# A Wreath of Cloud/Chapter 3

CHAPTER III
THE MAIDEN
In the spring of the next year 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. 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 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 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.’ 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 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,’ 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 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 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,’ 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, 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. 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 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 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’ he was badly defeated, in public affairs he carried all before him. By his various wives 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 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; and there did at one time seem to be a chance that so soon as the Crown Prince 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’ 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: ‘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, 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 cermonies of Investiture 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, 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?
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 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. 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. 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 someting 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….’
On New Year’s day Genji, being Grand Minister Extraordinary, did not go to Court, but following the precedent ​set by Fujiwara no Yoshifusa 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 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 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 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. Sochino 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’ 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 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 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 autumntime 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; 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. Opposite were the stables with stalls for his race-horses, 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 (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. 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 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.
* ↑ Genji is now 33.
* ↑ In the 4th month.
* ↑ The laurel and the hollyhock form the garlands worn by worshippers at this festival.
* ↑ Her mourning was of dark blue wistaria-colour.
* ↑ Her period of mourning is almost over. There is a play of words; fuji = wistaria, and fuchi = pool.
* ↑ The presents of gay clothing which are customarily made to a person who has just emerged from a period of mourning.
* ↑ The professors speak in a mixture of antiquated Japanese and classical Chinese the effect of which I do not attempt to reproduce.
* ↑ See my Nō Plays, p. 15 seq.
* ↑ In eight lines.
* ↑ Like Ch’e Yün and Sun K’ang, two Chinese scholars who had not money enough to buy candles (4th century A.D.).
* ↑ By Ssu-ma Ch’ien, 1st century B.C., a book somewhat longer than Gibbon’s Decline and Fall; by far the most distinguished Chinese historical work.
* ↑ The eldest daughter of Tō no Chūjō.
* ↑ Murasaki’s father, who was anxious to place his younger daughter at Court.
* ↑ See vol. ii, p. 86. The rhyme-words at the end of the verses were covered and the competitors had to guess them.
* ↑ His first wife was a daughter of the Minister of the Right.
* ↑ Akikonomu.
* ↑ Kumoi.
* ↑ The ex-Emperor Suzaku’s little son.
* ↑ 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.
* ↑ ‘Some such sorrow as mine they too must know, the wild-geese that with sorrowful cry trail through the country of the clouds.’
* ↑ A sister of Kōkiden.
* ↑ Of Akikonomu as Empress.
* ↑ Kumoi’s mother.
* ↑ With Fujitsubo, his father’s concubine.
* ↑ There is a legend which tells how certain dancing-maidens took the fancy of the gods and were snatched up to the sky.
* ↑ Koremitsu’s daughter.
* ↑ See vol. ii, pp. 96 and 129.
* ↑ 804–872 A.D.
* ↑ See vol. i, p. 239 seq.
* ↑ Allusion to the death of the old Emperor, Genji’s and Suzaku’s father.
* ↑ The song and dance ‘Warbling of the Spring Nightingales’ are attributed to the mythical Chinese Emperor Yao, 3rd millennium B.C.
* ↑ See above, p. 45.
* ↑ A machi is 119 yards.
* ↑ 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.
* ↑ Used for residence during the Kamo Festival.
* ↑ Plucked on the 5th day of the 5th month.
* ↑ Quercus dentata.
* ↑ 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.
* ↑ Goddess of the autumn; here compared to Akikonomu. The secondary meaning is ‘You must be more civil to Akikonomu now that she is Empress.’