THE BUTTERFLIES
Towards the end of the third month, when out in the country the
orchards were no longer at their best and the song of the wild birds
had lost its first freshness, Murasaki’s Spring Garden seemed only to
become every day more enchanting. The little wood on the hill beyond
the lake, the bridge that joined the two islands, the mossy banks that
seemed to grow greener not every day but every hour—could anything
have looked more tempting? ‘If only one could get there!’ sighed the
young people of the household; and at last Genji decided that there
must be boats on the lake. They were built in the Chinese style. Every
one was in such a hurry to get on board that very little time was
spent in decorating them, and they were put into use almost as soon as
they would float. On the day when they were launched the Water Music
was played by musicians summoned from the Imperial Board of Song. The
spectacle was witnessed by a large assembly of princes, noblemen and
courtiers, and also by the Empress Akikonomu, who was spending her
holidays at the New Palace.
Akikonomu remembered Murasaki’s response to her present:[138] it had
been tantamount to saying ‘Do not visit me now, but in the spring-time
when my garden will be at its best.’ Genji too was always saying that
he wanted to show her the Spring Garden. How simple it would all
have been if she could merely have walked across to Murasaki’s domain
when the fancy seized her, enjoyed herself among the flowers and gone
away! But she was now an Empress, an August Being hedged round by
sacred statutes and conventions. However, if such liberties were hers
no longer, there were in her service many who could enjoy them in her
stead, and sending for one of the new boats she filled it with some of
the younger and more adventurous of her gentlewomen. It was possible
to go by water all the way to the Spring Garden, first rowing along
the Southern Lake, then passing through a narrow channel straight
towards a toy mountain which seemed to bar all further progress. But in
reality there was a way round, and eventually the party found itself
at the Fishing Pavilion. Here they picked up Murasaki’s ladies, who
were waiting at the Pavilion by appointment. The boats were carved
with a dragon’s head at the prow and painted with the image of an
osprey at the stem, completely in the Chinese style; and the boys
who manned them were all in Chinese costume, with their hair tied up
with bright ribbons behind. The lake, as they now put out towards the
middle of it, seemed immensely large, and those on board, to whom
the whole experience was new and deliciously exciting, could hardly
believe that they were not heading for some undiscovered land. At last
however the rowers brought them close in under the rocky bank of the
channel between the two large islands, and on closer examination they
discovered to their delight that the shape of every little ledge and
crag of stone had been as carefully devised as if a painter had traced
them with his brush. Here and there in the distance the topmost boughs
of an orchard showed above the mist, so heavily laden with blossom that
it looked as though a bright carpet were spread in mid air. Far away
they could just catch sight of Murasaki’s apartments, marked by
the deeper green of the willow boughs that swept her courtyards, and
by the shimmer of her flowering orchards, which even at this distance
seemed to shed their fragrance amid the isles and rocks. In the world
outside, the cherry-blossom was almost over; but here it seemed to
laugh at decay, and round the palace even the wistaria that ran along
the covered alleys and porticos was all in bloom, but not a flower
past its best; while here, where the boats were tied, mountain-kerria
poured its yellow blossom over the rocky cliffs in a torrent of colour
that was mirrored in the waters of the lake below. Water-birds of
many kinds played in and out among the boats or fluttered hither and
thither with tiny twigs or flower sprays in their beaks, and love-birds
roamed in pairs, their delicate markings blending, in reflection, with
the frilled pattern of the waves. Here, like figures in a picture
of fairyland, they spent the day gazing in rapture, and envied the
woodman[139] on whose axe green leaves at last appeared.
Many trifling poems were interchanged, such as: ‘When the wind
blows, even the wave-petals, that are no blossoms at all, put on
strange colours; for this is the vaunted cape, the Cliff of Kerria
Flowers.’[140] And ‘To the Rapids of Idé[141] surely the channels of
our spring lake must bend; for where else hang the kerria-flowers so
thick across the rocks?’ Or this: ‘Never again will I dream of the
Mountain[142] on the Tortoise’s Back, for here in this boat have I
found a magic that shall preserve both me and my name forever from the
onset of mortality.’ And again: ‘In the soft spring sunshine even the
spray that falls from the rower’s oars, sinks soft as scattered
petals on to the waveless waters of the lake.’
So captivated were they by this novel experience that they had soon
lost all sense of whither they were faring or whence they had come. It
was indeed as though the waters had cast a spell of forgetfulness upon
their hearts, and when evening came they were still, as it seemed to
them, gliding away and away across the lake, to the pleasant strains
of the tune called _The Royal Deer_.... Suddenly the boats halted, the
ladies were invited to go ashore, and to their complete surprise found
that they were back again at the Fishing Pavilion.
This place was finished in a manner which combined elegance with
extreme simplicity. The rooms were indeed almost bare, and as now the
rival parties pressed into them, spreading along the empty galleries
and across the wide, deserted floors, there was such an interweaving of
gay colours as would have been hard to out-do. The musicians were again
called upon, and this time played a sequence of little-known airs which
won universal applause. Soon they were joined by a troupe of dancers
whom Genji had himself selected, drawing up at the same time a list of
pieces which he thought would interest such an audience.
It seemed a pity that darkness should be allowed to interfere with
these pleasures, and when night came on, a move was made to the
courtyard in front of the palace. Here flares were lit, and on the
mossy lawn at the foot of the great Steps not only professional
musicians, but also various visitors from Court and friends of the
family performed on wind and string, while picked teachers of the flute
gave a display in the ‘double mode.’[143] Then all the zitherns and
lutes belonging to different members of the household were brought
out on to the steps and carefully tuned to the same pitch. A grand
concert followed, the piece _Was ever such a day?_ being performed with
admirable effect. Even the grooms and labourers who were loitering
amid the serried ranks of coaches drawn up outside the great gates,
little as they usually cared for such things, on this occasion pricked
up their ears and were soon listening with lips parted in wonder and
delight. For it was indeed impossible that the strange shrill descants
of the Spring Mode, enhanced as they were by the unusual beauty of the
night, should not move the most impercipient of human creatures.
The concert continued till dawn. As a return-tune[144] _Gay Springtide
Pleasures_ was added to the programme, and Prince Sochi no Miya carried
the vocal music back very pleasantly to the common mode by singing
_Green Willows_[145] in the words of which Genji also joined.
Already the morning birds were clamouring in a lusty chorus to
which, from behind the curtains, the Empress Akikonomu listened with
irritation.
It would have been hard in these days to find a mote in the perfect
sunshine of Genji’s prosperity and contentment. But it was noticed
with regret by his friends, as a circumstance which must of necessity
be painful to him, that Murasaki still bore him no child. It was
felt, however, that this misfortune was to some extent remedied by
the arrival of his handsome natural daughter (for so Tamakatsura was
regarded by the world at large). The evident store which Genji himself
set by this lady, becoming a matter of common report, together
with the tales of her almost unbelievable beauty, soon induced a large
number of suitors to seek her hand; which was precisely what he had
anticipated. Those of them whose position in life entitled them to
confidence had, through suitable channels, already gone so far as to
make hints in this direction; while there were doubtless many petty
courtiers the flame of whose love burned secretly as a camp fire buried
under a pile of stones.[146]
Tō no Chūjō’s sons were, of course, like every one else, under the
delusion that she was Genji’s child and took a considerable interest in
her. But the principal suitor was Genji’s half-brother Prince Sochi no
Miya. It so happened that he had been a widower for three years; he was
tired of this comfortless state of life and had made it clear not only
that he considered himself a suitable match for Lady Tamakatsura, but
also that he should like the wedding to take place immediately. This
morning he was still in a very emotional condition; with a wreath of
wistaria flowers about his head, he was indulging in languorous airs
which confirmed Genji’s previous suspicion that this prince had lately
fallen seriously in love. Till now, however, Genji had deliberately
pretended not to notice that anything was wrong. When the great tankard
was handed round, Prince Sochi said in a doleful voice to Genji:
‘You know, if I were not so fond of you, I should long ago have left
this entertainment. It has been a terrible night for me ...’ and he
recited the poem: ‘Because my heart is steeped in a dye too near to its
own blood,[147] life do I prize no longer and in the surging stream
shall shortly cast myself away.’ So saying he took the wreath of
wistaria from his own head and laid it on Genji’s, quoting the poem:
‘My wreath shall be thine.’ Genji laughingly accepted it and replied:
‘Watch by the flowers of Spring till the last petal be unfolded; then
will be time enough to talk of whirlpools and despair.’ So saying he
caught hold of his brother and held him fast in his seat, promising
that if he would but stay, he should to-day witness a performance far
more entertaining than what had gone before.
It so happened that this day marked the opening of the Empress
Akikonomu’s Spring Devotions. Most of the visitors not wishing to
miss the ceremonies connected with this occasion, asked leave to
stay on, and retiring to the guest-rooms, changed into their morning
clothes. A few who had urgent business at home reluctantly withdrew
from the palace; but on returning later they found that they had
missed nothing, for it was close upon noon before the actual ceremony
began. The visitors reached the Empress’s apartments in a long
procession, headed by Genji himself. The whole Court was there, and
though the magnificence of the occasion was partly due to Akikonomu’s
own position, it was in large measure a tribute to Genji’s influence
and popularity. At Murasaki’s request an offering of flowers was to
be made to the presiding Buddha. They were brought by eight little
boys disguised some as birds, some as butterflies. The birds carried
cherry-blossom in silver bowls; the butterflies, mountain-kerria in
golden bowls. They were in reality quite ordinary flowers such as you
might find in any country place; but in this setting they seemed to
acquire an unearthly glint and splendour. The boys arrived by water,
having embarked at the landing-stage in front of Murasaki’s rooms.
As they landed at the Autumn domain a sudden gust of wind caught the
cherry-blossom in the silver bowls and some of it scattered along
the bank. The day was cloudless and it was a pretty sight indeed
to see the little messengers come out into the sunshine from behind a
trailing patch of mist.
It had not been found convenient to set up the regular Musicians’
Tent; but a platform had been constructed under the portico that ran
in front of the Empress’s apartments, and chairs had been borrowed
that the musicians might be seated in foreign fashion.[148] The
little boys advanced as far as the foot of the steps, their offerings
held aloft in their hands. Here they were met by incense-bearers who
conveyed the bowls to the grand altar and adding their contents to
that of the holy flower-vessels, pronounced the ritual of dedication.
At this point Yūgiri arrived, bearing a poem from Murasaki: ‘Lover of
Autumn, whom best it pleases that pine-crickets should chirp amid the
withered grass, forgive the butterflies that trespass from my garden of
flowers.’ The Empress smiled. To her own gift of autumn leaves these
Active birds and butterflies were the belated response.
Her ladies, who were at first loyal to the season with which their
mistress was identified, had been somewhat shaken in their allegiance
by yesterday’s astonishing excursion and came back assuring the Empress
that her preference would not survive a visit to the rival park.
After the acceptance of their offerings, the Birds performed the
Kalyavinka[149] Dance. The accompanying music was backed by the
warbling of real nightingales; while afar off, with strangely happy
effect, there sounded the faint and occasional cry of some crane or
heron on the lake. All too soon came the wild and rapid passage which
marks the close.
Now it was the turn of the Butterflies, who after fluttering
hither and thither for a while, settled at the foot of a tangled
thorn-hedge, over which the yellow kerria streamed down in splendid
profusion, and here executed their dance.
The Comptroller of the Empress’s household, assisted by several
courtiers, now distributed largesse to the boy-dancers on her behalf.
To the Birds, cherry-coloured jackets; to the Butterflies, cloaks
lined with silk of kerria hue. These were so appropriate that they
could hardly have been produced on the spur of the moment, and it
almost seemed as though some hint of Murasaki’s intention had reached
the Empress’s quarters beforehand. To the musicians were given white,
unlined dresses, and presents of silk and cloth according to their
rank. Yūgiri received a blue jacket for himself and a lady’s costume
for his store-cupboards. He was also charged to carry a reply from the
Empress: ‘I could have cried yesterday at missing it all.... But what
can I do? I am not my own mistress. “If anything could tempt me to
batter down the flowery, eight-fold wall of precedent, it would be the
visit of those butterflies who fluttered from your garden into mine.”’
You may think that many of the poems which I here repeat are not
worthy of the talented characters to whom they are attributed. I can
only reply that they were in every case composed upon the spur of the
moment, and the makers were no better pleased with them than you are.
On looking back, I see that I have forgotten to mention the presents
which Murasaki distributed among her visitors after the ceremonies
of the day before. They were, as you may well imagine, very handsome
indeed; but to describe all such matters in detail would be very
tiresome. Henceforward communication between the Spring and Autumn
quarters was of daily occurrence, joint concerts and excursions were
constantly planned, and the two parties of gentlewomen began to
feel as much at home in one domain as in the other.
Tamakatsura, after that first encounter on the night when the mummers
danced in front of the palace, had continued her friendship with
Murasaki. The newcomer’s evident desire for cordial relations would in
any case have been hard to withstand. But it was also apparent that
she was extremely intelligent and at the same time very easy to get on
with; so that she was soon a general favourite in the palace.
As has been said, her suitors were numerous; but Genji had not as yet
shown any sign of encouraging one rather than another. His feelings
upon the subject were indeed very fluctuating. To begin with, he
had no confidence in his own capacity to go on playing his present
fatherly part with success. Something must be done soon; and he often
thought that the first step must be to enlighten Tō no Chūjō as to
the girl’s identity. So long as he hesitated to do so, the situation
was very embarrassing. For whereas Yūgiri had formed the habit of
going constantly in and out of her room in a manner which very much
embarrassed her, but which it was impossible to criticize, since all
the world believed him to be her brother (and it must be confessed
that he never attempted to behave with anything else than brotherly
affection), Tō no Chūjō’s sons whose intimacy with Yūgiri brought them
frequently to the house, pressed upon her attentions of an unmistakable
sort, which she, knowing her true relationship to these young men,
was at a loss how to receive. She would very much have liked her real
father at any rate to know of her present position; but she made no
attempt to get into communication with him, for she had complete
confidence that Genji, who would not do so much for her unless he
wished her well, must know far better than she what policy it was best
to pursue. Her docility touched and delighted him; for though it
did not by any means equal Yūgao’s, it served constantly to remind him
of her. But Tamakatsura was, as he soon discovered, a person of very
much stronger character than he had supposed.
The summer came round, bringing with it the distraction of new clothes
and an uncertain yet on the whole extremely agreeable weather. Genji
had very little business at this season, and there was a great deal of
music and entertaining at the New Palace. He heard that love-letters
were pouring in to the Western Wing[150] and with the pleasure that
one always feels at discovering that one’s anticipations are being
fulfilled he hastened thither to examine these missives. He took upon
himself not only to read all her correspondence, but also to advise
her which letters ought to be neglected and which acknowledged with
civility. To this advice she listened somewhat coldly. By far the most
passionate and profuse of her correspondents seemed to be Prince Sochi
no Miya, and Genji smiled as he looked through the thick packet into
which that prince’s letters had been collected. ‘Sochi and I,’ he said,
‘have always been great friends. With none of the royal princes have
I ever been so intimate, and I know that he has always been devoted
to me. The only subject upon which we have ever had any difference of
opinion is just this matter of love-making. He allowed it to play far
too important a part in his life. I am amused and at the same time, in
a way, distressed to find him after all these years behaving exactly
as he did when we were both boys. However, I should like you to answer
him. I know of no other person about the Court with whom it would so
well become a lady of consequence to correspond. He is a remarkable man
in many ways. His appearance alone would entitle him ...’ and more to
this effect, designed of course not to blacken Sochi’s character, but
to portray him in just such a light as would interest an inexperienced
girl. These remarks had, however, an exactly opposite effect to that
which Genji intended.
Then there was Prince Higekuro. He had always seemed to be a
steady-going, capable fellow, successful in everything he undertook.
But glancing at his letters Genji feared that upon the hill of Love,
where, let it be remembered, even Confucius stumbled,[151] this wise
prince too might easily find his undoing. By far the most elegant
letter in the whole collection was one written on very dark blue
Chinese paper, heavily perfumed with some delicious scent. It was
folded up very small, and Genji, whose curiosity would have been
aroused by this fact alone, now spread it out, displaying the poem: ‘Of
my love perchance you know not, for like a stream that is buried under
the ground, a moment it springs into the sunlight; then sinks into the
cavern whence it sprang.’
It was very well written, in a hand which combined fanciful originality
with adherence to the latest fashions. ‘Who wrote this?’ he asked;
but he received only the vaguest replies. Ukon had now joined them
and addressing her, Genji said: ‘I want you to give your mistress
some guidance in the answering of such letters of this kind as may in
future arrive. For the unfortunate situations which sometimes result
from our present freedom of manners we men are not always to blame. It
often happens that a little timely severity on the lady’s part would
avert the quandaries into which we are led by our determination to
treat love as our principal pastime and distraction. At the time (who
should know it better than I?) such severity is of course resented by
the gentleman, who will rail in the accepted style at his lady’s
“cruelty” and “insensibility.” But in the end he will be grateful that
the matter was not allowed to go further.
‘On the other hand it may happen that some suitor, whose rank is not
such that he can be considered as a possible husband, may entertain
very serious feelings indeed, yet through fear of giving offence may
go no further in his communications than to make a few conventional
remarks about the weather or the garden. In such a case, if the lady,
insisting upon seeing in such epistles more than is actually expressed,
administers a rebuff, the result will only be that the affair is
henceforward on a footing of passion, not (as hitherto) of formality.
A civil answer, couched in the same conventional terms as the original
letter, may instead dispel the lover’s romantic notions and lead him
to abandon the quest. But whatever happens the lady has done all that
ought to be expected of her.
‘On the other hand to mistake the idle compliments and attentions which
it is now fashionable to scatter in such profusion, and to treat these
courtly formalities as signs of genuine feeling, is even more dangerous
than to ignore them altogether, and though such a course may lead to a
little momentary excitement, it is bound in the long run to produce a
disagreeable situation.
‘It often happens that a young girl will cast aside all reserve
and pursue without thought of the consequences some quite trivial
inclination, merely in order to convince the world that she is a woman
of feeling. At first the discovery of a new pleasure is in itself
sufficient to carry her through; but repetition palls, and after a few
months excitement gives place to tedium or even disgust.
‘I have, however, reason to believe that both my step-brother and
Prince Higekuro are in this case completely sincere, and whatever her
own feelings may be it is improper that any one in your mistress’s
position should deal too curtly with offers such as these. As for
the rest, I assume that their rank is not such as to make acceptance
conceivable, and there can therefore be no objection to your mistress
meting out among them such varying degrees of kindness or severity as
her fancy dictates.’
While this exposition was in progress at the far end of the room,
Tamakatsura sat with her back towards the speakers, occasionally
glancing across her shoulder with a turn of the head that showed
off her delicate profile to great advantage. She was wearing a long
close-fitting robe, pink plum-blossom colour without, and green within;
her short mantle matched the flower of the white deutzia, then in full
bloom. There was in her style of dress something which made it seem
homely without being dowdy or unfashionable. If in her manners any
trace of rusticity could still be found, it lay perhaps in a certain
lack of self-assurance which she seemed to have retained as a last
remnant of her country breeding. But in every other respect she had
made ample use of the ♦opportunities afforded her by life at the New
Palace. The way she dressed her hair and her use of make-up showed
that she observed those around her with an acute and intelligent eye.
She had, in fact, since her arrival at Court, grown into a perfectly
well turned-out and fashionable beauty, all ready to become, alas, not
his own (reflected Genji with chagrin) but some fortunate young man’s
immaculate bride. Ukon, too, was thinking, as she watched them, that
Genji looked much more fit to be her lover than her father. Yes, they
were surely made for one another; and Ukon doubted whether, however
long he searched, Genji would find her a partner whose looks matched
her so well. ‘Most of the letters that come,’ said the old lady, ‘I do
not pass on at all. The three or four that you have been looking at,
you will agree I could not possibly have returned. But though I
delivered them to my mistress, she has not answered them, and though of
course she will do so if you insist upon it....’ ‘Perhaps you can tell
me,’ broke in Genji, ‘who sent this curious note. Despite its minute
size there seems to be a great deal of writing in it.’ ‘Ah, that one
...’ said Ukon, ‘if I returned it once I returned it a hundred times!
But there was no getting rid of the messenger. It comes from Captain
Kashiwagi, His Excellency Tō no Chūjō’s eldest son. This gentleman
knows little Miruko, my lady’s chambermaid, and it was through her
that the messenger was first admitted. I assure you no one else but
this child Miruko knows anything about the matter at all....’ ‘But how
delightful!’ said Genji, much relieved. ‘Kashiwagi of course holds a
rather low rank, and that is a disadvantage. But no child of such a
man as Tō no Chūjō is to be scorned; and there are, in point of fact
a great many important officials who in public esteem occupy a far
lower place than these young men. Moreover, Kashiwagi is generally
considered to be the most serious and competent of the brothers. To
receive compliments from such a man is very gratifying, and though he
must of course sooner or later learn of his close relationship to you,
for the present I see no need to enlighten him.’ And still examining
the letter, he added ‘There are touches in his handwriting, too, which
are by no means to be despised.’ ‘You agree with everything I say,’ he
continued: ‘but I feel that inwardly you are raising objections all the
while. I am very sorry not to please you; but if you are thinking that
I ought to hand you over to your father without more ado, I simply do
not agree with you. You are very young and inexperienced. If you were
suddenly to find yourself in the midst of brothers and sisters whom
you have never known, I am certain you would be miserable. Whereas if
you will only wait till I have settled your future (in such a way
as your father, upon whom there are so many claims, could not possibly
manage), there will be time enough afterwards to disclose the story of
your birth.’
♦ “opportunites” replaced with “opportunities”
Though he did not say in so many words that he would far rather have
kept her for himself, he more than once came perilously near to hinting
something of the kind. Such indiscretions she either misunderstood
or ignored. This piqued him; but he enjoyed the visit and was quite
unhappy when he discovered that it was high time for him to go back to
his own quarters. Before he left she reminded him, in guarded language,
of his promise to tell her real father what had become of her. He felt
at this more conscience-stricken than he need have done. For in her
heart of hearts Tamakatsura was by no means in a hurry to leave the New
Palace. She would have been glad to have the inevitable introduction to
her real parent safely behind her, chiefly because the prospect of it
destroyed her peace of mind. However kind her father might be, it was
impossible that he should take more trouble about her than Prince Genji
was doing; indeed, Tō no Chūjō, not having once set eyes on her since
she was a mere infant, might well have ceased to take any interest in
her whatever. She had lately been reading a number of old romances and
had come across many accounts of cases very similar to her own. She
began to see that it was a delicate matter for a child to force itself
upon the attention of a parent who had done his best to forget that it
existed, and she abandoned all idea of taking the business into her own
hands.
Genji arrived at Murasaki’s rooms full of enthusiasm for the lady whom
he had just been visiting: ‘What a surprising and delightful creature
this Tamakatsura is!’ he exclaimed. ‘Her mother, with whom I was so
intimate years ago, had almost too grave and earnest a character.
This girl will, I can see, be more a “woman of the world”; but
she is at the same time evidently very affectionate. I am sure she has
a brilliant future before her....’ From his manner Murasaki instantly
saw that his interest in Tamakatsura had assumed a new character. ‘I
am very sorry for the girl,’ she said. ‘She evidently has complete
confidence in you. But I happen to know what you mean by that phrase
“a woman of the world,” and if I chose to do so, could tell the
unfortunate creature what to expect....’ ‘But you surely cannot mean
that I shall _betray_ her confidence?’ asked Genji indignantly. ‘You
forget,’ she replied, ‘that I was once in very much the same position
myself. You had made up your mind to treat me as a daughter; but,
unless I am much mistaken, there were times when you did not carry
out this resolution very successfully....’ ‘How clever every one is!’
thought Genji, much put out at the facility with which his inmost
thoughts were read. But he hastened to rejoin: ‘If I were in love
with Tamakatsura, she would presumably become aware of the fact quite
as quickly as you would.’ He was too much annoyed to continue the
conversation; however, he admitted to himself in private that when
people come to a conclusion of this kind, it is hardly ever far from
the mark. But surely, after all, he could judge better than she? And
Murasaki, he reflected, was not judging this case on its merits, but
merely assuming, in the light of past experience, that events were
about to take a certain course....
To convince himself that Murasaki had no ground for her suspicions
he frequently went across to the Side Wing and spent some hours in
Tamakatsura’s company.
During the fourth month the weather was rather depressing. But one
evening, when it had been raining heavily all day, he looked out and
saw to his relief that at last the sky was clearing. The young
maples and oak trees in the garden blent their leafage in a marvellous
curtain of green. Genji remembered the lines ‘In the fourth month
the weather grew clearer and still ...’[152] and thence his thoughts
wandered to the girl in the Western Wing. He felt a sudden longing, on
this early summer evening, for the sight of something fresh, something
fragrant; and without a word to anyone he slipped away to her rooms. He
found her practising at her desk in an easy attitude and attire. She
was in no way prepared to receive such a visit, and upon his arrival
rose to her feet with a blush. Caught thus unawares and informally
dressed, she was more like her mother than he had ever seen her
before, and he could not help exclaiming: ‘I could not have believed
it possible! To-night you are simply Yūgao herself. Of course, I have
always noticed the resemblance; but never before has it reached such a
point as this. It so happens that Yūgiri is not at all like his mother,
and consequently I am apt to forget how complete such resemblances can
sometimes be.’
A sprig of orange-blossom was stuck among some fruit that was lying on
a tray near by. ‘As the orange-blossom gives its scent unaltered to the
sleeve that brushes it, so have you taken on your mother’s beauty, till
you and she are one.’ So he recited, adding: ‘Nothing has ever consoled
me for her loss, and indeed, though so many years have passed I shall
die regretting her as bitterly as at the start. But to-night, when I
first caught sight of you, it seemed to me for an instant that she had
come back to me again—that the past was only a dream.... Bear with me;
you cannot conceive what happiness was brought me by one moment
of illusion. But now it is over ...’ and so saying he took her hand in
his. She was somewhat taken aback, for he had never attempted to do
such a thing before; but she answered quietly: ‘Wretched will be my lot
indeed, should the flower’s perfume prove hapless as the flower that
was destroyed.’
She felt that things were not going well, and sat staring at the floor,
her chin propped on her fist. This was just the attitude in which she
most attracted him. He noticed the plumpness of her hand, the softness
of her skin, the delicacy of her whole figure. Such beauty could not,
at these close quarters, in any case have failed to move him; coupled
with the memories which every feature inspired, it proved irresistible,
and to-day his discretion broke down as never before. True, he did no
more than make a somewhat vague avowal of his feelings towards her.
But Tamakatsura was instantly terror-stricken; of this there could be
no doubt, for she was trembling from head to foot. ‘Come!’ he said,
‘you need not look so horrified. There is no harm in my having such
feelings, so long as only you and I are aware of them. You have known
for some time past that I was very fond of you, and now you have learnt
that I care for you even more than you supposed. But were I drawn
towards you by the blindest passion that has ever darkened the heart of
man, this would not damage your chances with Sochi no Miya, Higekuro
and the rest. For in their eyes you are my daughter, and it would never
occur to them that my affection for you could in any way hinder their
courtship. My only fear is that you will never find a husband who cares
for you half as much as I do. Such feelings as mine for you are not as
common in the world as you perhaps imagine them to be....’
He spoke all the while as though what he had said to her implied
nothing more than an unusual access of paternal feeling. It had now
quite stopped raining; ‘the wind was rustling in the bamboos,’[153]
and the moon was shining brightly. It was a lovely and solemn night.
Tamakatsura’s ladies, seeing that the conversation was beginning
to take a somewhat intimate turn, had tactfully withdrawn from her
presence.
His visits had for some while been very frequent; but circumstances
seldom favoured him as they did to-night. Moreover, now that he had,
quite without premeditation, confessed to these feelings, they seemed
suddenly to have taken a far stronger hold upon him. Unobtrusively,
indeed almost without her being aware of what was happening, he slipped
from her shoulders the light cloak which she had been wearing since
summer came in, and lay down beside her. She was horrified, but chiefly
through the fear that some one might discover them in this posture.
Her own father, she ruefully reflected, might refuse to admit his
responsibilities towards her and even order her out of his sight, but
she could be certain that he would not submit her to such ordeals as
she was here undergoing.... She did her best to hide her tears, but
before long they burst forth in an uncontrollable flood. Genji was
dismayed. ‘If that is what you feel about it,’ he said, ‘you must
really dislike me very much indeed. I have not attempted to do anything
that the world would consider in the least reprehensible, even were
I in no way connected with you. But as it is, we have been friends
for almost a year. Surely there is nothing very strange in the way I
have behaved? You know quite well that I should never force you to do
anything you would be sorry for afterwards. Do not, please, be angry
with me. Now that you have grown so like your mother, it is an immense
comfort to me simply to be with you....’ He spoke then for a long
while, tenderly, caressingly. For now that she was lying beside him
the resemblance to Yūgao was more than ever complete. But happy though
he would have been to remain far longer at her side, he was still able
to see that his behaviour had been in the highest degree rash and
inconsiderate. It was growing late; at any moment some one might return
to the room and discover them. ‘Do not think the worse of me for what
has happened this evening,’ he said at last, rising from the couch; ‘it
would distress me very much if you did. I know quite well that there
are people who never allow their feelings to get the better of them.
I can only say that I am differently made. But of this at least I can
assure you: whatever you may think of me, such outbursts are not due
in my case merely to some frivolous impulse of the moment. Once my
affections are aroused they are boundless both in time and extent. You
need not fear that I shall ever act in such a way as to harm your good
name. All I ask is that I may sometimes be allowed to talk as I have
talked to-night; and perhaps I may even hope that you will occasionally
answer me in the same spirit.’
He spoke gently, reasonably, but she was now beside herself with
agitation, and made no intelligible reply.
‘I see that I have made a great mistake,’ he said at last. ‘I always
thought that we got on unusually well together; but it is now clear
that the friendship was all on my side. For I cannot think that my
showing a little affection would so much perturb you unless you
definitely disliked me....’ He broke off, and left the room with a
final entreaty that she would speak to no one of what had occurred.
Though Tamakatsura was no longer very young, she was still entirely
innocent, and this made her judge Genji’s conduct more harshly than she
would otherwise have done. He had indeed merely lain down on the
same couch; but she, in her inexperience, imagined that in so doing he
had taken advantage of her to the utmost possible extent. On returning
to the room her gentlewomen at once noticed that she was looking very
distraught, and pestered her with tiresome enquiries about her health.
No sooner had they withdrawn than Ateki,[154] the daughter of her
old nurse, began (irritatingly enough) to congratulate her upon her
guardian’s extraordinary kindness: ‘How gratifying it is,’ she said,
‘that his Excellency is so admirably attentive to you! With all respect
to your own father, I very much doubt whether he would put himself to
half as much trouble on your account.... Prince Genji seems to take a
positive pleasure in looking after you.’ But Tamakatsura had been too
much surprised and shocked by Genji’s conduct to feel, for the moment,
any gratitude for the more than parental solicitude by which Ateki was
so deeply impressed. She had no desire whatever to see him again, and
yet in his absence felt strangely lonely and depressed.
[138] The box of autumn leaves. See above, p. 145.
[139] See vol. ii, p. 292.
[140] Yamabuki no Saki, a place in Ōmi, referred to in the _Gossamer
Diary_. See vol. ii, p. 28.
[141] A place in Yamashiro, also famous for its kerria flowers.
[142] Hōrai, fairyland, the Immortal Island.
[143] The mode of the second, beginning on alto A. Being so high it
was very difficult to play. It symbolized Spring.
[144] The tune which marked the return from the unusual ‘Spring’
tuning to the ordinary mode.
[145] ‘With a thread of green from the willow-tree—Ohé!
The nightingale has stitched himself a hat—Ohé!
A hat of plum-blossom, they say—Ohé!’
[146] Lest the enemy should see it.
[147] He thinks that Tamakatsura is Genji’s daughter, and therefore
his own niece. Union with a brother’s child was ill-viewed.
There are numerous puns, which it would be tedious to explain.
[148] The Japanese, as is well known, squat cross-legged on the
ground. But the use of chairs had spread with Buddhism from
Central Asia.
[149] One of the magical birds in Amida Buddha’s Paradise.
[150] Tamakatsura’s quarters.
[151] The married life of Confucius, like that of Socrates, was very
unhappy.
[152] From a poem written by Po Chü-i in 821, describing the pleasure
of returning to his own house after a spell of duty in the
Palace: ‘I sit at the window and listen to the wind rustling
among the bamboo; I walk on the terrace and watch the moon
rising between the trees.’
[153] See note on p. 235.
[154] See above p. 159. Ateki of course knew the secret of
Tamakatsura’s birth.