# A Wreath of Cloud/Chapter 6

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