Chapter IV: Tamakatsura (2)

The party from Tsukushi had arranged to stay three days within the precincts of the temple, and Ukon, though she had not at first intended to stay for so long, now sent for her favourite priest and asked him to procure her a lodging; for she hoped that these days of Retreat would afford her a chance of talking things over quietly with the old nurse. The priest knew by long experience just what she wanted written on the prayer-strips which he was to place in the holy lamps, and at once began scribbling ‘On behalf of Lady Fujiwara no Ruri I make these offerings and burn....’ ‘That is quite right,’ said Ukon (for Fujiwara no Ruri was the false name by which she had always referred to Tamakatsura in discussing the matter with her spiritual adviser); ‘all the usual texts will do, but I want you to pray harder than ever to-day. For I have at last been fortunate enough to meet the young lady and am more anxious than ever that my prayer for her happiness may be fulfilled.’

‘There!’ said the priest triumphantly. ‘Was there ever a clearer case? Met her? Dear Madam, of course you have. That is just what I have been praying for night and day ever since you were here last.’ And much encouraged by this success he set to work once more and was hard at it till daylight came. Then the whole party, at Ukon’s invitation, moved to the lodgings that her _daitoko_[105] had reserved for her. Here if anywhere she felt that she would be able to embark upon the story which she found so difficult to tell.

At last she was able to have a good look at the child for whose happiness she had prayed during so many years. Tamakatsura was undeniably ill-dressed and somewhat embarrassed in the presence of strangers whom she felt to be taking stock of her appearance; but Ukon was unfeignedly delighted with her, and burst out: ‘Though I am sure I never had any right to expect it, it so happens that I have had the good luck to see as much of fine ladies and gentlemen as any serving-woman in the City. There’s Prince Genji’s own lady, Madam Murasaki—I see her nearly every day. What a handsome young thing! I thought there could be no one to compare with her. But now there’s this little daughter from Akashi.[106] Of course she is only a child at present. But she grows prettier every day, and it would not surprise me if in the end she put all our other young ladies to shame. Of course they dress that child in such fine clothes and make such a fuss of her that it is hard to compare her with other children. Whereas our young lady (she whispered to the nurse) dressed as she is at this very minute, would hold her own against any of them, I dare swear she would. I have sometimes heard Prince Genji himself say that of the many beauties whom he has known, whether at Court or elsewhere since his father’s time, the present Emperor’s mother[107] and the little girl born at Akashi stand apart from all the rest. Not one other has he known of whom you could say without fear of contradiction from any living soul that she was perfection itself from tip to toe. Those were his words; but for my own part I never knew Lady Fujitsubo; and charming though the little princess from Akashi may be, she is still little more than a baby, and when Prince Genji speaks of her in these terms, he is but guessing at the future. He did not mention Lady Murasaki at all in this conversation, but I know quite well that in his heart of hearts he puts her above all the rest—so far indeed that he would never dream of mentioning her in such a reckoning as this; and, great gentleman though he is, I have heard him tell her again and again that she deserves a husband a thousand times better than he. I have often thought that having had about him at the start such peerless ladies as those whom I have mentioned, he might well chance to end his days without once finding their like. But now I see that I was wrong; for Madam here is fully their match. Trust me, I shall not say anything high-flown, nor would he listen to fine phrases such as “The light that shines from her countenance is brighter than Buddha’s golden rays.” I shall just say “See her, and you will not be disappointed.”’ So said Ukon, smiling benevolently at the company. But the nurse, who knew nothing, it must be remembered, of Genji’s connection with Yūgao nor of any reason why he should interest himself in Tamakatsura, was somewhat disconcerted. ‘I am sure I thank you very heartily for suggesting this,’ she said; ‘and indeed you will believe that no one cares more for this young lady’s future than I do, when I tell you that I gave up house and hearth, quitted sons, daughters and friends, and came back to the City which is now as strange to me as some foreign town—all this only for Lady Tamakatsura’s sake; for I hated to see her wasting her youth in a dismal place where there was not a soul for her to speak to.... No indeed! I should be the last person to interfere with any plan that promises to bring her to her own again; and I am sure that among the grand people whom you have mentioned she would have a much better chance of doing something for herself in the world.... But I must say that, with her father at Court all the while, it seems to me a queer thing to quarter her on a perfect stranger. Perhaps I do not quite understand what you propose ... but wouldn’t it be more natural to tell her father that she is here and give him a chance of acknowledging her? That is what we have been trying to do, and we shall be very glad if you would help us.’ The conversation was overheard by Tamakatsura; she felt very uncomfortable at being thus publicly discussed and, shifting impatiently in her seat, sat with her back to the talkers. ‘I see you think I am taking too much upon myself,’ said Ukon. ‘I know quite well that I am no one at all. But all the same Prince Genji often sends for me to wait upon him and likes me sometimes to tell him about anything interesting that I have seen or heard. On one occasion I told him the story of Madam here—how she had been left motherless and carried off to some distant province (for so much I had heard). His Highness was much moved by the story, begged me to make further enquiries and at once let him know all that I could discover....’ ‘I do not doubt,’ said the nurse, ‘that Prince Genji is a very fine gentleman. But it seems from what you tell me that he has a wife of whom he is fond and several other ladies living with him as well. He may for the moment have been interested in your story; but I cannot imagine why you should suppose he wants to adopt her, when her own father is so close at hand. It would oblige me if you would first help us to inform Tō no Chūjō of Madam’s arrival. If nothing comes of that....’

Ukon could keep up her end no longer. Unless she told the nurse of Genji’s connection with Yūgao, further conversation would be impossible. And having got so far as to confess that Genji had known Yūgao, Ukon plunging desperately on finally managed to tell the whole terrible story. ‘Do not think,’ she said at last, ‘that Genji has forgotten all this, or will ever do so. It has been his one desire since that day to find some means of expiating, in however small a degree, the guilt which brought my lady to her unhappy end; and often I have heard him long that he might one day be able to bring such happiness to Lady Yūgao’s child as would in some sort make amends for all that she had lost. Indeed, having few children, he has always planned, if she could but be found, to adopt her as his own, and he begged me to speak of her always as a child of his, whom he had placed with country folk to be nursed.

‘But in those days I had seen very little of the world and was so much scared by all that had happened that I dared not go about making enquiries. At last I chanced one day to see your husband’s name in a list of provincial clerks. I even saw him, though at some distance, the day he went to the Prime Minister’s palace to receive confirmation of his new appointment. I suppose I ought to have spoken to him then; but somehow or other I could not bring myself to do so. Sometimes I imagined that you had left Lady Tamakatsura behind, at the house in the Fifth Ward; for the thought of her being brought up as a little peasant girl on the island was more than I could endure....’

So they spent the day, now talking, now praying, or again amusing themselves by watching the hordes of pilgrims who were constantly arriving at the temple gate. Under their windows ran a river called the Hatsuse, and Ukon now recited the acrostic poem: ‘Had I not entered the gate that the Twin Fir-Trees guard, would the old river of our days e’er have resumed its flow?’ To this Tamakatsura answered: ‘Little knew I of those early days as this river knows of the hill from whence it sprang.’ She sat gently weeping. But Ukon made no effort to comfort her, feeling that now all was on the right path. Considering Tamakatsura’s upbringing no one would have blamed her if there had been a little country roughness, a shade of over-simplicity in her manner. Ukon could not imagine how the old nurse had achieved so remarkable a feat of education, and thanked her again and again for what she had done. Yūgao’s ways had till the last been timid, docile, almost child-like; but about her daughter there was not a trace of all this. Tamakatsura, despite her shyness, had an air of self-assurance, even of authority. ‘Perhaps,’ thought Ukon to herself, ‘Tsukushi is not by any means so barbarous a place as one is led to suppose.’ She began thinking of all the Tsukushi people she had known; each individual she could recall was more coarse-mannered and uneducated than the last. No; nurse’s achievement remained a mystery.

At dusk they all went back to the temple, where they stayed that night and most of the following day, absorbed in various spiritual exercises. A cold autumn wind was blowing from the valley, and at its cruel touch the miseries of the past rose up one by one before Shōni’s widow as she knelt shivering at the Main Altar. But all these sad memories vanished instantly at the thought that the child upon whom she had lavished her care would now take the place that was her birth-due. Ukon had told her about the careers of Tō no Chūjō’s other children. They seemed all of them to be remarkably prosperous, irrespective of the rank of their various mothers, and this filled the old lady with an additional sense of security.

At last the moment came to part. The two women exchanged addresses and set out upon their different ways: Ukon to a little house Genji had given her, not far away from his new palace; the others to their lodgings in the Ninth Ward. No sooner had they parted than Ukon was suddenly seized with a panic lest Tamakatsura should attempt to evade her, as Yūgao had fled from Chūjō in days of old; and constantly running between her house and theirs, she had not a moment’s peace of mind. It was soon time for Ukon to be back at the new palace, and she was not loath to end her holiday, for she was in a hurry to obtain an interview with Genji and inform him of her success. She could not get used to this new mansion, and from the moment she entered the gates she was always astonished by the vastness of the place. Yet so great was nowadays the number of coaches driving[108] in and out, that the crush was appalling and Ukon began to wonder if she would ever get to the house.

She was not sent for that night, and lay tossing about on her bed, thinking how best to make known her discovery. Next day, though it so happened that a large number of ladies-in-waiting and other young people had just returned from their holidays, Murasaki sent specially for old Ukon, who was delighted by this compliment. ‘What a long holiday you have been having!’ cried Genji to her when she entered. ‘When you were last here you looked like some dismal old widow-lady, and here you are looking quite skittish! Something very nice must have happened to you; what was it?’ ‘Sir,’ she answered, ‘it is quite true that I have been away from the City for a whole week; but I don’t know whether anything has happened that you would call nice. I have been over the hills to Hatsuse (on foot too!), and came across someone whom I was glad to meet again.’ ‘Who was that?’ asked Genji quickly, and she was about to tell him when it occurred to her that it would be much better to tell him separately, on some occasion when Murasaki was not present. But then perhaps the whole thing would come round to Murasaki’s ears and her mistress would be offended that Ukon had not told her first.... It was a difficult situation. ‘Well then if you must know ...’ Ukon was beginning, when suddenly there was a fresh incursion of visitors, and she was obliged to withdraw. But later in the day, when the great lamp had been brought in and Genji was sitting quietly with Murasaki, he said that he would soon be ready for bed, and sent for Ukon to give him his evening massage.

Lady Murasaki was now almost twenty-eight, but never (thought the old woman when she arrived) had she looked so handsome. It seemed indeed as though her full charm had only just matured. Ukon had not seen her mistress at close quarters for some months past, and could now have sworn that even in that short space of time Lady Murasaki had grown twice as handsome. And yet Ukon had no fears for Yūgao’s daughter. There was indeed an undeniable difference between this splendid princess and the shy girl from Tsukushi. But it was only the difference between obscurity and success; a single turn of fortune would quickly redress the balance.

‘I do not like being massaged by the new young maids,’ Genji said to Ukon when she arrived. ‘They let me see so plainly how much it bores them to do it. I much prefer some one I have known for a long time ... you, for example.’ No such preference had ever been noticed by those about him, and smiles were secretly exchanged. They realized that Genji had only said this in order to please and flatter the old lady. But it was far from true that any of them had ever been otherwise than delighted at the reception of such a command, and they thought the joke rather a tiresome one. ‘Would you be angry with me, if I took to consorting with elderly ladies?’ he whispered to Murasaki. ‘Yes,’ she nodded, ‘I think I should. With you one never knows where one is. I should be very much perturbed....’ All the while she was at work Genji amused the old lady with his talk. Never had Ukon seen him so lively and amiable. He had now placed the whole direction of public affairs in Tō no Chūjō’s hands; the experiment was working well, and such was Genji’s relief at escaping from the burden which had so long oppressed him that he found it impossible to be serious for a minute. To joke with Ukon, a very matter-of-fact old lady, was found by most people to be out of the question. But Genji had a peculiar gift of sympathy, which enabled him to penetrate the most obstinate gloom, the most imperturbable gravity.

‘Tell me about the interesting person whom you have discovered,’ he went on. ‘I believe it is another of your holy men. You have brought him back here, and now I am to let him pray for me. Have I not guessed right?’ ‘No, indeed,’ Ukon answered indignantly; ‘I should never dream of doing such a thing!’ And then, lowering her voice: ‘I have become acquainted with the daughter of a lady whom I served long ago.... The mother came to a miserable end.... You will know of whom it is I am speaking.’ ‘Yes,’ said Genji ... ‘I know well enough, and your news is indeed very different from anything I had imagined. Where has the child been during all these years?’ ‘In the country,’ answered Ukon vaguely; this did not seem a good moment for going into the whole story. ‘Some of the old servants took charge of the child,’ she continued, ‘and are still in her service now that she has grown up. They of course knew nothing of the circumstances under which their former mistress.... It was torture to speak of it; but I managed at last to tell them....’ ‘I think we had better talk about this some other time,’ Genji interrupted, drawing Ukon aside. But Murasaki had overheard them. ‘Pray do not trouble about me,’ she said with a yawn. ‘I am half-asleep in any case; and if it is something I am not to hear....’ So saying she covered her ears with her sleeves.

‘Is she as handsome as her mother?’ Genji then asked. ‘I did not at all expect that she would be,’ answered Ukon. ‘But I must say that I have seldom seen....’ ‘I am sure she is _pretty_,’ he said. ‘I wonder whether you mean anything more than that. Compared with my Lady...?’ and he nodded towards Lady Murasaki. ‘No, indeed,’ said Ukon hastily; ‘that would be going too far....’ ‘Come,’ he said; ‘it would not be going much farther than you go yourself. I can see that by your face. For my part, I must own to the usual vanity of parents. I hope that I shall be able to see in her some slight resemblance to myself.’ He said this because he intended to pass off the girl as his own child, and was afraid that part of the conversation had been overheard. Having learnt so much, he could not resist the temptation to hear the whole of Ukon’s story, and presently he took her into a side-room, where they could discuss the matter undisturbed. ‘Well,’ he said, when Ukon had satisfied his curiosity, ‘I have quite made up my mind what to do with her. She shall come and live with me here. For years past I have constantly wondered what had become of her, and dreaded lest she should be throwing away her youth in some dismal, unfrequented place. I am delighted indeed that you have re-discovered her. My only misgiving concerns her father. I suppose I ought at once to tell him of her return. But I do not quite see how to set about it; for he knows nothing of my connection with Lady Yūgao, and I have never been able to see that there was any use in enlightening him. He has already more children than he knows what to do with, and the arrival in his house of a fully-grown girl, whom he has not set eyes on since she was a child-in-arms, would merely be a nuisance to him. It seems much simpler that I, who have so small a family, should take charge of her; and it is easy enough to give out that she is a daughter of mine, whom I have been educating in the quiet of the country. If what you say of her is true, it is certain that she will be a great deal run after. The charge of such a girl needs immense tact and care; I do not think it would be fair to saddle Tō no Chūjō with so great a responsibility.’ ‘That shall be as your Highness decides,’ answered Ukon. ‘I am sure, at any rate, that if _you_ do not tell Tō no Chūjō, no one else will. And for my part I had rather she should go to you than to any one else. For I am certain you are anxious to make what amends you can for your part in leading Yūgao to her miserable fate; and what better way could there be to do this, than by promoting her daughter’s happiness by every means in your power?’ ‘The fact that I ruined the mother might to some people seem a strange reason for claiming custody of the child,’ said Genji smiling; but his eyes were filled with tears. ‘My love for her still fills a great part of my thoughts,’ he said after a pause. ‘You must think that a strange thing for me to say, considering how my household is now arranged.... And it is true that in the years since her death I have formed many deep attachments. But, believe it or not as you will, by no one has my heart ever been stirred as it was by your dear mistress in those far-off days. You have known me long enough to see for yourself that I am not one in whom such feelings lightly come and go. It has been an unspeakable comfort to me during all these years that to you at least I could sometimes talk of your mistress, sometimes ease my longing. But that was not enough. I yearned for some object dear to her upon which I could lavish ceaseless pains and care. What could be more to my purpose than that this orphaned child of hers should thus be entrusted to my protection?’

His next step must be a letter to Tamakatsura herself. He remembered Suyetsumu’s extreme incapacity in this direction, and feared that Tamakatsura, after her strange upbringing, might prove to be a hundred times more hesitating and inefficient. It was therefore in order to know the worst as soon as possible that he now lost no time in addressing her. His letter was full of the friendliest assurances; in the margin was written the poem: ‘It shows not from afar; but seek and you shall find it, the marsh-flower of the Island. For from the ancient stem new shoots for ever spring.’

Ukon herself was the bearer of this letter; she also reported much of what Genji had said to her, especially such expressions of cordiality and goodwill as would tend to allay Tamakatsura’s apprehensions. He also sent many handsome stuffs and dresses, with presents for her nurse and other members of the party. With Murasaki’s consent the Mistress-of-Robes had gone through all the store-cupboards and laid out before him an immense display of costumes, from which he chose those that were most distinctive in colour and design, thinking to astonish and delight an eye used to the home-spuns of Tsukushi.

Had all this kindness, nay even the smallest part of it, proceeded from her own father, Tamakatsura would indeed have been happy. But to be thus indebted to some one whom she had never seen and upon whom she had not the smallest claim, was an uncomfortable experience. As for taking up residence in his house—the prospect appalled her. But Ukon insisted that such an offer could not be refused; and those about her argued that so soon as she was decently set up in the world, her father would repent of his negligence and speedily lay claim to her. ‘That a mere nobody like old Ukon should be in a position to do any service at all is in itself a miracle,’ they said, ‘and could not have happened were not some God or Buddha on our side. For her to send a message to Tō no Chūjō is, compared with what she has already done, the merest trifle, and so soon as we are all more comfortably settled....’ Thus her friends encouraged her. But, whether she accepted his invitation or not, civility demanded that she must at least reply to his poem. She knew that he would regard her cadences and handwriting very critically, expecting something hopelessly countrified and out-of-date. This made the framing of an answer all the more embarrassing. She chose a Chinese paper, very heavily scented. ‘Some fault there must be in the stem of this marsh-flower. Else it had not been left unheeded amid the miry meadows by the sea.’ Such was her poem. It was written in rather faint ink and Genji, as he eagerly scanned it, thought the hand lacking in force and decision. But there was breeding and distinction in it, more indeed than he had dared to look for; and on the whole he felt much relieved.

The next thing was to decide in what part of the house she was to live. In Murasaki’s southern wing there was not a room to spare. The Empress Akikonomu was obliged by her rank to live in considerable state. Etiquette forbade that she should ever appear without a numerous train of followers, and her suite had been designed to accommodate an almost indefinite number of gentlewomen. There was plenty of room for Tamakatsura here; but in such quarters she would tend to become lost amid the horde of Akikonomu’s gentlewomen, and to put her in such a place at all would indeed seem as though he expected her to assist in waiting upon the Empress. The only considerable free space in the house was the wing which he had built to contain his official papers. These had for the most part been handed over to Tō no Chūjō, and what was still left could easily be housed elsewhere. The advantage of those quarters was that Tamakatsura would here be the close neighbour of the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, whose sensible and affectionate nature would, he was sure, prove a great comfort to the new arrival. And now that all was ready, it seemed to him impossible to instal Tamakatsura in his household without revealing to Murasaki the whole truth about the girl’s identity and his own dealings with her mother. No sooner had he begun the story than he saw plainly enough that she was vexed with him for having made a mystery of the matter for so long. ‘I see that you are vexed,’ he said, ‘that I did not tell you about all this before. But you have always known quite well that I had many such attachments as this in the days before I knew you, and I have never seen that there was any point in mentioning them, unless some special circumstance made it necessary to do so. In the present case, it is essential that some one should be acquainted with all the facts, and I chose you rather than another merely because you are a thousand times dearer to me than any of the rest.’ Then he told her the whole story of his dealings with Yūgao. It was apparent to her that he was deeply moved, and at the same time that he took great pleasure in recalling every detail of their relationship. ‘Conversation turns often upon such matters,’ he said at last, ‘and I have heard innumerable stories of women’s blind devotion, even in cases where their love was in no degree reciprocated. Passion such as this is indeed rarely long withstood even by those who have gravely determined to rule out of their lives every species of romance; and I have seen many who have instantly succumbed. But such love as Yūgao’s, such utter self-forgetfulness, so complete a surrender of the whole being to one single and ever-present emotion—I have never seen or heard of, and were she alive she would certainly be occupying no less important a place in my palace than, for example, the Lady of Akashi is occupying to-day.... In many ways, of course, she fell short of perfection, as indeed is bound to be the case. She was not of great intelligence, nor was her beauty flawless. But she was a singularly lovable creature....’ ‘Were she as much in your good graces as the Lady of Akashi, she would have nothing to complain of ...’ broke in Murasaki suddenly; for the Akashi episode still rankled sore. The little princess,[109] who constantly visited Murasaki’s rooms, was playing with her toys not far away, and Murasaki seeing her look so innocent and pretty, in her childlessness forgave Genji the infidelity which had brought to her so charming a little playmate and companion.

These things happened in the ninth month; but Tamakatsura’s actual arrival could not take place for some while afterwards, for though her quarters had been chosen she still lacked attendants. The first thing was to find her some pretty pages and serving-girls. Even in Tsukushi the old nurse had managed to procure some very passable children to wait upon her; for it sometimes happened that some one from the City, having fallen upon evil days, would get stranded on the Island and be glad to place his boy or girl in a respectable home. But in the sudden flight from Tsukushi all these young people had been left behind. Orders were given to market-women and trades-people to keep their eyes open and report upon any suitable children whom they came across; and in this way, as could scarcely fail to happen in so vast a town, a fine batch of attendants was quickly brought together. Nothing was said to them about Tamakatsura’s rank, and they were mustered in Ukon’s own house, whither Tamakatsura herself now repaired, that her wardrobe might be finally inspected, her staff fitted out with proper costumes and instructed in their duties. The move to Genji’s Palace took place in the tenth month. He had already visited the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers and prepared her for the arrival of her new neighbours: ‘A lady to whom I was much attached, being seized with a sudden melancholy, fled from the Court and soon afterwards ended her days in a remote country place. She left behind a daughter, of whom I could for years obtain no news. All this happened many years ago and this daughter is now of course a full-grown woman; but though I have been making enquiries ever since it was only quite recently (and in the most accidental way) that I at last obtained a clue. I at once determined to invite her to my palace, and I am going to give her quarters close to yours, in the unused Record Office. To one motherless child of mine you have already shown infinite kindness, and have not, I think, found the care of him unduly irksome. If you will do for this new-comer what you have been doing for Prince Yūgiri, I shall be deeply thankful to you. She has been brought up in very humble and rustic surroundings. In many ways she must be ill-prepared for the life which she will lead in such a place as this. I hope that you will instruct her ...’ and he made many suggestions for Tamakatsura’s polite education. ‘I had no idea,’ the Lady replied, ‘that you had more than one daughter. However, I am extremely glad, if only for the Akashi child’s sake. I am sure she will be delighted to find that she has a sister....’ ‘The mother,’ said Genji, ‘was the most gentle and confiding creature I have ever encountered. This girl, Lady Tamakatsura, doubtless resembles her; and since you yourself are the easiest person to get on with....’ ‘I have so much time on my hands,’ she answered quickly. ‘Some one of my own sort to look after and advise a little.... That is just what I long for.’

Genji’s own servants and retainers had been told nothing save that a strange lady was shortly to arrive. ‘I wonder whom he has picked up this time?’ one of them said. ‘I don’t believe this is a fresh affair,’ said another. ‘In all probability she is only some discarded mistress who needs looking after for a time....’

The party arrived in three carriages. As Ukon had superintended every detail, the whole turn-out was quite adequately stylish, or at any rate did not betray such rusticity as to attract attention. On their arrival they found their quarters stacked with all sorts of presents from Genji. He gave them time to settle in, and did not call till late the same night. Long, long ago Tamakatsura used often to hear him spoken of in terms of extravagant admiration; ‘Genji the Shining One,’ that was what people had called him. All the rest she had forgotten; for hers had been a life from which tales of Courts and palaces seemed so remote that she had scarcely heeded them. And now when through a chink in her curtains-of-state she caught a glimpse of him—vague enough, for the room was lit only by the far distant rays of the great lamp beyond the partition—her feeling was one of admiration, but (could it be so, she asked herself) of downright terror.

Ukon had flung open both halves of the heavy maindoor and was now obsequiously ushering him into the room. ‘You should not have done that,’ he protested. ‘You are making too much of my entry. No such ceremonies are necessary when one inmate of this house takes it into his head to visit another,’ and he seated himself alongside her curtained chair. ‘This dim light too,’ he continued, addressing Ukon, ‘may seem to you very romantic. But Lady Tamakatsura has consented to make believe that she is my daughter, and family meetings such as this require a better illumination. Do you not agree?’ And with this he slightly raised one corner of her curtain. She looked extremely shy and was sitting, as he now discovered, with face half-turned away. But he knew at once that as far as looks were concerned she was not going to cause him any anxiety. ‘Could we not have a little more light?’ he said, turning again to Ukon. ‘It is so irritating....’ Ukon lit a candle and came towards them holding it aloft in her hand. ‘It is rather heavy work to get started!’ he whispered, smiling. ‘Things will go better presently.’ Even the way she hung her head, as though frightened of meeting his eyes, reminded him so vividly of Yūgao that it was impossible for him to treat her as a stranger; instinctively indeed he began to speak to her in a tone of complete familiarity as though they had shared the same house all their lives: ‘I have been hunting high and low for you ever since you were a baby,’ he said, ‘and now that I have found you, and see you sitting there with a look that I know so well, it is more than I can bear. I wanted so much to talk to you, but now ...’ and he paused to wipe the tears from his eyes, whilst there rushed to his mind a thousand tender recollections of Yūgao and her incomparable ways. ‘I doubt,’ he said at last, reckoning up the years since her death, ‘whether true parent has ever reclaimed a child after so long a search as I have made for you. Indeed so long a time has passed that you are already a woman of judgment and experience, and can tell me a far more interesting story of all that has befallen you on that island of yours than could be told by a mere child. I have that compensation at least for having met you so late....’

What would she tell him? For a long while she hung her head in silence. At last she said shyly: ‘Pray remember that like the leech-child,[110] at three years old I was set adrift upon the ocean. Since then I have been stranded in a place where only such things could befall me as to you would seem nothing at all.’ Her voice died away at the end of the sentence with a half-childish murmur, exactly as her mother’s had done long ago. ‘I was “sorry for you” indeed,’ he said, ‘when I heard whither you had drifted. But I am going to see to it now that no one shall ever be sorry for you again.’ She said no more that night; but her one short reply had convinced him that she was by no means a nonentity, and he went back to his own quarters feeling confident that there could be no difficulty in launching her upon a suitable career. ‘Poor Tamakatsura has lived in the country for so long,’ he said to Murasaki later,’ that it would not at all have surprised me to find her very boorish, and I was prepared to make every allowance.... But on the contrary she seems very well able to hold her own. It will be amusing to watch the effect upon our friends when it becomes known that this girl is living in the house. I can well imagine the flutter into which she will put some of them,—my half-brother Prince Sochi no Miya for example. The reason that quite lively and amusing people often look so gloomy when they come here is that there have been no attractions of this kind. We must make as much play with her as possible; it will be such fun to see which of our acquaintances become brisker, and which remain as solemn as ever.’ ‘You are certainly the strangest “father”!’ exclaimed Murasaki. The first thing you think of is how to use her as a bait to the more unprincipled among your friends. It is monstrous!’ ‘If only I had thought of it in time,’ he laughed, ‘I see now how splendidly you would have served for the same purpose. It was silly of me not to think of it; but, somehow or other, I preferred to keep you all to myself. She flushed slightly as he said this, looking younger and more charming than ever. Sending for his ink-stone Genji now wrote on a practising-slip the poem: ‘Save that both she and I have common cause to mourn, my own is she no more than a false lock worn upon an aged head.’[111] Seeing him sigh heavily and go about muttering to himself, Murasaki knew that his love for Yūgao had been no mere boyish fancy, but an affair that had stirred his nature to its depths.

Yūgiri, having been told that a half-sister (of whose existence he had never heard) was come to live with them in the palace, and that he ought to make friends with her and make her feel at home, at once rushed round to her rooms, saying: ‘I do not count for very much, I know; but since we are brother and sister, I think you might have sent for me before. If only I had known who you were, I would have been so glad to help you to unpack your things. I do think you might have told me....’ ‘Poor young gentleman,’ thought Ukon, who was close at hand; ‘this is really too bad. How long will they let him go on in this style, thinking all the while she is his sister? I don’t think it’s fair....’

The contrast between her present way of life and the days at Tsukushi was staggering. Here every elegance, every convenience appeared as though by magic; there the simplest articles could be procured only by endless contriving, and when found were soiled, dilapidated, out-of-date. Here Prince Genji claimed her as his daughter, Prince Yūgiri as his sister.... ‘Now these,’ thought old Sanjō, ‘really are fine gentlemen. However I came to have such a high opinion of that Lord-Lieutenant I do not know!’ And when she remembered what airs a miserable creature like Tayū had given himself on the Island, she almost expired with indignation.

That Bugo no Suke had acted with rare courage and wisdom in planning the sudden flight from Tsukushi was readily admitted by Genji when Ukon had laid all the circumstances before him. It was unlikely that any stranger would serve Tamakatsura with such devotion as this foster-brother had shown, and in drawing up for her a list of gentlemen-in-attendance, Genji saw to it that Bugo no Suke’s name should figure among them.

Never in his wildest dreams had it occurred to Bugo no Suke that he, a plain Tsukushi yeoman, would ever set foot in a Minister’s palace; nay, would in all his living days so much as set eyes on such a place. And here he was, not merely walking in and out just as he chose, but going with the lords and ladies wherever they went, and even arranging their affairs for them and ordering about their underlings as though they were his own. And to crown his content, no day passed but brought to his mistress some ingenious intention, some well-devised if trifling act of kindness from their host himself.

At the end of the year there took place the usual distribution of stuff for spring clothes, and Genji was determined that the new-comer should not feel that she had come off worse than the greatest ladies in the house. But he feared that, graceful and charming though she was, her taste in dress must necessarily be somewhat rustic, and among the silks which he gave her he determined also to send a certain number of woven dresses, that she might be gently guided towards the fashions of the day. The gentlewomen of the palace, each anxious to prove that there was nothing she did not know about the latest shapes of bodice and kirtle, set to work with such a will that when they brought their wares for Genji’s inspection, he exclaimed: ‘I fear your zeal has been excessive. If all my presents are to be on this scale (and I have no desire to excite jealousy), I shall indeed be hard put to it.’ So saying he had his store-rooms ransacked for fine stuffs; and Murasaki came to the rescue with many of the costly robes which he had from time to time given her for her own wardrobe. All these were now laid out and inspected. Murasaki had a peculiar talent in such matters, and there was not a woman in all the world who chose her dyes with a subtler feeling for colour, as Genji very well knew. Dress after dress was now brought in fresh from the beating-room, and Genji would choose some robe now for its marvellous dark red, now for some curious and exciting pattern or colour-blend, and have it laid aside. ‘This one in the box at the end,’ he would say, handing some dress to one of the waiting-women who were standing beside the long narrow clothes-boxes; or ‘Try this one in your box.’ ‘You seem to be making a very just division, and I am sure no one ought to feel aggrieved. But, if I may make a suggestion, would it not be better to think whether the stuffs will suit the complexions of their recipient rather than whether they look nice in the box?’ ‘I know just why you said that,’ Genji laughed. ‘You want me to launch out into a discussion of each lady’s personal charms, in order that you may know in what light she appears to me. I am going to turn the tables. You shall have for your own whichever of my stuffs you like, and by your choice I shall know how _you_ regard _yourself_.’ ‘I have not the least idea what I look like,’ she answered, blushing slightly; ‘after all, I am the last person in the world to consult upon the subject. One never sees oneself except in the mirror....’ After much debating, the presents were distributed as follows: to Murasaki herself, a kirtle yellow without and flowered within, lightly diapered with the red plum-blossom crest—a marvel of modern dyeing. To the Akashi child, a long close-fitting dress, white without, yellow within, the whole seen through an outer facing of shimmering red gauze. To the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers he gave a light blue robe with a pattern of sea-shells woven into it. Lovely though the dress was as an example of complicated weaving, it would have been too light in tone had it not been covered with a somewhat heavy russet floss.

To Tamakatsura he sent, among other gifts, a close-fitting dress with a pattern of mountain-kerria woven upon a plain red background. Murasaki seemed scarcely to have glanced at it; but all the while, true to Genji’s surmise, she was guessing the meaning of this choice. Like her father Tō no Chūjō, Tamakatsura (she conjectured) was doubtless good-looking; but certainly lacked his liveliness and love of adventure. Murasaki had no idea that she had in any way betrayed what was going on in her mind and was surprised when Genji suddenly said: ‘In the end this matching of dresses and complexions breaks down entirely and one gives almost at hazard. I can never find anything that does justice to my handsome friends, or anything that it does not seem a shame to waste on the ugly ones ...’ and so saying he glanced with a smile at the present which was about to be dispatched to Suyetsumu, a dress white without and green within, what is called a ‘willow-weaving,’ with an elegant Chinese vine-scroll worked upon it.

To the Lady of Akashi he sent a white kirtle with a spray of plum-blossom on it, and birds and butterflies fluttering hither and thither, cut somewhat in the Chinese fashion, with a very handsome dark purple lining. This also caught Murasaki’s observant eye and she augured from it that the rival of whom Genji spoke to her so lightly was in reality occupying a considerable place in his thoughts.

To Utsusemi, now turned nun, he sent a grey cloak, and, in addition, a coat of his own which he knew she would remember—jasmine-sprinkled, faced with Courtier’s crimson and lined with russet. In each box was a note in which the recipient was begged to favour him by wearing these garments during the Festival of the New Year. He had taken a great deal of trouble over the business and could not imagine that any of the presents was likely to meet with a very bad reception. And indeed the satisfaction which he had given was soon evidenced not only by the delighted letters which came pouring in, but also by the handsome gratuities given to the bearers of these gifts. Suyetsumu was still living at the old Nijō-in palace, and the messenger who brought her present, having a quite considerable distance to travel, expected something rather out of the ordinary in the way of a reward. But to Suyetsumu these things were matters not of commerce, but of etiquette. A present such as this was, she had been taught long ago, a species of formal address which must be answered in the same language, and fetching an orange-coloured gown, very much frayed at the cuffs, she hung it over the messenger’s shoulders, attaching to it a letter written on heavily scented Michinoku paper, which age had not only considerably yellowed, but also bloated to twice its proper thickness. ‘Alas,’ she wrote, ‘your present serves but to remind me of your absence. What pleasure can I take in a dress that you will never see me wear?’ With this was the poem: ‘Was ever gift more heartless? Behold, I send it back to you, your Chinese dress,—worn but an instant, yet discoloured with the brine of tears.’ The handwriting, with its antique flourishes, was admirably suited to the stilted sentiment of the poem. Genji laughed afresh each time he read it and finally, seeing that Murasaki was regarding him with astonishment, he handed her the missive. Meanwhile he examined the bedraggled old frock with which the discomfited messenger had been entrusted, with so rueful an expression that the fellow edged behind the bystanders and finally slipped out of the room, fearing that he had committed a grave breach of etiquette in introducing so pitiful an object into the presence of the Exalted Ones. His plight was the occasion of much whispering and laughter among his fellow servants. But laugh as one might at the absurd scenes which the princess’s archaic behaviour invariably provoked, the very fact that adherence to bygone fashions could produce so ludicrous a result suggested the most disquieting reflexions. ‘It is no laughing matter,’ said Genji. ‘Her “Chinese dress” and “discoloured with the brine of tears” made me feel thoroughly uncomfortable. With the writers of a generation or two ago every dress was “Chinese,” and, no matter what the occasion of the poem, its sleeves were invariably soaked with tears. But what about your poems and mine? Are they not every bit as bad? Our tags may be different from those of the princess; but we use them just as hard and when we come to write a poem are as impervious as she is to the speech of our own day. And this is true not only of amateurs such as ourselves, but of those whose whole reputation depends on their supposed poetical gifts. Think of them at Court festivals, with their eternal _madoi, madoi_.[112] It is a wonder they do not grow tired of the word. A little while ago _adabito_ “Faithless one” was used by well-bred lovers in every poem which they exchanged. They declined it (“of the faithless one,” “from the faithless one” and so on) in the third line, thus gaining time to think out their final couplet. And so we all go on, poring over nicely stitched _Aids to Song_, and when we have committed a sufficient number of phrases to memory, producing them on the next occasion when they are required. It is not a method which leads to very much variety.

‘But if we need a change, how much more does this unfortunate princess whose scruples forbid her to open any book except these old-fashioned collections of standard verse, written on dingy, native paper, to which her father Prince Hitachi introduced her long ago? Apart from these the only other reading which he seems to have permitted her was the _Marrow of Native Song_. Unfortunately this book consists almost entirely of “Faults to be avoided;” its comminations and restrictions have but served to aggravate her natural lack of facility. After such an education as this it is no wonder that her compositions have a well-worn and familiar air.’

‘You are too severe,’ said Murasaki, pleading for the princess. ‘Whatever you may say, she managed this time to send an answer, and promptly too. Pray let me have a copy of her poem that I may show it to the Akashi child. I too used to have such books as the _Marrow of Poesy_, but I do not know what has become of them. Probably book-worms got into them and they were thrown away. I believe that to any one unfamiliar with the old phrase-books Suyetsumu’s poem would seem delightfully fanciful and original. Let us try....’ ‘Do nothing of the kind,’ said Genji. ‘Her education would be ruined if she began to take an interest in poetry. It is an accepted principle that however great the aptitude which a girl may show for some branch of science or art, she must beware of using it; for there is always a risk that her mind may be unduly diverted from ordinary duties and pursuits. She must know just so much of each subject that it cannot be said she has entirely neglected it. Further than this, she can only go at the risk of undermining the fortress of chastity or diminishing that softness of manner without which no woman can be expected to please.’

But all this while he had forgotten that Suyetsumu’s letter itself required a reply; indeed, as was pointed out by Murasaki, the princess’s poem contained a hidden meaning which might be construed as a direct plea for further consolation. It would have been very unlike him not to have heeded such an appeal, and feeling that the standard she had set was not a very exacting one, he dashed off the following reply: ‘If heartlessness there be, not mine it is but yours, who speak of sending back the coat that, rightly worn, brings dreams of love.’[113]

[95] See vol. i, chapter iv.

[96] Tō no Chūjō’s child by Yūgao. Her name was Tamakatsura.

[97] The large southern island upon which the modern town of Nagasaki
stands.

[98] Tō no Chūjō.

[99] The God of the Sacred Mirror, at Matsura, in Hizen.

[100] Herself.

[101] See my _170 Chinese Poems_, p. 130.