CHAPTER V

FUJI NO URABA

Despite his friendship for the little Princess, Yūgiri had shown no interest in the recent proceedings at the New Palace. He had indeed lately heard that the ‘watchman of the gate,’[58] worn out by a vigil so unexpectedly prolonged, already showed signs of collapse. The boy, extremely sensitive to rebuffs, would far rather that the first step should be taken by the other side, and though constantly planning to approach his uncle, he felt when it came to the point unable to do so unless Chūjō’s manner towards him in some way indicated that the rumoured change of attitude had really taken place.

Meanwhile Kumoi, convinced that Yūgiri’s engagement to the Nakatsukasa girl would soon be announced, was doing her best to wipe out from her thoughts all memory of the lover who had betrayed her. Thus, though in effect the way was now clear, a tangle of misunderstandings made it impossible for either side to advance. Her father, whose ill-judged obstinacy was responsible for the whole situation, was by now willing to make any compromise. Above all it was essential, at the cost of whatever humiliation, to forestall Prince Nakatsukasa’s definite and final offer, which did not seem yet to have been made. For after all that had happened it might be exceedingly difficult to procure the girl an even tolerable alliance. Despite all the precautions of her family Kumoi’s early friendship with Yūgiri had become known, and innocent though it had been, she would inevitably share in the discredit which attaches to the jilted. He foresaw indeed that belated efforts to find her a husband would involve both him and the girl herself in even greater humiliations than would ensue from an immediate surrender. This time he determined to approach the boy himself; but though they occasionally met and were to outward appearances on perfectly good terms, he found it very difficult to embark suddenly upon such a subject as this. To send for Yūgiri on purpose to discuss the matter seemed to be making altogether too much fuss about it, and would indeed mark a point of surrender beyond what, even in his present mood, he was prepared to bring himself to. At last, however, circumstances afforded just such an occasion as he sought. On the 20th day of the third month, the anniversary of his mother’s[59] death, a memorial service was held at the Gyokurakuji.[60] There was a great gathering of princes and noblemen, among whom Yūgiri, now grown to his full stature and to-day magnificently accoutred, cut no discreditable figure. The presence of Tō no Chūjō, who was of course in charge of the proceedings, always had the effect of damping Yūgiri’s spirits, and his particularly subdued cautious manner did not to-day escape his uncle’s notice. A special recitation of the scriptures was also held at Genji’s expense, and Yūgiri himself, as grandson of the deceased, was naturally responsible for many of the arrangements. They were all going home late in the afternoon amid a shower of falling blossoms, when Tō no Chūjō, overcome by the memories which had crowded to his mind during this melancholy celebration, paused for a moment to gaze upon the scene about him. Yūgiri too was deeply moved by the beauty of the evening and had also halted. There was a rainy feeling in the air, and some of their companions shouted to them to come on quickly if they did not want to catch a wetting. Turning round Tō no Chūjō saw that, like himself, Yūgiri was spellbound by the sadness of the closing day, and pulling him gently by the sleeve he said: ‘What does this mean? All day you have been doing your best to avoid me. I should have thought that on such an occasion you would have been willing to call a truce. I feel that to-day I have reached a turning-point in my life. I am beginning to be an old man, and I cannot afford to lose the affection of those who are growing up around me....’ ‘I remember,’ Yūgiri answered, ‘that before she died my grandmother begged me if I were ever in trouble to come first to you for advice. And I would gladly have done so, had you not made it clear that you had no wish at all to see me....’ But there the conversation ended; for the wind had suddenly risen, bringing with it a violent storm of rain, and the whole party were obliged to make for home as fast as they could.

Never before had Tō no Chūjō addressed such words to him; and though there was no direct allusion to the trouble over Kumoi, he could not help feeling that they were meant as a definite hint of encouragement. For Yūgiri’s thoughts were continually occupied by this subject, and he was apt to see a reference to it in the most ordinary remarks. Of this he was conscious, and all night long he turned over in his mind what Chūjō had said to him.

But in point of fact Yūgiri’s years-long patience had at last triumphed completely. If there was a slight further delay it was only because Tō no Chūjō was waiting for a not too inappropriate occasion upon which to make his full and unqualified surrender.

Early in the fourth month, one evening when the unusual magnificence of the wistaria in his courtyard (it had never been so profuse in blossom or so splendid in colour as this year) induced him to invite a few friends with whom to feast and make music, when the dusk was already gathering and the beauty of the flowers, as they gleamed in the half-night, was even more dazzling than before, Tō no Chūjō plucked a spray of the blossom and asked his son Kasiwagi to deliver it to Yūgiri with the message: ‘I should very much like to continue our conversation of a few days ago, and if you have nothing better to do, please come round and see me....’ Attached to the wistaria spray was the poem: ‘The wistaria in my garden is at its deepest hue, and now not many nights are left in which to see it shining through the dusk.’ Yūgiri could not for a moment doubt that this was the signal he had waited for. He thanked Kashiwagi for bringing the message and handed to him the poem: ‘Alas, I fear lest groping through the dusk I now may miss the hour when these deep-coloured blossoms shed their splendour on the night.’ ‘I am ashamed of this poem,’ he said to Kashiwagi, ‘and beg you to amend it in any way you can.’ ‘Are you not coming straight back with me?’ said the other. ‘No,’ answered Yūgiri decisively. ‘My retainers would be a trouble to you,’ and he sent Kashiwagi away. This took place in Genji’s presence, and looking at the poem, he said: ‘This of course is all you could desire. Well, I am glad it has happened at last. No doubt the other day’s proceedings awakened in him the feeling that he had often treated his mother very badly, and his present surrender is a sort of propitiation....’ This confident, off-hand tone jarred on Yūgiri. ‘I don’t think this invitation means anything out of the ordinary,’ he replied, blushing. ‘The wistaria is in bloom and they are having some music in the courtyard. It is quite natural that he should send for me....’ ‘Well, in any case,’ replied Genji, ‘he is evidently anxious to have you there, or he would not have sent Kashiwagi on purpose. You had better go at once.’ To a casual observer Yūgiri would have appeared at this moment apathetic—impassively obedient. But his heart within staggered with excitement, and in sheer intensity of expectation he almost fainted away. ‘Wait a minute!’ his father called after him. ‘That dark cloak will not do at all! It was well enough while you were a young nobody and did not attend the Council. But now you have every right to make a better show.... Let me lend you something,’ and sending a servant to his wardrobe, he presently displayed a whole pile of the most magnificent Court cloaks, one of which Yūgiri carried off to his own room. By the time his toilet was complete twilight had turned to darkness. He hurried to his uncle’s house, arriving just when Tō no Chūjō, to his chagrin, had decided that it was useless to expect him. He was led into the house by a band of some seven or eight young men, headed by Kashiwagi. A seat of honour had been set apart for him by Tō no Chūjō, who for the moment was absent, having gone to change his Court hat for a more comfortable form of head-dress. His wife and some young ladies-in-waiting helped him to change. ‘You must take a peep at our new guest,’ he said to them. ‘I saw him arriving a moment ago. He has really grown up into a most distinguished-looking young man; and he dresses admirably. He looks to me as though he would turn out to have more strength and decision of character than his father. Genji of course was always very good company; when one is with him, one is indeed so completely carried away by his high spirits and charm that the worries and difficulties of everyday life seem suddenly to lose all reality. But in public affairs he seems to me to suffer from a certain lack of earnestness, of gravity.... However, that may be a fault on the right side. Certainly this son of his has not inherited any such defect; I hear that he is a better scholar than his father, and is indeed a most serious and persevering character....’ Tō no Chūjō now rejoined his guests, and after the usual compliments had been exchanged he said to Yūgiri: ‘You should have come when the spring flowers were at their best. It was an astonishing sight this year. Every imaginable colour. But the spring treated us badly; never has its stay been so short. And now all that is left us to console ourselves with is these wonderful blossoms here, which are already almost in summer bloom. For my part I take an immense delight in them, and I hope that to you as well their colour has to-night a special significance ...’[61] and he smiled reassuringly. The moon had now risen, and having admired by its light what little was to be seen of the wistaria blossom, they settled down again to music and drink. Seeing that Yūgiri’s shyness required overcoming by some more drastic procedure than mere friendly encouragement, Tō no Chūjō affected to be more drunk than he actually was, and under cover of this pretence pressed the drink upon Yūgiri with a boisterous insistence. But the boy was determined to keep all his wits about him, and over and over again refused. ‘I hear,’ said Tō no Chūjō, ‘that you are becoming such a scholar as in these latter days we never hoped to see again. Perhaps that is why you are so cold towards your old acquaintances who can boast no such world-wide reputation. But even in your learned books I fancy there is a good deal about “family visits,” and there is a certain person,[62] very dear to those of your persuasion, who made such small formalities the groundwork of his teaching. You must know far more about all this than I do, and it can only be for some very particular reason that you so determinedly avoid your uncle’s house....’ Such a complaint came quite naturally amid the general sentimentality induced by wine and music. ‘Come,’ answered Yūgiri, ‘did nothing else attach me to you, the memory of my mother and grandmother would alone make me ready to serve you with my last breath, and I cannot conceive what I have done to merit such a reproach. It was you who in the first place gave me to understand that I was not welcome....’ Tō no Chūjō held his peace; but when a suitable opportunity occurred he rose to his feet and sang the old song: ‘If like the leaf ...’[63] while Kashiwagi, evidently at his father’s bidding, plucked a spray of wistaria blossom, the deepest-coloured and longest he could find, and twined it round the guest’s wine-cup. Yūgiri modestly protested; whereupon Tō no Chūjō recited the verse: ‘That as token of kinship this flower you should invoke I waited[64] till the blossom hung lower than the pine-boughs; then at last I humbled my pride.’

Yūgiri, holding the cup, made a slight obeisance, and answered: ‘Strange that through so many dewy springtimes I was doomed to pass before I met the season when this flower for me its blossom should unfold.’ So saying he handed the cup to Kashiwagi, and as it went the round every one in turn produced the best he could in the way of a poem. But amid the confused revel it was not likely that anything very good should come to light, and the verses that followed were even more ragged than those I have already quoted. The moon was only seven days old, and across the mirror of the silent lake hung a thin veil of mist. The trees still lacked their full profusion of summer green, and it was over bare and lonely-looking boughs that the wistaria, not merged as at a later season in the general mass of leafage, hung its heavy loads of blossom. Kōbal, whose voice was always in request upon such occasions, sang ‘The Hedge of Reeds’[65] very charmingly. ‘Come,’ broke in Tō no Chūjō, ‘no one has broken down any hedges here!’ and next time the refrain came he drowned it with the words: ‘Welcome to this ancient house!’[66] Soon all trace of embarrassment on either side had completely disappeared, and the party was kept up with a great deal of noisy singing and other merriment till a very late hour in the night. At last Yūgiri thought the time had come for a hint on his side, and pretending to be much more drunk than he really was, he said to Tō no Chūjō: ‘I am afraid I am not good for much more of this. Could you possibly allow me to sleep here to-night? My head goes round, and I doubt whether, even if I managed to set out for home, I should ever get there safely.’ ‘Kashiwagi!’ cried Tō no Chūjō, ‘a bed for Yūgiri! I would see to it myself, but I am already far more drunk than an old person of my age has any right to be, and I must ask you to continue the concert without me.’ So saying, he went straight to his room. ‘I know what it is,’ said Kashiwagi, turning to Yūgiri. ‘“You came to see the flowers, and with the flowers you would stay.” I’ll do what I can for you. But it may not be so easy as you suppose.’ ‘This is no wild fancy of the moment,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘Is not the pine-tree called “the lover of these flowers,” and does he not all the year “wait changeless till at their own time the blossoms come”? Bring me to her....’

Kashiwagi was not sure that this was what his father had intended, and was somewhat loath to take so great a responsibility; but he greatly admired Yūgiri and had always hoped that matters would end in this way. It was therefore without any great misgiving that he now led the way to his sister’s room....

* * * * *

Next day was the Festival of Buddha’s Baptism.[67] The priests carrying the sacred image arrived somewhat late, and it was evening when the little girls sent from the various quarters of Genji’s household arrived with their thank-offerings and alms. This part of the ceremony was carried out in Genji’s palace exactly as at Court, while Genji’s levée on the evening of the festival was even better attended than that held by the Emperor; so that the priests in charge of the image, who had got through the ordeal of appearing before the Emperor pretty comfortably, felt much less sure of themselves at this second and, as it seemed to them, far more critical gathering. But these proceedings did not in the least interest Yūgiri, who at an early hour put on his best clothes and hurried away towards Tō no Chūjō’s house. Several of the younger ladies-in-waiting at the New Palace, without being actually in love with him, had always taken a considerable interest in his doings, and were not best pleased to hear that his prolonged bachelordom had at last come to a close.

The accumulated longing of years, satisfied at last in a manner beyond the wildest dreams of either, made the union of these two young people into a basket[68] that certainly let no water through. Tō no Chūjō, too, liked Yūgiri more and more as he got to know him better, and lavished upon him every sort of attention. He could not help still feeling a little sore at having had to surrender in so abject a manner. At the same time he had a great respect for the tenacity and single-heartedness which Yūgiri had displayed in the face of every discouragement during these last years, and he bore the boy no grudge at all. There was a certain feeling against him in the household, for Kumoi had now grown to be indubitably prettier and in every way more interesting than her sister, Lady Chūjō. This had for some time past excited the jealousy of Lady Chūjō’s mother and of such gentlewomen as sided with her; and this faction in the household did its best to keep Yūgiri in his place. But Kumoi’s mother[69] and many other people were delighted to hear of the engagement.

[68] There is a proverb ‘It is no use pouring water into a basket.’ _Augo_ means ‘union,’ and also ‘basket,’ ‘wicker panier.’

[69] A princess with whom Tō no Chūjō had had an intrigue in early days. Subsequently she morganatically married a Provincial Inspector.

The Akashi Princess’s actual move into the Crown Prince’s palace was fixed for the 20th of the fourth month. Meanwhile Murasaki expressed a desire to visit the August Birthplace.[70] The other ladies of the household were eager to accompany her; but she did not like the idea of a huge miscellaneous excursion, and in the end she confined the party to her own gentlewomen and servants. Even as it was there were twenty coaches, but everything was done as unostentatiously as possible, and the number of outriders was extremely small. The visit to the Shrine was made very early on the morning of the Festival,[71] and Murasaki was back in time to view the processions from the usual Stand. There was a good deal of rough hustling and pushing among the grooms and outriders of various ladies, each of whom was determined to secure a prominent place for her equipage; but as soon as Murasaki’s carriage came in sight the rest fell back respectfully to let her pass. Genji, who was already waiting in the Stand, could not but recollect how at that other Kamo Festival years ago there had been an awkward clash of coaches. ‘I am glad you got through without any trouble,’ he said. ‘There is often a good deal of ill-feeling on these occasions. I am afraid the favourite of the moment is apt to abuse her power, sweeping mercilessly aside all who stand in her path. Yūgiri’s mother was by no means given to self-assertion. Yet her death was due to the resentment she incurred by allowing her servants to behave with insolence during one of these holiday encounters. It was the present Empress’s mother who suffered upon that occasion; and it is strange that whereas her child has reached the highest position to which any lady can aspire, poor Aoi’s son has only just begun to get on, even in the most modest way. We must never forget how uncertain everything in this world is. I have no reason to suppose that things will not now go smoothly with me to the end. But should you survive me, you might easily find yourself in a very precarious position....’

A number of princes and noblemen had now assembled near Murasaki’s Stand to pay her their respects, and Genji joined them. Kashiwagi was to-day the representative[72] of the Imperial Bodyguard, and it was at his father’s house that the gentlemen who now accompanied him had that morning assembled.

Koremitsu’s daughter, who, as will be remembered, now held a post in the Bedchamber, was also present as representative of her office. She was just now having a prodigious success at Court, and to-day her coach was attracting as great a throng of admirers as that of any lady from the Palace, the Crown Prince’s apartments or the Sixth Ward.[73] Among those who paid their respects to her this morning was Yūgiri. He had courted her in old days, in a somewhat half-hearted way it is true, but the news of his sudden engagement to the daughter of so eminent a house piqued her more than she would have expected. ‘If on no other day, then surely with this wreath[74] about your brow, lady, you call to mind that once we met!’[75] Such was the poem that he handed into her coach, and distracted though she was by the importunities of her admirers, she was touched that he should remember her at such a moment, and despite the fact that a carriage-seat is no place for writing verse, she answered him with the poem: ‘That “hollyhock” spells “meeting” is for scholars to conclude. They know it not who pluck the flowers, nor they that weave them as a crown about their brow.’ It was not meant seriously; but Yūgiri felt that it was a snub and retired, somewhat surprised to find that in his present happiness any other woman’s reply could make the slightest difference to him.

It was usual, when the Heir Apparent’s consort was of very immature age, for her to be accompanied at Court by her mother or guardian. Murasaki had adopted the Akashi Princess in its infancy, and according to the usual practice it would now be she who followed the girl to the Eastern Palace. But Genji would not sanction a plan that involved continual and prolonged absence from home, and the opportunity seemed an excellent one for restoring the child to the care of her true mother, the Lady of Akashi. Murasaki had long felt that the separation of the girl from her mother, though from a worldly point of view advantageous to her, was an arrangement too inhumane to be otherwise than temporary. The little Princess herself, now that she was of an age to understand the situation, was obviously becoming more and more dissatisfied with it. To stand in the way of a reunion which promised so much happiness on both sides was out of the question, and on her own initiative Murasaki said to Genji: ‘Would it not be possible for the Lady from Akashi to go with the child to the Eastern Palace? She still needs a lot of looking after, and almost all her ladies are far too young to be much use in that respect. She has her nurses, of course, who will do all they can. But there are many points which people of that kind cannot reasonably be expected to decide. Were I myself to take charge of her I could not possibly be on the spot all the time. I would much rather she had some one who could give undivided attention....’ What a comfort that she took so sensible a view! Genji hastened to inform the mother of this decision, and her delight was touching to behold. Indeed, her only anxiety was lest after all these years of retirement she should herself have become too dowdy to mingle with the bevy of resplendent young creatures who had been chosen for her daughter’s service, and she began hastily providing herself with a new outfit.

Her mother, the old recluse’s wife, heard with profound relief that the little girl’s prospects were now finally assured, and henceforward she clung desperately to life, despite many infirmities and troubles, in the one hope that she might see her grandchild again before she went down into the grave. But she lived a long way from the Court, and at last began to wonder disconsolately whether the meeting would ever really take place.

On the night of the actual Presentation Murasaki accompanied the child in the hand-litter which was to convey her to the Eastern Palace. It was open to the Lady of Akashi to follow on foot, and as far as she herself was concerned she would have been ready enough to do so. But she feared that her presence would spoil the effect of the Princess’s entry, and remained for the time being in her own apartments, feeling, as may well be imagined, very unwanted and forlorn. The ceremony of introduction was, at Genji’s request, performed with as little publicity as possible. But it is in any case an elaborate affair, such as is bound to arouse a good deal of interest. While dressing the little Princess in all the finery that this trying occasion demanded, Murasaki could not help passionately wishing that this lovely child were really hers. And to Genji as well as to Yūgiri the same thought occurred: if only this one thing were not lacking, surely Lady Murasaki would be the happiest, the most fortunate woman on earth!

After three days she left the Palace, and on the way out met the child’s own mother, who had now come to take charge. They got into conversation, and Murasaki said: ‘Seeing the little Princess in these grown-up clothes has reminded me how long it is since you first came to live with us. I think, having been neighbours all these years, we ought by now to know one another a little better than we do....’ It was not an easy conversation to get started, but Murasaki’s manner was so obviously kindly and sympathetic that a friendship was soon struck up between them. Murasaki, for her part, was so much attracted by the other’s manner and way of speaking that she soon well understood Genji’s admiration for her; while the Lady of Akashi could not fail to be delighted by Murasaki’s noble bearing and faultless beauty. She felt it to be perfectly natural that among all the women who had received Genji’s favours, this lady should always have held the unquestioned supremacy; she thought indeed at this moment that even to have been set beside her as the humblest participant in Genji’s affection was an honour of which she might justly be proud.

Murasaki’s return was attended by great pomp and solemnity. She was permitted the use of a hand-litter, a privilege usually restricted to the Emperor’s consorts, and the Lady of Akashi, as she watched her leave the Palace, once more felt for a moment painfully conscious of her own utter inferiority.

The sight of her lovely child, waiting for her with a doll-like and neat composure, was more than she could bear, and so near are the outward signs of grief and joy that no one seeing her then could have guessed that the tears which now rushed to her eyes were those of the purest and tenderest delight. For years it had seemed as though fate were utterly against her, and she were destined to drift on only into greater depression and obscurity. But now a brighter prospect had opened, and remembering her pious father’s constant prayers and oblations she could not but think that it was the God of Sumiyoshi who had at last set her fortunes on a fairer course.

The little Princess had been so carefully brought up by Murasaki that she needed very little guidance. Every one in the Eastern Palace was at once charmed by her beauty and friendly disposition, not least the Crown Prince himself. For, mere child though he was, he could not fail to perceive that she far outshone all other companions whom fate had put in his way. Those whose designs had been frustrated by the little Princess’s arrival made a point of speaking disparagingly in his Highness’s presence of the child’s mother, saying with mock sympathy that it would be a great handicap to her at Court to have so homely a creature always at her side. But such remarks had no effect. Not only was the child unusually quick-witted, but it soon became apparent that she already possessed considerable will and character of her own. Her every whim was now gratified, and as many of her ladies had admirers among the most fashionable young noblemen at Court, her rooms became the scene of the most dazzling fêtes and receptions. It was indeed all the Lady of Akashi could do to keep the ladies-in-waiting in proper trim for all these festivities, after she had attended to the Princess’s outfit and made the necessary household arrangement. Murasaki managed occasionally to visit them, and was delighted to find that there was in the Lady of Akashi’s manner towards her no longer any of the distrust and coldness which had for so long made it wellnigh impossible for them to meet.

Genji, who could never think of himself as living to any great age, was profoundly thankful that he had now provided for his daughter in a manner which seemed to make her happiness assured. And even Yūgiri, whose excellent qualities of heart had seemed at one time likely to condemn him to a state of permanent unsettledness and despondency, was now happily provided for.... It seemed in fact to Genji at this time that all the worst dangers and difficulties of his life had been successfully overmounted, and that he might now even manage to arrive at the finish without any very serious disaster. Were he to die now his only anxiety would be on Murasaki’s behalf; but so long as Akikonomu, who had always regarded her as a second mother, retained her influence, Murasaki was not likely to come to any great harm. Moreover, as foster-mother of a future Empress she would be certain of a considerable position at Court even in the event of Akikonomu’s death or retirement.

He sometimes had qualms about the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. She, poor thing, certainly did not have a very gay time of it; but for the moment she had Yūgiri to keep an eye on her. Generally speaking, he could remember no time at which his affairs had been in such hopeful trim.

Next year would see his fortieth birthday, and he heard that both at Court and in the country at large great preparations were afoot for celebrating this event. Already in the autumn of the present year he was proclaimed equal in rank to an Imperial Parent, and his fiefs and patronage were correspondingly increased. His actual power had for a long time past been absolute and complete, so that these changes brought him no great advantage. Indeed, in one respect they were inconvenient; for in defiance of a very well-established precedent he was burdened with the special retinue of his new rank, which, magnificent though it made his public appearances, rendered his comings and goings in the Palace very burdensome, and he was no longer able to meet the Emperor so often as he desired.

Ryōzen still felt acutely the illegality of his own position and would at any moment have been prepared to resign the Throne, had not Genji refused to sanction such a step, pointing out that it would have a disastrous effect on public opinion if it became known that the true line of succession had been impaired.

Tō no Chūjō of course succeeded to the position which Genji had vacated, and Yūgiri at last became a Palace Counsellor. On the day when the new officers went to Court to receive their Investiture Tō no Chūjō was greatly struck by the improvement in the boy’s carriage and appearance. For the first time he felt that Kumoi would after all be far better off with this young man as her devoted slave and protector than she would ever have been in the Palace, where she could not at best hope for more than a perfunctory share of the Emperor’s attention.

Yūgiri’s new estate required more spacious quarters than were available in his father’s palace, and soon after his promotion he moved into his grandmother’s old house in the Third Ward. It was somewhat out of repair, but the damage was soon put to rights, and the Princess’s former apartments were modified to suit the requirements of the newly-married pair. For both of them the place was full of old and tender memories. They could remember as clumps of scraggy, freshly planted trees, plantations that now yielded an ample shade, and one bed of miscanthus, planted by the old Princess herself, had by now grown so thick and tangled that they were obliged to thin it out and cut it back, lest it should keep the sun off the plants around. The moat too needed clearing out and, when fresh water-plants had been set in it, looked very inviting. One lovely autumn evening the young pair stood by the water, talking of their childhood and of all the tribulations that were now happily overcome. Kumoi, among much that it was delightful to recall, could not help remembering several small incidents that had seemed to her of no significance at the time, but now made her somewhat uncomfortable in the presence of her grandmother’s old servants, most of whom had joyfully welcomed the opportunity of returning to their old positions. Yūgiri, gazing into the water, recited the poem: ‘Guardian of secrets, thou only could’st tell whither her soul is fled, but speakest not, O rock-fed wellspring of our house.’ To this Kumoi answered: ‘Of her that is departed no shadow haunts thy waters, O springlet, as calm and unrepentant thy waves flow onward to their goal!’

At this moment Tō no Chūjō, drawn hither by the beauty of the autumn leaves, came into the garden for a while on his way back from the Palace. The house, full once more of movement and life, looked (thought Tō no Chūjō) just as he had known it on many an autumn day in his parents’ lifetime, and as he wandered from one familiar spot to another it affected him strangely to find those whom he had recently thought of as mere children playing the part of dignified masters and possessors amid the scenes where he himself had once submitted to his elders’ rule. Yūgiri too seemed slightly embarrassed by the situation; he blushed noticeably when giving orders, and his manner was oddly subdued. They were, thought Tō no Chūjō, a singularly handsome and well-matched pair. Kumoi, indeed, was no very exceptional beauty; but the boy was certainly as graceful and well-built as any young man he knew. Glancing among some papers covered with practice-writing, Chūjō noticed the poems about the wellspring which the young pair had just composed. Deeply moved, he said: ‘I too have it in my heart to invoke the spirit of this familiar stream; but for one who stands so near the margin of the grave....’[76] Nevertheless, he took a brush and wrote the verse: ‘Long must it be indeed since the old tree withered; for already its seedlings spread their green roots across the shaded earth.’ Some of the old Princess’s aged servants were sitting in a group near by, croaking mysterious tales of vanished wonders. Among them was Yūgiri’s old nurse. She had never forgiven Tō no Chūjō for his former harshness towards her young master, and overhearing the recital of his ‘seedling’ poem, she was unable to restrain her indignation and burst out with the lines: ‘Some of us have tended these two seedlings since first they put forth leaf, and have not only at this last hour discovered that they cast upon the earth a pleasant shade.’ This encouraged several of the other aged dames to vent their views, and Yūgiri for his part was much amused by their quaint impromptus. But Kumoi found their fulsome compliments somewhat embarrassing, and was glad when their inspiration ran out.

Late in the tenth month the Emperor declared his intention of visiting Genji in the New Palace. Knowing that the maple leaves would be particularly lovely at this season, he invited the ex-Emperor Suzaku to accompany him. The visit of a reigning sovereign and his predecessor to the house of a subject had seldom if ever occurred before, and the event aroused great interest throughout the country. The simultaneous reception of two such august visitors was a matter that required much forethought, and the dazzling preparations which Genji set afoot cost him hours of deliberation.

The guests arrived at the hour of the Serpent.[77] The first ceremony was a parade of the Bodyguards of the Right and Left, who lined up beside their horses exactly as at the Imperial Race-meeting in the fifth month. Early in the afternoon the Emperor proceeded to the Main Hall. All the plank bridges and galleries along which he passed were carpeted with costly brocades, and his progress was screened from the public gaze by heavy canvas curtains painted with landscape scenery. At the Eastern Lake the party embarked on boats, and the head cormorant-fisher from the Palace, combined with Genji’s men, gave a display with his birds, who brought up a number of small gibel in their beaks. This fishing display was not part of the original programme, but was improvised at the last moment, lest the royal personages should be bored on the way from the parade-ground to the main palace. Every knoll in the gardens was crowned by the scarlet of maple leaves; but nowhere were they in better colour than in Akikonomu’s Western Garden, and in order that his Majesty might in passing have a better view of them, part of the wall that divided her domain from the Great Gardens had been hastily removed.

The seats of the two visitors had been placed side by side in the Great Hall, with Genji’s at a considerable distance; but at the Emperor’s request Genji’s seat was brought into line with theirs. This treatment, which to those present appeared in the highest degree flattering, was indeed far less than the Emperor would have liked to do for Genji, before whom the laws of filial piety demanded that he should kneel in humble reverence. The fish caught on the lake were to be submitted to the Emperor’s approval by the Colonel of the Bodyguard of the Left. Meanwhile Genji’s falconers returned from the Northern Fields with a string of birds which were handed over to the Colonel of the other Guard, who entering the Main Hall by the eastern doors submitted the game kneeling at one side of the steps,[78] while the fish were displayed on the other side. Tō no Chūjō, at his Majesty’s command, directed the cooking of these viands, which were served to the Emperor himself, while the princes and noblemen in attendance were offered a repast of the most appetizing kind, in which every dish was served in a manner to some degree out of the ordinary. When every one had had as much as he wanted and dusk was setting in, the musicians were sent for. It was not a formal concert, but there was some very lively dancing by various young pages from Court. The ex-Emperor Suzaku could not but remember the dancing at the Festival of Red Leaves years ago, an occasion which often came back to his mind. When the Ga-ō-on[79] was played, Tō no Chūjō’s sons, ten in all, danced to it with such success that the Emperor rewarded them with the gift of his own cloak, which Tō no Chūjō received on their behalf with an elaborate _budō_.[80] Genji was meanwhile recalling the day when he had been Tō no Chūjō’s partner in the Dance of the Blue Waves, and plucking a chrysanthemum he addressed to him the poem: ‘Though like this flower you have as time goes by put on a deeper hue, do you recall a day when in the autumn wind your sleeve flapped close to mine?’ Yes, then indeed (thought Tō no Chūjō) they were partners, and there was little to choose between them in rank and prospects. But now, despite the very important position he held, he knew well enough that, compared with Genji, he was in popular estimation a very insignificant person indeed. ‘Not to a flower shall I compare thee, who hidest amid the pomp of regal clouds, but to a star that shines out of an air stiller and clearer than our own.’ Such was Tō no Chūjō’s answer. By now the evening wind was stirring among the red leaves that lay heaped upon the courtyard floor, weaving them into patterns of brown and red. Here some pretty little boys, children of various noble houses, were imitating in play the dances of their elders. They wore blue and crimson tunics, and shirts of yellow with dark-red facings. Apart from their little Court hats they had no formal insignia, and it was a pretty sight to see them capering about amid the maple leaves, through which the setting sun now slanted its last rays. The professional musicians were not called upon to give any very exacting performance, and at an early hour the private playing began, led by the Emperor, who sent to the Palace Library for a selection of zitherns. Prompted by the beauty of the season and hour, one after another of the great personages there present called for his instrument and gave vent upon it to the feelings of the moment. Suzaku was deeply moved at hearing the familiar tones of Uda no Hōshi.[81] Turning to the Emperor he recited the verse: ‘Though, watcher of the woods, through many rainy autumns I have passed, such tints as these it never was my lot in any devious valley to behold.’ He said this in his usual tone of gentle complaint. The Emperor answered: ‘You speak as though mere leaves were on the ground; here rather has autumn woven a brocade that, could it be an heirloom, after-ages would covet to possess.’

Now that he was grown to full manhood the Emperor’s likeness to Genji was astonishingly complete. Equally striking was his resemblance to Yūgiri. The latter of course had not that complete self-possession and authority of manner which His Majesty had naturally acquired during his years of rule; but Yūgiri had distinctly the better complexion. He was now called upon to play the flute; among the courtiers who, drawn up along the steps, were singing the words of the tune was Tō no Chūjō’s son Kōbai, long famous for the beauty of his voice. It was indeed a memorable occasion, and one which it seemed that some special Providence must have contrived.

[58] Tō no Chūjō. Reference to a passage in the _Ise Monogatari_.

[59] Princess Omiya.

[60] The mausoleum of the Fujiwara family.

[61] Purple, a presage of high rank.

[62] Confucius.

[63] ‘If like the leaf of the wistaria through which the sun darts his rays transparently you give your heart to me, I will no more mistrust you.’

[64] The usual pun: _matsu_ = ‘pine-tree,’ and ‘wait.’

[65] ‘About that broken place in the reed-hedge, in the front hedge, some one has told my mother. I think it was that chatterbox my younger brother’s wife. For she saw you climbing over, and she it must have been who told.’

[66] From another old song.

[67] 8th day of the fourth month. Images of the Infant Buddha (four inches high, with right hand raised towards the sky) are carried in procession and sprinkled with water. The festival commemorates the occasion when the Rain Dragons sprinkled the head of the Infant Buddha.

[70] The place at the Kamo Shrine where the Goddess Tamayorihime gave birth to Wake-ikazuchi, the Thunder God. It is this event which the Kamo Festival commemorates.

[71] Fourth month.

[72] Each of the Palace departments was officially represented at the Kamo Festival.

[73] Genji’s palace.

[74] Wreath of hollyhock, _ao-hi_; also means ‘Day of meeting.’

[75] _Katsu_, once; _katsura_, ‘laurel’, also used for festival wreaths.

[76] He speaks of himself as though he were an old man.

[77] 9 a.m.

[78] Of the Imperial Dais.

[79] ‘Thanking for the Prince’s Favour,’ a Chinese dance.

[80] A form of obeisance so elaborate as to be almost a dance.

[81] Name of a famous Japanese zithern.