# A Wreath of Cloud/Chapter 7

CHAPTER VII
THE GLOW-WORM
Genji was now in a singularly fortunate position. The government of the country lay wholly in his hands; but though his power was supreme, he was now seldom troubled by the uninteresting details of public business; for he had some while ago delegated all such minor decisions to Tō no Chūjō, and the arrangement continued to work very successfully. In varying ways and degrees his dependants naturally benefited by his increased leisure and security. Not only was he able to devote far more time to looking after their affairs, but they could also feel that, such as it was, their position was now something permanent and dependable; whereas in the old days, when the powers arrayed against him were still unshaken, they knew quite well that he might at any moment find himself far more in need of patronage than able any longer to dispense it. Most of them, even those who received a very small share of his attentions, were nowadays fairly well content with their lot; but the Princess in the Western Wing continued to view with great apprehension the imprudent turn which her guardian had lately given to their relationship, and different as were his manners from those of her persecutor on the Island, she was now scarcely less alarmed than in the weeks which preceded her flight. She felt that in first insisting on their playing the part of father and daughter, and then suddenly ​revealing himself in another character, he had taken advantage of her in a very mean way, and despite his protestations it seemed vain to suppose that, out of consideration for her at any rate, he would restrain himself sufficiently to avoid an open scandal. She had no one to whom she could turn, and now that she was face to face with the actual difficulties of life she realized far more acutely than she had even done as a child the irreparable loss which she had sustained in her mother’s death.
Genji, on his side, was exceedingly vexed with himself for having acted so imprudently. He had not breathed a word about the matter to any one, and being anxious to convince himself that his behaviour on that unlucky night had been altogether exceptional, he visited her frequently and, apart from a few rather ambiguous remarks (which however he was careful never to let fall in the presence of her gentlewomen and attendants) he behaved in a manner to which exception could not be taken. Each time that he began to venture on dangerous ground she felt her heart beat violently and, if he had been any one else, would have cut him short and sent him about his business. But as it was she merely pretended not to notice what he was saying.
She was naturally of a very cheerful and lively disposition, so that she made friends easily. Prince Sochi and her other suitors, though they themselves had obtained so little encouragement from her, continued to hear on all sides nothing but praises of her good looks and general charm. They therefore redoubled their efforts; but to their chagrin the rains of the fifth month had already set in without any sign that their industry was likely to be rewarded.
Among some letters which Tamakatsura was showing to him Genji found one from Prince Sochi: ‘If you could ​but find it in your heart to admit me for one single moment to your presence, you would earn my undying gratitude, even though I should never see you again. For I should thus enjoy a respite, the first for many months, from the tortures which I now endure….’ ‘I have never seen Prince Sochi making love,’ said Genji as he read the letter. ‘It would be a sight worth seeing. Please tell him he may come,’ and he began suggesting the terms in which she should reply. But the idea did not at all appeal to her, and alleging that she was feeling giddy and could not, at the moment, possibly handle a pen, she attempted to lead the conversation into other channels. ‘But there is no need that you should write yourself,’ said Genji, returning to his project; ‘we will dictate a letter between us.’
Among Tamakatsura’s gentlewomen there was none in whom she placed any great confidence. The only exception was a certain Saishō no Kimi, a daughter of her mother’s younger brother, who seemed to have far more sense than most young women. Hearing that this girl was in difficult circumstances Tamakatsura had sent for her to see what could be done; and finding that Saishō was not only the sort of person whom it would be useful in a general way to have about her, but was also an unusually good pen-woman, she retained this young cousin in her service. Genji, who knew that Tamakatsura often used the girl as her amanuensis, now sent for Saishō and proceeded to dictate a letter. For he was consumed by an overwhelming curiosity to see how his half-brother, with whose conduct in all other situations he was so familiar, would conduct himself at such an interview as this. As for Tamakatsura, she had, since the occasion of Genji’s unpardonable indiscretion, begun to pay a good deal more attention to the communications of her suitors. She had no reason to give any preference to Prince Sochi; but he, as much as any other ​husband, represented a way of escape from the embarrassment in which she found herself. She was, however, far from having ever thought of him seriously in this connection.
Little knowing that his success was due to a whim of Prince Genji’s rather than to any favourable impression that his own suit had made, Sochi no Miya in great elation rushed round to the New Palace and presented himself at Tamakatsura’s door. He could not complain of his treatment; for he was at once accommodated with a divan which was only a few paces from her curtains-of-state. He looked about him. On every side he recognized such presents and appurtenances as far more commonly emanate from a lover than from a parent. The air was laden with costly perfumes. There were hangings, brocades, a thousand trifles any one of which would have been enough to arouse in Sochi’s heart the suspicion that Genji, from whom he was convinced that those bounties flowed, was not her father. And if he was not her father, then inevitably, as Sochi ruefully recognized, he must be reckoned with as a serious rival. Tamakatsura herself made no effort to converse with him or even answer his questions. Her maids seemed quite incapable of replying on her behalf, and when even Saishō, reputed to be so capable in every emergency, continued to sit in awkward silence, Genji whispered: ‘What is the matter with you all? Have you become rooted to your seats? Get up, do something…. Be civil!’ But all this had no effect. They merely stared helplessly in front of them.
The evening was now drawing in, and as the sky was very much overcast the room was almost dark. Beyond her curtains Tamakatsura could just discern the motionless form of her suitor, gracefully outlined against the gloom, while from her side a stirring of the evening air would occasionally carry towards him a fragrance enhanced by ​a strange perfume which, though it was familiar to him, he could not then identify. The room seemed full of diverse and exquisite scents that inflamed his imagination, and though he had previously pictured her to himself as handsome, he now (as these perfumes floated round him) thought of her as a hundred times more beautiful than he had ever done before. Her curtains were thick and it was now quite dark. He could not see her and could only guess that she was still near him; but so vividly did she now appear before his mind’s eye that it was as though no barrier were between them, and he began to address her in the most passionate terms. There was now in his style no longer anything of the professional courtier or hardened man-of-the-world. The long outpouring to which Genji, ensconced in his corner of her curtained dais, now listened with considerable emotion, was natural, direct—almost boyish. When it was over, Prince Sochi was rewarded by a note from Saishō, informing him that her mistress had some time ago retired to the inner room! ‘This is too bad!’ whispered Genji, creeping to the door of her refuge (he had himself been so intent upon his brother’s eloquence that he had not seen her slip away). ‘You cannot simply disappear while people are talking to you. You are governed by absurd pre-conceived notions, and never stop to consider the merits of the case in question. To treat any visitor, and above all a person of Prince Sochi’s standing, in the manner I have just witnessed would not be tolerated in a child; and in your case, seeing that you are a grown woman not without some experience of Court life, such behaviour is insufferable. Even if you are too shy to converse with him, you might at least sit within reasonable distance….’ ​Genji had never yet pursued her into the inner room; but she had no doubt that on the present occasion, in his eagerness to reform her manners, he would have no scruple in doing so; and reluctantly she left her place of retreat and once more seated herself near the edge of her curtained daïs. Sochi now attempted to begin a more general conversation, but no topic seemed to arouse her interest. Suddenly her attention was distracted by a light which had begun to glimmer quite close to where she sat. It seemed to move when Genji moved. She now saw him go to her curtains-of-state and, at a certain point, hook back the inner curtain, leaving only a single thickness of light transparent stuff. Here he suspended something bright, that looked like a paper candle…. What was he doing? She was dumbfounded.
The fact was that on his way to her apartments earlier in the evening Genji had encountered an unusual number of glow-worms. Collecting them in a thin paper bag he had concealed this improvised lantern under the folds of his cloak and, on his arrival, disposed of it in a safe corner. Startled by the sudden glow of light, Tamakatsura snatched up her fan and buried her face behind it, not before Sochi had caught an enchanting glimpse of her beauty. This was just what Genji had intended. The attentions which his brother had hitherto paid to Tamakatsura were, he suspected, due solely to the fact that Sochi had accepted the current story and imagined her indeed to be Genji’s daughter. He knew that, despite her fame as a delightful accession to the Court, Prince Sochi could have but a vague conception of her charm; and in order that he might the sooner escape from his own dilemma he was determined that Sochi should no longer merely pay formal court to the girl, but should really lose his head about her. He imagined that he was now at any rate indisputably playing ​the part of a fond and disinterested parent. A strange delusion! For had he reflected for a moment he would have seen that nothing would ever have induced him so crudely to thrust his own daughter, the Princess of Akashi, upon a suitor’s notice. He now stole away by a back door and returned to his own apartments.
Sochi was feeling much encouraged. He now discredited Saishō’s note and imagined that the lady had been sitting during the whole time of his discourse in the position where the light of the glow-worms revealed her. ‘After all,’ he thought to himself, ‘I have interested her. She listens patiently and apparently even likes to be near me.’ And with that he pulled back the light gauze flap at the part of her curtains where Genji had removed the thick inner hanging. She was now but a few feet away from him, and though a bag of glow-worms makes no very famous illumination, he saw enough by this fitful and glimmering light to confirm his impression that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. In another moment Tamakatsura’s maids, summoned hastily to the scene, had detached the strange lantern and carried it somewhere out of sight.
Genji’s stratagem was indeed abundantly successful. This momentary vision of Tamakatsura huddled disconsolately upon her couch had profoundly disturbed him. ‘Does the harsh world decree that even the flickering glow-worm, too shy for common speech, must quench the timid torchlight of its love!’ So he now recited; and she, thinking that if she appeared to be taking much trouble about her reply, he would suppose she attached more importance to the matter than was actually the case, answered instantly: ‘Far deeper is the glow-worm’s love that speaks in silent points of flame, than all the passions idle courtiers prate ​with facile tongue.’ She spoke coldly; moreover she had now withdrawn to the far side of her dais. For some while he pleaded in vain against this inhospitable treatment. But he soon saw that he would gain nothing, even should he stay where he was till dawn; and though he could hear by the water dripping from the eaves that it was a most disagreeable night, he rose and took his leave. Despite the rain the nightingales were singing lustily; but he was in no mood to enjoy their song and did not pause an instant to hear them.
On the fifth day of the fifth month, business at the Stables brought Genji in the direction of her apartments, and he availed himself of this opportunity to discover what had happened on the night of Sochi’s visit. ‘Did the prince stay very late?’ he asked. ‘I hope you did not let him go too far. He is the sort of man who might very easily lose control of himself … not that he is worse than others. It is really very unusual indeed to meet with any one who is capable of acting with self-restraint under such circumstances.’ And this was the match-maker who on the very occasion to which he was now referring, had driven her into Prince Sochi’s arms! She could not help being amused at his unblushing inconsistency. But all the while he was warning her against the very man for whose visit he had himself been responsible. Tamakatsura scanning him in his holiday clothes thought that he could not, by any imaginable touch of art or nature, have looked more beautiful. That thin cloak—what a marvellous blend of colours! Did fairies preside over his dyeing-vats? Even the familiar and traditional patterns, she thought, on such days as this take on a new significance and beauty. And then looking again at Genji: ‘If only we were not on this tiresome footing,’ she said to herself, ‘I believe I should long ago have fallen very much in love with him.’
​A letter arrived. It was from Prince Sochi, written on thin white paper in a competent hand, and couched in terms which at the time seemed very spirited and apposite. I fear, however, that were I to reproduce it here, this admired letter would seem in no way remarkable, and I will only record the poem which accompanied it: ‘Shall I, like the flower that grows unnoticed by the stream though holiday-makers in their dozens pass that way, find myself still, when this day closes, unwanted and passed-by?’ The letter was attached to the tallest and handsomest flag-iris she had ever seen. ‘He is quite right,’ said Genji; ‘to-day there is no escape for you.’ And when one after another of her gentlewomen had pleaded with her that this once at any rate she should answer him with her own hand, she produced the following reply, which had, however, very little to do with what was going on in her mind: ‘Better had the flower remained amid the waters, content to be ignored, than prove, thus swiftly plucked, how feeble were the roots on which it stood.’
It was an idle repartee, and even the handwriting seemed to Prince Sochi’s expectant eye somewhat vague and purposeless. He was, indeed, not at all sure, when he saw it, that he had not made a great mistake…. Tamakatsura, on the other hand, was disposed to be in rather a good humour with herself. She had this morning received Magic Balls of the utmost variety and splendour from an unprecedented number of admirers. A more complete contrast than that between her poverty-stricken years on the island and her present pampered existence could hardly be imagined. Her ideas on a variety of subjects were becoming far less rigid than when she first arrived ​at the New Palace; and she began to see that provided her relationship with Genji could be maintained upon its present harmless footing she had everything to gain from its continuance.
Later in the day Genji called upon the lady in the Eastern Quarter. ‘The young men in the Royal Body Guard are holding their sports here to-day,’ he said. ‘Yūgiri will be bringing them back with him to his rooms and is counting on you to prepare for their entertainment. They will arrive just before sunset. There will also probably be a great deal of company besides; for ever since a rumour spread round the Court that we were secretly harbouring in the New Palace some fabulous prodigy of wit and beauty, an overwhelming interest has been taken in us, and we have not had a moment’s peace. So be prepared for the worst!’
Part of the race-course was not far away from this side of the palace and a good view could be obtained from the porticos and outer galleries. ‘You had better throw open all the garden-doors along the passage between this wing and the main house,’ he said. ‘The young people will see very well from there. The Bodyguard of the Right is exceptionally strong this year. In my opinion they are a far more interesting lot than most of the present high officers at Court.’ This whetted, as it was intended to do, the curiosity of the young people in that part of the house, and the galleries were soon thronged. The pages and younger waiting-women from Tamakatsura’s wing also came to see the sights and were accommodated at the open doors along the passage, the persons of quality being ensconced behind green shutters or curtains dyed in this new-fashioned way according to which the colour is allowed to run down into the fringe. Among the dresses of the visitors ​were many elaborate Chinese costumes, specially designed for the day’s festivity, the colour of the young dianthus leaf tending to prevail. The ladies who belonged to this wing had not been encouraged to make any special effort for the occasion and were for the most part in thin summer gowns, green without and peach-blossom colour within. There was a great deal of rivalry and harmless self-display, which was rewarded from time to time by a glance from one of the young courtiers who were assembled on the course.
Genji arrived on the scene at the hour of the Sheep, and found just such a concourse of distinguished visitors as he had predicted. It was interesting to see the competitors, whom he knew only in their official uniforms, so differently arrayed, each with his following of smartly dressed squires and assistants. The sports continued till evening. The ladies, although they had a very imperfect understanding of what was going on, were at least capable of deriving a great deal of pleasure from the sight of so many young men in elegant riding-jackets hurling themselves with desperate recklessness into the fray. The finish of the course was not so very far from Murasaki’s rooms, so that her gentlewomen too were able to get some idea of what was going on. The races were followed by a game of polo played to the tune of Tagyūraku. Then came a competition of rival pairs in the Nasori. All this was accompanied by a great din of bells and drums, sounded to announce the gaining of points on one side and another. It was now getting quite dark and the spectators could barely see what was going on. The first part of the indoor entertainment which came next consisted in the distribution of prizes among the successful riders. Then followed a great banquet and it was very late indeed when the guests began ​to withdraw. Genji had arranged to sleep that night in the Eastern Wing. He sat up a long while talking to the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. ‘Did you not think to-day,’ he said, ‘that Prince Sochi was immeasurably superior to any of the other visitors? His appearance is of course not particularly in his favour. But there is something in his manners and mode of address which I at any rate find very attractive. I was able recently to observe him on an occasion when he had no reason to believe that he was being watched, and came to the conclusion that those who so loudly praise his wit and ingenuity have no idea what constitutes his real charm.’ ‘I know that he is your younger brother,’ she answered; ‘but he certainly looks considerably older than you. I am told that he has visited here very frequently during the last few months. But as a matter of fact I had not till to-day once set eyes on him since I saw him years ago when my sister was at Court. I confess I then had no idea that he would turn out so well as he has done. In those days it was his younger brother, the Viceroy of Tsukushi, whom I used to admire. But I see now that he had not the same princeliness of air and carriage which you rightly attribute to Prince Sochi.’ He saw that, brief as was the time she had spent in Prince Sochi’s company that day, she had already completely succumbed to his charms. He smiled, but did not draw her on into a general discussion of his guests and their merits or defects. He had always had a great dislike of those who cannot mention an acquaintance without immediately beginning to pick his character to pieces and make him seem utterly contemptible. When he heard the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers going into raptures over Prince Higekuro, he did indeed find it hard not to disillusion her, particularly as he was just then beginning to be somewhat alarmed lest this ​prince, whom he regarded as rather unsuitable, should in the end turn out to be the strongest candidate for Tamakatsura’s favour.
He and the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers had for years past been on terms merely of ordinary confidence and friendliness. It was assumed on this occasion as on others that they would presently retreat each to a separate resting-place. How and why had this assumption first begun? He could not remember, and felt that to-night he would very gladly have broken the rule. But she seemed to take for granted that he would presently wish to retire, and so far from resenting this or seeming to be at all depressed, she evidently felt highly gratified that her own quarters had been selected as the scene of a festivity the like of which she had not witnessed in person for a very great number of years. ‘The withered grass that even the woodland pony left untouched, to-day with the wild iris of the pool-side has been twisted in one wreath.’ Thus she expressed her gratitude and pride. He was touched that so small an event should mean so much to her, and answered with the verse: ‘The colt whose shadow falls upon the waters close where the wild-swan’s wing is mirrored in the lake, from iris and sweet marsh-marigold shall ne’er be far away.’ How easily was she now contented, and how vague had his own compliments become! ‘Though I so seldom manage to see you,’ he said, ‘I assure you I am never happier than when I am here.’ It would have been unlike her to take him to task for the insincerity of this last speech. She merely accepted it quietly and they parted for the night. He found that she had given up her own bed to him, and had all her things carried to another place. Had she not seemed so convinced that anything in the way of greatest intimacy was out of the question, he might have felt inclined on this occasion to suggest a different arrangement.
​This year the rainy season lasted much longer than usual, and whereas the monotony of the downpour is usually relieved by an occasional day of sunshine, this time there was nothing but one continuous drizzle for weeks on end. The inhabitants of the New Palace found it very hard to get through the day and tried one amusement after another. In the end they mostly betook themselves to reading illustrated romances. The Lady of Akashi had, among her other accomplishments, a talent for copying out and finely decorating such books as these; and being told that every one was clamouring for some occupation which would help them to get through the day, she now sent over a large supply to the Princess, her daughter. But the greatest enthusiast of all was Lady Tamakatsura, who would rise at daybreak and spend the whole day absorbed in reading or copying out romances. Many of her younger ladies-in-waiting had a vast stock of stories, some legendary, some about real people, which they told with considerable skill. But Tamakatsura could not help feeling that the history of her own life, should it ever come to be told, was really far more interesting than any of the tales with which her ladies sought to entertain her. True the sufferings of the princess in the Sumiyoshi Tale had at certain points a resemblance to her own experiences. But she could see no reason why for generations past so many tears of indignation and pity should have been shed over the fate of this princess at the hands of her unscrupulous lover. Judged as an episode, thought Tamakatsura, her own escape from the violence of Tayū was quite as exciting.
One day Genji, going the round with a number of romances ​which he had promised to lend, came to Tamakatsura’s room and found her, as usual, hardly able to lift her eyes from the book in front of her. ‘Really, you are incurable,’ he said, laughing. ‘I sometimes think that young ladies exist for no other purpose than to provide purveyors of the absurd and improbable with a market for their wares. I am sure that the book you are now so intent upon is full of the wildest nonsense. Yet knowing this all the time, you are completely captivated by its extravagances and follow them with the utmost excitement: why, here you are on this hot day, so hard at work that, though I am sure you have not the least idea of it, your hair is in the most extraordinary tangle…. But there; I know quite well that these old tales are indispensable during such weather as this. How else would you all manage to get through the day? Now for a confession. I too have lately been studying these books and have, I must tell you, been amazed by the delight which they have given me. There is, it seems, an art of so fitting each part of the narrative into the next that, though all is mere invention, the reader is persuaded that such things might easily have happened and is as deeply moved as though they were actually going on around him. We may know with one part of our minds that every incident has been invented for the express purpose of impressing us; but (if the plot is constructed with the requisite skill) we may all the while in another part of our minds be burning with indignation at the wrongs endured by some wholly imaginary princess. Or again we may be persuaded by a writer’s eloquence into accepting the crudest absurdities, our judgment being as it were dazzled by sheer splendour of language.
I have lately sometimes stopped and listened to one of our young people reading out loud to her companions and have been amazed at the advances which this art of fiction ​is now making. How do you suppose that our new writers come by this talent? It used to be thought that the authors of successful romances were merely particularly untruthful people whose imaginations had been stimulated by constantly inventing plausible lies. But that is clearly unfair….’ ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘only people who are themselves much occupied in practising deception have the habit of thus dipping below the surface. I can assure you that for my part, when I read a story, I always accept it as an account of something that has really and actually happened.’
So saying she pushed away from her the book which she had been copying. Genji continued: ‘So you see as a matter of fact I think far better of this art than I have led you to suppose. Even its practical value is immense. Without it what should we know of how people lived in the past, from the Age of the Gods down to the present day? For history-books such as the Chronicles of Japan show us only one small corner of life; whereas these diaries and romances which I see piled around you contain, I am sure, the most minute information about all sorts of people’s private affairs….’ He smiled, and went on: ‘But I have a theory of my own about what this art of the novel is, and how it came into being. To begin with, it does not simply consist in the author’s telling a story about the adventures of some other person. On the contrary it happens because the story-teller’s own experience of men and things, whether for good or ill—not only what he has passed through himself, but even events which he has only witnessed or been told of—has moved him to an emotion so passionate that he can no longer keep it shut up in his heart. Again and again something in his own life or in that around him will seem to the writer so important that he cannot bear to let it pass into oblivion. There must never ​come a time, he feels, when men do not know about it. That is my view of how this art arose.
‘Clearly then, it is no part of the story-teller’s craft to describe only what is good or beautiful. Sometimes, of course, virtue will be his theme, and he may then make such play with it as he will. But he is just as likely to have been struck by numerous examples of vice and folly in the world around him, and about them he has exactly the same feelings as about the pre-eminently good deeds which he encounters: they are important and must all be garnered in. Thus anything whatsoever may become the subject of a novel, provided only that it happens in this mundane life and not in some fairyland beyond our human ken.
‘The outward forms of this art will not of course be everywhere the same. At the Court of China and in other foreign lands both the genius of the writers and their actual methods of composition are necessarily very different from ours; and even here in Japan the art of story-telling has in course of time undergone great changes. There will, too, always be a distinction between the lighter and the more serious forms of fiction…. Well, I have said enough to show that when at the beginning of our conversation I spoke of romances as though they were mere frivolous fabrications, I was only teasing you. Some people have taken exception on moral grounds to an art in which the perfect and imperfect are set side by side. But even in the discourses which Buddha in his bounty allowed to be recorded, certain passages contain what the learned call Upāya or ‘Adapted Truth’—a fact that has led some superficial persons to doubt whether a doctrine so inconsistent with itself could possibly command our credence. Even in the scriptures of the Greater Vehicle there are, I confess, many such instances. We may indeed ​go so far as to say that there is an actual mixture of Truth and Error. But the purpose of these holy writings, namely the compassing of our Salvation, remains always the same. So too, I think, may it be said that the art of fiction must not lose our allegiance because, in the pursuit of the main purpose to which I have alluded above, it sets virtue by the side of vice, or mingles wisdom with folly. Viewed in this light the novel is seen to be not, as is usually supposed, a mixture of useful truth with idle invention, but something which at every stage and in every part has a definite and serious purpose.’
Thus did he vindicate the story-teller’s profession as an art of real importance.
Murasaki, who had first taken to reading romances in order to see whether they were suitable for her adopted daughter, the Princess from Akashi, was now deeply immersed in them. She was particularly fond of the Tale of Komano and showing to Genji an illustrated copy of it she said one day: ‘Do you not think that these pictures are very well painted?’ The reason that she liked the illustrations so much was that one of them showed the little girl in the story lying peacefully asleep in her chair, and this somehow reminded Murasaki of her own childhood. ‘And do you mean to tell me,’ asked Genji, ‘that such an infant as that has already, at this early point in the story, been the heroine of gallant episodes? When I remember the exemplary way in which I looked after you during your childhood I realize that my self-restraint is even more unusual than I supposed.’ It could not be denied that his conduct was in many ways unusual; but hardly, perhaps, exemplary in the common sense of the word. ‘I hope you are very careful not to allow the little princess to read any of the looser stories,’ he continued. ‘She would realize, I am ​sure, that the heroines of such books are acting very wrongly in embarking upon these secret intrigues; but I had much rather she did not know that such things go on in the world at all.’ ‘This is really too much!’ thought Murasaki. ‘That he should come straight from one of his interminable visits to Tamakatsura and at once begin lecturing me on how to bring up young ladies!’
‘I should be very sorry,’ she said, ‘if she read books in which licentious characters were too obviously held up to her as an example. But I hope you do not wish to confine her reading to The Hollow Tree. Lady Até certainly knows how to look after herself, in a blundering sort of way; and she gets her reward in the end, but at the expense of so grim a tenacity in all her dealings that, in reading the book, we hardly feel her to be a woman at all.’ ‘Not only did such women actually exist in those days,’ replied Genji, ‘but I can assure you that we have them still among us. It comes of their being brought up by unsocial and inhuman people who have allowed a few one-sided ideas to run away with them. The immense pains which people of good family often take over their daughters’ education is apt to lead only to the production of spiritless creatures whose minds seem to grow more and more childlike in proportion to the care which is lavished on their upbringing. Their ignorance and awkwardness are only too apparent; and after wondering in what, precisely, this superior education consisted, people begin to regard not only the children as humbugs but the parents as well.
‘On the other hand if the children happen to have natural talents, parents of this kind at once attribute the faintest sign of such endowment to the efficacy of their own inhuman ​system, and become distressingly pleased with themselves, using with regard to some very ordinary girl or stripling terms of the most extravagant eulogy. The world consequently expects much more of the unfortunate creatures than they can possibly perform, and having waited in vain for them to do or say something wonderful, begins to feel a kind of grudge against them….’
‘Overpraise,’ he added, ‘does a great deal of harm to the young. Servants are very dangerous in this respect….’ Nevertheless he did not object, as Murasaki had often noticed, to the little Princess from Akashi being praised by any one who came along, and he often put himself to immense trouble in order that she might escape a scolding which he knew she thoroughly deserved.
Step-mothers in books usually behave very spitefully towards the children entrusted to them. But he was now learning by his own experience that in real life this does not always happen. In choosing books for Murasaki and her charge he was therefore careful to eliminate those that depict step-mothers in the traditional light; for he feared she might otherwise think he was trying to give her a quite unnecessary warning.
Yūgiri, as has been said before, saw very little of Murasaki; but it was natural that he should sometimes visit his little sister, the Princess from Akashi, and Genji did not discourage this. On the contrary he was anxious to establish an affectionate relationship between them. For Genji, young though he still was, often thought of what would happen after his death, and he could imagine circumstances in which the princess might stand sorely in need of her brother’s help. He therefore gave the boy permission to visit her and even go behind her curtains-of-state as often as he chose, though he still forbad him to enter into conversation with Lady Murasaki’s gentlewomen. So few ​were the children of the house that a great deal more trouble was taken about them than is usually the case. Yūgiri certainly seemed to have repaid this care. In the ordinary affairs of life he showed great judgment and good-sense, and Genji had the comfortable feeling that whatever went amiss, Yūgiri at least could always be relied upon.
The little girl was only seven years old and dolls were still her principal interest. Yūgiri, who a year or two ago used so often to play just such games with his little companion at the Great Hall, made an excellent major-domo of the doll’s-house, though the part, bringing as it did a host of recollections to his mind, was often a painful one. Indeed more than once he was obliged to turn away for an instant, his eyes full of tears. During these visits he naturally met many of the princess’s other playmates, and a great deal of chattering took place on every conceivable subject. He took his share in these conversations; but he did not get to know any of the little girls at all well, nor did they, so far as he could see, take any particular interest in him. Was all that side of life forever to be closed to him? Yūgiri asked himself. But though this was the thought which instantly recurred to him during these meetings, his outward behaviour seemed only to betoken complete indifference. His green badge! Yes, it was that which lay at the bottom not only of these smaller troubles but also of the great disaster which had wrecked all his chances of happiness.
Sometimes the idea came to him that if he simply went straight to Kumoi’s father and tackled him about the matter—insisted, shouted, made a great scene—Tō no Chūjō would suddenly give in. But he had suffered enough ​already in private; there was nothing to be gained by also making himself publicly ridiculous. No, the better way was to convince Kumoi herself by his behaviour, above all by a complete and obvious indifference to the rest of the world, that so far as his own feelings were concerned nothing was altered by one jot or tittle since the day when he first told her of his love.
Between him and her brothers slight difficulties were always arising which resulted, for the time being, in a certain coldness. For example, Kashiwagi, Kumoi’s eldest brother, in ignorance of the fact that Lady Tamakatsura was his sister, continued to pay his addresses to her, and finding that his letters often failed to reach their destination, naturally turned to Yūgiri for assistance. Never once did he offer to perform a similar service in return, though it was presumably as easy for him to see Kumoi as it was for Yūgiri to see Tamakatsura. The request irritated him and he firmly refused. Not that they ceased to be friends; for their relationship, like that of their fathers, had always been built up of small rivalries and feuds.
Tō no Chūjō had an unusually large number of children, most of whom had amply fulfilled, as regards both popularity and attainments, the high promise of their early years. His position in the State had enabled him to do extremely well for all his sons. As regards his daughters (who were, however, not so numerous) he had been less fortunate. His plans for the future of the eldest girl had entirely miscarried; he had signified his desire to present Lady Kumoi at Court, but had hitherto received no command to do so. He had not in all these years ever forgotten the little girl who, along with her mother, had so mysteriously disappeared, and sometimes spoke of her to those who had at the time been aware of his attachment to that unhappy ​lady. What had become of them both? He imagined that her strange timidity had driven the mother to take flight with that exquisite child into some lonely and undiscoverable place. He fell into the habit of staring hard into the face of every girl whom he met; and the commoner, the more ill-clad and wretched the creature was, the surer he became that this was his lost child. For the lower she had sunk, the less likely it was that she would be able to persuade any one that she was indeed his daughter. It was impossible, he felt, that sooner or later one or other of his agents should not get news of her, and then what reparation he would make for the down-trodden existence that she must now be leading! He told his sons her child-name and begged them to report to him immediately if they should ever come across any one who bore it. ‘In my early days,’ he said, ‘I am afraid I became involved in a great many rather purposeless intrigues. But this was quite a different matter. I cared for the mother very deeply indeed, and it distresses me intensely that I should not only have lost the confidence of the lady herself, but also have been able to do nothing at all for the one child that bore witness to our love.’
For long periods, especially if nothing happened to remind him of the matter, he succeeded in putting it out of his head. But whenever he heard of any one adopting a stray girl or taking some supposed poor relation into their house, he at once became very suspicious, made innumerable enquiries and was bitterly disappointed when it was finally proved to him that his supposition was entirely unfounded.
About this time he had a curious dream, and sending for the best interpreters of the day asked them what it meant. ‘It seems to mean,’ they said, ‘that you have at last heard what has become of a child that you had lost sight of for ​many years, the reason that you have failed to discover her being that she is thought by the world at large to be some one else’s child.’ ‘Heard what has become…’ he faltered. ‘No, on the contrary I have heard no such thing. I cannot imagine what you are talking about.’
* ↑ Tamakatsura.
* ↑ Tayū.
* ↑ It is unlucky to marry in the fifth month.
* ↑ The rare perfume which Genji wore.
* ↑ Sochi had been addressing her through her curtains-of-state. She crept away in the darkness as an animal at the Zoo might slink into its back cage. Genji was, of course, all the time with her behind her curtains.
* ↑ Oboye-naki ‘fame-less.’ I retain this idiom as it corresponds curiously with ours.
* ↑ Irises were plucked on the fifth day of the fifth month.
* ↑ Balls made of coloured stuffs, with scent-bags in the middle. Supposed to ward off disease.
* ↑ The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers.
* ↑ 1 p.m.
* ↑ ‘Hitting the Ball Tune.’
* ↑ A Korean dance.
* ↑ The story of a misused step-child. It is no longer extant, the text which bears this name being merely a 15th-century adaptation of the Room Below Stairs.
* ↑ A disagreeable old man to whom her step-mother tried to marry her.
* ↑ The Mahāyāna, the later development of Buddhism which prevailed in Tibet, China and Japan.
* ↑ Now lost.
* ↑ See vol. ii, p. 15. Lady Até refuses suitor after suitor. Finally she marries the Crown Prince and lives happily ever after. The book seemed as old-fashioned to Murasaki as Hannah More’s novels do to us.
* ↑ The mark of the sixth rank. Genji, it will be remembered, had refused to promote him.
* ↑ His failure to win Tū no Chūjō’s daughter, Lady Kumoi.
* ↑ He had hoped to get Lady Chūjō made Empress.