CHAPTER VI

WAKANA

(‘Young Shoots’)

PART I

For years past the ex-Emperor Suzaku had been ailing, though it was hard to say exactly what was wrong with him. Soon after his visit to Genji’s palace he became much worse, and began preparing himself for admission to the priesthood. He would indeed long ago have entered a monastery, had not his mother Lady Kōkiden, masterful as ever in her extreme old age, obstinately opposed such a step. But now she was dead, and the only remaining difficulty was the question of his family.

Oborozuki remained childless; but Lady Jōkyōden had borne him four children: one boy (the present Heir Apparent) and three girls. But he had another daughter, born to him by a certain Princess Wistaria, a younger sister of Lady Fujitsubo. Suzaku was extremely fond of this princess, and their daughter, Princess Nyosan, was undoubtedly his favourite child. But under the influence of Kōkiden, who had subsequently thrust Oborozuki upon him, he kept Nyosan’s mother very much in the background. After his abdication her life became more than ever dull and purposeless. In a short while she pined away and died.

Nyosan was, at the point we have reached in our story, about thirteen years old. Already the retreat that Suzaku had built for himself on the Western Hills was nearing completion; soon he would be immured for ever, and his one anxiety was to get this child started in life before he disappeared. The first consideration was her Initiation, which could not any longer be delayed. When Suzaku gave his children toys, it was always Nyosan who had the first choice, the others never getting the smallest trinket unless she had first refused it. You may imagine then with what care he now ransacked his treasury for rare and costly objects that might add splendour to the coming celebration.

Hearing that Suzaku was on the point of departure from the City, his son the Heir Apparent, accompanied by Lady Jōkyōden, came to pay him a farewell visit. Suzaku had never cared much for this Lady Jōkyōden, who had indeed been imposed upon him solely out of political considerations; but as mother of the future sovereign she was a person of great consequence at Court, and there were now many matters that he was glad to talk over with her. Having discussed his son’s future, about which he felt no forebodings, he said to his visitors: ‘It is the girls that I am worried about. I cannot imagine what will become of them. I have so often seen this sort of thing happen before. It is torture to foresee in every detail how they will be taken advantage of and insulted. When I say “they,” of course all this does not really apply to your children, you will no doubt see to it that they get properly settled. It is about Nyosan that I am chiefly troubled. I wish you would undertake to look after her....’ But this was asking a good deal. Nyosan’s mother, for whom the Emperor cared far more than for Jōkyōden, had behaved very disagreeably to her when their rivalry was at its height, and though Jōkyōden had no intention of avenging herself upon a defenceless orphan, she saw no reason why she of all people should be expected to assume responsibility in the matter.

Day and night Suzaku brooded over the future of this favourite child. Meanwhile his weakness steadily increased and by the end of the year he was no longer able to leave his bed. To visitor after visitor he poured out the same tale of perplexity, and received much sympathy, though nothing in the way of practical suggestions. Genji sent frequently to enquire and even promised to come in person, but ultimately sent his son Yūgiri instead. ‘I am afraid your father has a grudge against me,’ said Suzaku. ‘I have myself always regarded him with the utmost affection; but at one time the powers arrayed against him were very strong, and I allowed certain measures to be taken.... People are always coming here and warning me to be on my guard.... “Some day he will find a way of getting even with you,” they say. “Many a man has waited far longer than this to settle an old score,” and so on. But I am bound to say nothing comes of it. I cannot remember a single occasion on which Genji has shown me the slightest trace of ill-will. It is of course to him that I should most naturally turn for help in my present difficulties. But I know how trying people are when they talk about their own children; and so I have ended by discussing the matter with all and sundry, rather than with Genji, whose sympathy I was particularly anxious not to lose. But my visit to his palace this autumn made me feel how unfortunate it is that I see him so seldom. I wish you could persuade him to come here one day....’ ‘I am sure he would be delighted to come,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘Of course I know nothing of what happened between you in the past. But lately he has frequently discussed political affairs with me, and I have never heard him mention you in a way to suggest that he bears you ill-will for what happened in the past....’ While Yūgiri spoke, a new idea entered the ex-Emperor’s head. How would it be to confide to this competent and agreeable young man the care of the daughter whose future was causing him so much anxiety? ‘I hear you have now got a house of your own,’ he said to Yūgiri. ‘I have known for a long time past of your difficulties over this matter and was extremely sorry for you. However, now your troubles have all ended in a manner completely satisfactory to you, I suppose. But what I feel about it is that really, after all that happened, Tō no Chūjō hardly deserves you as his son-in-law. Indeed, I must confess, in that respect I feel somewhat jealous of him....’ For a moment Yūgiri was mystified; but then he remembered having heard that Suzaku was in a great state about one of his daughters.... However, he was shy of letting it be seen that he understood this hint, and only answered: ‘I am sure you need not be jealous of anything that concerns me. As you know well enough, I am a very insignificant person....’

That was the end of the conversation. Some of the gentlewomen who had caught a glimpse of Yūgiri as he passed were loud in their admiration of his costume and person. But an older lady-in-waiting croaked out indignantly: ‘Nothing to what his father was at that age! You don’t see such men nowadays. He really _was_ a handsome young gentleman.’ ‘She is quite right,’ said Suzaku, overhearing this outburst. ‘There will never be any one like Genji. He has aged, of course; but I think that the extraordinary vividness and radiance of his expression—the quality which in his infancy won for him the name of Hikaru[82]—has if anything increased as time goes by. His face when in repose has now a nobility and dignity that in his younger and more irresponsible days were lacking; but I still think that he is never so attractive as when laughing and talking sheer nonsense. Then he is the real Genji whose like has never been seen in the world before.’

One day when the little princess had been brought to his bedside, seeing her so childlike and helpless, the ex-Emperor exclaimed: ‘What I should really like would be for some one to take a fancy to her and bring her up privately, with a view to making her his wife later on. Then I should feel that both her education and her subsequent career were safely provided for....’ He called the head nurse to him, and having discussed one or two matters connected with Nyosan’s Initiation, he said to her presently: ‘You have probably heard the story of Lady Murasaki’s upbringing. I wish I could find some one who would adopt my little girl in that fashion. Outside the Imperial Family it is difficult to think of any one suitable; and in the Palace, Akikonomu has everything so much her own way that the other ladies of the Household come off very badly. If Nyosan had strong backing at Court, I might risk it; but as things are ... I wish, by the way, I had thought of approaching this young Yūgiri while he was still available. I feel certain that he has a great future before him.’ ‘You would have had to think of this a very long time ago if you wished to secure Prince Yūgiri,’ the nurse assured him. ‘For years past he has been waiting for this daughter of Tō no Chūjō, and I do not think you would have found it an easy matter to interest him in any other proposal. Genji himself is far more promising. Of one thing you may be quite certain: if he once took a fancy to our young lady he would never abandon her. Why, I hear that despite all his other preoccupations he still goes on visiting Princess Asagao and all those other ladies about whom we used to hear so much in early days.’ ‘Come,’ said Suzaku, ‘the fact that so many youthful affairs are still in his hands does not particularly recommend him for our present purpose....’ But the idea stuck in his head. Although Nyosan would in Genji’s household grow up as one among many, she would at least enjoy the advantage of having come there as a child, an orphan whose interests Genji was pledged to defend. ‘If any one were looking for a place where a young girl could be sent to pick up a little knowledge of the world, I cannot imagine anywhere better than Genji’s palace. I only wish that I could spend the little that remains to me of life in surroundings half so pleasant and entertaining! Were I a girl I should certainly have fallen in love with Genji. Indeed, when I was young I did feel something of the kind; and I entirely understand how it is that he carries everything before him....’ Suzaku paused. Perhaps he was thinking of his own failure with Oborozuki.[83]

The longer Suzaku reflected, the more difficult did it appear to find any one more promising than Genji. There was certainly no one else who could do more for her if he chose. And as for the other ladies in Genji’s household—their presence would not necessarily be a disadvantage; Genji could easily prevent that, if he was by way of taking any trouble about her at all. A man living in retirement with plenty of time on his hands, of rare charm, settled habits—what more could be asked? One or two other names did, however, cross his mind. There was Prince Sochi. No one could say she was marrying beneath her, for he too was the child of an Emperor, and there was indeed in that way nothing to choose between them. But Suzaku regarded him as weak, frivolous, irresponsible; and there were stories.... No; certainly he would not do.

His mind roamed from possibility to possibility. For a moment he even considered Tō Dainagon, the Superintendent of his household, who would himself never have dreamed of applying for the Princess’s hand, but had offered ‘to look after her affairs,’ in the event of her being left an orphan. And admirably he would do it; Suzaku felt sure, for this gentleman was a model of painstaking devotion. But he was, after all, a mere junior official, without influence or distinction of any kind. Things had indeed come to a pretty pass if for an Emperor’s daughter no better match than this could be found! His thoughts again took a more ambitious turn. Oborozuki told him that her sister’s son Kashiwagi was secretly anxious to form a connection with the Imperial House. Perhaps it was this ambition that kept him still unmarried, and though many people would have laughed at such aspirations, Suzaku was by no means ready to condemn them. They showed at least that Kashiwagi had definite aims in life, and this fact alone sufficed to mark him out from among the ordinary run of easy-going young courtiers who lived solely for the pleasures of the moment.

As a scholar his talents were respectable, and in the natural course of things he would one day be at the head of the Government.... A brilliant match for any other woman; but when it came to imagining him as Nyosan’s husband, Kashiwagi (as indeed every one else of whom Suzaku thought) seemed somehow hopelessly inadequate. Indeed, he worried a thousand times more over Nyosan, who had already received numerous flattering offers, than over the other sisters who could scarcely muster one wretched suitor apiece.

The ex-Emperor might never have reached a decision at all, had not the Crown Prince taken a very firm line on the subject. The young man did not of course openly venture to advise his father on such a point; but it came round to Suzaku that his son was in the strongest possible way opposed to Nyosan’s marrying a commoner.[84] The matter was one that did not merely concern her happiness, but would create a precedent and thus affect the stability of the Imperial Family.

The only course the Crown Prince favoured was one that had already occurred to Suzaku: Genji must be persuaded to take charge of the girl.

At last Suzaku allowed his mind to be made up for him, and employed Sachūben,[85] the brother of Nyosan’s head nurse, to obtain Genji’s views on the matter. Genji had of course for some while past known that the question of Nyosan’s future was tormenting the ex-Emperor, and was anxious to assist him. ‘But there can be no suggestion of my adopting the child,’ he said. ‘The ex-Emperor is, I fear, failing rapidly, and no doubt in the ordinary course of things I shall survive him by a certain number of years. In that case I shall be glad to do what I can in a general way to help all his children. But I cannot accept a special responsibility for any particular child.... As for taking her as a concubine, considering the difference of age between us, the question is too absurd to discuss. However, there is no necessity for so strange a choice. Yūgiri, for example, has not got far at present; but he has a brilliant future before him.... However, I quite see the difficulty there. Yūgiri is a faithful fellow, and perhaps at present he would be unwilling. No doubt Suzaku is right not to suggest it.’

Not to be put off by this first refusal, Sachūben now gave so harrowing a picture of the effect such a reply would have upon the ex-Emperor’s already precarious condition that Genji could not help smiling: ‘I know that he is ill and she is his favourite child,’ he said. ‘But that surely does not give him the right to impose her willy-nilly on any one he pleases. Am I to have no say in the matter at all? But for my part I do not see wherein lies his difficulty. Why not simply send her to the Palace? She would have competitors, of course; but the last arrival does not always do worst. His own mother’s[86] career was a case in point. While my father was Crown Prince, and during the early part of his reign, Kōkiden carried all before her; but later on she was completely superseded by Lady Fujitsubo. Lady Wistaria, Nyosan’s mother, was a sister of Fujitsubo. I hear the child is exceedingly good-looking, rather in Fujitsubo’s style, they say; though of course to a far less remarkable degree.... Why should not the same thing happen again? With birth and good looks both on her side it would be strange indeed if she did not make her way....’

But even while giving this advice he felt a certain curiosity to see the child for himself.

Three days after Nyosan’s Initiation the ex-Emperor received the tonsure. However commonplace, however uneventful a man’s life has been, this final ceremony is always painful to witness. But here was one, who had formerly stood upon the highest pinnacle of glory, ready now to obliterate at a stroke all that remained to him of comeliness and youth. A murmur of horror ran through the ranks of his gentlemen and attendants as the priests began to set about their fatal work. Oborozuki was at his side, and unable to bear the sight of her woe, Suzaku said: ‘I always thought the hardest thing would be parting with my children; but they, fortunately, seem cheerful enough on their side—which is a great help to me. Whereas you, with your tearful faces....’

Though he was not fit to be out of bed, they had carried him to a chair, where despite great weakness and discomfort he remained till the Abbot of Hiyeizan, attended by three senior priests, had administered to him the rules of the Tendai Sect, arrayed him in the habit of their order and performed such other rites as mark a final severance from the world. During these proceedings even the officiating priests could not restrain their tears, and such a storm of sobbing broke out among the princesses, consorts and miscellaneous gentlewomen who thronged the room, that Suzaku devoutly wished he were already safely installed in his mountain retreat. It now seemed unlikely, however, that he would ever be able to perform the journey. And if he had thus irrevocably deprived himself of the quiet monastic days with which he had always hoped to close his life, it was (as he now confessed to himself) solely his perpetual worrying about Nyosan’s future that had kept him in the Capital till too late.

After the ceremony he received numerous visitors, including the reigning Emperor. As the result of all this excitement Suzaku rallied slightly, and hearing of this Genji went to pay his long promised visit. He was received quite informally and accommodated in the seat commonly used by Suzaku when in health, a few extra hangings and ornaments having been added to smarten it. For a moment it was a great shock to Genji to see the companion of his youth arrayed in this solemn and penitential garb. Controlling himself by an effort, he said at last: ‘Ever since my father’s death, which for the first time impressed me strongly with the shortness and futility of human existence, I have been making plans to compass what you have now successfully achieved. I wish I had your strength of mind. The sight of you in those robes makes me feel thoroughly disgusted with my own continual procrastination. If you, who have known what it is to be lord of all the land, can bring yourself to take this step, there is certainly no reason why a humble person like myself should shrink from it. But every time I think that the last obstacle has been removed, some fresh difficulty crops up....’ They talked much of old times, and finally Suzaku said: ‘You have no need to apologize in my presence for your slowness in breaking with the world. I myself have delayed from day till day, until it looks as though the better part of my plan will never be fulfilled. But though I doubt whether I shall ever reach my retreat among the Western Hills, I hope I may live long enough to get through a few quiet prayers here in my own house. What now bothers me is that I have not been nearly so strict in my observances as I might have been, though all the while my thoughts were certainly turned to holy things, for it was only in the hope of spending a few last years in a sacred place that I struggled on against all this illness and pain....’ Having mentioned several small matters concerning which Genji could be useful to him, Suzaku continued: ‘You have heard no doubt that I am very much exercised in mind over the future of my daughters. There is one in particular I should feel profoundly thankful to leave in the charge of some responsible person who would really give proper attention to her....’

‘Surely he is not going to start that business all over again?’ thought Genji in alarm. Yet in a way he was not sorry to return to the subject, for he had a certain secret curiosity concerning this little princess. ‘I quite understand,’ he said, ‘that a girl of Nyosan’s rank needs, far more than any one of ordinary birth, to be provided from the outset with a settled home. But failing this, she will surely come to very little harm with her brother the Crown Prince to keep an eye upon her. He is a young man of remarkable abilities, and the whole country looks up to him with confidence and respect. He would in any case consider it his duty to take so near a relative under his especial protection; and if you mention the matter to him in advance, still less will you have any need to worry about her future. Later on your son will of course succeed to the Throne, and if to provide for a woman’s happiness were as easy as to make new laws, Nyosan would indeed be assured of perfect felicity. But I admit that in the last resort there is very little that even an Emperor can do for women, save to admit them to his household, which in this case does not come into question. So if you want here and now to make a permanent provision for her whole future, you must arrange with some one to adopt her after your death, and either marry her himself or promise to effect her marriage with some one previously selected by you. Then you surely need not fear that any misgivings will disturb you in the life beyond the grave....’ ‘What is the use of telling me this?’ Suzaku asked. ‘Naturally I have thought of it all long ago. But it is not so easy as you make out. It is a difficult matter even for a reigning Emperor to find suitable alliances for several daughters. And for me, who have not only long ago resigned the Throne, but am on the verge of retiring to a monastery (if indeed I do not die before I succeed in getting there), the whole business is so perplexing that I verily believe half my illness is due to worrying about it.... I cannot afford to let another day go by without getting this thing settled.... I know it is asking a great deal of you, but do, I beseech you, consent to taking this one daughter of mine under your protection. As to finding her a husband, I will leave that to you. I am sure your choice would be all that I could desire. Were Yūgiri still available, his is the name I should suggest. But unfortunately Tō no Chūjō has anticipated me....’

‘Yūgiri,’ replied Genji, ‘has a great deal of steady-going good sense, and I think he would have made her an excellent husband. But he has had very little experience, and I doubt whether in any case I could recommend him as sole protector to a girl in Nyosan’s position. As regards myself, I think it is quite true that if she is left an orphan she would under my care suffer the smallest possible inconvenience from the change in her position. Well, if I have hesitated to say “yes,” it is only because it is likely enough, after all, that I shall not long survive you.’

It was unbelievable. Genji had consented; and apparently in the most whole-hearted way, for it was henceforward assumed on both sides that he would in due course marry[87] Nyosan himself.

Murasaki had already heard some rumour of Suzaku’s intention. Her first feeling was one of alarm. But then she reminded herself of all the groundless and unnecessary misery she had suffered on finding that Genji was still visiting Princess Asagao. So determined was she not to attach undue importance to the affair that on his return she refrained even from asking him whether the subject had been discussed. He meanwhile naturally assumed that she knew nothing about the matter, and was wondering what line she would take. If there were to be difficulties, they could only last for a very short time. Murasaki would soon realize that the presence of this girl in the house, even as his wife, would make no difference whatever to her own position. But he knew that promises and assurances on his side would be of no avail. Time alone would convince Murasaki that nothing could change his feelings towards her; meanwhile, it was possible that a rather troublesome period was ahead. It was now so long since the slightest difficulty or suspicion had arisen between them that the idea of saying anything likely to upset her or interfere even for a few moments with the habitual tenderness of the hours they spent alone together was extremely painful to him. That night at any rate, he thought, matters might be left as they were, and he made no reference to his conversation with Suzaku.

Next day the weather was wretched, and while storms of snow swept a sullen sky he sat with Murasaki, laying plans for the future, and recalling many episodes of their common past.

‘I thought I had better go and see the ex-Emperor before it was too late,’ said Genji at last. ‘It was in many ways a painful meeting. He seems unable to think about anything but who is going to look after this daughter of his, little Princess Nyosan. He at once attacked me on the subject, and considering the pitiable state he was now in, I felt it was impossible to refuse.... I know that tiresome stories will be put about, I cannot help that.... As a matter of fact he made a similar proposal to me some time ago, but indirectly, through a servant of mine. On that occasion I refused unhesitatingly, for I did not at all like the idea of taking on fresh responsibilities at my age. But when, during my visit, he returned (as I had thought it impossible he should do) to the same subject, and besought me passionately not to persist in my refusal, I could not help feeling that it would be inhuman to hold out.... She will not in any case come here until Suzaku moves into his mountain retreat. I can quite understand that you would rather I had not consented. But please believe me that, at the worst, nothing can happen which will make the slightest difference to you. Try to enter into Suzaku’s feelings. I am sure that if you do so, you will be glad that I am helping him in this way. With a little tact and forbearance on both sides, I do not see why there should be any great difficulty....’

He had only to tease her a little—pretend jokingly to admire some quite absurd and impossible individual, and instantly Murasaki would fall into a panic, certain that here was the beginning of a final disastrous episode. Yet now, for some reason, she felt that at all costs he must not see what was passing through her mind, and she answered quietly: ‘Poor Suzaku! I do not see how under such circumstances you could possibly have refused. Nor should I dream of raising any objection on my own account. Indeed, I shall be very unhappy if I do not quickly succeed in convincing her that, as far as I am concerned, she is doubly welcome here. For not only am I touched by her father’s plight, but I also recollect a fact of which she no doubt is fully aware, though you have not mentioned it: her mother, Lady Wistaria, was my father’s sister. I should be thought churlish indeed if I did not make a cousin feel at home in my house....’

He knew her too well not to guess that, behind this tone of complete reasonableness and accord, there might easily be hidden quite other thoughts and feelings. But if this did indeed, quite contrary to what he had expected, turn out to be her real attitude, if she managed both to make the little princess feel at her ease, and at the same time to be happy herself, then he would have more reason than ever to prize her as the greatest treasure that life had yielded to him. ‘There are sure to be all sorts of absurd rumours ...’ he said. ‘Do not pay any attention to them. Remember that, as regards matters of this kind, the most circumstantial accounts frequently lack the slightest foundation in fact. It is best to observe for oneself, and not let outside stories affect one’s judgment. So whatever you may hear, wait till your own experience confirms it before you decide that I am not treating you as I should....’

After all, she thought to herself afterwards, the care of this girl was a duty that he could not possibly have avoided. It had fallen upon him as it were from the sky, and to be cross with him for accepting it would be ridiculous. If Nyosan had been some girl that he had taken a fancy to or gone out of his way to befriend, the case would have been different. But it was perfectly true that this step had been imposed upon him; and Murasaki was determined to show the world that she was not going to lose her head. But she knew that once people take a dislike to one, it does not make much difference how one behaves.... For example, her stepmother had even held her responsible for Makibashira’s fall; it was Murasaki’s jealousy (so this woman asserted) that had forced Genji to plant Tamakatsura in Higekuro’s way! No doubt her tortuous imagination would not fail to supply equally complicated slanders in the present case. For though generous and long-suffering, Murasaki was capable of making judgments that were by no means devoid of sharpness. And now, though as yet all was well, there came back to her again and again the thought that perhaps the dreaded turning-point had come. His confidence, his devotion, the whole sovereignty in his affections that had been so long her pride, would begin to slip away from her....

But during all this time there was nothing in her behaviour which could have suggested to her companions that any such fears were passing through her mind.

So the year drew to a close. Suzaku was still lying bedridden in the Capital, but he had now made up his mind that Nyosan was to move into the New Palace at once. Not only were the various aspirants to her hand much put out at hearing that Genji was to take possession of her, but the Emperor himself, who had counted on being given a chance of adding her to his establishment, was distinctly disappointed. However, he did not think it worth while disputing the matter, and decided to let things take their course. This year, as has already been said, Genji was to celebrate his fortieth birthday, and resolutions were passed by the Government concerning the festivities that were to mark this event. The prospect was a formidable one for Genji, who had always disliked pompous anniversaries and commemorations. The whole country seemed bent upon devising elaborate and costly methods of disturbing his peace, all of which he discouraged firmly.

But there was one small attention which he had no chance of forestalling. On the third day of the first month, being a day of the Rat, Tamakatsura determined to take upon herself the customary presentation of spring shoots.[88] She allowed no breath of this intention to leak out beforehand; but as wife of a State Minister she could not appear without a considerable escort, and her arrival at Genji’s palace made far more of a stir than she desired.

Genji’s seat was in the side-room opening out of the great Front Hall. His dais was surrounded by newly-painted screens, and there were fresh white canvas hangings round the walls; but the special stools, tables and stands used in the formal celebration of a fortieth birthday had all been dispensed with. The forty little mats laid out around him, his cushions and seat—indeed all the details of his installation were very daintily chosen. The four boxes containing the customary presents of clothing were displayed upon two stands of mother-of-pearl inlaid with enamel. These clothes (complete outfits for both winter and summer), together with the incense jars, medicine boxes, inkstand, hairwashing appliances, comb boxes and such things were all of the finest. The mirror-stand was of cedar-wood, and the mirror itself, though no other substance was inlaid in the metal nor was any sort of colouring applied to it, was grained on the back with a delicate leaf-pattern. All these arrangements had been devised by Tamakatsura herself, who had a particular gift for the happy ordering of such small elegancies. The whole affair was very quiet and informal. Tamakatsura had audience with him before he took his place on the birthday throne. It was a long while since they had met, and, in the mind of each, recollections of a curious, possibly even of an embarrassing kind must have arisen. He seemed to her very young to be celebrating such an anniversary, and looking at him she found herself wondering for a moment whether there had not been some mistake! Could this be the head of a household, the founder of a family? It was very difficult after all these months of separation to know what tone to take up or even what to talk about. But soon she found herself carrying on very much the same sort of conversation as in the old days. She had brought with her her two little boys.[89] Genji had often asked to see them, but hitherto she had refused, and on this occasion it was only in obedience to her husband’s absolute command that she had brought them to the New Palace. They were handsome little fellows, both dressed exactly alike in miniature Court cloaks and breeches, with their hair parted in the middle and done up in a loop on either side. Speaking of growing old, he said to her: ‘Please do not think that I do it on purpose. I should have been perfectly content to remain just as I was; and indeed I could keep up the pretence fairly well, did not such creatures as these, whom I now see springing up on every side, convict me of being, in age at any rate, a grandfather. Perhaps indeed I really am one; for I hear very little of Yūgiri nowadays, and am not at all sure he would think it worth while to tell me. However, I had quite made up my mind to go on being young for a little while longer, when you of all people come to warn me that I have overstepped the fatal mark....’

She too had outwardly suffered very little from the passage of the years, though she seemed less diffident and retiring.

At the Presentation of the Spring Shoots, which followed a few minutes later, she recited with great dignity and composure the congratulatory poem:

‘With these new shoots fetched from the green hillside, young pine-boughs have I brought to crown your fortunes with eternal Spring.’ The young shoots were presented for his inspection on four trays of sandal-wood. Taking the great wine flagon in his hand, he recited the answer: ‘Though loth to pile the years about my head, not lightly shall I quit the field where Spring by Spring these pines spread wider shade.’

A number of visitors were assembled in the southern side-room. Prince Hyōbukyō had made up his mind to stay away; but his absence being noted, a special messenger was sent to summon him. Being nearly related to so many of those who were concerned in to-day’s ceremony, he could not, without marked discourtesy, have persisted in his refusal, and towards noon he at last arrived. The spectacle of his son-in-law Higekuro flaunting his new bride in the face of the company was more than he could have been expected to bear with equanimity. But Makibashira’s two children were there, and for their sakes he did his best to be friendly, taking a hand, whenever he was wanted, in the small arrangements of the ensuing ceremony. The presents, in forty baskets and forty boxes, were offered by a band of noblemen and courtiers, led by Yūgiri. The great flagon went round, and Genji tasted the broth that had been brewed with Tamakatsura’s offering. The August Cup and other utensils were daintily laid out on four low tables of sandal-wood. The ex-Emperor was still thought to be in danger, and consequently no professional musicians were employed. But the flute-music was in charge of Tō no Chūjō, who was determined that an occasion of such importance should not be marred by lack of music, and had drawn up an excellent programme. As for other instruments, he saw to it that the rarest and oldest of every kind should be produced, setting the example himself by bringing out a Japanese zithern that had for centuries been one of the most treasured possessions in his family. He, the greatest performer of the time, played on it himself, with delightful but somewhat embarrassing effect. For every one else suddenly became shy, and when Genji asked Kashiwagi to play something, the young man for a long while refused. But at last he overcame his reluctance, which was a good thing, for his performance was by no means inferior to that of his father. Every one was both pleased and surprised; for such talent is very rarely inherited. And here must be noted a point that is often overlooked: it is far easier to learn ancient Chinese tunes, though every note has to be played exactly as it is handed down, than to improvise upon the Japanese zithern, where one has complete freedom, save for the necessity of giving scope to the accompanying players. It was just in this way that Kashiwagi excelled. He was now playing in concert with a full orchestra; but managed in the most astonishing way to keep in touch with all the other instruments.

Tō no Chūjō had, in his solo, played with his zithern tuned very low, so that the strings vibrated with a dull, rumbling sound. But Kashiwagi’s was tuned to the ordinary high pitch, and this (by contrast) gave to his playing a quality of lightness and gaiety. Never had the company heard him in such good form.

About the middle of the second month Nyosan moved into the New Palace. Great preparations were made for her reception; the room where the Presentation of Young Shoots had taken place was set apart for her own use, while several rooms in the neighbouring wing and galleries were made ready for her attendants, after a great sweeping and scrubbing. She brought her own furniture with her, just as is done by a new arrival at the Emperor’s Palace. Her coming took on the aspect of a great public ceremony, being attended by the whole Court. Genji (though, his rank being equal to that of a retired Emperor, he was under no obligation to do so) went out to assist her in alighting from her coach.

The exchange of compliments[90] on the third day was carried out in the most formal manner. Murasaki had naturally not been slow to realize—what Genji had not hitherto definitely disclosed—that Nyosan had come as a bride. The discovery came as a cruel blow, yet even so there was no reason to suppose that the new-comer was likely in any sense to take Murasaki’s place. After all, this was not the first time that she had been called upon to suffer the presence of a rival in the house. But hitherto these rivals had been without exception her inferiors in birth, and not much less than her equals in age; whereas Nyosan was a person of quite as much social consequence as herself, and, into the bargain, was just entering upon that season of sunshine and flowers to which Murasaki was already bidding farewell.

But she did not show, or hoped she did not show, any of these feelings, and in the preparations for Nyosan’s arrival she gave Genji all the help she could. While side by side they were devising plans for these new household arrangements, she seemed to enter with the greatest interest into every detail; and looking at her fondly, Genji wondered whether any other woman in the world would have done the same. The little princess, though now well on in her thirteenth year, was very small for her age, and indeed still looked a mere child. Her conversation and behaviour also savoured solely of the nursery, and Genji could not help remembering how lively, how full of character and imagination little Murasaki had been when twenty years ago he had carried her to his home. But perhaps it was a good thing that the new-comer was, except in actual years, so very much of a child. She would certainly be less likely to get into scrapes. But unfortunately, Genji reflected, people who do not get into scrapes are a great deal less interesting than those who do.

During the first three nights Murasaki saw nothing of him, and though this was quite natural under the circumstances, she felt it deeply; for it was now several years since they had thus been separated. Each evening she perfumed his clothes with more than ordinary care. Never had she seemed to him more complete, more all-sufficing than at these moments; and watching her grave, eager face as she bent over the work, he wondered that a dying man’s pleadings and lamentations should have sufficed to lead him into such a course. But stay! Did not his own restlessness, his own insatiable curiosity have something to do with this rash consent? There was Yūgiri. Young though he was, it had been justly assumed that it was not worth while even approaching him with the proposal to which Genji had so readily consented. ‘Just once more,’ he said on the third night. ‘After this I shall not have to desert you again; or, if I ever do so, you may be certain it will not be at my own desire. I must not give Suzaku the impression....’

His predicament seemed to her a strange and rather absurd one. ‘If it is Suzaku and not yourself whom you are trying to please,’ she said, smiling, ‘I am sure you can judge better than I can what will suffice to keep him happy.’

In the end it was at Murasaki’s persuasion that, far later than he had intended, he made his way to Nyosan’s room. But it was with aching heart that she watched him cross the threshold, clad in the soft, fine cloak that she had scented with her own hands.

If all this had happened a few years ago, at the time when she lived constantly on the watch for the first signs of some such trouble, she would have been better able to meet it. But lately she had grown used to life running in an even tenour that seemed incapable of change, and even if it had been a mere matter of rumour or suspicion, her sense of security would have received a rude shock. As it was, she knew that henceforward, come what might, she would not have many easy moments; but of this she did not breathe a word to any one. Not so her gentlewomen, among whom there was to-night a great deal of indignant nudging and whispering: ‘Who would have thought we should ever live to see such a day!’ ‘Well, this isn’t the first time he’s taken a fancy to some one....’ ‘Of course not; but none of the others was anything to worry about, so far as I ever heard. I don’t mean that even now there is any real danger. But small difficulties are bound to crop up now and again. It is not going to be any too pleasant a time for most of us....’ Murasaki affected to be unconscious of these dialogues, and sat talking, spiritedly enough, till a late hour in the night. Anxious that her women should have no excuse for spreading in the world at large the impression that she was taking up a hostile line towards Nyosan, she said at last: ‘I am so glad that this young princess has come to live with us. For though we are already so large a household, His Highness badly needs new society. I think he will get on very well with her, and she will make a fresh interest in his life. I too shall be delighted to have her here, for since the Akashi Princess went away there has been no one for me to play games with, and oddly enough I still enjoy them just as much as when I was a child. It is too bad that people are saying I am opposed to her living here. Nothing could be further from the truth. Perhaps if His Highness were to take some one of my own rank, or some one whom I regarded as very inferior, too much into his confidence, I might for a time feel a little bit jealous. But as it is, I am glad that he should have found any way of assisting this unfortunate creature....’

With such sentiments as these it was hard for Nakatsukasa and Chūjō no Kimi to keep patience, and they exchanged glances which clearly meant: ‘Sympathy can be carried too far!’ Formerly they had both been in Genji’s personal service; but for a long while past they had waited upon Murasaki, and were both devotedly attached to her.

Meanwhile speculation was rife among the other ladies of the household as to how this new development would affect Murasaki’s position; and for the first time they felt a certain satisfaction in their own poor estate, which, humdrum though it was, could never land them in one of these humiliating predicaments.... To each of them separately it occurred that it would be kind to call upon Murasaki, and they arrived in rapid succession, thus bringing home to her in the most painful fashion the fact that she had become an object of sympathy.

Again and again Murasaki told herself that life was very short. Soon this and all else would be over; what sense could there be in minding things so much? But when night came she felt she could not rest, and it was only to avoid the comments of those about her that at last she crept under the bedclothes. And though such nights as the one I am describing had become common enough since Nyosan’s arrival, Murasaki still felt awkward and lopsided as she tried to arrange herself in bed. This reminded her of the days when he was at Suma. She found herself, strangely enough, wishing that he were now equally far away. Simply to know that he was alive—that was all she asked; and she afflicted herself afresh by imagining him at the ends of the earth, while she remained alone in the Capital. To vary this, she imagined her own death, rapidly followed by his. Here she checked herself. A pretty pass things had come to when she had to conjure up such visions in order to allay the torment of reality!

A dismal wind was howling. She tried in vain to sleep, lying dead still, that the gentlewomen who were near her might think she was asleep despite the storm; and she was lying thus when a dreary cock-crow seemed to tell that the night was past. But opening her eyes she saw that it was still dark.

She had not all this while thought of Genji with any rancour or hostility, but her distress was vivid enough to find a way into his dreams, and it was after a terrifying vision of her that he woke up with a start and hearing the cock crow told Nyosan he must be gone, for it had been agreed that he should leave at daybreak, and now, in his anxiety to discover whether Murasaki was in some special need of him, he affected not to notice that, despite the crowing of the cock, it was still black night. Nyosan was still so young that she liked to have her nurses sleeping close at hand, and when Genji opened the passage-door, they sat up and craned their necks after him. In the east a faint semblance of light was beginning to show, dimly reflected by the snow that lay on the path. The perfume of his dress lingered where he had passed, and one of the nurses whispered, ‘Though black the night....’[91]

The snow only remained in patches here and there, but the sand of the garden-paths was very white, and often he was in doubt whether he was going to tread on sand or snow. While he knocked at the outer door of Murasaki’s room, he murmured to himself those lines of Po Chū-i:

In broken places of the Castle wall snow is still left; Down streets unwoken by the morning drum no foot has yet stirred.

It was a long time before there was any answer to his summons, for her people were quite unused to answering the door at such an hour, and when at last they undid the bolts, he grumbled: ‘You have kept me standing here till I am half frozen. A poor reward for hurrying home so early! I wish now that I had not bestirred myself....’

He came to Murasaki’s bedside and pulled back the coverlet. As he did so, with a quick movement she hid the sleeve of her dress, that was still wet with the tears she had shed during the night. He began treating her as though nothing were amiss, speaking with the utmost tenderness and affection. But coax and pet as he might, she remained serious and preoccupied, turning from him sorrowfully as though she felt he had no right to have come. He sat watching her, full of admiration and delight. Certainly it was not in search of beauty that he had need to go abroad at night! He spent all day with her, recalling a thousand tender passages in their past life together, begging her not to shut her thoughts away from him. When night came he sent a note to Nyosan’s quarters saying that the snowy weather had upset him and that it was thought best he should remain where he was. The nurse, who took his message, knew very well what to make of it, and came back in a minute or two, saying curtly: ‘I have told my Lady.’ Evidently Nyosan’s people were not best pleased with the excuse. What if they should carry their complaint to the ex-Emperor? This was only the fourth night after the marriage. Perhaps after all it was rather soon to begin suspending his nightly visits; he had better invent some fresh excuse and go to Nyosan at any rate this one time more. But a moment later, looking at Murasaki, he wondered how it could ever have occurred to him as possible to leave her. Meanwhile she on her side felt that he had treated Nyosan almost contemptuously, and wished that he would take the trouble to manage things a little better....

Next morning he sent a note of apology to Nyosan’s apartments, and though it was not to be supposed that at her age she was very critical in such matters, he trimmed his brush with the utmost care and wrote on exquisitely white paper: ‘No deep drift bars my path, but with their whirling these thin, parched snowflakes have bewitched my dizzy brain.’ This he tied to a sprig of plum-blossom, and sending for one of his servants, bade him take it not across the garden,[92] but by way of the western gallery. The answer was long in coming, and tired of waiting he went back to Murasaki in the inner room. He was still carrying in his hand the rest of the plum-branch from which he had detached the spray, and conscious that Murasaki was looking at it curiously, he said: ‘How pleasant it would be if all flowers had so delightful a scent as this! However, it is a good thing for the other flowers that the cherry-blossom cannot borrow this smell. The rest would seem to us mere weeds, and we should never give them another thought again. The plum-flower, however, has this advantage over the others, that it comes first. Our eyes have not yet been sated with blossom, and we accord to this earliest comer what is perhaps an undue attention. Then, wisely, it vanishes, before the cherry has reached its prime....’

At this moment (when he had almost given up expecting it) Nyosan’s answer at last arrived. It was on thin crimson paper, and the extreme ingenuity and daintiness with which it was folded made his heart beat fast as he opened it. Alas, her writing was still quite unformed, and he wished that it had been possible to prevent Murasaki from seeing it some while longer. Not that the letter contained anything in the slightest degree intimate. But considering the writer’s rank and what would naturally be expected of her, it seemed a shame to show so childish a production. But to conceal it from Murasaki would be sure to lead to misunderstandings, so he let her read what she could see of it over his shoulder as she lay beside him. The poem ran: ‘So light the last spring snow that, should the least waft of unkindness come, those thin flakes soon would vanish down the windy cross-roads of the sky.’

It was indeed a childish, scrawling hand, far behind what one would have expected in a girl of Nyosan’s years; but Genji merely glanced at it and put the letter away. If it had come from any one else he would certainly have discussed this strangely backward letter with Murasaki and attempted to account for its inefficiency. As it was, he merely said with a sigh: ‘Well, well! That at any rate must prove to you that you have small ground for anxiety.’

During the day he paid a short visit to Nyosan’s rooms. He had taken more trouble than ever with his costume, wishing her to feel that his failure to appear last night was not due to carelessness or disrespect. Her younger gentlewomen were easily mollified by the magnificence of his get-up; but the head nurses regarded last night’s non-appearance as a very grave omen. ‘Come, come,’ they said. ‘It’s no use his trying to mend matters by wearing his smartest clothes.’ The little princess was certainly very pretty; but all her surroundings were so exquisitely appointed and she herself so marvellously dressed, that looking at her one began to wonder whether, apart from her clothes and grand belongings, she had any existence at all. It could not be said that she was particularly shy; but her friendliness and composure were those of a child that barely distinguishes between friends and strangers, rather than of a young lady to whom experience has taught the art of self-possession. Her father Suzaku, though always somewhat effeminate and over-sensitive, or at any rate constantly criticized on this score by his subjects, was assuredly not lacking in feeling for the elegancies of life, and to Genji it was incomprehensible that he should have allowed his favourite child to grow up backward in just those accomplishments to which he himself had always paid the greatest attention. Genji was upset, for the girl’s deficiencies were such as must inevitably make her an uninteresting associate for some while to come. However, he did not take an actual dislike to her, and soon began attempting to draw her into conversation. She agreed with everything he said, but did not succeed in introducing any fresh topic of her own, and not so many years ago he would have set her down as a hopeless simpleton. But recently he had grown much more tolerant. If one was going to dismiss people because of a single shortcoming, there would soon be no one left. He had made up his mind henceforward to get as much pleasure as possible out of what was interesting in the people he met and forget about their bad points. To be bored by this girl, for whose hand in marriage the whole Court would in a short while have been scrambling, was really too perverse. Yet far more than at any time before Nyosan’s arrival he now felt how unique Murasaki was. Surely his adoption of her was the one step in his life that he would never have cause to regret. Such time as he spent with Nyosan (whether by day or night) he found himself grudging more and more, till he was frightened at his own increasing inability to live more than an hour or two on end in any but Murasaki’s company.

The Crown Prince had taken an immense fancy to his little bride from Akashi, and never allowed her out of his sight. One day she announced that she was tired of Court and had decided to go home for a while to Genji’s palace. But the Crown Prince would not hear of it. She was obliged to give way; not however without considerable resentment, for this was the first time in her life that she had ever failed to get her way. In the summer she was not very well, and it was agreed in principle that she should be allowed a short leave of absence. But day after day her departure was deferred, and she began to feel as though her marriage had sentenced her to perpetual captivity. Presently it became clear that there was a special reason for her indisposition. Her attendants would indeed have reached this conclusion sooner had she not been so very young[93]; but as soon as it was apparent that she needed rest and care, leave of absence was granted, and she moved into the New Palace. Her old rooms were no longer available, and she was put into a suite that opened out of Princess Nyosan’s quarters, her mother of course accompanying her. This was the first time that the Lady of Akashi had inhabited the New Palace without being separated from her child, and her delight knew no bounds.

One day when Murasaki and Genji were about to visit the Crown Princess’s rooms, Murasaki said to him: ‘Would not this be a good opportunity for me to make Nyosan’s acquaintance? That dividing-door could so easily be opened.... I have for some time past been meaning to visit her, but it has always been very difficult to arrange. This seems the best chance that is likely to turn up....’ ‘Certainly, nothing could be easier,’ replied Genji, ‘you have only to walk in. It is impossible to treat her otherwise than as a child. So far from standing on ceremony with her, I hope you will help me to correct her faults. It is the kindest thing you can do....’ He went to Nyosan, and in the course of conversation said to her: ‘Later on this evening Lady Murasaki will be visiting your neighbour, the Crown Princess. It is an excellent opportunity for you to make her acquaintance, and I hope you will allow her to come straight through into these rooms. Murasaki is a delightful person, and she is just as fond of games as you are. I believe you would have great fun together.’ Nyosan looked rather scared. ‘I should not know what to say to her....’ she answered helplessly. ‘Oh, that would be all right,’ he hastened to assure her. ‘She would talk, and you are quite good at finding things to say if some one helps you out by leading the way. In any case, make friends with her. That is all I ask.’

So anxious was he for them to get on well together that he had for some time past been positively dreading the inevitable encounter, and had done nothing on his side to promote it. For he feared that Murasaki would, when it came to the point, find Nyosan’s childish ways merely tiresome and her insipid conversation exasperating. However, this time it was Murasaki herself who had suggested the meeting, and there could be no sense in opposing it.

Meanwhile Murasaki went to her room to get ready for the visit. Even while she did so she assured herself that, despite all the care she was taking in her preparations and the feeling (dictated by all the circumstances of the visit) that she was about to pay her court to a reigning power, Nyosan was neither her superior in this household, nor to any considerable extent in the world at large. While waiting for Genji to fetch her, she began doing a little writing-practice, not composing the poems, but writing old ones that she knew by heart. She was not feeling depressed, but only the most desolate and love-lorn verses came into her head, and by an odd accident each seemed in some special way to fit her own case.

Coming from the presence of younger women, such as Nyosan, Genji always expected that Murasaki would appear to him inevitably (and he was willing to make allowance for it) a little bit jaded, a trifle seared and worn. Moreover, he had lived with her so long, knew her, as he supposed, so well by heart that, even had not age touched her charms, it would scarcely have been strange if they no longer had power to excite him. But as a matter of fact it was just these younger women who failed to provide any element of surprise, whereas Murasaki was continually astounding him; as indeed she did to-night, dressed in all the splendour that the coming visit demanded, her clothes scented with the subtlest and most delicious perfumes, her whole person ever more radiant this year than last year, to-day than yesterday.

Seeing him enter, she hid the papers on which she had been writing under the inkstand; but he rescued them before she could protest. Hers was not a hand of the sort that occurs once in a generation, and is remembered for ever afterwards. But there was great beauty in it, and scanning the papers he found the verse: ‘Is autumn[94] near to me as to those leafy hills, that even while I watch them grow less green?’ Taking her brush he wrote beside her poem: ‘Look to the moat! Sooner shall yon bird’s emerald wings grow white, than autumn bind its frosts about my Love.’

Again and again, from small indications that she gave him unintentionally and unawares, he saw that she was very unhappy. If he made no allusion to this, it was not either that he failed to observe it, or that he did not know what struggles she made to conceal her pain.

With Murasaki the Crown Princess was quite as much at home as with her own mother, and this part of the visit naturally passed off agreeably enough. The girl had grown very good-looking, and Murasaki, to whom her existence had once been a reminder of unpleasant things, no longer felt in her society anything but the most unfeigned pleasure. After a short conversation she proceeded through the dividing door into Nyosan’s apartments. The little princess’s childish lack of conventional small-talk proved to be the reverse of embarrassing, for it enabled Murasaki from the start to treat her as a young relative who had been put into her care. It was necessary first of all to explain the rather complicated chapter of family history which made them cousins. Sending for Nyosan’s head nurse, she said: ‘We have been working things out, and it certainly seems beyond doubt that your mistress and I are connected by family ties in many directions. I hope you do not think it rude of me to have been so long in coming. It seemed so difficult to arrange. But your mistress and I have now made great friends, and I hope you will not only allow me to visit you again, but also bring her to my rooms. Please consider henceforward that, if we do not frequently come together, the fault will lie on your side.’ ‘Well, madam,’ replied the nurse, ‘what with her mother dead and her father shut away in a monastery, I am sure my little lady would have a sad time of it, were it not for kindness such as yours. But I know quite well that her father would never have brought himself to leave the City if he had not been certain that you would welcome us as you have done to-day, and make it your business to watch over our young lady with a friendly eye. For, madam, as you see, she is very young in her ways, and not only needs your help, but is used to being guided by those about her, and fully expects you to take her under your wing.’ ‘The ex-Emperor’s appeal was couched in such terms,’ answered Murasaki, ‘that Prince Genji could never have dreamed of rejecting it; and I for my part was only sorry that it lay in my power to do so little for this poor child’s happiness.’ Then turning abruptly from this serious conversation, to which Nyosan had herself paid very little attention, Murasaki began talking about picture-books and dolls with such knowledge and enthusiasm, that Nyosan at once decided she was not so dull as most grown-up people, nor indeed like one at all. Henceforward they met very often, or when that was impossible, exchanged little notes concerned exclusively with the behaviour of Nyosan’s dolls and the fortunes or reverses of her other toys.

At the first news of Nyosan’s removal to the New Palace, people had hastened to make the obvious prediction that Murasaki’s day would soon be over. When, however, as time passed, it became abundantly clear that Genji, so far from being exclusively interested in the new arrival, was treating Murasaki with an even greater consideration than before, they waxed indignant on Nyosan’s behalf, and said that if Murasaki had him so completely in her power he ought never to have taken the little princess into his house. Now came the news (disconcerting to gossip of either kind) that perfect harmony prevailed between the two ladies, and to these outside observers the situation lost all further interest.

The Crown Princess was now nearing her time. From the beginning of the next year a service of continual intercession was kept up in Genji’s palace, and in every Buddhist temple or shrine of the old faith throughout the land prayers were said on her behalf. A previous experience[95] had made Genji particularly nervous about such events, and though it was a grief to him that Murasaki had never borne a child, he was in a way relieved that he had never been called upon to endure the agonies of suspense that such an event would have inflicted upon him. The Princess’s extreme youth was another source of anxiety, and when at the beginning of Kisaragi[96] her strength showed signs of failing, not only Genji but all those in charge of her began to take serious alarm. After careful investigation, the magicians decided that the situation of her present room was unfavourable, and insisted upon a change. To move her away from the palace altogether would clearly be a very risky undertaking, and she was carried to the Central Hall of her mother’s former apartments in the northern wing. These had the advantage of being surrounded on every side by passages and covered galleries in which it was possible to accommodate the huge band of priests (with their altars and other gear) that had now assembled in the palace. For every healer of any repute in the country had been summoned to work his spells.

The Lady of Akashi, quite apart from the anxiety that she must in any case feel at such a time, was in a state of the utmost suspense; for the safe delivery of an heir would mean that all her sacrifices had not been made in vain. On this occasion her mother, now a very old lady indeed, had come up from the country, unable to bear the anxiety of being at a distance from all news.

The Crown Princess knew very little about the circumstances of her birth; but once admitted to her bedside, the old grandmother was soon pouring out a tremulous flood of anecdotes and lamentations that, confused though it was, for the first time did something towards enlightening her. The girl had at first stared at this extraordinary visitor, wondering who on earth she could be; but she was just aware of the fact that she possessed a grandmother, and when it became evident that this talkative old woman was certainly she, the Princess tried to be as civil as she could. The visitor began describing Genji’s life at Akashi, and the despair into which they had fallen at the time of his sudden recall. ‘We never thought we should any of us set eyes on him again,’ she said. ‘Oh dear, oh dear! If only I could have known then that it was all going to work out for the best.... It was your coming into the world that saved us. I don’t believe that but for you we should ever have heard a word from him after he went away.’ And she burst into tears of gratitude and joy. The Princess also wept, partly because it always moves one to hear about one’s childhood, partly because this revelation of the true facts about her birth had come to her as something of a shock. She had always known that her mother was not quite of the same class as the people with whom she now associated. But the careful education she had received at Murasaki’s hands, combined with the admiring attitude of all her companions at Court, had destroyed in her the last trace of diffidence or timidity. She had long felt herself to be in every way on an equality with the greatest ladies in the land. With burning cheeks she recalled occasion upon occasion when she had spoken scornfully of persons who were (as she now realized) very far indeed from being her inferiors. The true facts about her origin were probably known to most people at Court, and though in her presence no sarcastic comment had ever been made, she could imagine the mirth that (behind the scenes) had always been provoked by her ignorant self-conceit. Akashi![97] Born at Akashi! What a hideous thought! That things were as bad as that she had never for a moment suspected; for it was her nature to turn away instinctively from enquiries that were likely to yield unpleasant information. Well, here indeed was a disagreeable and humiliating surprise. She wondered how she would ever be able to hold up her head again.

She was obliged next to listen to a long account of her grandfather’s odd ways; he had become, it seemed, a kind of rishi, living in the world but not of it. A queer place she came from and queer people she belonged to, thought the Princess, remembering the high line she had always taken on questions of birth and breeding. At this moment her mother entered, and noticed at once that she was looking very rueful indeed. In the passages outside there was a great stir, for the priests and magic-workers drawn from every quarter of the land were just assembling to recite the Rites of the Day. But actually in the Princess’s room all was quiet, and availing herself of this opportunity the old nun had installed herself at the bedside and seemed to have taken complete possession of her grand-daughter and all that appertained to her.

‘I wish she wouldn’t do that,’ thought the Lady of Akashi as she entered. ‘She might at least put up a small screen. Any one seeing her planted at the bedside like that will wonder how on earth she got there. You would think she was the herb-doctor come to give the child a pill. How tiresome people do become at that age.’ The old lady saw in a moment that she was thought to have taken too much upon herself. But she was getting very hard of hearing, and, as was usual when she was afraid she had missed some remark, she cocked her head on one side: ‘Eh? Eh?’ ‘Really, she’s not so old as all that,’ thought the Lady of Akashi. ‘She can’t be more than sixty-five, or at the most sixty-six.’ The old lady looked very neat and respectable, even dignified, in her nun’s robe; but her appearance was spoilt for the moment by the fact that her eyes were red and swollen with weeping. The Lady of Akashi knew only too well what this meant: her mother had been reminiscing, and turning to the Princess she said nervously: ‘I can see that grandmother has been telling all sorts of extraordinary tales about the days of long ago. You must not believe everything she says; for she is apt to mix up all sorts of fairy-stories, legends and marvels with things that really happened. I am sure she has been treating you to the oddest extracts from our family history.’ Her suspicions were confirmed by the Princess’s extreme quietness; it was only too evident that the old nun had chattered with the greatest possible indiscretion. The Lady of Akashi had long ago decided that the moment of the Crown Prince’s ascent to the Throne would be the right occasion for revealing to the Princess in their entirety the painful facts concerning her birth. As Empress she would have reached the utmost limit of a woman’s ambition, and intelligence such as this, disagreeable though it might be, could not greatly depress her. But at the present moment it might have a very upsetting effect, and she regretted that her mother should have thought fit to take such a liberty.

The Rites of the Day were now over, and there was a great clatter as the priests left their work. To distract the Princess’s thoughts her mother now brought her some fruit, coaxing her with: ‘Could you not manage just one of these?’ and such-like motherly phrases. The old nun’s delight in the presence of her lovely grandchild manifested itself in the most curious way. For whereas tears streamed from her eyes and her brows were contracted into what looked like the most disapproving frown, her lips were parted in a perpetual smile of delight, revealing a painfully toothless mouth. So truly alarming was the old lady’s expression that she was positively afraid of the effect it might have upon the invalid, and tried to catch her mother’s eye, apparently without success.

Presently, however, the old nun recited the verse: ‘Blame not the tears of love that like a running tide have stranded this old bark upon a profitable shore.’ ‘When I was young,’ she added, ‘people of the age I am now were privileged to weep as often as they felt inclined.’

‘Following the pathway of that bark across the foam, I would retrace its course and find the felt-roofed hut whence it was launched upon the deep.’ Thus the young Princess wrote upon the sheet of paper that was topmost in her writing-case; and the Lady of Akashi: ‘Though he that lingers on that shore long since of every worldly thought has cleared his breast, perchance of the heart’s darkness[98] a little clings to him and clouds his nature still.’

There was then talk of the morning upon which they had parted with the old recluse. The Princess, who was at that time a mere infant, had not the haziest remembrance of this episode, but she could well believe that it had been very affecting.

About the middle of the third month she had an extremely painless and easy delivery, strangely at variance with what seemed to be portended by her previous weakness and distress. It was with intense relief that Genji heard of this event. The child was a boy; so that everything had turned out in the happiest manner possible. Her present temporary quarters were inconveniently far from the front of the house, but it was pleasant for her to be so near her mother, and pleasant too for the old nun to watch the arrival of the presents which poured in from every side. She could indeed feel that the storm-tossed voyage of her life had cast her up at last upon ‘a profitable shore,’ as she herself had said. But this arrangement could not continue, as it was too much at variance with traditional practice, and it was decided that the Princess must be moved back into her own apartments. Here she was visited by Murasaki, who found her sitting up in her white jacket, holding the little boy in her arms. It was a pretty sight; but it was hard indeed for Murasaki to accustom herself to the idea that the little Princess from Akashi was a mother!

Not only was she herself without experience of this kind; but it so happened that she had never before been brought into contact with such events, for this was the first child to be born in the house. Her delight in handling and attending to the child was so obvious that the Lady of Akashi had not the heart to deprive her of these offices, contenting herself with the bathing of the infant. She even consented to play this part on the official occasion when the Crown Prince’s envoy came to administer the Bath of Recognition,[99] and the man, who had some general notion concerning the true state of affairs, thought how disagreeable it must be for the Princess to be continually reminded by her mother’s shortcomings of this flaw in her lineage. But to his surprise he found during the performance of his duties that the Lady from Akashi had dignity and high breeding enough to be the mother of the grandest imaginable Princess.

Any further account of the birth-ceremonies would not be of special interest, and I shall therefore hurry on with my story. It was on the sixth night after the child’s birth that the Princess moved back into her own quarters. On the seventh night the Emperor himself sent his presents. Suzaku’s vows forbad that any gift from him should figure on such an occasion; but it was generally understood that a magnificent largesse from the Public Treasury, brought by Tō no Ben and Senji, two officials of the Imperial Purse, was due to Suzaku’s instigation. Presents of silk came in abundance, the Empress Akikonomu’s offering exceeding that of the Emperor himself. The various princes and Ministers vied with one another in the magnificence of their gifts, and even Genji, who hated display and was apt to cut down all public demonstrations to the minimum, this time saw to it that everything should be carried through with the utmost splendour. Indeed the whole Court was in such a state of chatter and excitement that my head was in a whirl, and I forgot to make any note of the many beautiful and interesting ceremonies that took place in the Palace at the time of this little Prince’s birth.

Genji, too, constantly took the child in his arms. ‘Yūgiri,’ he once said, ‘has never invited me to make the acquaintance of his children, so that it is a great treat for me to be allowed to handle this pretty fellow....’

The child was filling out fast. It was high time to find nurses for him, but Genji, rather than employ persons whom he did not know, spent some time searching round among those in his employ for ladies of good birth and intelligence with whose record he was thoroughly familiar. Through all this period the behaviour of the Lady of Akashi provoked universal admiration. She had shown dignity without touchiness, humility without disagreeable self-abasement. Hitherto Murasaki had always continued to feel a slight discomfort in her presence. But after the birth of the Prince they became much better friends. Though childless herself, she was extremely fond of children. She made the Guardian Dolls[100] and other toy figures with her own hands, and would sit for hours working their joints and making them do tricks.

During the third month there was a spell of delightful weather, and on one of these bright, still days Prince Sochi and Tō no Chūjō’s son Kashiwagi called at the New Palace. ‘I am afraid things are very quiet here,’ Genji said to them. ‘At this time of the year, when there are no public or private festivities of any kind, it is harder than ever to keep people amused. I wish I could think of some way to distract you.... Yūgiri was here just now. I cannot think what has become of him. I suppose we shall have to watch some more of this shooting on horseback; though I confess that for my part I am sick to death of it. I expect Yūgiri caught sight of some of the young men who always clamour for it, and that was why he vanished so soon.’ ‘I saw Yūgiri,’ some one said. ‘He is in the fields near the Racecourse, playing football. There are a lot of them there....’ ‘I am not myself very fond of watching football,’ said Genji. ‘It is a rough game. But I feel that to-day we all need something to wake us up ...’ and he sent a message to Yūgiri asking him to come round to the front of the house. The young man presently appeared accompanied by a band of courtiers. ‘I hope you have not left your ball behind,’ he said to them. ‘How have you arranged the teams?’ Yūgiri told him how they had been playing, and promised to find a fresh ground where the game could be seen from the windows of the house. The Crown Princess having now rejoined her husband, her apartments were vacant, and as there was a large stretch of ground not intersected by rivulets or in any other way obstructed, this seemed the best place to set up the posts. Tō no Chūjō’s sons, both young and old, were all expert players. Neither the hour nor the weather could have been bettered, for it was the late afternoon, and there was not a breath of wind. Even Kōbai abandoned himself with such excitement to the game that Genji said: ‘Look at our Privy Counsellor![101] He has quite forgotten all his dignities. Well, I see no harm in a man shouting and leaping about, whatever his rank may be, provided he is quite young. But I am afraid I have long passed the age when one can go through such violent contortions without becoming ridiculous. Look at that fellow’s posture now. You must admit it would suit a man of my years very ill.’

Yūgiri soon induced Kashiwagi to join in the game, and as, against a background of flowering trees, these two sped hither and thither in the evening sunlight, the rough, noisy game suddenly took on an unwonted gentleness and grace. This, no doubt, was in part due to the character of the players; but also to the influence of the scene about them. For all around were great clumps of flowering bushes and trees, every blossom now open to its full. Among the eager group gathered round the goal-post, itself tinged with the first faint promise of green, none was more intent upon victory than Kashiwagi, whose face showed clearly enough that there was a question of measuring his skill against that of opponents, even in a mere game; it would be torment to him not to prove himself in a different class from all the other players. And indeed he had not been in the game for more than a few moments when it became apparent, from the way in which he gave even the most casual kick to the ball, that there was no one to compare with him. Not only was he an extremely handsome man, but he took great pains about his appearance and always moved with a certain rather cautious dignity and deliberation. It was therefore very entertaining to see him leaping this way and that, regardless of all decorum. The cherry-tree[102] was quite near the steps of the verandah from which Genji and Nyosan were watching the game, and it was strange to see how the players, their eye on the ball, did not seem to give a thought to those lovely flowers even when they were standing right under them. By this time the costumes of the players were considerably disordered, and even the most dignified amongst them had a ribbon flying loose or a hat-string undone. Among these dishevelled figures a constant shower of blossom was falling. Yūgiri could at last no longer refrain from looking up. Just above him was a half-wilted bough. Pulling it down, he plucked a spray, and taking it with him, seated himself on the steps with his back to the house. Kashiwagi soon joined him, saying: ‘We seem to have brought down most of the cherry-blossom. The poet[103] who begged the spring wind “not to come where orchards were in bloom” would have been shocked by our wantonness....’ He turned his head and looked behind him to where Nyosan and her ladies were dimly visible beyond their curtains.

Kashiwagi had been on intimate terms with the ex-Emperor Suzaku, and at the time when her future was still in question had corresponded occasionally with Nyosan. Suzaku was aware of this, and seemed on the whole to encourage it. Kashiwagi was therefore both surprised and disappointed when her marriage with Genji was announced. He had become very much interested in her, and through one of her gentlewomen with whom he happened to be acquainted he still heard a great deal about her. This, however, was but a poor consolation; and to make his chagrin the greater, he heard rumours that Nyosan was very inadequately appreciated at the New Palace, Lady Murasaki still retaining an undiminished hold over His Highness’s affections. Kashiwagi might be her inferior in birth and thus unsuited to claim her as a wife; but at any rate she would not in his house have been subjected to the humiliations that he supposed her now to be enduring. Tired of merely hearing news about her health and employments, he made friends with a certain Kojijū, the little daughter of Nyosan’s nurse, and tried to persuade her to carry messages. One never knew what might not happen. After all, Genji was always talking of retiring to a monastery. Some day he might really do so, and then would come Kashiwagi’s second chance. Meanwhile he continued to plot and scheme for a renewal of the acquaintance.

And now on the day of the football match he found himself not many steps away from her. As usual, her gentlewomen were not under very good control, and a patch of bright sleeve or skirt constantly obtruded, as some spectator, in her excitement, tugged back a corner of the curtains through which the ladies of the house were watching the game. And behind the curtains there showed all the time gay strips of colour, flashing like prayer-strips at the roadside on a sunny spring day. The Princess’s screens-of-state were carelessly arranged; she was not in the least protected on the side from which she was most likely to be seen. Still less was she adequately prepared for such an accident as now occurred; for suddenly a large cat leapt between the curtains in pursuit of a very small and pretty Chinese kitten. Immediately there was a shuffling and scuffling behind the screens, figures could be seen darting to and fro, and there was a great rustling of skirts and sound of objects being moved. The big cat, it soon appeared, was a stranger in the house, and lest it should escape it had been provided with a leash, which was unfortunately a very long one, and had now got entangled in every object in the room. During its wild plunges (for it now made violent efforts to get free) the creature hopelessly disarrayed the already somewhat disorderly curtains, and so busy were those within disentangling themselves from the leash that no one closed the gap. In the foreground was plainly visible a group of ladies in a state of wild excitement and commotion. A short way behind them was a little figure standing up, dressed in a long robe without mantle. It was a red plum-blossom gown, with many facings, that showed one overlapping another, in different tinges of the same colour, like the binding of a book. Her hair, shaking like a skein of loose thread, was prettily trimmed and thinned out at the ends, but still reached to within a few inches from the ground. The contrast between the numerous overlapping thicknesses of her dress and her own extreme slimness and smallness was very alluring, her movements were graceful, and her hair, above all when seen with her head in profile, was unusually fine. Kashiwagi, as he peered through the growing darkness, wished that the accident had happened somewhat earlier in the evening. At this moment the cat gave a frenzied scream, and Nyosan turned her head, revealing as she did so a singularly unconcerned and confident young face. Yūgiri feared that he would be held responsible for this indiscretion, and was on the point of going up to the window and protesting; but he felt that this would draw further attention to the incident, and contented himself with clearing his throat in a loud and significant manner. Nyosan immediately vanished amid the shadows, rather too rapidly to suit the taste of Yūgiri, who had a considerable curiosity about the girl, and would, had he dared, gladly have availed himself of this opportunity to look at her for a little while longer. But by now the cat had been extricated; the screens and curtains were restored to proper order, and there was no chance that the intriguing vision of a moment ago would be repeated. And if it was with a slight feeling of disappointment that Yūgiri saw his hint so rapidly obeyed, it may be imagined how loud Kashiwagi’s heart had all this while been beating. From the first moment of her appearance there had been no doubt which was she, for she was differently dressed from any of the ladies about her, they wearing Chinese cloaks, and she an under-robe without cape or mantle. He hid, or hoped that he hid, the excitement through which he was passing. But Yūgiri guessed easily enough what impression such an episode was likely to have made, and being still in a way identified with this house, he blushed for Nyosan’s immodesty. The cat was now straying at large, and to distract his thoughts Kashiwagi called it to him. The creature jumped into his lap and began purring complacently. It had not long ago been in Nyosan’s own arms; of this he was sure, for its soft fur still exhaled a strong perfume of the royal scent that only she could wear. At this moment Genji arrived, and seeing Kashiwagi fondling the Princess’s cat with an expression of dreamy tenderness, he said sharply to the young men on the steps: ‘You had better not sit so close to the house. It is embarrassing for the people in the room behind.... Won’t you come in here?’ and he led them through a neighbouring door. They were soon joined by Prince Sochi, and a lively conversation began. The football players now began to arrive, taking their seats on straw cushions lined up along the verandah, and refreshments were served, first and foremost the usual Camellia cakes,[104] then pears, oranges and other such fruits, the exhausted players stretching for them greedily as the tray came their way. Finally, the great wine-flagon went round, accompanied only by dried fish.

Kashiwagi took very little part in the conversation and gazed all the while straight in front of him, apparently at the flowering trees in the garden. But Yūgiri knew well enough what vision it was that floated before his friend’s eyes. The whole episode was very unfortunate. It must certainly have given Kashiwagi the impression that the Princess was extremely loose in her ways. He could not imagine Murasaki allowing herself to be exposed like this, and the fact that such things could happen showed plainly how right the world was in declaring Genji to be reprehensibly inattentive to his new wife. Of course the Princess’s lack of precaution was not due to shamelessness, but rather to the unsuspecting and serene self-confidence of extreme youth. All this no doubt was very attractive; but if he were in Genji’s place he should find it also somewhat perturbing.

Kashiwagi for his part was not occupied in censoring either Nyosan or her attendants for the carelessness to which he owed his vision of her. Rather he regarded the affair as a happy accident—an omen, if one liked to consider it so, that his attachment was destined to ripen into something less shadowy than had hitherto seemed probable.

Genji began talking to Kashiwagi of his early rivalries with Tō no Chūjō: ‘At football,’ he said, ‘your father was always far ahead of me. I do not suppose that you have actually learnt your skill from him, for such things cannot be taught; but no doubt you inherit an aptitude for the game. This evening you certainly gave us a masterly display....’ Kashiwagi laughed. ‘I am afraid,’ he said, ‘that of all my father’s talents this is the only one I have inherited. I am sorry for my descendants; apart from this one trifling gift, they will have nothing to inherit at all.’ ‘Never mind,’ said Genji, ‘so long as there is something at which you are better than other people, you deserve a place in history. You shall figure in your family records as a footballer; that would be rather amusing....’

While they talked and laughed the conviction was borne in upon Kashiwagi that no one in the world could possibly turn from Genji to him. Nyosan might like him, but there was no conceivable way in which she would not be the loser by such an exchange. His hopes, so high a moment before, suddenly sank to nothingness. She who had been so near in a moment became in his thoughts utterly inaccessible and remote, and he left the New Palace in the depths of despair.

He drove away in the same carriage as Yūgiri, and said to him presently: ‘One ought really to visit Genji more often; particularly at this time of year, when there is so little to do. He said he hoped we should come again before the blossom was all gone. It is getting very near the end of Spring now. Do meet me here one day this month, and bring your bow....’ A day was fixed upon, but this was not what was really in his mind. He was trying to find some way of introducing Nyosan’s name into the conversation, and presently he said: ‘Genji does not seem to worry much about any one except Lady Murasaki. I wonder how the young Princess feels about it. She is used to being made such a fuss of by her father that I cannot help thinking she must find her new life rather wretched.’ ‘You are entirely wrong,’ Yūgiri replied. ‘My father’s relations with Murasaki are of a kind it is difficult for outside people to understand. He adopted her when she was still a child, and there is naturally a great intimacy between them. He would not for the world do anything to hurt her feelings; but if you suppose this means he does not care for Nyosan, you are very much mistaken.’ Yūgiri had raised his voice. ‘Don’t talk so loud,’ Kashiwagi rebuked him, ‘the grooms can hear every word you say. For my part I am certain that she is often very unhappy, and I do not think any one has a right to put a girl of her birth and breeding into such a position as this....’ He seemed to take the matter very much to heart.

Kashiwagi still lived in his father’s house, all alone in the eastern wing. It was not a very lively form of existence for a man of his age, but this solitude was entirely of his own seeking. Sometimes he felt wretched, and thought of marrying the first girl who came his way. But then he remembered that his father was Grand Minister. There was no reason at all why he should content himself with a plebeian marriage, and he determined to remain as he was until he obtained the bride to whom he considered himself in every way entitled. To-night he sat all alone in his room puzzling till his head ached.... How should he ever manage to see her again, how contrive to catch even so hasty and unsatisfying a glimpse as he had enjoyed to-day? With other women it was different. There was always the chance that some religious vow or omen of the stars might drive them into the open. And if such things did not spontaneously occur, they could easily be arranged.... But with Nyosan these simple and recognized expedients would be of no avail. Nothing was more improbable than that she should ever leave her apartments; and it was difficult enough even to let her know of his feelings. However, he wrote a letter (by no means the first with which Nyosan’s maid Kojijū had in recent days been entrusted): ‘Madam, one day not long since, the springtime lured me to trespass within the barrier that hides your sovereign precincts from the grosser world, an audacity for which I fear you condemn me with the bitterest scorn. On that occasion, Madam, like the poet[105] of old, “I saw, yet did not see.” Since when such a turmoil has reigned in my heart as only the vision of what those baffling shadows hid from me can ever put to rest.’ With this was the poem: ‘Though flowers of sorrow only, my hand could reach on the high tree, would I were back amid the shadows of that provoking night.’

Kojijū knew nothing about the ‘day not long since,’ and thought that the letter was an unusually pointless collection of stock lamentations. Waiting for a moment when Nyosan was alone she brought in the letter, saying: ‘I wish your Kashiwagi were a little less faithful. I am tired of bringing these continual messages. Why then do I accept them? you ask. I suppose it is because I can see that he would be in despair if I refused. But why should I mind his being in despair? Really, I have not the least idea....’ and she burst out laughing. ‘What odd things you say,’ replied Nyosan, taking the letter. By the allusion to ‘seeing yet seeing not’ she understood at once that he had caught sight of her during that unfortunate accident with the curtains. She blushed, not however at the idea of Kashiwagi’s having seen her, but at the recollection that Genji had more than once warned her not to expose herself in Yūgiri’s presence. Now she remembered that Yūgiri had on that occasion been sitting at Kashiwagi’s side. What one saw, the other too would have seen. Her sole concern was lest Yūgiri should mention her carelessness to Genji, and then she would get a scolding. As had often occurred before, the task of writing an answer fell to Kojijū. Only a conventional acknowledgment was necessary, and she dashed off the following: ‘Why you should speak of “seeing, yet not seeing” passes my comprehension. Despite the embarrassment in which your proximity placed us, you certainly posted yourself at a point of vantage where nothing was likely to escape you.’ With this was the poem: ‘Feel what you will, but tell not to the world that where no hand may reach, upon the mountain cherry’s topmost bough your heart you fain would hang.’

The promised archery meeting at the New Palace took place on the last day of the third month. Kashiwagi felt very little inclined for company, and if he accepted the invitation it was only in the vague hope of some second accident such as that which had occurred at the football match. Yūgiri at once noticed that his friend was still particularly silent and distracted. He knew well enough what this meant, and was genuinely distressed not only at the prospect of unpleasant scenes in which he would himself be involved, but also on Kashiwagi’s account. For Yūgiri was extremely fond of him, and could never bear to see him, even for small everyday reasons, depressed or in ill-humour.

On this occasion Kashiwagi had come with the firm intention of behaving with perfect propriety, for not only did he stand in great awe of Genji, but also was extremely sensitive to public opinion in general, and nothing was more painful to him than the idea of his name figuring in the scurrilous gossip of the Court. If he had designs of any kind, they were not upon Nyosan but upon her cat. A fancy seized him that it would make him less miserable if he could get possession of this creature and have it always about him. But even this, as he well knew, was a mad idea, and under the circumstances to purloin the cat was not much easier than to make off with its mistress. The archery meeting proved uneventful. But a few days afterwards he was reminded of his project by seeing in the Crown Prince’s rooms a very handsome kitten which had just arrived as a present from the Emperor’s Palace. His Majesty’s court-cat had just given birth to a large family of kittens, which had been distributed among his acquaintances. ‘I happened the other day,’ said Kashiwagi casually, ‘to catch sight of a remarkably fine cat belonging to one of the ladies at Genji’s palace. I never saw so handsome a creature. By the way, I think they said that it is your sister Nyosan’s....’ This was a very good move, for the Crown Prince had a passion for cats, and the subject was one that he was willing to converse upon for any length of time. He began questioning Kashiwagi about this marvellous cat of Nyosan’s, which he did not remember to have seen. ‘You have some of the same breed here,’ said Kashiwagi, ‘but there was something uncommon about that particular creature. It seemed so much more friendly and intelligent than any that I have ever known.’ Thus began a long conversation upon the merits of different cats. The Crown Prince first of all borrowed those belonging to his wife, the Akashi Princess, and finally sent a message to his sister Nyosan asking if she would mind lending him hers. Upon its arrival every one agreed that it was undoubtedly a very fine cat. Kashiwagi, who knew the Crown Prince would give his sister a full account of the reception that her favourite had received, thought it better on this occasion not to display any great interest in the animal. But some days later he called again, on the pretext of giving the Prince a long promised lesson upon the zithern. ‘Which is the fellow I saw at Genji’s?’ he asked, in the course of conversation. ‘Is he still here? You have so many that I find it hard to keep them apart....’ But as a matter of fact he had already recognized Nyosan’s cat, and was soon fondling it upon his lap. ‘Isn’t he behaving beautifully?’ said the Crown Prince. ‘Considering you only saw him in the distance the other day, it is extraordinary that he should recognize you. But he certainly does, for they are by nature very distrustful creatures, and will not let any one touch them unless they remember having seen him before. However, our cats often remember some one who has only been here for a moment and took no particular notice of them.’ ‘They may not have reasoning powers such as we have,’ answered Kashiwagi, ‘but I am convinced that some of them at any rate have souls like ours.’ Presently he added: ‘Perhaps, as you have so many delightful cats of your own here, you would lend me this one of Nyosan’s for a little while?’ It was only after he had made this request that he realized how eccentric it must appear.

The cat lay close by him all night, and the first thing he did in the morning was to see to its wants, combing it and feeding it with his own hand. The most unsociable cat, when it finds itself wrapped up in some one’s coat and put to sleep upon his bed—stroked, fed and tended with every imaginable care—soon ceases to stand upon its dignity; and when, a little later, Kashiwagi posted himself near the window, where he sat gazing vacantly before him, his new friend soon stole gently to his side and mewed several times as though in the tenderest sympathy. Such advances on the part of a cat are rare indeed, and smiling, he recited to the animal the following verse: ‘I love and am not loved. But you, who nestle daily in my dear one’s arms—what need have you to moan?’ He gazed into the cat’s eyes as he spoke, and again it began mewing piteously, till he took it up into his lap, and he was still nursing it thus when the first visitors of the day began to arrive. ‘This is very sudden,’ they whispered to one another. ‘He used not to take the slightest interest in such creatures.’ Presently a messenger arrived from the Crown Prince, asking that the cat might be sent back at once. But Kashiwagi refused to part with it.

[82]The Shining One.

[83] See vol. ii, p. 125.

[84] I.e. not a member of the Imperial Family.

[85] One of Genji’s retainers.

[86] Kōkiden.

[87] Since Aoi’s death Genji had no wife, Murasaki being technically only a chief concubine, her mother’s low rank making it impossible for her to be a _kita no kata_ or ‘legitimate consort.’

[88] A Chinese custom, imitated by the Japanese Court.

[89] They must have been about four and three years old.

[90] On the third day after the arrival of a bride the husband notified the bride’s father that the marriage had been consummated and was likely to prove a success.

[91] ‘Though black this night of spring, what guide need we save the scent of their blossoms to guide us whither the plum-trees bloom?’

[92] That Murasaki might not see.

[93] Barely fourteen.

[94] _Aki_ means ‘autumn,’ but also ‘to be tired of,’ and there is the secondary meaning: ‘Is the day when Genji will grow tired of me near at hand?’

[95] Aoi’s death in childbirth.

[96] The second month.

[97] Not to be born in the City was regarded as a severe social disqualification, whoever the parents might be. In the narrative she is called the Princess from Akashi; but it must not be supposed that she was ever so addressed.

[98] ‘The heart’s darkness,’ _kokoro no yami_, is the love of parent for child.

[99] By sending this representative the Crown Prince acknowledged paternity of the child.

[100] The original object of dolls is to divert evil influences from the child.

[101] Kōbai was now a member of the Grand Council.

[102] The four goal-posts were a pine-tree, a maple, a willow and a cherry-tree, growing in tubs.

[103] Fujiwara no Yoshikaze, 9th century.

[104] Always served to footballers.

[105] In section 99 of the _Tales of Isé_ the poet ‘sees, yet does not see,’ a lady in her carriage at the summer race-meeting.