uncle Tō no Chūjō

and of Aoi’s other brothers, all of whom were now in influential

positions, and as the function was to take place under their own roof

they were additionally ready to do whatever they could to help in

making the occasion a success. It was an event which aroused very wide

interest throughout the country, and what with visitors pouring in from

all sides and a mass of preparations to be made for the actual

ceremony, there was hardly room to turn round for days beforehand.

He had thought at first of placing Yūgiri in the Fourth Rank; but

he was afraid that this would be considered an abuse of power, and

there was indeed no hurry; for the boy was still very immature, and

affairs being now entirely in Genji’s hands he could easily promote

him by small steps, till within a comparatively short time it would

be possible to put him in the Fourth Rank without attracting an undue

amount of attention. When, however, Yūgiri made his appearance at the

Great Hall in the light blue decorations of the Sixth Rank, this was

more than his grandmother Princess Ōmiya could bear. Genji fortunately

realized that she would very likely be somewhat upset. When he went

to call upon her she at once began voicing her grievance. ‘You must

remember,’ replied Genji, ‘that he is far too young to begin his public

career. I would not indeed have performed his Initiation so early save

that I designed to make a scholar of him. This will give him profitable

employment during two or three years which might otherwise have been

completely thrown away. As soon as he is old enough to take public

office, he is certain to come quickly to the fore.

‘I myself was brought up at the Palace in complete ignorance of the

outside world. Living as I did continually at my father the Emperor’s

side I could not but pick up a certain vague familiarity with writing

and books; it was, however, of the most meagre kind. For I could not

at the best learn more than he chanced himself to have picked up in

the same casual way, so that in every subject I only knew disconnected

scraps and had no notion of how they ought to be fitted together. This

was the case particularly as regards literature; but even in music my

knowledge was hopelessly incomplete, and I acquired no real command

over either zithern or flute. It may turn out that he is quicker

than I; but on the whole it seems far commoner for children to have

less natural aptitude than their parents; and I determined that this

child of mine should be educated in a far more thorough way. For if I

merely handed on to him the scraps of information which I in my day had

picked up from the old Emperor I feared that knowledge might reach him

in so attenuated a form as would stand him in very poor stead for the

future.

‘I have noticed that children of good families, assured of such

titles and emoluments as they desire, and used to receive the homage

of the world however little they do to deserve it, see no advantage

in fatiguing themselves by arduous and exacting studies. Having then

in due time been raised to offices for which they have qualified

themselves only by a long course of frolics and indiscretions, they

are helped out of all their difficulties by a set of time-servers (who

are all the while laughing at them behind their backs), and they soon

imagine themselves to be the most accomplished statesmen on earth. But

however influential such a one may be, the death of some relative or

a change in the government may easily work his undoing, and he will

soon discover with surprise how poor an opinion of him the world really

has. It is _then_ that he feels the disadvantages of the desultory

education which I have described. For the truth is, that without a

solid foundation of book-learning this “Japanese spirit” of which one

hears so much is not of any great use in the world.

‘So you see that, though at the present moment I may seem to be doing

less for him than I ought, it is my wish that he may one day be fit to

bear the highest charges in the State, and be capable of so doing even

if I am no longer here to direct him. For the moment, though you think

that I do not adequately use my influence on his behalf, I will at

any rate see to it that he is not looked down upon as a mere starveling

aspirant of the Schools.’ But the Princess would not part with her

grievance: ‘I am sure you have thought it all out very carefully,’

she said; ‘but his uncles and most other people will not understand a

word of this, and will merely think he is being badly treated; and I

am sure the poor boy himself is very disappointed. He has always been

brought up with the idea that Tō no Chūjō’s children and his other

little cousins are in some way inferior to him, and now he sees them

all going steadily upwards in rank, while he is treated like this....

I assure you he found it very painful wearing that light blue dress,

and my heart went out to him.’ Genji could not help laughing: ‘You must

not take these things so seriously,’ he said. ‘What does it all matter?

Please remember that you are talking about a child of twelve years old.

You may be sure he understands nothing whatever of all this business.

When he has been at his studies for a little while, you will see how

much improved he is and be angry with me no longer.’

The ceremony of bestowing the School-name took place in the new part

of the Nijō-in palace, a portion of the eastern wing being set aside

for the purpose. As such a function seldom takes place in the houses

of the great, the occasion was one of great interest, and Princes and

Courtiers of every degree vied with one another for the best seats; the

professors who had come to conduct the proceedings were not expecting

so large and distinguished an audience, and they were evidently very

much put out. ‘Gentlemen,’ said Genji, addressing them, ‘I want you

to perform this ceremony in all its rigour, omitting no detail,

and above all not in any way altering the prescribed usages either

in deference to the company here assembled or out of consideration

for the pupil whom you are about to admit into your craft.’ The

professors did their best to look business-like and unconcerned. Many

of them were dressed in gowns which they had hired for the occasion;

but fortunately they had no idea how absurd they looked in these

old-fashioned and ill-fitting clothes; which saved them from a great

deal of embarrassment. Their grimaces and odd turns of speech, both

combined with a certain mincing affability which they thought suitable

to the occasion—even the strange forms and ceremonies that had to be

gone through before any one of them could so much as sit down in his

seat—all this was so queer that Yūgiri’s cousins, who had never seen

anything of the sort in their lives before, could not refrain from

smiling. It was therefore as well that, as actual participators in the

ceremony, only the older and steadier among the princes of the Great

Hall had been selected. They at least could be relied upon to control

their laughter, and all was going smoothly, when it fell to the lot

of Tō no Chūjō and his friend Prince Mimbuykō to fill goblets out of

the great wine-flagon and present them to their learned guests. Being

both of them entirely unversed in these academic rites they paused

for a moment, as though not quite certain whether they were really

expected to perform this task with their own hands. So at any rate

the professors interpreted their hesitation, and at once broke out

into indignant expostulations: ‘The whole proceeding is in the highest

degree irregular,’[61] they cried. ‘These gentlemen possess no academic

qualifications and ought not to be here at all. They must be made to

understand that we know nothing of the distinctions and privileges

which prevail at Court. They must be told to mend their manners....’ At

this some one in the audience ventured to titter, and the professors

again expostulated: ‘These proceedings cannot continue,’ they

said, ‘unless absolute silence is preserved. Interruptions are in the

highest degree irregular, and if they occur again we shall be obliged

to leave our seats.’ Several more testy speeches followed, and the

audience was vastly entertained; for those who had never witnessed

such performances before were naturally carried away by so diverting

a novelty; while the few who were familiar with the proceedings had

now the satisfaction of smiling indulgently at the crude amazement of

their companions. It was long indeed since Learning had received so

signal a mark of encouragement, and for the first time its partisans

felt themselves to be people of real weight and consequence. Not a

single word might any one in the audience so much as whisper to his

neighbour without calling down upon himself an angry expostulation, and

excited cries of ‘disgraceful behaviour!’ were provoked by the mildest

signs of restlessness in the crowd. For some time the ceremony had

been proceeding in darkness, and now when the torches were suddenly

lit, revealing those aged faces contorted with censoriousness and

self-importance, Genji could not help thinking of the Sarugaku[62]

mountebanks with their burlesque postures and grimaces. ‘Truly,’ he

thought, looking at the professors, ‘truly in more ways than one an

extraordinary and unaccountable profession!’ ‘I think it is rather

fun,’ he said, ‘to see every one being kept in order by these crabbed

old people,’ and hid himself well behind his curtains-of-state, lest

his comments too should be heard and rebuked.

Not nearly enough accommodation had been provided, and many of the

young students from the college had been turned away for lack of

room. Hearing this, Genji sent after them with apologies and had them

brought back to the Summer House where they were entertained with food

and drink. Some of the professors and doctors whose own part in

the ceremony was over had also left the palace, and Genji now brought

them back and made them compose poem after poem. He also detained such

of the courtiers and princes as he knew to care most for poetry; the

professors were called upon to compose complete poems[63] while the

company, from Genji downwards, tried their hands at quatrains, Teachers

of Literature being asked to choose the themes. The summer night was so

short that before the time came to read out the poems it was already

broad daylight. The reading was done by the Under-secretary to the

Council, who, besides being a man of fine appearance, had a remarkably

strong and impressive voice, so that his recitations gave every one

great pleasure.

That mere enthusiasm should lead young men of high birth, who might so

easily have contented themselves with the life of brilliant gaieties

to which their position entitled them, to study ‘by the light of the

glow-worm at the window or the glimmer of snow on the bough,’[64]

was highly gratifying; and such a number of ingenious fancies and

comparisons pervaded the minds of the competitors that any one of these

compositions might well have been carried to the Land Beyond the Sea

without fear of bringing our country into contempt. But women are not

supposed to know anything about Chinese literature, and I will not

shock your sense of propriety by quoting any of the poems—even that by

which Genji so deeply moved his hearers.

Hard upon the ceremony of giving the School Name came that of actual

admittance to the College, and finally Yūgiri took up residence in the

rooms which had been prepared for him at the Nijō-in. Here he was put

in charge of the most learned masters that could be procured, and

his education began in earnest. At first he was not allowed to visit

his grandmother at all; for Genji had noticed that she spoiled him

shockingly, treating him, indeed, as though he were still a little

child, and there seemed a much better chance that he would settle

down to his new life if it were not interrupted by constant treats

and cossettings at the Great Hall. But Princess Ōmiya took the boy’s

absence so much to heart that in the end three visits a month were

allowed.

Yūgiri found this sudden restriction of liberty very depressing, and

he thought it unkind of his father to inflict these labours upon him,

when he might so easily have allowed him to amuse himself for a little

while longer and then go straight into some high post. Did Genji think

him so very stupid as to need, before he could work for the Government,

a training with which every one else seemed able to dispense? But he

was a sensible, good-natured boy, who took life rather seriously, and

seeing that he was not going to be allowed to mix in the world or

start upon his career till he had read his books, he determined to get

through the business as quickly as possible. The consequence was that

in the space of four or five months he had read not only the whole of

the _Historical Records_,[65] but many other books as well. When the

time came for his Examinations, Genji determined to put him to the test

privately a little while beforehand. He was assisted by Tō no Chūjō,

by the Chief Secretary of Council, the Clerk of the Board of Rites

and a few other friends. The chief tutor was now sent for, and asked

to select passages from the _Historical Records_.[66] He went through

every chapter, picking out the most difficult paragraphs—just

such parts indeed as the College Examiners were likely to hit upon and

made his pupil read them out loud. Yūgiri not only read without the

slightest stumbling or hesitation but showed clearly in every doubtful

or misleading passage that he understood the sense of what he was

reading. Every one present was astonished at his proficiency and it

was generally agreed that he had the makings of a first-rate scholar.

‘If only his poor grandfather could see him!’ said Tō no Chūjō with

a sigh; and Genji, unable to restrain his feelings, exclaimed with

tears in his eyes: ‘All this makes me feel very old! Before it has

always been other people over whom one shook one’s head, saying that

they were “getting on in life” or “not so active as they were.” But

now that I have a grown-up child of my own, I feel (though I am still

fortunately some way off my second childhood) that henceforward he

will every day grow more intelligent, and I more stupid.’ The tutor

listened attentively to this speech and felt much comforted by it. Tō

no Chūjō had been helping him liberally to wine, and the learned man’s

gaunt, rugged features were now suffused with smiles of joy and pride.

He was a very unpractical man and his worldly success had never been

proportionate to his great attainments. At the time when Genji first

came across him he was without patronage or any means of subsistence.

Then came this sudden stroke of good fortune; he of all people was

singled out and summoned to this all-important task. Ever since his

arrival he had enjoyed a degree of consideration far in excess of

what, in his capacity of tutor, he had any right to expect, and now

that the diligence of his pupil had procured for him this fresh ground

for Genji’s esteem, he looked forward at last to a distinguished and

prosperous career.

On the day of the actual examination the College courtyards were

crammed to overflowing with fashionable equipages; it seemed indeed

as though the whole world had turned out to witness the ceremony, and

the princely candidate’s entry at the College gates wore the air of a

triumphal procession. He looked very unfit to mingle with the crowd

(shabby and uncouth as such lads generally are) among whom he now had

to take his place, sitting right at the end of the bench, for he was

the youngest scholar present; and it was small wonder that he came near

to wincing as he took his place amid his uncouth class-mates.

On this occasion also the presence of so large and profane an audience

sorely tried the nerves of the academic authorities, and it was to the

accompaniment of constant appeals for silence and good manners that

Yūgiri read his portion. But he did not feel in the least put out and

performed his task with complete success.

This occasion had an important effect upon the fortunes of the College.

It began to recover much of its old prestige, and henceforward the

students were drawn not only from the lower and middle, but also to

a considerable degree from the upper classes, and it became more and

more frequent for the holders of high office to have received a certain

amount of education. It was found that the possession of Degrees, such

as that of Doctor of Letters or even Bachelor, was now an advantage in

after life and frequently led to more rapid promotion. This incited

both masters and pupils to unprecedented efforts. At Genji’s palace

too the making of Chinese poems became frequent; both scholars and

professors were often his guests, and learning of every kind was

encouraged and esteemed in a manner seldom before witnessed at Court.

The question of appointing an Empress now became urgent.

The claims of Akikonomu were considerable, since it was the dying

wish of Fujitsubo, the Emperor’s mother, that her son should be guided

by this lady’s counsel; and in urging her claims Genji was able to

plead this excuse. The great disadvantage of such a choice was that

Akikonomu, like Fujitsubo before her, was closely connected with the

reigning family, and such alliances are very unpopular in the country.

Lady Chūjō[67] had the merit of priority, and to her partisans it

appeared that there could be no question of any one else being called

upon to share the Throne. But there were many supporters of Lady

Akikonomu who were equally indignant that her claims should for an

instant be questioned.

Prince Hyōbukyō[68] had now succeeded to the post of President of the

Board of Rites, previously held by Asagao’s father; he had become a

figure of considerable importance at Court and it was no longer deemed

politic that his daughter should be refused admittance to the Imperial

Household.

This lady, like Akikonomu, had the disadvantage of a close connection

with the ruling House; but on the other hand her elevation to the

Throne was just as likely to have been supported by the Emperor’s

late mother as that of Akikonomu, for the new-comer was her brother’s

child, and it was thought by many people not to be unreasonable that

this elder cousin should be called upon to take Fujitsubo’s place, as

far as watching over the health and happiness of the young Emperor was

concerned. The claims, then, were pretty equally divided, and after

some hesitation Genji followed his own inclinations by appointing

Akikonomu to share the Throne. How strange that in the end this lady

should have risen to an even higher position than her celebrated

mother! Such was the comment of the world, and in the country at large

some surprise was felt at the announcement of her good fortune, for

little was known of her outside the Court.

About this time Tō no Chūjō became Palace Minister and Genji began to

hand over to him most of the business of state. Chūjō had a vigorous

and rapid mind, his judgment tended to be very sound, and his natural

intelligence was backed by considerable learning. Thus, though it will

be remembered that at the game of ‘covering rhymes’[69] he was badly

defeated, in public affairs he carried all before him. By his various

wives[70] he had some ten children, who were now all grown-up and

taking their places very creditably in the world. Besides the daughter

whom he had given in marriage to the Emperor there was another, Lady

Kumoi by name, who was a child of a certain princess with whom he had

at one time carried on an intrigue. This lady then was not, as far

as birth went, in any way her sister’s inferior; but the mother had

subsequently married a Provincial Inspector who already had a large

number of children. It seemed a pity to allow the girl to be brought

up by a step-father among this promiscuous herd of youngsters, and Tō

no Chūjō had obtained leave to have her at the Great Hall and put her

under his mother Princess Ōmiya’s keeping. He took far less interest

in her, it is true, than he did in Lady Chūjō; but both in beauty and

intelligence she was generally considered to be at least her sister’s

equal. She had during her childhood naturally been brought much into

contact with Yūgiri. When each of them was about ten years old they

began to live in separate quarters of the house. She was still

very much attached to him; but one day her father told her that he did

not like her to make great friends with little boys, and the next time

they met she was careful to be very distant towards him. He was old

enough to feel puzzled and hurt; and often when she was in the garden

admiring the flowers or autumn leaves or giving her dolls an airing he

would follow her about, entreating to be allowed to play with her. At

such times she could not bring herself to drive him away, for the truth

was that she cared for him quite as much as he for her. Her nurses

noticed her changed manner towards him, and could not understand how

it was that two children who for years had seemed to be inseparable

companions should suddenly begin to behave as though they were almost

strangers to one another. The girl was so young that the relationship

certainly had no particular meaning for her; but Yūgiri was a couple of

years older, and it was quite possible (they thought) that he had tried

to give too grown-up a turn to the friendship. Meanwhile the boy’s

studies began, and opportunities for meeting were rarer than ever. They

exchanged letters written in an odd childish scrawl which nevertheless

in both cases showed great promise for the future. As was natural with

such juvenile correspondents they were continually losing these letters

and leaving them about, so that among the servants in both houses

there was soon a pretty shrewd idea of what was going on. But there

was nothing to be gained by giving information and, having read these

notes, the finders hastened to put them somewhere out of sight.

After the various feasts of congratulation were over things became

very quiet at Court. Rain set in, and one night when a dank wind was

blowing through the tips of the sedges, Tō no Chūjō, finding himself

quite at leisure, went to call upon his mother, and sending for Lady

Kumoi asked her to play to them on her zithern. Princess Ōmiya

herself performed excellently on several instruments and had taught all

she knew to her granddaughter. ‘The lute,’ said Tō no Chūjō, ‘seems

to be the one instrument which women can never master successfully;

yet it is the very one that I long to hear properly played. It seems

as though the real art of playing were now entirely lost. True, there

is Prince So-and-so, and Genji....’ And he began to enumerate the

few living persons whom he considered to have any inkling of this

art. ‘Among women-players I believe the best is that girl whom Prince

Genji has settled in the country near Ōi. They say that she inherits

her method of playing straight from the Emperor Engi, from whom it

was handed on to her father. But considering that she has lived by

herself in the depths of the country for years on end, it is indeed

extraordinary that she should have attained to any great degree of

skill. Genji has constantly spoken to me of her playing and, according

to him, it is absolutely unsurpassed. Progress in music more than in

any other subject depends upon securing a variety of companions with

whom to study and rehearse. For any one living in isolation to obtain

mastery over an instrument is most unusual and must imply a prodigious

talent.’ He then tried to persuade the old princess to play a little.

‘I am terribly stiff in the fingers,’ she said; ‘I can’t manage the

“stopping” at all.’ But she played very nicely. ‘The Lady of Akashi,’

said Tō no Chūjō presently, ‘must, as I have said, be exceptionally

gifted; but she has also had great luck. To have given my cousin Genji

a daughter when he had waited for one so long was a singular stroke

of good fortune. She seems moreover to be a curiously self-effacing

and obliging person; for I hear that she has resigned all claim to

the child and allows her betters to bring it up as though it were

their own.’ And he told the whole story, so far as the facts

were known to him. ‘Women,’ he went on, ‘are odd creatures; it is no

use trying to advance them in the world unless they have exactly the

right temperament.’ After naming several examples, he referred to

the failure of his own daughter. Lady Chūjō: ‘She is by no means bad

looking,’ he said, ‘and she has had every possible advantage. Yet now

she has managed things so badly that she is thrust aside in favour of

some one[71] who seemed to have no chance at all. I sometimes feel that

it is quite useless to make these family plans. I hope indeed that I

shall be able to do better for this little lady[72]; and there did at

one time seem to be a chance that so soon as the Crown Prince[73] was

almost old enough for his Initiation I might be able to do something

for her in that direction. But now I hear that the little girl from

Akashi is being spoken of as the future Empress Presumptive, and if

that is so I fear that no one else has any chance.’ ‘How can you say

such a thing?’ asked the Princess indignantly. ‘You have far too low

an opinion of your own family. The late Minister, your father, always

believed firmly that we should one day have the credit of supplying

a partner to the Throne, and he took immense pains to get this child

of yours accepted in the Imperial Household at the earliest possible

moment. If only he were alive, things would never have gone wrong like

this.’ It was evident, from what she went on to say, that she felt very

indignant at Genji’s conduct in the matter.

It was a very pretty sight to see little Lady Kumoi playing her

mother’s great thirteen-stringed zithern. Her hair fell forward across

her face with a charming effect as she bent over her instrument. Chūjō

was just thinking how graceful and distinguished the child’s appearance

was when, feeling that she was being watched, Lady Kumoi shyly

turned away, showing for a moment as she did so a profile of particular

beauty. The poise of her left hand, as with small fingers she depressed

the heavy strings, was such as one sees in Buddhist carvings. Even her

grandmother, who had watched her at her lessons day by day, could not

hold back a murmur of admiration.

When they had played several duets the big zithern was removed, and

Tō no Chūjō played a few pieces on his six-stringed Japanese zithern,

using the harsh ‘major’[74] tuning which was appropriate to the season.

Played not too solemnly and by so skilful a hand as Chūjō’s, this

somewhat strident mode was very agreeable. On the boughs outside the

window only a few ragged leaves were left; while within several groups

of aged gentlewomen clustering with their heads together behind this

or that curtain-of-state, moved by Chūjō’s playing were shedding the

tears that people at that time of life are only too ready to let fall

upon any provocation. ‘It needs but a light wind to strip the autumn

boughs,’ quoted Chūjō, and continuing the quotation, he added: ‘“It

cannot be the music of my zithern that has moved them. Though they know

it not, it is the sad beauty of this autumn evening that has provoked

their sudden tears.” But come, let us have more music before we part.’

Upon this Princess Ōmiya and her daughter played _The Autumn Wind_ and

Tō no Chūjō sang the words with so delightful an effect that every one

present was just thinking how much his presence added to the amenity of

any gathering, when yet another visitor arrived. Yūgiri thinking that

such an evening was wasted if not spent in agreeable company, had come

over from Genji’s palace to the Great Hall. ‘Here she is,’ said

Tō no Chūjō, leading the boy towards the curtain-of-state behind which

Kumoi was now sitting. ‘You see she is a little shy of you and has

taken refuge behind her curtains.’ And then looking at Yūgiri: ‘I don’t

believe all this reading is suiting you. Your father himself agrees

with me; I know that learning easily becomes a useless and tedious

thing if pushed beyond a reasonable point. However, in your case he

must have had some particular reason for supposing that academic

honours would be useful. I do not know what was in his mind, but be

that as it may, I am sure it is bad for you to be bending all day over

your books!’ And again: ‘I am sure that you ought sometimes to have a

change. Come now, play a tune on my flute. Your masters can have no

objection to that, for is not the flute itself the subject of a hundred

antique and learned stories?’ Yūgiri took the flute and played a tune

or two with a certain boyish faltering, but with very agreeable effect.

The zitherns were laid aside and while Chūjō beat the measure softly

with his hands, Yūgiri sang to them the old ballad ‘Shall I wear my

flowered dress?’ ‘This is just the sort of concert that Genji so much

enjoys,' said Tō no Chūjō, ‘and that is why he is always trying to get

free from the ties of business. Nor do I blame him; for the world is an

unpleasant place at best, and surely one might as well spend one’s time

doing what one likes, instead of toiling day after day at things that

do not interest one in the least.’

He passed round the wine-flagon, and as it was now getting dark, the

great lamp was brought in, soon followed by supper. When the meal was

over, Tō no Chūjō sent Lady Kumoi back to her room. It did not escape

the notice of Princess Ōmiya’s gentlewomen that Chūjō was anxious to

keep Yūgiri and his little daughter as far as possible apart. ‘Why,

he has sent her away,’ they whispered, ‘because he does not want

her to hear the little gentleman play on the zithern. There will be

a sad awakening for him one day, if he goes on treating them like

that.... When Tō no Chūjō at length withdrew, he remembered that he had

not given certain instructions to one of the Princess’s ladies, and

stealing back into the room he delivered his message as quietly as

possible and was on his way out of the room again, when he caught the

sound of his own name. A group of ancient gentlewomen at the far end of

the apartment had not noticed his return and their whispering had gone

on uninterrupted. He stood still and, listening intently, heard the

words: ‘He is supposed to be a very clever man. But people are always

fools when it comes to dealing with their own children. I could never

see any sense at all in that proverb—you know the one I mean—“No one

knows a child but its parents.” All nonsense, I say,’ and she nudged

her neighbour expressively. This was a shock to Chūjō. It meant, he

realized as he hurried from the room, that the friendship between

these two children, which he had hoped to keep within bounds, had

already, in the eyes of the household, taken on a romantic tinge. The

old ladies within suddenly heard the sharp cry of Chūjō’s outriders.

‘Well! What do you think of that?’ they said. ‘He’s only just starting!

Where has he been hiding all this time? I’ll tell you what. He’s up

to some of his old tricks again, you mark my words!’ And another: ‘I

thought a fresh puff of scent blew this way; but little Prince Yūgiri

has got some just like it, and I fancied it was his. Do you think His

Excellency was anywhere round here? It would be a terrible thing for

all of us if he heard what we said after we thought he had gone away.

He’s got a hasty temper....’ ‘Well, after all, there is really nothing

to worry about,’ thought Tō no Chūjō, as he drove to the Palace. ‘It

is perfectly natural that they should have made friends.’ But it

really would be very galling if after the failure of Lady Chūjō to

get herself made Empress, Lady Kumoi should through this boy-and-girl

affair lose her chance of becoming Empress Presumptive.

Now as always, he was really on very good terms with Genji; but, just

as in old days, their interests sometimes clashed, and Chūjō lay awake

a long while calling to mind their boyish rivalry and later jealousies.

The old princess saw all that was going on; but Yūgiri was her

favourite grand-child, and whatever he did she accepted as perfectly

justified. But she too was very much irritated by various conversations

that she overheard, and henceforward watched over the situation with

all the concentration of which her vigorous and somewhat acrid nature

was capable.

Only two days later Tō no Chūjō came to his mother’s rooms again. The

princess was extremely flattered and pleased; it was seldom that he

honoured her with two visits in such rapid succession. Before receiving

him she had her hair set to rights and sent for her best gown; for

though he was her own child he had become so important that she never

felt quite sure of herself in his presence, and was as anxious to make

a good impression as if he had been a complete stranger. It was soon

evident on this occasion that he was in a very bad temper: ‘I hesitated

to come again so soon,’ he said; ‘I am afraid your servants must think

it very strange. I know I am not so competent as my father and cannot

look after you as he did; but we have always seen a great deal of one

another and, I hope, always shall. Look back over all that time, and

I do not think you will be able to recall one occasion upon which

there has been any sort of breach or misunderstanding between us. It

never occurred to me as possible that I should ever come here with the

express purpose of scolding you, least of all about an affair of this

particular sort; but that is why I am here..'. The old princess

opened her eyes very wide and, under all the powder and paint that

she had hurriedly applied when she heard of his coming, she visibly

changed colour. ‘To what are you alluding?’ she asked. ‘It would indeed

be surprising if you suddenly insisted upon picking a quarrel with a

woman of my age. I should like to hear what it is all about.’ He quite

agreed; it would be lamentable if after so many years of unbroken

affection a difference should arise between them. Nevertheless he

proceeded: ‘The matter is quite simple. I entrusted to your care a

child from whom I myself had unfortunately been separated during her

early years. I was at the time very much occupied with the future of my

other daughter and was much exercised in mind to discover that, despite

all my efforts, I could not do for her all that I had planned. But I

had absolute confidence that this other child at any rate could be

coming to no harm: I now find that quite the opposite is the case, and

I think I have every right to complain. You will tell me, I know, that

the young gentleman in question is a very fine scholar. He may for all

I know be on his way to becoming the most learned man in the world; but

that does not alter the fact that these two are first-cousins and have

been brought up together. Should it become known that they are carrying

on an intrigue, it would look as though very lax standards prevailed

in your house. Such a thing would be considered scandalous even in any

ordinary family.... I am thinking of Yūgiri’s future quite as much

as that of my own child. What both of them need is a connection with

quite new people; they would in the end find such an alliance as this

too obvious and uninteresting. And if I on my side object to the match

on these grounds, you may be sure that Genji, when he hears of it,

will insist upon the boy looking further afield. If you could yourself

do nothing to forestall this attachment, you might at least

have informed me of its existence. I could then have had a chance of

arranging the match, despite all its disadvantages, before the matter

became the talk of the whole town. You could not have done worse than

to leave these young people to their own devices.’

That the matter was so serious as this had never occurred to Princess

Ōmiya at all, and she was horrified. ‘I entirely agree with you’;

she said. ‘But how could I possibly know what was going on all the

while in the minds of these two children? I am sure I am very sorry

it has happened; indeed I have quite as much reason to lament over it

as you have. But I think it is the young pair themselves, and not I,

who ought to bear the blame for what has happened. You have no idea

of all that I have done for this girl since you first sent her to me.

She has had advantages such as it would never have occurred to you to

suggest, and if, through a blindness very natural in a grandmother, I

have too long regarded the boy’s friendship for her as a matter of no

particular consequence, what reason is there to think that any harm has

as yet been done? All your information on the subject is founded on

the chatter of good-for-nothings who take a pleasure in damaging the

reputations of every one round them. If you were to look into these

stories you would probably find they were pure inventions, and stupid

inventions at that!’ ‘Not at all!’ said Tō no Chūjō hotly. ‘It is not

a question of slanders or lies. The way in which these two carry on

together is a common matter for jest among your own ladies-in-waiting.

It is a most disagreeable situation and I am worried about it’; and

with that he left the room.

The news of all this rumpus soon went the round of the aged servants at

the Great Hall and there was much wringing of hands. In particular the

ladies whose conversation had been overheard felt that, without

meaning any harm, they had done irreparable damage, and could not

imagine how they could have been so rash as to begin discussing such a

subject directly His Excellency left the room.

Tō no Chūjō next looked in upon the young lady herself, and could

not help being somewhat melted by her innocent and appealing air. He

therefore passed on and went to look for her nurse. ‘I understood when

I engaged you,’ he said, ‘that you were young; but one can be young

without being infantile, and I supposed you had your wits about you

like other people. I seem to have made a great mistake....’ To these

sarcastic remarks it was impossible to make any reply; but the nurse

said afterwards to one of her assistants: ‘How is one expected to

prevent these things? Just the same might have happened if she had

been the Emperor’s favourite daughter! In old stories the lovers are

generally brought together by some go-between, but we certainly cannot

be accused of having played any such part as that, for these two have

been allowed to be together as much as they chose for years past; and

if my Lady thought they were so young that there was no harm in it,

what reason was there for us to interfere? But they have been seeing

much less of each other for some while past, and the last thing in the

world I should have suspected was that anything wrong could possibly

have been going on. Why, the little gentleman looks quite a child; I

can’t believe such things have ever entered his head.’

So the nurse afterwards declared. But while she was actually being

scolded she merely hung her head, and Tō no Chūjō said at last: ‘That

will do. I am not going to mention this business to anyone else at

present. I am afraid a good many people must have heard about it, but

you might at least contradict any rumours that you hear going

about.... As for the young lady, I intend to have her moved to my

palace as soon as I can arrange it. I think my mother has acted very

imprudently; but she could not possibly have foreseen that you nurses

would behave with such imbecility.’

So they were all going to move to the Prime Minister’s palace! Such

was the young nurse’s first thought, and she found this prospect so

attractive that, though she knew the loss of Lady Kumoi would be

a sad blow to the old princess, she could not feel otherwise than

elated. ‘There now, only think of it!’ she said, harping back to Tō no

Chūjō’s injunction to secrecy. ‘And I had half a mind to go round to

the Inspector’s house and tell the little lady’s mama! I should have

thought this Prince Yūgiri was good enough for anyone; but of course

he does not count as a member of the Royal Family, and they say Lady

Kumoi’s mama has very grand ideas indeed.’ It was clearly no use saying

any more to such a featherhead as this, and Kumoi herself was so young

that it would be mere waste of breath to lecture her.

The old princess was upset by the affair; but she was fond of both her

grand-children, perhaps especially of Yūgiri, and at the bottom of her

heart she was extremely gratified at their having taken such a fancy

to each other. On reflection it seemed to her that Tō no Chūjō had

been very heartless about the matter and had also treated it far more

seriously than it deserved. After all he had taken very little trouble

about this girl himself, and had never once indicated that he had any

ambitious plans for the future. Indeed, it really seemed as though

the idea of offering her to the Imperial Household never occurred to

him till this trouble arose, and had been invented, thought the old

Princess indignantly, merely in order to furnish Tō no Chūjō with a

colourable grievance. He had certainly never really counted on

this Palace plan; and granted that it was only an afterthought, he

must often have contemplated the possibility of the child marrying

a commoner. If so, where could a better match be found? Yūgiri was

certainly, as regards birth and general advantages, more than the equal

of Kumoi; indeed, she could not conceive that any lady would not feel

proud to have him as her husband. This no doubt was due to a certain

grandmotherly partiality on Ōmiya’s part; but be that as it may, she

felt very cross with Tō no Chūjō. She was however determined not to let

him know it, lest he should become even further incensed against the

young people.

Quite unconscious of all the fuss that had been going on at the Great

Hall, Yūgiri a few days afterwards again presented himself at his

grandmother’s apartments. On the last occasion there had been so many

people about that he had not managed to get a word in private with Lady

Kumoi, and he now arrived very late in the evening, hoping that things

would be quieter at such an hour. Old Lady Ōmiya was usually delighted

to see him, and full of jokes and nonsense. But to-day she was terribly

grave. ‘I am very much upset,’ she said at last, after talking stiffly

of various indifferent matters, ‘because your uncle is displeased with

you. It is unkind of you to take advantage of us all like this, because

naturally I get the blame just as much as you. But that is not why I am

talking about it. I mention the matter because you might not otherwise

discover that you are in disgrace....’ The affair was so much on his

mind already that after she had spoken two words he guessed all that

was coming. The colour mounted to his cheeks: ‘I don’t know what he

means,’ he said. ‘Since I began my lessons I have been shut up all the

time and have scarcely seen anyone. Certainly nothing has happened that

my uncle could possibly object to....’ It went to her heart to see

what pain it cost him to discuss the subject with her. ‘There, there,’

she said kindly. ‘Be careful for the future that is all I ask,’ and she

turned the conversation on to other matters.

Since in the last month he had done little more than exchange notes

with his sweetheart, Yūgiri supposed that even this was considered

improper and was very depressed. Supper was served, but he would not

eat, and presently it seemed that he had fallen asleep. But in truth

he was very wide awake indeed, listening with all his ears till the

last sounds of people retiring and settling down for the night had

everywhere ceased. Then he stole softly to the door of Lady Kumoi’s

room, which was usually fastened on a latch, but not bolted or barred.

To-night it would not yield an inch. No sound was audible within.

With beating heart he leant close up against the door. Despite his

care, he had made a certain amount of noise, and this woke her. But

now, as she lay listening, she could hear no other sound save that of

the wind rustling among the bamboos, and very faint and far away, the

mournful cry of wild-geese overhead. Perhaps because, young though she

was, the events of the last few weeks had left her far more unhappy

than her elders knew, there now came into her head the lines:[75]

‘The wild-geese that with sorrowful cry ...,’ and thinking that no

one could hear her, she repeated the poem to herself aloud, causing

Yūgiri’s heart to beat yet more wildly than before. By what stratagem

could he prevail upon her to open the door? ‘I am Kojijū,’ he said in

a feigned childish voice. ‘Do let me in!’ This Kojijū was the child

of Kumoi’s old wet-nurse; so desperate was he that any ruse seemed

justifiable if he could but bring her to the door. But now all was

silent, for Kumoi, ashamed that he should have heard her speaking

to herself, lay with her face pressed deep into the pillows. His ruse

had not deceived her, and it was misery to picture him standing behind

the bolted door. Presently some of the servants in an adjoining room

began moving about, and for a moment both he, standing without, and she

on her bed within remained rigidly motionless. Soon however all was

quiet again and he made his way back to his own bedroom. As he passed

by Princess Ōmiya’s apartments he heard the noise of some one sighing

heavily. Evidently she was still awake; most likely indeed she had

heard all that had happened! He crept past the door with the utmost

caution and it was with feelings of intense shame and guilt that he at

last reached his room. He rose early and wrote a letter to Kumoi which

he hoped to convey to her by the hand of that same Kojijū whose voice

he had counterfeited in the night. But the child was nowhere to be

seen, and Yūgiri left the house in great distress.

What Kumoi on her side could not endure was being scolded by her father

and grandmother, and she did all she could to avoid it. But she had

not the least idea what they meant when they talked about her ‘future’

or her ‘reputation.’ To be whispered about by nurses and servants

flattered her vanity and was in itself far from acting as a deterrent.

One thing about which her guardians made terrible scenes, seemed to

her most harmless of all; this was the writing of letters and poems.

But though she had no idea why they forbade it, she saw that it led to

scoldings, and henceforward Yūgiri did not receive a single line from

her. Had she been a little older she would have found out some way of

circumventing these restrictions; and Yūgiri, who already possessed far

more capacity to shift for himself, was bitterly disappointed by her

tame surrender.

To Princess Ōmiya’s great distress Tō no Chūjō no longer paid

his customary visits to the Great Hall. Nor did he ever discuss the

matter with his wife,[76] who was only able to guess, from his general

ill-humour and irritability, that something had gone amiss. He did

however one day allude to his disappointment concerning their own

daughter, Lady Chūjō: ‘I think,’ he said, ‘that during the ceremonies

of Investiture[77] it would be better that our daughter should not be

at Court. A quiet time at home would not do her any harm; and although

she has been passed over on this occasion she really stands very well

with the Emperor. Indeed, she is in such constant attendance upon him

that it is a great strain on her gentlewomen who are kept running

about at every hour of the day and night ...’; and he applied for

her release. The Emperor Ryōzen was extremely loth to part with her

and at first refused. But Tō no Chūjō seemed to attach such extreme

importance to the matter that in the end he agreed to let her spend a

short holiday at home. ‘I am afraid it will be rather dull for you,’ he

said to his daughter when she arrived; ‘but I have arranged for Kumoi

to visit us, so you will have someone to play with. They have been

very good to her at her grandmother’s; but I find that the house is

frequented by a certain rather undesirably precocious child, with whom,

as was inevitable, she has struck up a great friendship. She is far too

young for that kind of thing....’ And he began at once to arrange for

Lady Kumoi’s removal from the Great Hall.

Princess Ōmiya whose one consolation, since the death of her daughter

Aoi, had been the arrival of Lady Kumoi, was appalled at this sudden

loss. No hint had been given to her that it was not final, and she saw

herself deprived at a stroke of the one happiness which promised to

alleviate the miseries of old age and decay. And added to all this

was the fact that her own son had taken sides against her and become

quite indifferent to her sufferings. She charged him with this, but

he hotly denied it. ‘No, no,’ he said, ‘it is nonsense to say that I

have turned against you. I think that you have behaved foolishly in one

particular matter, and shall continue to think so. Lady Chūjō is going

through rather a difficult time at Court just now and I have thought it

best to withdraw her for a little while. It is very dull at my house

and it is a great comfort for her to have a young companion. This is

only a temporary measure ...’ and he added: ‘Do not think that I am

ungrateful for all your kindness to the child. I know that I can never

thank you enough....’

Such speeches did little to re-assure her. But it was evident that

he was determined to part the two children and it was no use arguing

about that. ‘How heartless men are!’ she said. ‘Whatever may have been

your reasons for acting like this, the chief result has been that I

have lost the confidence of both these children. Perhaps that has not

occurred to you? Besides, even if Kumoi is no longer here, Prince

Genji, though he is far from being an unreasonable man, is certain to

feel that my house is no safe place for young people, and now that he

has got Yūgiri at the Nijō-in, he will keep him there permanently.’

Soon afterwards Yūgiri called again at the Great Hall. He was

far exceeding the number of visits for which his grandmother had

stipulated; but he still hoped that by some accident he might get

the chance of speaking a word or two to the playmate who had been so

cruelly wrested from him. To his disgust the first thing he saw when he

approached the Great Hall was Tō no Chūjō’s carriage. He stole away to

his old room, which was still kept in readiness for him, and remained

in hiding for some while. Not only Tō no Chūjō but all his sons

were there—Kashiwagi, Kōbai, and the rest, but Princess Ōmiya would not

receive any of them behind her curtains-of-state. Sayemon no Kami and

Gon Chūnagon, who were not her own children but had been born to the

late Minister of the Left by another wife, were also in the habit of

calling, out of respect to their father’s memory, and on this occasion,

thinking to please and interest their step-mother, they had brought

their little sons with them. But the only result was that, comparing

them in her mind with her favourite Yūgiri, she thought them very

ugly, unattractive little boys. Yūgiri and Kumoi, these were the only

grandchildren for whom she really cared. And now the little girl who

had been her delight, upon whom she had lavished so much tenderness and

care,—Kumoi, who for all these years had never left her side, was to be

taken from her and put into a stranger’s hands.

‘I have to go to the Palace now,’ said Tō no Chūjō quickly. ‘I will

come back towards nightfall and fetch Kumoi away.’

He had thought the matter out very carefully and decided that even

if it should afterwards prove necessary for him to consent to this

match, it was not one which he would ever be able to regard with any

satisfaction. However, when Yūgiri had begun his career it would

be possible to see of what stuff he was made and also to judge the

strength of his feeling for Kumoi. If the boy still remained anxious

to marry her the betrothal could be announced in a proper way and the

whole affair be carried through without discredit to anybody. But so

long as they were allowed to frequent the same house, however much

they were scolded and watched, it was, considering their age, only to

be expected that they would get into a scrape. He could not put it

like this to his mother, because to do so would have hurt her

feelings; and wishing to avoid any suggestion that Princess Ōmiya had

been to blame, he used both at the Great Hall and at his own house the

convenient excuse that Lady Chūjō was at home and needed a companion.

Soon after Tō no Chūjō left, Kumoi received a note from Princess

Ōmiya: ‘Your father is going to take you home with him this evening.

I hope you understand that this is entirely his doing. Nothing that

happens will ever change my feelings towards you.... Come and see me at

once....’

The child presented herself immediately. She was dressed in her

smartest clothes and, though only eleven and still undeveloped, she had

quite the gracious air of a little lady paying a farewell call. She

felt very uncomfortable while Princess Ōmiya told her how lonely she

would be without any one to play with, and how (though the houses were

not far apart) it would seem as though she had gone to live a long,

long way off. All this trouble, the child felt dimly, as she listened

to the recital of Ōmiya’s woe, came from having made friends with that

little boy, and hanging her head, she began to weep bitterly. At this

moment Yūgiri’s old nurse happened to come in. ‘Well, I _am_ sorry you

are going away from us!’ she said to Kumoi. ‘I always thought of you

as _my_ lady, just as much as Prince Yūgiri was _my_ little gentleman.

We all know what his Excellency means by taking you away like this;

but don't you let him down you!’ The girl felt all the more wretched

and ashamed, but did not know how to reply. ‘Don’t say such things to

the child!’ cried Princess Ōmiya. ‘It may all come right in the end,

without any need to upset the poor little thing like that!’ ‘The truth

is,’ answered the nurse indignantly, ‘that all of you think my young

gentleman is not good enough for her. You and his Excellency may take

it from me that Yūgiri is going to be the finest gentleman in the

land....’ Just as the outraged nurse was voicing this opinion

Yūgiri entered the room. He at once recognized the figure of Kumoi

behind her curtains-of-state; but there seemed only a very remote

chance of getting any conversation with her, and he stood upon the

threshold looking so disconsolate that his old nurse could not bear it.

A long, whispered consultation took place. At last Ōmiya yielded and

under cover of a fading light, at a moment when the movements of the

other guests created a useful division, Yūgiri was smuggled behind the

little princess’s curtains-of-state. They sat looking at one another

with nothing to say; they felt very shy and the eyes of both of them

began to fill with tears. ‘Listen,’ said Yūgiri at last. ‘Your father

thinks that by taking you away from me he can make me stop caring for

you. But by all his cruelty he has only made me love you far more than

before. Why have I not seen you for so many weeks? Surely we could have

found some way....’ He spoke childishly; but there was a passion in his

voice that strangely stirred her. ‘Darling, I wanted to see you,’ was

all she could say in reply. ‘Then you still love me?’ She answered with

a quick, childish nod.

But now the great lamp was brought in, and a moment afterwards there

was a shouting and clatter of hoofs in the courtyard outside. ‘There

are the outriders, he’ll be here in a minute!’ cried one of the maids

in great alarm, and Kumoi shuddered from head to foot. She attempted

indeed to rush from the room; but Yūgiri held her fast. The nurse, who

was to go with her to the Prime Minister’s Palace, now came to fetch

her and to her dismay saw the outline of a boy’s figure behind the

curtains-of-state. What folly to allow this kind of thing at the last

moment! The old princess must suddenly have taken leave of her wits!

‘Well, you ought to be ashamed of yourself,’ she muttered to Yūgiri as

she dived behind the curtains to fetch her charge away. ‘I don’t

know what your uncle would say if he knew this. I have half a mind in

any case to tell Madam Inspector,[78] and you’ll catch it then. You may

be Prince Genji’s boy and I don’t know what else, but you are only in

the Sixth Rank, and have no right to meddle with such a little lady as

this!’ It was true enough. He had been kept back, while every one else

was promoted; and awakening suddenly to an intense indignation against

the powers which had put this affront upon him, he recited the lines:

‘Pale was the robe they made me wear; but tears of blood long since

have stained it to a hue no tongue should dare deride.’ ‘Hard driven as

we are and thwarted at every hour, how can our love spring upward and

put on a deeper hue?’ So Kumoi answered; but she had scarcely said the

lines when some one announced that His Excellency was waiting, and the

nurse bustled her out of the room. There were three coaches altogether

to carry away Tō no Chūjō, the little girl and her belongings. Yūgiri

heard them start one after another. Princess Ōmiya presently sent for

him to come to her, but he pretended to be asleep. All night he lay

sobbing bitterly, and very early next morning, through a world white

with frost, he hurried back to the Nijō-in. His eyes were swollen with

weeping and he feared that if he stayed longer at the Great Hall his

grandmother would insist upon seeing him. All the way home the most

melancholy ideas came one after another into his mind. Thick clouds

covered the sky and it was still quite dark: ‘Unbroken is my misery as

this dull sky that day on day has bound the waters of the earth in ice

and snow.’

It fell to Genji’s lot to supply a dancer for the Gosechi Festival,

and though he was merely supposed to choose the girl from among the

children of his retainers and leave the rest to her parents, he went

much further than this, taking a great interest even in the

costumes of the little girls who were to wait upon the dancer and

hurrying on the seamstresses when he found that they were leaving

things to the last moment. The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers

was put in charge of the dresses of those who were to be present at

the Early Levee before the ceremony. Genji determined that the dancer

supplied by his household should make a brave show, and he equipped her

with a body of pages and attendants such as the Empress herself might

well have been proud of. Last year, owing to the National Mourning for

Fujitsubo, there had been no public festivals or amusements of any

kind, so that people looked forward to the coming occasion with an

unusual zest, and the families whose turn it was to supply a dancer

vied with one another in the pains they took over her training and

equipment. One came from the household of the Inspector, one from that

of Tō no Chūjō’s step-brother Sayemon no Kami, and one from Yoshikiyo,

who was now Governor of Ōmi. This year the Emperor had expressed a

desire to retain all the dancers in his service at the Palace, and

consequently both these gentlemen had chosen daughters of their own

to send to the Festival. The dancer from Genji’s household was the

daughter of Koremitsu, who had now become Governor of the province

of Tsu. She had the reputation of being a particularly lively and

good-looking child. When Genji first suggested it, Koremitsu did not

at all take to the idea, feeling that his family had no claim to such

an honour. But every one pointed out to him that the Inspector had

shown no hesitation, though he was only offering a bastard daughter;

and in the end Koremitsu reluctantly consented, believing like the

others that it would give his daughter a chance of permanent service

at the Palace. He trained the girl at home, taking endless trouble in

teaching her dance-steps and also in selecting the attendants

who were to look after her, and on the night before the ceremony

he took her to the Nijō-in himself. Meanwhile Genji was inspecting

the little train-bearers and pages. They had been chosen from among

the prettiest children in the service of the various ladies in his

household, and seldom can so engaging a troupe have been collected.

His next business was to teach them the curtsey which they would have

to make when they were presented to the Emperor, and each one of them

showed such readiness and perfect grace in executing the unaccustomed

movements that Genji said, laughing: ‘We should have no difficulty in

producing a second dancer from this household, if one were wanted!’

There were still however more of them than were actually required for

the ceremony, and since all seemed equally good-looking and equally

intelligent, he was obliged to select them according to the rank of

their parents.

All this while Yūgiri sat hour after hour in his room, giving no heed

to what was going on in this busy house. He was too depressed to work

at his books, and lay all day on his couch staring blankly in front of

him. But at last he grew tired of doing nothing, and thinking that a

little company might distract him, he strolled out to join the throngs

who filled the palace.

He was well-born, handsome, and, in a subdued way, very agreeable in

his manners. The gentlewomen of the household took no small interest in

him, but he remained somewhat of a mystery to them. With Murasaki he

had few dealings and was indeed barely acquainted with her. Why it was

that he held aloof from her he would have been at a loss to explain.

Was it that some dim instinct warned him against a repetition of his

father’s disastrous entanglements?[79]

The Gosechi dancer had already arrived and a space had been screened

up for her to rest in while she was waiting for her rehearsal.

Yūgiri sauntered towards the screens and peeped to see what was behind

them. There she lay or rather crouched in her corner, looking very

miserable. She seemed about the same age as Kumoi but rather taller,

and was indeed far more obviously good-looking. It was growing dark and

he could not see her features very clearly, but there was certainly

something about her which reminded him of the girl he loved. The

resemblance was not enough to make him feel in any way drawn towards

her; but his curiosity was aroused, and to attract her attention he

rustled the train of her skirt. She looked up startled and on the spur

of the moment he recited the lines: ‘Though you become a servant of

Princess Hill-Eternal[80] who dwells above the skies, forget not that

to-night I waited at your door.’ She heard that he had a pleasant

voice, and evidently he was young. But she had not the least idea who

he was, and was beginning to feel somewhat nervous when her attendants

came bustling along with her dancing-clothes, and as there were now

several other people in the room, Yūgiri was obliged to slip away as

unobtrusively as he could. He did not like to show himself at the

Festival in that wretched blue dress and was feeling very disconsolate

at the prospect of being left all alone, when he heard that by Imperial

permission cloaks of any colour might be worn at to-day’s ceremony, and

set off to the Palace. He had no need to hide; for he had a charming

young figure upon which, slender though he was, his man’s dress sat

very well indeed, and every one from the Emperor downwards noticed him

on this occasion with particular pleasure and admiration.

At the ceremony of Presentation the dancers all acquitted themselves

very creditably and there was little to choose between the

children in any way, though Koremitsu’s and the Inspector’s were

generally voted to have the best of it as regards good looks. But

pretty as they all were, none of the others was handsome to anything

like the same degree as the girl from Genji’s household.[81] She

had been brought up in a far humbler way than the others and at any

ordinary gathering would have been quite eclipsed by them. But now,

when all were dressed for the same part, her real superiority became

evident. They were all a little older than the Gosechi dancers usually

are, which gave to this year’s ceremony a character of its own. Genji

was present at the ceremony of Introduction, and the spectacle at once

recalled to his mind that occasion, years ago, when he had so much

admired one of the Gosechi maidens,—the daughter of the Provincial

Secretary.[82] And now on the evening of the Festival Day he sent

a messenger to her house with the poem: ‘Be thankful that upon the

maidens of the Sky time leaves no mark; for upon me, to whom long since

you waved your dancing-sleeve, age and its evils creep apace.’

She began to count the years. What a long time ago it had all happened!

She knew that this letter did but betoken a brief moment of reminiscent

tenderness; but it gave her pleasure that he had succumbed to this

feeling, and she answered: ‘It needed but your word to bring them

back, those winter days; though long since faded is the wreath that

crowned them with delight.’ Her answer was written on a blue diapered

paper in a boldly varied hand, heavy and light strokes being dashed in

with an almost cursive sweep,—a somewhat mixed style but, considering

the writer’s position in life, highly creditable, thought Genji as he

examined the note.

Meanwhile with _his_ Gosechi dancer Yūgiri made no further

progress, though he thought a good deal about her and would have

cultivated her acquaintance, had it been possible to do so without

attracting attention. Unfortunately she seemed as a rule to be under

extremely close surveillance and he was as yet wholly inexperienced in

the art of circumventing such precautions. But he had certainly taken a

great fancy to her; and though no one could replace Kumoi, a friendship

with this girl might, he felt, do something towards distracting him

from his misery.

All four dancers were to be retained at the Palace; but for the

moment they had to retire from Court in order to perform the ceremony

of Purification. Yoshikiyo’s daughter was taken off to Karasaki,

Koremitsu’s to Naniwa, and soon the dancers had all left Court. A

post in the Lady of the Bedchamber’s office was vacant, and when the

Emperor suggested that Koremitsu’s daughter might care to take it Genji

naturally accepted for her with alacrity. This was bad news for Yūgiri.

Young and unimportant as he was, he could not possibly try to restrain

her from accepting such a post; but it would be too bad if she never

even found out who it was that had made friends with her that evening

at the Nijō-in; and though Kumoi still occupied the chief place in

his thoughts, there were times when this subsidiary failure weighed

heavily upon him. The girl had a brother who was a page at Court and

had also often waited upon Yūgiri at Genji’s palace. ‘When is your

sister going into residence at Court?’ he asked the page one day, after

making conversation with him for some time. ‘I do not know; some time

this year, I suppose,’ the boy answered. ‘She has an extraordinarily

beautiful face,’ said Yūgiri. ‘I envy you for seeing her so constantly.

I wish you would arrange for me to meet her again.’ ‘How can I?’ said

the boy. ‘I am much younger than she. We have not been brought up

together, and I do not myself see her except on special occasions.

I have no chance of introducing her to gentlemen such as you....’ ‘But

a letter, surely you could manage a letter?’ and Yūgiri handed him a

note. The boy had been brought up to consider this kind of thing very

underhand; but Yūgiri was so insistent that, much against his will,

he at last consented. The girl had more taste in such matters than is

usual at her age, and the appearance of the note greatly delighted her.

It was on a greenish paper, very thin and fine, laid down on a stout

backing. The hand was naturally still somewhat unformed; but it did not

promise ill for the future. With the letter was a poem: ‘Hidden though

I was, surely the Maid of Heaven perceived with what enthralment I

witnessed the waving of her feathery sleeves?’

Brother and sister were reading the note together when Koremitsu

suddenly entered the room and snatched it out of their hands. The girl

sat motionless, while the blood rushed to her cheeks. But her brother,

indignant at Koremitsu’s high-handed manner of dealing with the

situation, strode angrily out of the room. ‘Who sent this?’ Koremitsu

called after him. ‘Prince Genji’s son,’ the boy answered, turning

back; ‘the one who is studying for the College. At any rate it was he

who gave me the note and asked me to bring it here.’ Koremitsu, who

regarded Yūgiri as a mere child, burst into a hearty laugh. ‘Well, you

have chosen a pretty little prince for your sweetheart,’ he said; ‘I

thought this letter came from some grown-up person. Of course there

can be no harm in fun of that sort ...’, and showing the letter to his

wife he proceeded to tell her what a nice child Yūgiri was. ‘If it ever

should happen,’ he said to her in an aside, ‘that one of these young

princes took a fancy to our daughter, we should do much better for her

that way than by keeping her at the Palace, where she can never play

more than a very humble part. There’s this comfort about it, that

if Prince Yūgiri is anything like his father he will continue to show

an interest in her when he grows up. You know I have always told you

that once Prince Genji takes a fancy to people, he never forgets them,

come what may. Look at what he has done for that girl from Akashi.’

Nevertheless they hurried on the preparations for their daughter’s

departure to Court.

After this brief diversion Yūgiri became more than ever pre-occupied

with his main misfortune. To Kumoi it was impossible even to send a

letter, and all his time was now spent in endless speculations as to

where and how he should ever see her again. He no longer visited the

Great Hall, for the sight of the rooms where they used to play together

evoked memories that he could not endure. But he was almost equally

miserable at home, and shut himself up for days on end in his own

room. Genji now put him under the care of the Lady from the Village of

Falling Flowers. ‘His grandmother is not likely to live very long,’

Genji said to her. ‘You have known him since he was quite small and

will be much the best person to look after him.’ She always accepted

with docility whatever duties he put upon her, and now did her best

to look after the boy, of whom she was indeed very fond. Yūgiri liked

her, but he did not think she was at all pretty. It seemed to him that

Genji, who had gone on being fond of this uninteresting lady for so

many years, would surely be able to understand that if one fell in

love with a handsome creature like Kumoi one was not likely to give

her up all in a minute. No doubt the Lady from the Village of Falling

Flowers had quite other qualities to recommend her. She was docile and

equable, and Yūgiri saw that it would be very convenient only to fall

in love with people of that sort. However, if they were as plain as

the lady who had been commissioned to look after him, love would be a

painful business. But perhaps his father thought her beautiful

or intelligent? The question was hard to answer, but one thing was

certain: Genji managed not to spend much time alone with her. ‘No,’

said Yūgiri to himself, ‘I cannot remember his doing more than bring

her some little present or chat with her for a few moments from outside

her screen ever since I have been in the house.’

About this time old Princess Ōmiya took her vows, and though this

necessitated a change of costume, it did not prevent her being as

anxious as ever to make a good impression, and she continued to take

the greatest possible pains with her appearance. Yūgiri had indeed

always known people with whom appearances counted for a great deal;

while the lady who had been put in charge of him, having never been

particularly handsome, had, now that she was no longer quite young,

grown somewhat angular, and her hair was becoming scanty. These things

made a disagreeable impression upon him.

As the year drew towards a close, Princess Ōmiya’s whole attention

became occupied with the delightful task of making ready the young

scholar’s New Year clothes. It was a splendid costume, _that_ he

could not deny. But it did not seem to interest him very much. ‘I

don’t know why you have ordered all these clothes,’ he said at last;

‘I have no intention of going to Court at all on New Year’s day. Why

did you suppose I meant to?’ ‘What a way to talk!’ she said in bitter

disappointment. ‘One would think you were already an old gentleman

hardly able to drag yourself about!’ ‘One can have the feeling that

one’s life is over, without being old,’ he muttered, his eyes filling

with tears. She knew quite well what was on his mind, and felt very

sorry for him. But she thought it better not to discuss the matter and

said gently: ‘A man ought to bear himself with pride even if he knows

that he deserves a higher rank than that which for the moment has

been accorded to him. You must not let it depress you so much. Why do

you go about looking so wretched nowadays? It really becomes quite

insufferable.’ ‘I don’t know what you are talking about,’ answered

Yūgiri. ‘Why should I go to Court if I do not choose to? As a matter

of fact, it is very unpleasant to be only in the Sixth Rank. People

notice it and make remarks. I know it is only for the present; but all

the same I had rather stay at home. I am sure that if my grandfather

were alive, he would never allow me to be treated like this. One would

think my father might do ♦something about it; but he does not seem to

care what becomes of me. I saw little enough of him before; but now he

has put me to live right away in the new eastern wing, and never comes

near me at all. The only person who takes any trouble about me is this

‘Falling Flowers’ whom he keeps there....’ ‘Poor child,' said Princess

Ōmiya, ‘it is a terrible misfortune to have no mother, in whatever

rank of life one may be. But before long you will be old enough to

go out into the world and shift for yourself. Then people will soon

learn to respect you. Meanwhile you must try to be patient and not

take these things so much to heart. Your grandfather would indeed have

done more for you if he were here. For though your father holds the

same position, he does not seem to have the same influence over people

as your poor grandfather did. They still tell me that your uncle Tō

no Chūjō is a man of very remarkable talents, and I used to think so

myself. But I have noticed a change in him lately, and it becomes

greater every day. However, things must indeed be in a bad way if a

young boy like you, with all his life before him, can talk so gloomily

about the future....’

♦ “someting” replaced with “something”

On New Year’s day Genji, being Grand Minister Extraordinary, did not

go to Court, but following the precedent set by Fujiwara no

Yoshifusa[83] celebrated the rites of the season at his own palace.

On the seventh day a White Horse was presented to the Grand Minister

with exactly the same ceremonies as to the Emperor at Court; indeed,

in many respects the festivities arranged by Genji exceeded in their

magnificence anything that had ever been seen on such occasions save

at the Palace itself. Towards the end of the second month came the

Imperial Visit to the ex-Emperor Suzaku. It was too early for the

blossoms to be quite at their best, but immediately afterwards came

the ‘month of fasting’ in memory of the Emperor’s mother, so the Visit

could not be postponed. Fortunately the cherry blossom was unusually

early this year and in Suzaku’s gardens it already made a delightful

show. A tremendous cleaning and polishing was set afoot at his palace

in preparation for the Emperor’s arrival; and meanwhile the noblemen

and princes who were to accompany his Majesty thought of nothing but

their new clothes. They had been ordered to wear dove-grey lined with

pale green; the Emperor himself was to be dressed all in crimson. By

special command Genji was also in attendance on the day of the Visit,

and he too wore red; so that frequently during the day the figure of

the Emperor seemed to merge into that of his Minister, and it was as

though the two of them formed but one crimson giant. Every one present

had taken unusual pains with his appearance, and their host, the

ex-Emperor, who had grown into a far better-looking man than at one

time seemed possible, evidently took much more interest in such matters

than before, and was himself magnificently apparelled.

Professional poets had not been summoned for the occasion, but only

some ten scholars from the College who had the reputation of being able

to turn out good verses.

The subjects chosen were modelled on those given out to the

competitors for posts in the Board of Rites. It was thought that it

would be a good thing to give Yūgiri some idea of the themes given out

at Palace examinations. That his mind might not be disturbed, each poet

was set adrift on the lake all by himself, and it was with considerable

alarm that these timid scholars, few of whom had ever set foot in a

boat before, saw their moorings loosed and felt themselves gliding

further and further away from the shore. As dusk drew on, boats with

musicians on board began to circle the lake, and their tunes mingled

agreeably with the sighing of the mountain wind. Here, thought Yūgiri,

was a profession which brought one into pleasant contact with the world

and at the same time entailed studies far less arduous than those to

which he had been so heartlessly condemned; and he wandered about

feeling very discontented.

Later on, the dance called ‘Warbling of the Spring Nightingales,’ was

performed, and Suzaku, remembering that famous Feast of Flowers[84]

years ago said to Genji with a sigh: ‘What wonderful days those were!

We shall not see their like again.’ There were indeed many incidents

belonging to that time which even now Genji looked back upon with

considerable emotion, and when the dance was over, he handed the

wine bowl to Suzaku, reciting as he did so: ‘Spring comes, and still

the sweet birds warble as of old; but altered and bereft[85] are

they that sit beneath the blossoming tree.’ To this Suzaku replied:

‘To-day the nightingales have come to tell me of the Spring. Else had

no sunshine pierced the mists that hide my hermit’s-dwelling from

the world’s pomp and pride.' It was now the turn of Prince Sochi no

Miya, who had recently become President of the Board of War, to

present the bowl. He did so, reciting the verse: ‘Speak not of change;

unaltered through all ages[86] shall the flute preserve their song, the

nightingales that in the spring-time warble on the swaying bough.’ This

was said with a glance towards the Emperor, and in loud clear voice,

that the compliment might not be missed. Ryōzen was indeed gratified by

the graceful allusion, but as he took the bowl he answered modestly:

‘If birds still sing and a few faded blossoms deck the tree, it is but

in remembrance of those happier days when Virtue ruled the world.’ This

was said with great earnestness and humility. All the above poems were

exchanged privately and only overheard by a few privileged persons, and

there were others which did not get recorded at all. The pavilion of

the musicians was some way off, and Suzaku suggested that those about

him should send for their instruments and make a little music of their

own. Sochi no Miya accordingly played on the lute, Tō no Chūjō on the

Japanese zithern, while Suzaku himself played to the Emperor on the

thirteen-stringed zithern. The Chinese zithern was as usual played by

Genji. It was seldom that so gifted a band of performers chanced to

meet in one place, and the concert that followed was of unforgettable

beauty. Several of the courtiers present had good voices, and the songs

‘Was ever such a day!’ and the ‘Cherry Man’[87] were now performed.

Finally torches were lit all round the edge of the island in the lake,

and so the feast at last came to an end. But late as it was, Ryōzen

felt that it would be uncivil on his part if he went away without

paying his respects to Suzaku’s mother, Lady Kōkiden, who was living in

the same house with him. Genji was naturally obliged to accompany

him. The old lady received them in person and was evidently very much

gratified by the visit. She had aged immensely since he last saw her;

but here she still was, and it irritated him to think that she should

hang on to life in this way, when a much younger woman like Fujitsubo

was already in her grave. ‘My memory is not so good as it was,’ said

Kōkiden, ‘but this visit of yours has brought back the old days to my

mind more clearly than anything that has happened to me for a long

time past.’ ‘Those upon whom I leaned have now been taken from me one

after another,’ the Emperor replied, ‘and hitherto the year has had

no spring-time for me. But my visit to your house to-day has at last

dispelled my grief; I hope you will permit me to come here often....’

Genji too had to make a suitable speech, and had even to ask if he also

might venture to call again. The procession left the house amid great

scenes of popular enthusiasm, which painfully reminded the old lady

of her complete failure to injure Prince Genji’s career. To govern he

was born, and govern he would despite all her scheming. ‘Well, such

is fate,’ she thought, and was almost sorry that she had wasted time

contending against it.

It was natural that this visit should bring Oborozuki to his mind.

Not that he had altogether ceased corresponding with her; for lately

whenever an opportunity occurred, he had sent her a word or two of

greeting. And now there rose before him on his way home many delightful

recollections of the hours they had spent together.

As for Kōkiden, despite her professions of good will she did as a

matter of fact intensely dislike all contact with the present Emperor

and his government. But it was sometimes necessary to communicate with

them concerning her own salary, or the preferment of her friends, and

on such occasions she often wished that she had not lived to see

an age which was in all respects the reversal of what she herself had

striven for. Old age had not improved her temper, and even Suzaku found

her very difficult to get on with, and sometimes wondered how much

longer he would be able to endure so trying a partnership.

So greatly had Yūgiri distinguished himself in the literary

competitions which marked that day’s festivity, that upon the strength

of them alone he was awarded the Doctor’s degree. Among those who had

competed were many who were far older than he and some who were thought

to possess remarkable ability. But besides Yūgiri only two others were

passed. When the time of the autumn appointments came round he received

the rank of Chamberlain. He longed as much as ever to see Lady Kumoi.

But he knew that Tō no Chūjō had his eye upon him, and to force his

way into her presence under such circumstances would have been so very

disagreeable that he contented himself with an occasional letter. She,

meanwhile, was fully as wretched as her young lover.

Genji had long had it in his mind, if only he could find a site

sufficiently extensive and with the same natural advantages as the

Nijō-in, to build himself a new palace where he could house under one

roof the various friends whose present inaccessibility, installed as

they were in remote country places, was very inconvenient to him. He

now managed to secure a site of four _machi_[88] in the Sixth Ward

close to where Lady Rokujō had lived and at once began to build.

The fiftieth birthday of Murasaki’s father Prince Hyōbukyō was in the

autumn of the following year. The preparations for this event were

of course chiefly in her hands; but Genji too, seeing that on this

occasion at any rate he must appear to have overcome his dislike of the

prince, determined to give the affair an additional magnificence

by holding the celebrations in his new house; and with this end in

view he hurried on the work of construction as fast as he could.

The New Year came, and still the place was far from finished. What

with spurring on architects and builders, arranging for the Birthday

Service, choosing the musicians, the dancers and the like, he had

plenty to keep him busy. Murasaki herself had undertaken the decking of

the scripture-rolls and images that would be used at the Service; as

well as the customary distribution of presents and mementos. In these

tasks she was aided by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers,

and it was at this time that an intimacy sprang up between them such as

had never existed before.

The rumour of these preparations soon reached Prince Hyōbukyō’s ears.

After the general amnesty which succeeded his return from Suma, Genji

in general made no difference between those who had remained loyal to

his cause and those who had stood aloof from him. But from the first

Hyōbukyō felt that in his case an exception was made. Over and over

again he found himself treated with marked coldness, and the refusal

to accept his younger daughter as a candidate for the Emperor’s hand,

together with a number of other small but vexatious incidents, finally

convinced him that he must at some time have given Genji particular

offence. How this had occurred he was at a loss to conjecture; it

was indeed the last thing in the world which he would have wished

to happen. The fact that, among the many women upon whom Genji had

bestowed his favours, it was Murasaki who had been chosen to be the

mistress of his house, gave to Hyōbukyō, as her father, a certain

worldly prestige. But it could by no means be said that he had hitherto

taken a personal share in any of his daughter’s triumphs. This time

however, a celebration in which Hyōbukyō necessarily played the

foremost part was being planned and prepared by Genji himself on a

scale which had set the whole country talking. The prince began to hope

that his old age would be lightened by a period of belated conspicuity,

and he began to feel very well pleased with himself. This intensely

irritated his wife, who could not endure that honours should come to

him through the influence of her step-child, and saw no reason why

Genji should so quickly be forgiven his obstructive attitude concerning

the Presentation of her own little daughter.

The new palace was finished in the eighth month. The portions

corresponding to the astrological signs Sheep and Monkey[89] were

reserved for Lady Akikonomu’s occasional use, for they stood on ground

that her own suite of rooms had once occupied. The Dragon and Snake

quarters were for Genji himself; while the Bull and Tiger corner was to

be used by the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. Finally the

Dog and Wild Boar quarters were made ready for the Lady from Akashi,

in the hope that she would at last consent to instal herself under his

roof.

He effected great improvement in the appearance of the grounds by a

judicious handling of knoll and lake, for though such features were

already there in abundance, he found it necessary here to cut away

a slope, there to dam a stream, that each occupant of the various

quarters might look out of her windows upon such a prospect as pleased

her best. To the south-east he raised the level of the ground, and on

this bank planted a profusion of early flowering trees. At the foot of

this slope the lake curved with especial beauty, and in the foreground,

just beneath the windows, he planted borders of cinquefoil, of

red-plum, cherry, wistaria, kerria, rock-azalea, and other such plants

as are at their best in spring-time; for he knew that Murasaki was

in especial a lover of the spring; while here and there, in places

where they would not obstruct his main plan, autumn beds were cleverly

interwoven with the rest.

Akikonomu’s garden was full of such trees as in autumn-time turn to

the deepest hue. The stream above the waterfall was cleared out and

deepened to a considerable distance; and that the noise of the cascade

might carry further, he set great boulders in mid-stream, against which

the current crashed and broke. It so happened that, the season being

far advanced, it was this part of the garden that was now seen at its

best; here indeed was such beauty as far eclipsed the autumn splendour

even of the forests near Ōi, so famous for their autumn tints.

In the north-eastern garden there was a cool spring, the neighbourhood

of which seemed likely to yield an agreeable refuge from the summer

heat. In the borders near the house upon this side he planted Chinese

bamboos, and a little further off, tall-stemmed forest-trees whose

thick leaves roofed airy tunnels of shade, pleasant as those of the

most lovely upland wood. This garden was fenced with hedges of the

white deutzia flower, the orange tree ‘whose scent rewakes forgotten

love,’ the briar-rose, and the giant peony; with many other sorts of

bush and tall flower so skilfully spread about among them that neither

spring nor autumn would ever lack in bravery.

On the east a great space was walled off, behind which rose the

Racing Lodge[90]; in front of it the race-course was marked off with

ozier hurdles; and as he would be resident here during the sports of

the fifth month, all along the stream at this point he planted the

appropriate purple irises.[91] Opposite were the stables with

stalls for his racehorses, and quarters for the jockeys and grooms.

Here were gathered together the most daring riders from every province

in the kingdom. To the north of Lady Akashi’s rooms rose a high

embankment, behind which lay the storehouses and granaries, screened

also by a close-set wall of pine-trees, planted there on purpose that

she might have the pleasure of seeing them when their boughs were laden

with snow; and for her delight in the earlier days of the winter there

was a great bed of chrysanthemums, which he pictured her enjoying on

some morning when all the garden was white with frost. Then there was

the mother-oak[92] (for was not she a mother?) and, brought hither from

wild and inaccessible places, a hundred other bushes and trees, so

seldom seen that no one knew what names to call them by.

The move was to take place about the time of the Festival of the

Further Shore.[93] He had at first intended to transfer all the

occupants at one time. But it soon became apparent that this would

be too vast an undertaking, and it was arranged that Lady Akikonomu

should not arrive till somewhat later than the rest. With her usual

amiability and good-sense the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers

readily fell in with the suggestion that she and her party should

not form a separate cortège, but should join with Murasaki in the

ceremony of removal. Genji regretted that the latter was not going to

see her new domain at the season for which it had been principally

designed; but still, the move itself was a diverting experience. There

were fifteen coaches in the procession and almost all the outriders

were gentlemen of the fourth or fifth rank. The ordering of the

procession was not so elaborate as might have been expected, for it

seemed likely at the moment that too lavish a display might try the

temper of the common people, and some of the more ostentatious forms

and ceremonies were either omitted or abridged.

But Genji was careful not to let it seem that any of these restrictions

had been carried out to the detriment of one lady rather than another.

The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers had indeed nothing to

complain of, for Yūgiri had been told off to wait upon her exclusively

during the whole ceremony. The gentlewomen and maids found their

quarters in the new house admirably fitted out with every comfort and

convenience, and they were louder than ever in Genji’s praises. About

six days later the Empress Akikonomu arrived from the Palace. The

ceremony of her arrival, though it had been intended that the whole

move should be as little ostentatious as possible, was necessarily

a very sumptuous and imposing affair. Not only had she risen from

obscurity to the highest place which a woman can hold in the land,

but she had herself advanced so much in beauty and acquired so great

a dignity of carriage and mien that she now figured very large in the

popular imagination, and crowds flocked the road wherever she was to

pass.

The various quarters of which the New Palace was composed were joined

by numerous alleys and covered ways, so that access from one to

another was easy, and no one felt that she had been bundled away into

a corner. When the ninth month came and the autumn leaves began to be

at their best, the splendours of Akikonomu’s new garden were at last

revealed, and indeed the sights upon which her windows looked were

indescribably lovely. One evening when the crimson carpet was ruffled

by a gusty wind, she filled a little box with red leaves from different

trees and sent it to Murasaki. As messenger she chose one of the

little girls who waited upon her. The child, a well grown, confident

little thing, came tripping across the humped wooden bridge that led

from the Empress’s apartments with the utmost unconcern. Pleased

though Murasaki was to receive this prompt mark of friendship, she

could for a while do nothing but gaze with delight at the messenger’s

appearance, and she quite forgot to be resentful, as some in her place

would have been, that an older and more dignified messenger had not

been entrusted with the Empress’s gift. The child wore a silk shirt,

yellow outside and lined with green. Her mantle was of brown gauze.

She was used to running about on messages in the Palace, had that

absolute faultlessness of turn-out and bearing which seems never to be

found elsewhere, and was far from being overawed at finding herself in

the presence of such a person as Lady Murasaki. Attached to the box

was the poem: ‘Though yours be a garden where only Spring-time is of

price, suffer it that from my house Autumn should blow a crimson leaf

into your hand.’ It was amusing to see how while Murasaki read the

missive, her ladies crowded round the little messenger and plied her

with refreshments and caresses. For answer, Murasaki placed in the lid

of the box a carpet of moss and on it laid a very little toy rock. Then

she wrote on a strip of paper tied to a sprig of five-pointed pine:

‘The light leaf scatters in the wind, and of the vaunted spring no

tinge is left us, save where the pine-tree grips its ledge of stone.’

The Empress thought at first that it was a real pine-branch. But

when she looked closer she saw that, like the rock, it was a work of

art—as delicate and ingenious a piece of craftsmanship as she had

ever encountered. The readiness of Murasaki’s answer and the tact

with which, while not exalting her own favourite season above that

of Akikonomu’s choice, she had yet found a symbol to save her

from tame surrender, pleased the Empress and was greeted as a happy

stroke by all the ladies who were with her. But Genji when she showed

it to him pretended to think the reply very impertinent, and to tease

Murasaki he said to her afterwards: ‘I think you received these leaves

most ungraciously. At another season one might venture perhaps upon

such disparagement; but to do so now that the Goddess of Tatsuta[94]

holds us all in sway seems almost seditious. You should have bided

your time; for only from behind the shelter of blossoming boughs could

such a judgment be uttered with impunity.’ So he spoke; but he was in

reality delighted to find these marks of interest and good will being

exchanged between the various occupants of his house, and he felt that

the new arrangement was certain to prove a great success.

When the Lady of Akashi heard of the removal to the New Palace and

was told that only her own quarters, as spacious and handsome as any

of the rest, now remained untenanted, she determined at last to hold

aloof no longer. It was the Godless month when she arrived. She looked

around her and, mistrustful though she was, she certainly could see

no sign here that as regards either elegance or comfort she would be

expected to put up with less than her neighbours. And indeed Genji

saw to it that on all occasions she should rank in the eyes of the

household rather as mother of the little Princess for whom so brilliant

a future was in store, than as the scion of a poor and undistinguished

provincial family.

[55] Genji is now 33.

[56] In the 4th month.

[57] The laurel and the hollyhock form the garlands worn by

worshippers at this festival.

[58] Her mourning was of dark blue wistaria-colour.

[59] Her period of mourning is almost over. There is a play of

words; _fuji_ = wistaria, and _fuchi_ = pool.

[60] The presents of gay clothing which are customarily made to a

person who has just emerged from a period of mourning.

[61] The professors speak in a mixture of antiquated Japanese and

classical Chinese the effect of which I do not attempt to

reproduce.

[62] See my _Nō Plays_, p. 15 seq.

[63] In eight lines.

[64] Like Chʻe Yün and Sun Kʻang, two Chinese scholars who had not

money enough to buy candles (4th century A.D.).

[65], [66] By Ssu-ma Chʻien, 1st century B.C., a book somewhat

longer than Gibbon’s _Decline and Fall_; by far the most

distinguished Chinese historical work.

[67] The eldest daughter of Tō no Chūjō.

[68] Murasaki’s father, who was anxious to place his younger

daughter at Court.

[69] See vol. ii, p. 86. The rhyme-words at the end of the verses

were covered and the competitors had to guess them.

[70] His first wife was a daughter of the Minister of the Right.

[71] Akikonomu.

[72] Kumoi.

[73] The ex-Emperor Suzaku’s little son.

[74] Using ‘major’ and ‘minor’ as translations of _Yō_ and _In_. The

six strings were tuned to the 1st, 5th, 9th, and 3rd, 7th,

11th, semitones of the diatonic scale.

[75] ‘Some such sorrow as mine they too must know, the wild-geese

that with sorrowful cry trail through the country of the

clouds.’

[76] A sister of Kōkiden.

[77] Of Akikonomu as Empress.

[78] Kumoi’s mother.

[79] With Fujitsubo, his father’s concubine.

[80] There is a legend which tells how certain dancing-maidens took

the fancy of the gods and were snatched up to the sky.

[81] Koremitsu’s daughter.

[82] See vol. ii, pp. 96 and 129.

[83] 804–872 A.D.

[84] See vol. i, p. 239 seq.

[85] Allusion to the death of the old Emperor, Genji’s and Suzaku’s

father.

[86] The song and dance ‘Warbling of the Spring Nightingales’ are

attributed to the mythical Chinese Emperor Yao, 3rd millennium

B.C.

[87] See above, p. 45.

[88] A _machi_ is 119 yards.

[89] The points of the compass indicated by these animal

designations are, successively S.W., S.E., N.E., N.W. Houses

were planned with reference to Chinese astrological

conceptions.

[90] Used for residence during the Kamo Festival.

[91] Plucked on the 5th day of the 5th month.

[92] _Quercus dentata_.

[93] Lasts for a week, centring round the autumnal equinox. The

Further Shore is Nirvāna, to which Buddha carries us in the

Ship of Salvation. The festival is peculiar to Japan.

[94] Goddess of the autumn; here compared to Akikonomu. The

secondary meaning is ‘You must be more civil to Akikonomu now

that she is Empress.’