CHAPTER IV
TAMAKATSURA
Though seventeen years had now passed since Yūgao’s death,[1] Genji had not by any means forgotten her. He had indeed since those early days seen much of the world and encountered the most divers temperaments. But he had yet to find a disposition such as hers; and it was with feelings of longing and contrition that he looked back upon their intimacy.
Though Ukon was not a creature of much account, she was the one person to whom he could speak of the dead lady. He felt a considerable degree of affection towards her, and during the years after Yūgao’s death Ukon had practically lived at the Nijo-in, being allowed to spend most of her time with the older servants in the house-keeper’s room. Then came the exile, and with Genji’s other servants she went across to the western wing and entered Murasaki’s service. She gave the impression of being a harmless, self-effacing creature, and it would have surprised every one very much to know what was all the while going on in her mind. For Ukon, particularly after the move to the New Palace, was constantly appraising the relative positions of the great ladies who ruled the house, and deciding what place her own dear mistress would now be occupying, were she still alive. ‘Certainly,’ said Ukon to herself, looking critically at the Lady of Akashi, ‘my poor lady would not have been eclipsed by such as you!’ And indeed Ukon had seen for herself that even where his feelings were far less strong than in Yūgao’s case, there never came a time when Genji turned aside from those who had opened their hearts to him, or behaved as though his obligations towards them were at an end. However full might be the cup of his affections, he did not allow a drop to spill; and though Yūgao might not perhaps have been able to vie with so great a personage as Murasaki, yet it was certain that were she alive she would now be occupying one of the main apartments in the newly-finished house.
Such were the sad reflections that dwelt constantly in this solitary lady’s heart. She had never attempted to get into communication with the family of her late mistress, nor even to discover the present whereabouts of the child[2] whom Yūgao had left behind at the house in the Fifth Ward; partly through fear of being questioned concerning her own part in the unhappy affair, partly because there seemed to be no object in doing so. Moreover, Genji had strictly forbidden her to mention the story to anybody, and though she had sometimes thought of writing to the people at the house, she felt that it would be disloyal to him to do so, and was entirely without news. She did, however, hear long afterwards a report that the husband of the nurse in whose care the child had been left was now working in a provincial Treasury and that his wife was with him. It seemed probable that they had also taken the child.
This was indeed the case. Tamakatsura was four years old when she made the journey to Tsukushi. The nurse, after months of vain endeavour to discover Yūgao’s whereabouts, during which she had trudged weary and weeping from quarter to quarter and house to house without finding the least glimmer of news, had at last given up all hope. She would have been glad enough for her own sake to keep the child, to whom she had become fondly attached, as a remembrance of the mistress whom she must now regard as forever lost. But there were also the little girl’s own interests to consider. ‘We are humble people,’ thought the nurse, ‘and Tsukushi[3] is a long way off. Perhaps it is my duty to tell her father[4] of what has happened and give him the chance of making some more suitable provision for her future.’ But it was difficult for such people to communicate with a young gentleman of Tō no Chūjō’s quality. ‘If I mention the child to its father,’ she said to her husband one day, ‘he is certain to ask at once how I could have been so foolish as to let our poor young lady out of my sight. And indeed, I don’t know how I should answer him. Then again, it isn’t as if he had ever seen much of the little creature. It would be like handing her over to strangers, and I do not think that, when the time came, I should ever find it in my heart to let her go. He may of course refuse to do anything for her himself; but one thing is certain: if he hears we are going off to Tsukushi, he will never give me leave to take her with us!’ So the nurse declared to her husband and companions. Though Tamakatsura was not much over three years old when her mother disappeared, she had acquired all the airs and graces of a little lady; she was remarkably good-looking and it was apparent that she already had a strong will of her own. But now she was bundled on to a common trading-ship in which no provision whatever had been made for the comfort of the passengers; and as they rowed out into the bay, she began to look very disconsolate. She still thought a great deal about her mother, and, to re-assure herself, she said out loud: ‘I know why we are travelling on this ship; we are going to see mother!’ She returned to this idea again and again, but it received no confirmation on any side, and at last she burst into tears. Two young women sitting near by were also weeping, though they suddenly ceased to do so when one of the sailors reminded them that ‘tears bring bad luck at sea.’
Skirting along the coast they passed much lovely scenery, and the nurse, remembering what delight her young mistress had taken in such sights as these, wished for a moment that she were here to see them. But then she remembered that but for Yūgao’s disappearance she and her husband would never have been driven to accept this wretched post in the provinces, and she gazed regretfully in the direction of the City, envying even the waves that stole back so peacefully towards shores ‘that she, perhaps, would never tread again.’ Soon the rowers began chanting in their rough, wild voices the song ‘Over the distant waves,’ and the two young women, who were sitting face to face, again began to weep bitterly. At last the ship rounded the Golden Cape, and knowing that the coast which now came into view belonged not to the mainland, but to the island of Tsukushi, the travellers felt that exile had indeed begun. The old nurse’s heart sank; but she had her little charge to see to and was most of the time far too busy to think of anything else. Now and again she would drop off to sleep and then, as for some time past, she would at once dream that her mistress appeared before her. But always at Yūgao’s side there stood the figure of another woman, who seemed to follow her wherever she went. The nurse woke from these dreams sickened and afraid, and she felt, after each such occasion, more certain than ever that Yūgao was no longer alive.
Shōni, the nurse’s husband, had only been appointed to his post in Tsukushi for a term of five years. But the position he held was a very humble one and when the time came, he found it difficult to meet the expenses of a long journey. Thus their departure for the capital had to be postponed again and again. At last, after many months of disappointment and delay, Shōni fell seriously ill. Tamakatsura was now ten years old and was growing handsomer every day. Shōni, who knew that his end was near, kept asking himself what would become of her in this desolate place. He had always felt that in bringing her with them they had acted somewhat unfairly to the child. For after all she was Tō no Chūjō’s daughter, and her birth entitled her to better surroundings than the cramped and dingy home of a provincial clerk. But five years is not a very long time, and he had always confidently expected that when his term of office ran out he would be able to take her with him to Kyōto and put her into touch with her father. True, it was possible that Chūjō would refuse to acknowledge her. But the City is a big place, and Shōni made no doubt that, once he had settled her there, a girl such as this would not have to wait very long before a satisfactory opening occurred. For this reason he had done everything in his power to raise funds for the journey. But now the last expedient had failed and he knew that for his part he was fated never to leave Tsukushi. During his last days he worried much over the injustice which had been done to the child in detaining her so long away from the Capital, and sending for his sons he said to them: ‘As soon as this is over I want you to take Tamakatsura back to the City. The same day. Don’t wait for the funeral….’
It was only known to the members of Shōni’s family that the little girl was Tō no Chūjō’s daughter. To the other government clerks and to the world in general she was a grand-daughter of Shōni’s whose parents were in trouble of some kind and had left her in his charge. But in the family she continued to be treated as ‘the young lady’, and every sacrifice was made that she might have, so far as possible, the upbringing to which her birth entitled her. Shōni’s sudden illness and death naturally threw his wife into a piteous state of distraction; but in the midst of her grief, one thought obsessed her; would they ever be able to secure a passage back to the City and restore the little girl to her relations? Unfortunately Shōni had been unpopular with the local people and none of them would give any assistance. Thus the time dragged on, wretched years full of anxiety and discouragement; and still there seemed no prospect of return.
Meanwhile Tamakatsura grew to womanhood. She had all her mother’s beauty, and something more besides; for she seemed to have inherited from her father’s side a singular air of high breeding, an aristocratic fineness of limb and gesture, that in Yūgao, whose beauty was that of the by-street rather than of the palace, had been entirely lacking. She was of a very generous disposition, and in every way a most delightful companion. Her fame soon spread through the island, and hardly a day passed but some local squire or farmer attempted to get into correspondence with her. These letters, written for the most part in a rustic sprawling hand and very crudely expressed, were thrust upon every member of the household in turn in the hope that he or she would consent to act as a go-between. Clumsy documents of this kind were calculated to arouse nothing but disgust in the breast of any one save an islander, and no attention whatever was paid to them. At last the persistence of her suitors became a nuisance, and the nurse put it about that though the girl looked just like other people, she suffered from a secret deformity which made it impossible for her ever to marry. It had indeed (so the story ran) already been decided that she was to live quietly with her ‘grandmother’ till the old lady died, and after that was to enter a nunnery. But it soon became so irritating to hear every one saying: ‘Isn’t it sad about poor Shōni’s grand-daughter? They say she has got some terrible deformity,’ that the old nurse could bear it no longer and again began racking her brains to discover some way of getting the girl back to her father. Was it conceivable that he would refuse to look after her? After all, he had made quite a fuss over her when she was a baby. The old lady prayed fervently to every Buddha and God that some way might present itself of taking Tamakatsura to Kyōto. But the chance of any member of her family getting away from Tsukushi was now remoter than ever. Her daughters had married local people and her sons were employed in the neighbourhood. In her heart of hearts she still cherished all sorts of schemes for compassing the return of the whole family; but every day it became more and more impossible that anything of the kind would ever happen. Thus Tamakatsura grew up amid continual lamentations and repinings and learnt to look upon life as one long succession of troubles and disappointments, varied only by three great bouts of penance and fasting, each January, May and September. The years went by. She was now twenty; her beauty was at its height, and still it was being wasted in this barbarous and sequestered land.
Some while after Shōni’s death the family had moved along the coast from Chikuzen to Hizen, hoping for a more peaceful existence in a place where they were not known. But Tamakatsura’s reputation had preceded her and, little inclined to credit the stories about her deformity, the notabilities of the neighbouring countryside began pestering her guardians with such assiduity that life soon became as harassing as before.
Among these suitors there was a certain Tayū no Gen who held a small position under the Lord-Lieutenant of Tsukushi. He came of a family that was very influential in Higo and the surrounding country, and on this side of the island he ranked as a person of considerable importance. He had, moreover, greatly distinguished himself in a campaign against the insurgents. To a singular degree of hardihood and endurance there was added in his nature more than a fair share of sensuality. Women were his hobby; he kept a prodigious quantity of them always about him, and was continually on the look-out for opportunities of adding to the collection. The story of the beautiful Tamakatsura and of the secret deformity which prevented her marriage soon reached Tayū’s ears. ‘Mis-shapen, is she?’ he cried. ‘Frightened that people will stare? She need not worry about that if she comes to me. I’ll keep her locked up all right!’ and he wrote at once to Shōni’s wife. The old lady, who knew his reputation, was sadly put about. She replied that her grand-daughter was destined for the convent and that no proposals of this kind could be entertained on her behalf. Tayū was not used to be put off like this and, determined at all costs to get his way, he came galloping over to Hizen at full speed. He immediately summoned Shōni’s three sons to his lodging and said to them: ‘Let me have that girl, and you may count on me as a friend for life. My name goes for something on the Higo side….” Two of the sons were easily won over and promised to do as Tayū asked. They had, it is true, a moment’s qualm at the thought of handing over Tō no Chūjō’s child to this lawless provincial swashbuckler. But they had their own way to make in the world, and they knew that Tayū had by no means exaggerated the value of his own friendship and protection. On the other hand, life on this part of the island with Tayū against one was a prospect not to be faced with equanimity. If the girl had failed to take in the world the place to which her rank entitled her, that was her father’s fault, not theirs. She ought to be grateful that such a man as this (after all, he was the principal person in the neighbourhood) should have taken such a fancy to her. In Tsukushi at any rate there was no prospect of doing better for her, and Tayū, angered by the refusal of his proffered patronage would certainly stick at nothing. … So they argued, doing their best to scare their mother into assent by stories of Tayū’s violence and implacability. Only the second brother, Bugo no Suke, stood out: ‘I know a good deal about this fellow,’ he said. ‘It’s too much of a shame. We simply cannot hand her over to him. … Somehow or other one of us ought to do what our father asked us to—take her back to Kyōto. There must be some way of managing it….’ Shōni’s two daughters stood by weeping. Their mother was utterly heart-broken. What had become now of all her plans for the girl’s happy future? Of what use had been all these years of isolation and subterfuge, if at the end Tamakatsura must be handed over to this coarse and unscrupulous barbarian?
It would indeed have astonished Tayū to know that any one in Hizen considered him in such a light as this. He had always regarded his attentions to women as favours bestowed; he flattered himself moreover that he knew as well as any man how to conduct a gallant correspondence, and his letters began to arrive thick and fast. They were written in a clean, bold hand on thick Chinese paper, heavily scented. It was evident indeed that he regarded himself as no mean calligrapher. His style of composition was not an agreeable one, being very tortuous and affected. Soon he made up his mind that the time had come for him to call in person, and he arranged with the brothers to meet him at their mother’s house. Tayū was a man of about thirty, tall and solidly built. He was far from ill-looking; but he had the power (which he frequently exercised) of assuming the most repulsively ferocious expression. This, however, was reserved for his followers and opponents. When in a good temper and engaged upon errands of love he adopted an entirely different voice and manner. You would have thought indeed that some little bird was chirruping, so dexterously did he reduce his rough bass to a small silvery fluting: ‘As a lover, I ought to have come after dark, ought I not? Isn’t that what courting means—coming at night? So I was always told. What extraordinary weather for a spring evening! In autumn of course one expects it….’
Upon a strict undertaking that she would not provoke Tayū in any way, the old lady’s sons had allowed her to see him. He now turned to her saying: ‘Madam, though I never had the pleasure of meeting your late husband, I knew him to be a kind-hearted and upright gentleman. I always hoped that I might one day have an opportunity of showing him how much I appreciated his excellent qualities, and it was with deep regret that I heard of his untimely decease. But though I can no longer do him any service, I hope that you will allow me to show my regard for him in some practical way. There is, I think, a young lady here, (I am right, am I not?) a ward of yours, or relative of some sort? If I venture to speak of her, it is with the greatest deference and respect; for I understand that she is of extremely high birth. I assure you that, were I ever privileged to make the acquaintance of such a person, I should kneel before her like a slave, dedicate my life to her service, humbly petition her…. But I see that you are looking at me somewhat askance. You have heard stories no doubt…. Believe me, there is no truth in them. I have in the past admired one or two of our simple country girls; but surely you can understand that this would be a very different matter. Should you admit me to the friendship of your exalted kinswoman, I would set her up as my paragon, my empress, my all-in-all….’ He made many fair speeches of this kind. At last the old nurse answered: ‘I should indeed consider my grand-daughter singularly fortunate to have aroused the interest of so distinguished a gentleman as yourself, were it not for the fact that nature has played upon her a cruel trick at birth. … Sir, I have seldom spoken of this to any one before; but I must assure you that the poor girl’s unhappy condition has for years past been a sore trouble tome. As for offering her hand in marriage to any one—that is entirely out of the question….’ ‘Pray don’t make so many apologies,’ cried Tayū. ‘Were she the most blear-eyed, broken-legged creature under Heaven, I’d have her put right for you in a very short while. The truth of the matter is, the Gods and Buddhas in the temples round here owe a good deal to me, and I can make them do pretty much whatever I choose….’ So he bragged; but when, assuming that his offer had already been accepted, he began pressing the old lady to name a day, she hastily changed the subject, saying that summer would soon be coming, that the farmers were needing rain, plying him in fact with all the usual topics of the countryside. He felt that before he left he ought to recite a few verses of poetry, and after a long period of silent meditation, he produced the following:
If she does not want to be married,
I shall go to the pine-tree Bay
And complain to the God of the Mirror;[5]
Then I need hardly say
That I shall get my way.
‘I don’t think that’s such a bad poem,’ he said smiling awkwardly. The nurse was in far too agitated a condition to indulge in literary pastimes. Utterly unable to produce any sort of reply, she begged her daughters to answer in her stead. ‘But mother darling,’ the young ladies protested, ‘if you cannot think of anything to say, still less can we….’ At last after much painful cogitation, the old lady recited the following poem, speaking as though she were addressing herself as much as him: ‘Unkind were it indeed should the Guardian of the Mirror frustrate the prayers of one[6] who year on year hath been his and his alone.’ ‘What’s that?’ cried Tayū rushing towards her. ‘How dare you say such a thing?’ So sudden was his onrush that Shōni’s wife jumped almost out of her skin, and she turned pale with fright. Fortunately her daughters were not so easily scared, and one of them, laughing as though an absurd misunderstanding had occurred, at once said to Tayū: ‘What mother meant was this: she hopes that after all the trouble she has taken praying to the Gods of Matsura on our little niece’s behalf, they will not allow the poor girl’s deformity to turn you against her. But dear mother is getting old and it is not always easy to make out what she is saying.’ ‘Oho! Yes, yes, I see,’ he said, nodding his head reflectively. ‘I don’t know how I came to misunderstand it. Ha! ha! Very neatly expressed. I expect you look upon me as a very uncultivated, provincial person. And so I should be, if I were at all like the other people round here. But I’ve been very fortunate; you would not find many men even at the City who have had a better education than I. You’d be making a great mistake if you set me down as a plain, countrified sort of man. As a matter of fact, there’s nothing I have not studied.’ He would very much have liked to try his hand at a second poem; but his stock of ideas was exhausted and he was obliged to take leave.
The fact that two of her sons had openly sided with Tayū increased the old lady’s terror and despair. All she could now think of was to spirit the girl away from Tsukushi as rapidly and secretly as possible. She besought the other son, Bugo no Suke, to devise some means of conducting the girl to Kyōto; but Bugo no Suke answered: ‘I wish I could; but I do not see how it is to be done. There is not a soul on the island who will help me. We three used to hang together in old times; but now they say I am Tayū’s enemy and will have nothing to do with me. And with Tayū against one it is a difficult thing in these parts to stir hand or foot, let alone take passage for several persons in an out-going ship. I might find I was doing Lady Tamakatsura a very ill turn….’
But though no one had told the girl of what was going on, she somehow or other seemed to know all about it. She was in a state of the wildest agitation, and Bugo no Suke heard her declare in tones of the utmost horror that she intended to take her own life rather than accept the fate which was in store for her. Bugo was certain that this was no empty threat, and by a tremendous effort he managed to collect a sum sufficient to cover the expenses of the journey. His mother, now getting on in years, was determined not to end her days in Tsukushi. But she was growing very infirm, and it would be impossible for her to accompany them did not one of her daughters consent to come and look after her. The younger sister, Ateki, had been married for several years; but Bugo no Suke prevailed upon her at last to abandon her home and take charge of their mother on the journey. The elder sister had been married much longer; her family was already large and it was obviously impossible for her to get away. The travellers were obliged to leave home hastily late one night and embark at once; for they had suddenly heard that Tayū, who had gone home to Higo, was expected back in Hizen early next day (the twelfth of the fourth month), and he would doubtless lose no time in claiming his bride.
There were distressing scenes of farewell. It seemed unlikely that the elder sister would ever see her mother again. But Ateki took the parting much more calmly; for though Tsukushi had been her home for so long, she was by no means sorry to leave the place, and it was only when someone pointed back to the Matsura temple and Ateki scanning the quay-side recognized the very spot where she had said good-bye to her sister, that she felt at all downcast at the thought of the journey before her. ‘Swiftly we row,’ she sang; ‘the Floating Islands vanish in the mist and, pilotless as they, I quit life’s anchorage to drift amid the tempests of a world unknown.’ ‘No longer men but playthings of the wind are they who in their misery must needs take ship upon the uncertain pathways of the deep.’ So Tamakatsura replied, and in utter despair she flung herself face downward upon her seat, where she lay motionless for many hours.
The news of her flight soon leaked out, and eventually reached Tayū’s ears. He was not the man to let his prey slip from him in this manner, and though for an instant he was so angry and surprised that he could do nothing at all, he soon pulled himself together, hired a light skiff and set out in pursuit. It was a vessel specially constructed for swift launching, and the wind was blowing hard from shore. He shot across the harbour at an immense speed, with every inch of sail spread, and a moment later was through the Clanging Breakers. Launched upon the calmer waters of the open sea his craft scudded along more swiftly than ever. Seeing a small boat chasing after them at reckless speed the captain of the pursued vessel imagined that pirates were on his track and pressed on towards the nearest port. Only Tamakatsura and her companions knew that in that rapidly approaching craft there was one who, by them at any rate, was far more to be dreaded than the most ruthless pirate. Louder and louder beat the poor girl’s heart; so loud indeed that the noise of the breakers seemed to her to have stopped. At last they entered the bay of Kawajiri. Tayū’s vessel was no longer in sight, and as their ship approached the harbour, the fugitives began to breathe again. One of the sailors was singing a snatch of the song:
So I pressed on from China Port to Kawajiri Bay
With never a thought for my own sad love or the babe that wept on her knee.
He sang in an expressionless, monotonous voice, but the melancholy tune caught Bugo no Suke’s fancy and he found himself joining in: ‘With never a thought…’ Yes; he too had left behind those who were dearest to him, with little thought indeed of what was to become of them. Even the two or three sturdy youths who worked for him in the house would have been some comfort to his wife and babes. But these young fellows had clamoured to go with him and he weakly consented. He pictured to himself how Tayū, maddened by the failure of his pursuit, would rush back to Hizen and wreak his vengeance upon the defenceless families of those who had worked against him. How far would he go? What exactly would he do? Bugo no Suke now realized that in planning this flight he had behaved with the wildest lack of forethought; all his self-confidence vanished, and so hideous were the scenes which his imagination conjured up before him that he broke down altogether and sat weeping with his head on his knees. Like the ransomed prisoner in Po Chü-i’s poem,[7] though returning to his native place, he had left wife and child to shift for themselves amid the Tartar hordes. His sister Ateki heard him sobbing and could well understand his dismay. The plight of those who had remained at Hizen was indeed a wretched one. Most of all she pitied the few old followers and servants who had consented to come with them from the Capital long ago, believing that in five years they would be back again in their homes. To leave these faithful old people in the lurch seemed the basest of treacheries. They had always (she and her brother) been used to speaking of the City as their ‘home’; but now that they were drawing near to it they realized that though it was indeed their native place, there was not within it one house where they were known, one friend or acquaintance to whom they could turn. For this lady’s sake they had left what for most of their lives had been their world, their only true home—had committed their lives to the hazard of wind and wave; all this without a moment’s reflection or misgiving. And now that their precious cargo was within hail of port, what were they to do with her? How were they to approach her family, make known her presence, prove her identity? Endlessly though they had discussed these points during the journey, they could arrive at no conclusion, and it was with a sense of helplessness and bewilderment that they hurried into the City.
In the Ninth Ward they chanced to hear of an old acquaintance of their mother’s who was still living in the neighbourhood, and here they managed to procure temporary lodgings. The Ninth Ward does indeed count as part of Kyōto; but it is an immense distance from the centre, and no one of any consequence lives there. Thus in their effort to find some influential person who would help them to fulfil their mission, the brother and sister encountered only the strangest types of market-women and higglers. Autumn was coming on, they had achieved nothing and there seemed no reason to suppose that the ensuing months would be any more profitable than those which they had just wasted. Ateki who had relied entirely upon her brother and imagined him capable of dealing with any situation that arose, was dismayed to discover that in the City he was like a water-bird on shore. He hung about the house, had no notion how to make enquiries or cultivate fresh acquaintances, and was no better able to look after himself than the youths he had brought with him from Tsukushi. These young fellows, after much grumbling, had indeed mostly either found employment in the neighbourhood or gone back to their native province. It grieved Ateki beyond measure that her brother should be thus stranded in the Capital without occupation or resource, and she bewailed his lot day and night. ‘Come, come, Sister,’ he would say to her, ‘on my account you have no cause to be uneasy. I would gladly come a good deal further than we have travelled and put up with many another month of hardship and waiting, if only I could get our young lady back among the friends who ought to be looking after her. We may have spoilt our own prospects, you and I; but what should we be feeling like to-day, if we consented to let that monster carry her off to his infamous den? But it is my opinion that the Gods alone can help us in our present pass. Not far from here is the great temple of Yawata where the same God is worshipped as in our own Yawata Temples at Hakozaki and Matsura, where mother used to take the young lady to do her penances. Those two temples may be a long way off, but the same God inhabits all three, and I believe that her many visits to Hakozaki and Matsura would now stand her in good stead. What if she were to go to the Temple here and perform a service of thanksgiving for her safe journey to the Capital?’ Bugo no Suke made enquiries in the neighbourhood and found out that one of the Five Abbots, a very holy man with whom Shōni had been well acquainted, was still alive. He obtained an interview with the old priest and arranged that Tamakatsura should be allowed to visit the Temple.
After this they visited a succession of holy places. At last Bugo no Suke suggested a pilgrimage to the Temple of the Hasegawa Kwannon. ‘There is no deity in Japan,’ he said, ‘who has in recent times worked so many miracles as this Goddess of Hatsuse. I am told that the fame of her shrine has spread even to China,[8] and far off though Tsukushi is, I know that Lady Tamakatsura has for years past been deeply interested in the achievements of this Divinity and shown an exemplary piety towards her. I believe that a visit to Hatsuse would do more for our young lady than anything else.’ It was decided that, to give it a greater significance, the pilgrimage should be made on foot and, despite her great age and infirmity, the old nurse would not be left behind. Tamakatsura, wholly unused to such experiences, felt scared and wretched as, pilgrims in front and behind, she tramped wearily on, turning to right or left when she was bid, but otherwise too deeply buried in her own thoughts to notice what went on around her. What had she done, she asked herself over and over again, to deserve this downtrodden existence? And as she dragged foot after foot along the dusty road she prayed earnestly to Buddha, saying ‘O Much-Honoured One, if my mother is indeed no longer in this world, grant that, wherever it be, her soul may look upon me with compassion and her prayers bring me quick release, that I may take refuge in the place where her spirit dwells. And if she is still alive, grant, O Buddha, that I may one day meet her face to face.’ So she prayed, and while she did so suddenly remembered that it was a useless prayer. For she was very young when Yūgao disappeared, had only the haziest recollection of her appearance, and even if the prayer were answered, would certainly pass her mother unrecognized! Dismal as these reflections would at any time have been, they were doubly so now, worn out as she was by the fatigue of the journey. The party had indeed travelled at a very leisurely pace and it was not till the hour of the Snake, on the fourth day, that they at last reached Tsuba Market.[9] Tamakatsura was by this time more dead than alive; they attempted to improvise a carrying-chair, but the pain in her legs was so great that she could not bear to be moved, and there was nothing for it but to let her rest at the inn.
The party consisted of Bugo no Suke, two bowmen and three or four very rough-looking boys to carry the luggage. The three ladies had their skirts tucked in at the belt like country-women, and were attended only by two aged crones who looked like broken-down charwomen. It would indeed have been impossible to guess that any person of quality was among them.
They spent the time till dusk in trimming their holy lamps and preparing such other emblems and offerings as are brought by pilgrims to the Hasegawa Shrine.
Going his rounds at nightfall the priest who owned the inn came upon the two decrepit old serving-women calmly making a bed for Tamakatsura in a corner of the best room of the house. ‘These quarters have been engaged for the night by a gentlewoman who may arrive at any minute,’ he said in consternation. ‘Be off with you at once! Just fancy, without so much as a “by your leave”!’ They were still staring at him helplessly, when there was a noise at the door and it became evident that the expected guests had actually arrived. They too seemed to have come on foot. There were two gentlewomen, very well-conditioned, and quite a number of attendants both male and female. Their baggage was on the backs of some four or five horses, and though they wore plain liveries it was evident that the grooms were in good service. The landlord was determined that the newcomers should have the quarters which he had intended for them; but the intruders showed no signs of moving, and he stood scratching his head in great perplexity. It did indeed go to the hearts of Tamakatsura’s old servants to turn her out of the corner where she was so comfortably established and pack her away into the back room. But it was soon apparent that the only alternative was to seek quarters in a different inn, and as this would have been both humiliating and troublesome they made the best of a bad job and carried their mistress to the inner room, while others of the party either took shelter in the outhouses or squeezed themselves and their belongings into stray angles and corners of the main house.
The new arrivals did not after all seem to be of such rank and consequence as the priest had made out. But it was hard to guess what manner of people they might be; for they concealed themselves scrupulously from the gaze of their fellow-guests and hardly spoke to one another at all.
In point of fact, the person to whom Lady Tamakatsura had been thus unceremoniously compelled to give place was none other than her mother’s faithful maid, Ukon! For years past it had been the one comfort of the solitary and grief-stricken old lady’s existence to make this pilgrimage, and Genji had always assisted her to do so with as much comfort as possible. So familiar was the journey that it no longer seemed to her in any way formidable; but having come on foot she was quite ready for a rest, and immediately lay down upon the nearest couch. Beside her was a thin partition of plaited reeds. Behind it she could hear people moving about, and presently some one entered who seemed to be carrying a tray of food. Then she heard a man’s voice saying: ‘Please take this to my Lady. Tell her I am very sorry it is so badly served; but I have done the best I can.’ From the tone in which he spoke it was evident that the lady to whom these apologies were to be conveyed was a person far above him in social position. Ukon’s curiosity was aroused. She peeped through a crack in the partition, and at once had the impression that she had seen the young man before. Who could it be? She racked her brains, but could not imagine. It would indeed have been strange had she been able to identify Bugo no Suke, who was a mere child when she last saw him, while now he was a full-grown man, much bronzed from exposure to the sun and winds of Tsukushi, and dressed in the poorest clothes. ‘Sanjō, my Lady is asking for you.’ So Bugo no Suke now cried, and to her astonishment Ukon saw that the old woman who answered to this name was also certainly some one whom she had once known. But here there could be no mistake. This Sanjō was the one who had been in service with Ukon in Yūgao’s house, and had afterwards (like Ukon herself) been one of the few servants whom Yūgao took with her to the house in the Fifth Ward. It seemed like a dream. Who was the Lady whom they were accompanying? She strained her eyes; but the bed in the room behind the partition was surrounded by screens and there was no possibility of seeing its occupant. She had made up her mind to accost the maid Sanjō and question her, when part of her doubt resolved itself spontaneously: the man must be that boy of Shōni’s, … the one they used to call Hyōtōda, and the lady towards whom they showed such deference could be no other than Tamakatsura, Yūgao’s child by Tō no Chūjō. In wild excitement she called to Sanjō by name; but the old woman was busy serving the supper and for the moment she took no notice. She was very cross at being called away from her work like this, but whoever it was that wanted her seemed to be in a great hurry, and presently she arrived, exclaiming: ‘I can’t make it out. I’ve spent the last twenty years in service on the island of Tsukushi, and here’s a lady from Kyōto calling for me by my own name, as though she knew all about me. Well, Madam, I am called Sanjō. But I think it must be another Sanjō that you are wanting.’ As she drew near Ukon noticed that the old woman was wearing the most extraordinary narrow-sleeved overall on top of her frumpy old dress. She had grown enormously stout. The sight of her brought a sudden flush of humiliation to Ukon’s cheeks, for she realised that she herself was an old woman, and as Sanjō now looked to her, so must she, Ukon, for years past have appeared to all eyes save her own. ‘Look again! Do you not know me?’ she said at last, looking straight into Sanjō’s face. ‘Why, to be sure I do!’ cried the old lady, clapping her hands, ‘you were in service with my Lady. I was never so glad in my life. Where have you been hiding our dear mistress all this while? … Of course she is with you now?’ and in the midst of her excitement Sanjō began to weep; for the encounter had brought back to her mind the days when she was young. What times those had been! And how long, how cruelly long ago it all was! ‘First,’ answered Ukon gravely, ‘you must give me a little of your news. Is nurse with you? And what has happened to the baby girl … and Ateki, where is she?’ For the moment Ukon could not bear to dash Sanjō’s hope to the ground; moreover it was so painful to her to speak of Yūgao’s death that she now listened in silence to Sanjō’s tale: mother, brother and sister were all there. Tamakatsura was grown to be a fine young lady and was with them too. ‘But here I am talking,’ said Sanjō at last, ‘when I ought to have run straight in to tell nurse, …’ and with this she disappeared. After their first surprise the chief feeling of Ateki and her mother, upon the reception of this news, was one of indignation against Ukon, whom they supposed to have left their mistress in hiding all these years, callously indifferent to the suspense and misery of all her friends. ‘I don’t feel that I want to see her,’ said the old nurse at last, nodding in the direction of Ukon’s room, ‘but I suppose I ought to go.’ No sooner, however, was she sitting by Ukon’s couch, with all the curtains drawn aside, than both of them burst into tears. ‘What has become of her, where is my lady?’ the nurse sobbed. ‘You cannot imagine what I have been through in all these years. I have prayed again and again that some sign, some chance word, some dream might tell me where she was hiding. But not one breath of news came to us, and at last I thought terrible things—that she must be very far away indeed. Yes, I have even imagined that she must be dead, and fallen then into such despair that I hated my own life and would have ended it too, had not my love for the little girl whom she left with me held my feet from the Paths of Night. And even so, you see for yourself what I am…. It is but a faint flicker of life….’
In this strain the nurse spoke on, supposing all the while that Lady Yūgao herself was somewhere not far away. ‘How shall I tell her? What am I to say?’ The same questions that tormented Ukon’s brain during those first days after the funeral returned to her now with redoubled urgency. But this could not go on; it was impossible not to speak; and Ukon suddenly broke in upon the old nurse’s outpourings: ‘Listen!’ she said. ‘It is no use my telling you how it happened…. But Lady Yūgao died a long while ago.’
After this there was silence, broken at last by the agonized and convulsive sobbing of these three old women.
It was growing dark, and now with lamps lit and offerings in their hands the pilgrims were about to start for the temple. The women clung to one another till the last moment and, still scarce knowing what they did, were about to set out upon the road together, when Ukon suddenly bethought herself of the astonishment which her attendants must be feeling at this strange addition to the party; moreover Bugo no Suke had as yet heard nothing of the meeting, and for the moment the old nurse had not the heart to enter into a long explanation of what had occurred. The two parties accordingly separated, Ukon scanning with curiosity the pilgrims who filed past her into the street. Among them was a girl, very poorly dressed; her hair was caught up in a thin summer scarf, which held it tight but did not conceal it. In the procession she walked some way ahead, but even the momentary back view which Ukon was thus able to obtain convinced her that the girl was not only of exceptional beauty, but also of a rank in life very different from that of the shabby pilgrims who tramped beside her. When at last they arrived the service was already in full swing and the temple crowded to overflowing; for most of the pilgrims in whose company the party from Tsukushi had set out from the city were sturdy-legged peasants and working people who had pressed on through Tsuba without a moment’s rest and long ago secured their places in the holy building. Ukon, being an habitual visitor to the temple, was at once conducted to a place which had been reserved for her immediately to the right of the Main Altar. But Tamakatsura and her party, who had never been there before and had, moreover, the misfortune to fall into the hands of a very unenterprising verger, found themselves bundled away into the western transept. Ukon from her place of privilege soon caught sight of them and beckoned to them to join her. After a hasty consultation with her son, during the course of which the nurse appeared to be explaining, so far as was possible in a few words, who Ukon was and why she had beckoned, the women of the party pushed their way towards the altar, leaving Bugo no Suke and his two followers where the incompetent sacristan had placed them. Though Ukon was in herself a person of no consequence, she was known to be in Genji’s service, and that alone, as she had long ago discovered, was sufficient to secure her from interference, even in such a place as this. Let the herd gape if they chose and ask one another with indignation why two ill-dressed women from the provinces, who had arrived at the last minute, were calmly seating themselves in places reserved for the gentry. Ukon was not going to have her young lady wedged into a corner or jostled by the common crowd. She longed to get into conversation at once; but the critical moment in the service had just arrived and she was obliged to remain kneeling with head lowered. So it had come at last, this meeting for which she had prayed year in and year out! And now it only remained that Genji, who had so often begged her to find out what had become of Yūgao’s child, should welcome the discovery (as she felt sure he would) and by his influence restore to this unhappy lady the place at Court to which her birth entitled her. Such indeed was the purport of her prayer as she now knelt at the altar by Tamakatsura’s side.
In the crowded temple were pilgrims from every province in the land. Among them the wife of the Governor of Yamato Province was conspicuous for her elegance and consequential air, for most of the worshippers were simple country people, very unfashionably dressed. Sanjō, who, after so many years passed in barbarous Tsukushi, had quite forgotten how town people get themselves up for occasions such as this, could not take her eyes off the magnificent lady. ‘Hark ye,’ she said at last in an awe-struck whisper to the nurse, ‘I don’t know what you’re a-going to pray for to our Lady Kwannon. But I’m a-praying that if our dear young lady can’t be wife to the Lord-Lieutenant[10] (as I have always hoped she might be), then let her marry a Governor of this fine province of Yamato. For a grander lady than that one there I’m sure I’ve never seen! “Just do that,” I said to Lady Kwannon in my prayer, “and you’ll be surprised at the wonderful offerings poor old Sanjō will bring to your altar.” ’ And smiting her forehead with her hand, she began again to pray with immense fervour. ‘Well,’ said Ukon, astonished by this extraordinary speech. ‘You have become a regular countrywoman; there’s no doubt about it. Don’t you know that Madam is Tō no Chūjō’s own daughter? That’s enough in itself; but now that Prince Genji, who for her mother’s sake, would do anything for her, has come into his own again, do you suppose there is any gentleman in the land who would be too good for her? It would be a sad come-down indeed if she were to become some paltry Governor’s wife!’ But Sanjō was not thus to be put out of countenance. ‘Pardon me,’ she said hotly; ‘I don’t know much about your Prince Genjis or such-like. But I do know that I’ve seen the Lord-Lieutenant’s wife and all her train on their way to the temple of Our Lady Kwannon at Kiyomizu, and I can tell you the Emperor himself never rode out in such state! So don’t try to put me in my place!’ and unabashed the old woman resumed her attitude of prayer.
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[11] 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.[12] 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[13] 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[14] 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,[15] 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 main-door 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,[16] 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.’[17] 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.[18] 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.’[19]
- ↑ See vol. i, chapter iv.
- ↑ Tō no Chūjō’s child by Yūgao. Her name was Tamakatsura.
- ↑ The large southern island upon which the modern town of Nagasaki stands.
- ↑ Tō no Chūjō.
- ↑ The God of the Sacred Mirror, at Matsura, in Hizen.
- ↑ Herself.
- ↑ See my 170 Chinese Poems, p. 130.
- ↑ There is a story in Japan that the wife of the Chinese Emperor Hsi Tsung (874–888 A.D.) was so ugly that she was nicknamed ‘Horse-head.’ In obedience to a dream she turned to the East and prayed to the Kwannon of Hasegawa in Japan. Instantly there appeared before her a figure carrying Kwannon’s sacred water-vessel. He dashed the water over her face and she became the most beautiful woman in China.
- ↑ A short distance from the Hasegawa Temple.
- ↑ Of Tsukushi.
- ↑ I hesitate to use the word ‘Confessor.’
- ↑ Now about six years old.
- ↑ Fujitsubo.
- ↑ Pulled by servants, the oxen being unyoked at the Gate.
- ↑ The Lady of Akashi’s daughter.
- ↑ The Royal Gods Izanagi and Izanami bore a leech-child; as at the age of three it could not stand, they cast it adrift in a boat. It made a song which said: ‘I should have thought my daddy and mammy would have been sorry for me, seeing that at three years old I could not stand.’ See vol. ii, p. 185.
- ↑ Tamakazura=jewelled wig.
- ↑ ‘I go astray.’
- ↑ A coat worn inside out brings dreams of one’s lover.