CHAPTER VIII
A BED OF CARNATIONS
One very hot day Genji, finding the air at the New Palace intolerably close, decided to picnic at the fishing-hut on the lake. He invited Yūgiri to come with him, and they were joined by most of the courtiers with whom Genji was on friendly terms. From the Western River on his estate at Katsura ayu had been brought, and from the nearer streams ishibushi and other fresh-water fish, and these formed the staple of their repast. Several of Tō no Chūjō’s sons had called to see Yūgiri, and hearing where he was to be found, joined the picnic. ‘How heavy and sleepy one has felt lately!’ exclaimed Genji. ‘This is certainly a great improvement.’ Wine was brought; but he sent for iced water as well. A delicious cold soup was served, and many other delicacies. Here by the lake there was a certain amount of movement in the air; but the sun blazed down out of a cloudless sky, and even when the shadows began to lengthen there was a continual buzzing of insects which was very oppressive. ‘I have never known such a day,’ said Genji. ‘It does not after all seem any better here than it was indoors. You must excuse me if I am too limp to do much in the way of entertaining you,’ and he lay back against his cushions. ‘One does not feel much inclined for music or games of any kind in such weather, and yet one badly needs something to occupy the mind. I have sometimes wondered lately whether the sun was ever going to set…. All the same, the young people on duty at the Emperor’s Palace are in a much worse position than we. Imagine not being able to loosen one’s belt and ribbons on a day like this! Here at any rate we can loll about just as we please. The only difficulty is to avoid going to sleep. Has not any of you got some startling piece of news to tell us? You need have no fear that I may have heard it already, for I am becoming quite senile; I never hear about anything till every one else has forgotten about it.’ They all began wracking their brains to think of some exciting piece of intelligence or entertaining anecdote, but without success; and presently, since their host had invited them to be at their ease, one after another of the visitors somewhat timidly took up a position with his back planted against the cool metal railings of the verandah. ‘Well,’ said Genji at last, ‘as a matter of fact, rarely though this now happens, I myself have picked up a small piece of information. It seems that his Excellency Tō no Chūjō has lately rediscovered and taken to live with him a natural daughter of whom he had lost sight for many years. Come, Kōbai,’ addressing Kashiwagi’s younger brother, ‘you will be able to tell me if there is any truth in this.’ ‘Something of the kind has happened,’ answered the young man, ‘though there is a good deal of exaggeration in many of the stories which are being put about. The facts are that last spring, in consequence of a dream, my father asked us to inquire carefully into every case we could discover of a child claiming paternity by him. My brother Kashiwagi did finally hear of a girl who seemed to possess absolute proof that she was an illegitimate child of our father’s, and we were told to call upon her and verify this, which we accordingly did. That is all I know about it; and I am sure that there is no one present who has not something a great deal more interesting than that to talk about. I am afraid what I have just told you cannot possibly be of interest to any one but the people actually concerned.’ ‘So it is true!’ thought Genji, wondering whether Tō no Chūjō could have been so misled as to suppose that it was Yūgao’s child whom he had rediscovered. ‘There are so many of you in the family already,’ he said to Kōbai, ‘that I wonder your father should search the sky for one stray swallow that has not managed to keep pace with the flock. I, who nurture so small a brood, might be pardoned for such conduct; but in your father it seems somewhat grasping. Unfortunately, though I should feel proud to acknowledge my children, no one shows the slightest inclination to claim me as a father. However, it is no mere accident that Tō no Chūjō is more in request than I am. The moon’s image shows dimly in waters that are troubled at the bottom. Your father’s early adventures were of a most indiscriminate character, and if you know all your brothers and sisters, you would probably realize that, taken as a whole, you are a very queer family….’ Yūgiri, who knew a mass of stories which amply confirmed Genji’s last statement, could not help showing his amusement to an extent which Kōbai and his brothers thought to be in exceedingly bad taste. ‘It is all very well for you to laugh, Yūgiri,’ continued Genji; ‘but you would be much better employed in picking up some of those stray leaves than in making trouble for yourself by pressing in where you are not wanted. In so large a garland you might surely find some other flower with which to console yourself!’ All Genji’s remarks about Tō no Chūjō wore superficially the aspect of such friendly banter as one old friend commonly indulges in concerning another. But as a matter of fact there had for some while past been a real coolness between them, which was increased by Chūjō’s scornful refusal to accept Yūgiri as his son-in-law. He realized that he had just been somewhat spiteful; but so far from being uncomfortable lest these remarks should reach his old friend’s ears, he found himself actually hoping that the boys would repeat them.
This conversation about the waif whom Tō no Chūjō had recently acknowledged and adopted, reminded Genji that it was becoming high time he should himself make a certain long-intended revelation. Tamakatsura had now lived for over a year at the New Palace; she was definitely accepted as a member of the Court circle, and there was now no fear that her father would be in any way ashamed of her. But the views of Tō no Chūjō were in some ways peculiar. He made an absolutely hard and fast distinction between the ‘right’ and the ‘wrong’ people. To those who satisfied his very exacting standards he was extraordinarily helpful and agreeable. As for the others, he ignored them with a sublime completeness that no other Grand Minister had ever equalled. Was it quite certain in which class he would place his own daughter? Then a brilliant idea occurred to Genji. He would introduce Tō no Chūjō to Tamakatsura immediately, but not reveal her identity until Chūjō had once and for all classed her as ‘possible.’
The evening wind was by this time delightfully fresh, and it was with great regret that the young guests prepared to take their leave. ‘I should be perfectly contented to go on sitting here quietly in the cool; but I know that at your age there are many far more interesting things to be done,’ and with that he set out for the Western Wing, his guests accompanying him to the door.
Knowing that in an uncertain evening light all people in Court cloaks look very much alike, Genji at once summoned Tamakatsura to him and explained in a low voice why he had arrived with so large an escort. ‘I have been entertaining Tō no Chūjō’s sons,’ he said, ‘Kashiwagi, Kōbai and the rest. It was obvious that they were very anxious to come on here with me, and Yūgiri is such an honest soul, it would have been unkind not to let him come too. Those poor young men, Tō no Chūjō’s sons, must really soon be told you are their sister. I am afraid they are all more or less in love with you. But even in the case of quite ordinary families the sudden arrival of some unknown young lady causes endless speculation among those who frequent the house, and though there is intense curiosity to see her, it is apparent that every one has long beforehand made up his mind to fall in love. Unfortunately, even before your arrival, my palace had an undeserved reputation for harbouring bevies of incomparable creatures. Every visitor who comes here seems to arrive primed up with compliments and fine speeches, only to discover that there is no quarter in which they could be employed without impertinence.[1] But you have often asked me about those particular young men and lamented that you never get an opportunity yourself of judging whether they are as intelligent as every one makes out. So I thought you would not mind me bringing them here, and would perhaps like to have a word with one or the other of them….’
While this whispered conversation was going on, the young men were standing in the garden outside. It was not planted in formal borders; but there was a great clump of carnations and a tangled hedge of tall flowering plants, both Chinese and Japanese, with great masses of blossom that stood out vividly in the fading light. True, they had come that evening hoping to pluck a very different flower; but as they sat resting in front of the house they could scarcely restrain themselves from stretching out a hand and filling their laps with these resplendent blossoms.
‘They are really very remarkable young men,’ Genji went on. ‘There is not one of them but in his way shows unmistakable signs of genius, and this is true even of Kashiwagi, who in outward manner is particularly quiet and diffident. By the way, has he written to you again? I remember we read his poem together. You cannot, of course, under the circumstances risk giving him any definite encouragement; but do not be too hard upon him.’
Even amid these very exceptional young men Yūgiri looked surprisingly handsome and distinguished, and Genji, pointing to him, said to Tamakatsura in a whisper: ‘I am terribly disappointed that Tō no Chūjō should take up his present attitude about that boy. It has come to this nowadays, that those people will not look at any one who is not part and parcel of their own gang.[2] A drop of other blood, even if it be that of the Royal House, seems to them a painful blemish….’ ‘That was not the way Royal Princes were regarded once upon a time,’ said Tamakatsura, and quoted the old folk-song Come to my house.[3] ‘They certainly seem in no hurry to make ready a banquet for poor Yūgiri,’ admitted Genji. ‘I am extremely sorry for those two. They took a fancy to each other when they were mere children and have never got over it. I know quite well that they have suffered a great deal through this long separation. If it is merely because of Yūgiri’s low rank that Tō no Chūjō refuses his consent, he might on this occasion be content to disregard the comments of the world and leave the matter in my hands. He surely does not suppose that I intend the boy to remain in the Sixth Rank for ever….’ Again he was speaking of Tō no Chūjō with asperity and, like her brothers a few hours ago, Tamakatsura was perturbed to discover that the breach between them was widening, partly because such a state of affairs made it all the less probable that Genji would in the near future reveal her identity to Tō no Chūjō.
As there was no moon that night, the great lamp was presently brought in. ‘It is now just comfortably warm,’ said Genji, ‘and the only thing we need is a little more light.’ He sent for a servant and said to him: ‘One tray of bamboo flares! In here, please.’ When they were brought he noticed a very beautiful native zithern and drawing it towards him struck a few chords. It was tuned to the difficult ritsu mode, but with remarkable accuracy. It seemed indeed to be an exceptionally fine instrument, and when he had played on it for a little while he said to her: ‘I have all these months been doing you the injustice of supposing that you were not interested in these things. What I like is to play such an instrument as yours on a cool autumn evening, when the moon is up, sitting quite close to the window. One then plays in concert with the cicadas, purposely using their chirruping as part of the accompaniment. The result is a kind of music which is intimate, but at the same time thoroughly modern. There is, of course, a go-as-you-please, informal quality about the Japanese zithern which makes it unsuitable for use on ceremonial occasions. But when one remembers that almost all our native airs and measures originated on this instrument, one cannot help regarding it with respect. There are stray references which show that its history stretches back into the dimmest past; but to hear people talk nowadays one would think it had been specially invented for the benefit of young ladies, in whom an acquaintance with foreign arts and usages is considered unbecoming. Above all, do make a practice of playing it in concert with other instruments whenever you get the chance. This will immensely improve your command over it. For though the Japanese zithern is a far less complicated instrument than its rivals, it is by no means so easy to play as most people imagine. At the present time there is no better performer than your father, Tō no Chūjō. You would be astonished at the variety of tone he can get out of a mere succession of open strings; it is as though by some magic he were able in an instant to change his zithern into whatever instrument he pleases. And the volume of sound which he obtains from those few slender strings is unbelievable!’
Tamakatsura had reached a certain point of proficiency herself. But she knew that she had much to learn, and longed to meet with a first-rate performer. ‘Do you think I might one day be allowed to hear him?’ she asked, not very hopefully. ‘I suppose he sometimes plays when he comes here to entertainments. Even among those outlandish people on the Island there were several teachers, and I always supposed that they knew all about it. But from what you have just said I see that such playing as my father’s must be something quite different….’
‘It is indeed,’ he said, ‘and you shall certainly hear him play. You know, I expect, that though it is called the Eastern zithern and is said to have come from the other side of the country, it is always played at the beginning of every Imperial concert, being solemnly carried in by the Mistress of the Rolls. As far as our country is concerned (about the history of music in other lands I know very little) it is certainly the parent of all other instruments, and that perhaps the best performer upon it who has ever lived should be your own father is certainly a great stroke of luck for you. He does, as you suggested, play here and at other people’s houses from time to time, when there is music afoot; but chiefly on other instruments. It is really very difficult to make him play on the Japanese zithern. Often he begins a tune and then, for some reason, will not go on. It is the same with all great artists. They cannot perform unless they are in the right mood, and the right mood seldom comes. But later on you will, of course, certainly be hearing him….’ So saying, he began trying over a few usual chords and runs. Already she wondered how she had managed to tolerate the clumsy twanging of the island-professors. How exciting it would be to live with a father, who, according to Genji’s own showing, played far, far better even than this! It was intolerable to feel that all the while she might have been hearing him day after day, in his own home, with nothing to disturb or interrupt him. When, oh when would this new life begin?
Among other old ballads Genji now sang ‘Not softlier pillowed is my head,’ and when he came to the line ‘O lady parted from thy kin’ he could not help catching her eye and smiling. Not only did she find his voice very agreeable, but his improvisations between verse and verse delighted her beyond measure. Suddenly he broke off, saying: ‘Now it is your turn. Do not tell me you are shy; for I am certain that you have talent, and if that is so you will forget that there is any one here, once you have become interested in what you are playing. The lady[4] who was “too shy to do anything but go over the tune in her head” wanted all the time to sing the Sōfuren,[5] and that is a very different matter. You must get into the habit of playing with any one who comes along, without minding what he thinks of you….’ But try as he might, he could not persuade her to begin. She was certain that her teacher on the island, an old lady of whom it was reported that she had once been in some vague way connected with the Capital and even that she was distantly related to the Imperial Family, had got everything wrong from beginning to end. If only she could persuade Genji to go on playing a little while longer, she felt sure she could pick up enough of the right method to prevent a complete catastrophe, and she sat as near as possible to the zithern, watching his fingers and listening intently. ‘Why does it not always produce such lovely sounds as that?’ she said laughing. ‘Perhaps it depends which way the wind is blowing….’ She looked very lovely as she sat leaning towards him, with the lamplight full upon her face. ‘I have sometimes known you by no means so ready to listen,’ he said, and to her disappointment pushed the zithern from him. But her gentlewomen were passing in and out of the room. Whether for this or other reasons his behaviour to-night continued to be very serious and correct. ‘I see no sign of those young men I brought with me,’ he said at last, ‘I am afraid they grew tired of gazing at every flower save the one they came to see, and went away in disgust. But it is their father’s visit to this flower-garden that I ought all the while to be arranging. I must not be dilatory, for life is full of uncertainties…. How well I remember the conversation in the course of which your father first told me how your mother had carried you away, and of his long search for you both. It does not seem long ago….’ And he told her more than he had ever done before about the rainy night’s conversation and his own first meeting with Yūgao.
‘Gladly would I show the world this Child-flower’s beauty, did I not fear that men would ask me where stands the hedge on which it grew.’[6]
‘The truth is, he loved your mother so dearly that I cannot bear the thought of telling him the whole miserable story. That is why I have kept you hidden away like a chrysalis in a cocoon. I know I ought not to have delayed….’ He paused, and she answered with the verse: ‘Who cares to question whence was first transplanted a Child-flower that from the peasant’s tattered hedge was hither brought.’ Her eyes filled with tears as in a scarcely audible voice she whispered this reply.
There were times when he himself took fright at the frequency of his visits to this part of the house, and in order to make a good impression stayed away for days on end. But he always contrived to think of some point in connection with her servants or household affairs which required an endless going and coming of messengers, so that even during these brief periods of absence she was in continual communication with him. The truth is that at this period she was the only subject to which he ever gave a thought. Day and night he asked himself how he could have been so insensate as to embark upon this fatal course. If the affair was maintained upon its present footing he was faced with the prospect of such torture as he felt he could not possibly endure. If on the other hand his resolution broke down and she on her side was willing to accept him as a lover, the affair would cause a scandal which his own prestige might in time enable him to live down, but which for her would mean irreparable disaster. He cared for her very deeply; but not, as he well knew, to such an extent that he would ever dream of putting her on an equality with Murasaki, while to thrust her into a position of inferiority would do violence to his own feelings and be most unfair to her. Exceptional as was the position that he now occupied in the State, this did not mean that it was any great distinction to figure merely as a belated appendage to his household. Far better, he very well knew, to reign supreme in the affections of some wholly unremarkable Deputy Councillor! Then again there was the question whether he ought not to hand her over to his step-brother Prince Sochi or to Prince Higekuro. Even were this course in every way desirable, he gravely doubted his own capacity to pursue it. Such self-sacrifices, he knew, are easier to plan than to effect. Nevertheless, there were times when he regarded this as the plan which he had definitely adopted, and for a while he could really believe that he was on the point of carrying it out. But then would come one of his visits to her. She would be looking even more charming than usual, and lately there were these zithern lessons, which, involving as they did a great deal of leaning across and sitting shoulder to shoulder, had increased their intimacy with disquieting rapidity. All his good resolutions began to break down, while she on her side no longer regarded him with anything like the same distrust as before. He had indeed behaved with model propriety for so long that she made sure his undue tenderness towards her was a thing of the past. Gradually she became used to having him constantly about her, allowed him to say what he pleased, and answered in a manner which though discreet was by no means discouraging. Whatever resolutions he may have made before his visit, he would go away feeling that, at this point in their relations, simply to hand her over to a husband was more than the most severe moralist could expect of him. Surely there could be no harm in keeping her here a little longer, that he might enjoy the innocent pleasure of sometimes visiting her, sometimes arranging her affairs? Certainly, he could assure himself, his presence was by no means distasteful to her. Her uneasiness at the beginning was due not to hostility but to mere lack of experience. Though ‘strong the watchman at the gate’, she was beginning to take a very different view of life. Soon she would be struggling with her own as well as his desires, and then all her defences would rapidly give way….
Tō no Chūjō was somewhat uneasy about his newly discovered daughter.[7] The members of his own household seemed to have a very poor opinion of her, and at Court he had overheard people whispering that she was not quite right in the head. His son Kōbai told him, of course, about Genji’s questions, and Tō no Chūjō laughed saying: ‘I can quite understand his interest in the matter. A year or two ago he himself took over a daughter whom he had by some peasant woman or other, and now makes an absurd fuss over her. It is very odd: Genji says nothing but nice things about every one else. But about me and every one connected with me he is careful to be as disagreeable as possible. But I suppose I ought to regard it as a sort of distinction even to be run down by him.’ ‘Father, if you mean the girl who lives in the Western Wing,’ said Kōbai, ‘I can assure you she is the most beautiful creature you can possibly imagine. Prince Sochi and many of the others have completely lost their hearts to her. … Indeed, every one agrees that she is probably one of the handsomest women at Court.’ ‘You surely do not yourself believe such stories?’ said Tō no Chūjō. ‘The same thing is always said about the daughters of men in such a position as Genji’s; and so oddly is the world made that those who spread such reports really believe in them. I do not for a moment suppose she is anything out of the ordinary. Now that Genji is Grand Minister, faced by an opposition that has dwindled to a mere speck and esteemed as few Ministers before, I fancy the one flaw in his happiness must be the lack of a daughter to lavish his care upon and bring up to be the envy and admiration of the whole Court. I can well imagine what a delight the education of such a child would be to him. But in this matter fate seems to be against him. Of course, there is the little girl who was born at Akashi. Unfortunately her mother’s parents are quite humble people and she can never play the part that would naturally have been taken by a child of my sister Lady Aoi or of his present wife, Lady Murasaki. All the same, I have reason to believe that his schemes for her subsequent career are of the most ambitious nature.
‘As for this newly-imported princess, it would not surprise me to discover that she is not his child at all. You know as well as I do what Genji’s failings are…. It is far more probable that she is merely some girl whom he is keeping.’ After other somewhat damaging remarks about Genji’s habits and character, he continued: ‘However, if he continues to give out that she is his daughter, it will soon be incumbent upon him to find her a husband. I imagine his choice will fall upon Prince Sochi, with whom he has always been on particularly good terms. She would certainly be fortunate in securing such a husband; he is a most distinguished character….’
Nothing more exasperated Tō no Chūjō at the present moment than the endless speculations concerning Lady Tamakatsura’s future which were now the staple of every conversation at Court. He was sick of hearing people ask ‘What are Prince Genji’s intentions?’ ‘Why has he changed his mind?’ and so on, while the future of his own daughter, Lady Kumoi, seemed for some reason not to arouse the slightest curiosity. Why should not a little of the energy which Genji expended in dangling this supposed daughter of his before the eyes of an expectant Court be used on Lady Kumoi’s behalf? A word whispered by Genji in the Emperor’s ear would suffice to secure her future; but that word, it was very evident, had never been spoken.
If Genji (and this seemed hardly credible) were waiting to secure Kumoi for his own son Yūgiri, let him raise the boy to a decent rank. Then, provided suitable overtures were made on Genji’s side, he was quite willing to consider the possibility of such a match. As to what the young man’s feelings in the matter might be—he did not give the question a moment’s thought, having always regarded Yūgiri merely as a nuisance.
One day when he had been reflecting upon this problem more earnestly than usual, Tō no Chūjō determined to thresh the matter out with the girl herself, and taking Kōbai with him he went straight to her room. It so happened that Kumoi had fallen asleep. She was lying, a small and fragile figure, with only a single wrap of thin diaphanous stuff thrown carelessly across her. It was certainly a pleasure on such a day to see any one looking so delightfully cool! The delicate outline of her bare limbs showed plainly beneath the light wrap which covered her. She lay pillowed on one outstretched arm, her fan still in her hand. Her loosened hair fell all about her, and though it was not remarkably thick or long, there was something particularly agreeable in its texture and in the lines it made as it hung across her face. Her gentlewomen were also reposing, but at some distance away, in the room which opened out behind her curtained dais, so that they did not wake in time, and it was only when Tō no Chūjō himself rustled impatiently with his fan that she slowly raised her head and turned upon him a bewildered gaze. Her beauty, enhanced by the flush of sleep, could not but impress a father’s heart, and Tō no Chūjō looked at her with a pride which his subsequent words by no means betrayed. ‘I have told you often before,’ he said, ‘that even to be caught dozing in your seat is a thing a girl of your age ought to be ashamed of; and here I find you going to bed in broad daylight … you really must be a little more careful. I cannot imagine how you could be so foolish as to allow all your gentlewomen to desert you in this way. It is extremely unsafe for a young girl to expose herself, and quite unnecessary in your case, since I have provided you with a sufficient number of attendants to mount guard on all occasions. To behave in this reckless manner is, to say the least of it, very bad form. Not that I want you to sit all day with your hands folded in front of you as though you were reciting the Spells of Fudō.[8] I am not one of those people who think it a mark of refinement in a girl to stand on ceremony even with her everyday acquaintances and never to address a word to any one except through a barricade of curtains and screens. So far from being dignified, such a method of behaviour seems to me merely peevish and unsociable. I cannot help admiring the way in which Prince Genji is bringing up this future Empress[9] of his. He takes no exaggerated precautions of any kind, nor does he force her talent in this direction or that; but at the same time he sees to it that there is no subject in which she remains wholly uninitiated. Thus she is able to choose intelligently for herself where other girls would be obliged merely to do as they were told. For the time it may seem that the energies of the mind have been somewhat diffused and extenuated, but in later life, given the best balanced and broadest system of education in the world, idiosyncrasies both of character and behaviour will inevitably reappear. At the present moment the Princess from Akashi is in the first and less interesting stage. I am very curious to see how she will develop when she arrives at Court.’ After these preliminaries he embarked at last upon the subject which he had really come to discuss. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that I have not been very successful in my plans for your own future. But I still hope that we may be able to arrange something not too contemptible. I promise you at any rate that you shall not be made ridiculous. I am keeping my ears open and have one or two projects in mind, but for the moment it is exceedingly difficult to arrive at a decision. Meanwhile, do not be deceived by the tears and protestations of young men who have nothing better to do than amuse themselves at the expense of confiding creatures such as you. I know what I am talking about’ … and so on, speaking more and more kindly as he went along.
In old days the scoldings which she had received on account of her intimacy with Yūgiri had been the more distressing to her because she had not at that time the least idea what all this fuss was about. But now that she was a little better acquainted with such matters, she recalled with burning shame time after time when she had mentioned to her elders things which she now saw it was the wildest folly ever to have repeated. The old Princess[10] frequently complained that Kumoi never came to see her. This put the child in great embarrassment, for the truth was that she dared not go, for Tō no Chūjō would be sure to think that she was using her duty towards the old lady as a pretext for clandestine meeting with her lover.
But another question was at this time occupying a good deal of Tō no Chūjō’s attention. What was to be done with this new daughter of his, the Lady from Ōmi? If, after going out of his way to track her down, he were now to send her home again merely because certain people had said disobliging things about her, he would himself figure as intolerably capricious and eccentric. To let her mix in general society was, judging by what he had heard and seen of her already, quite out of the question. But if he continued to keep her, as he had hitherto done, in the seclusion of her own rooms, it would soon be rumoured at Court that she was some paragon who, just at the right moment, would be produced with dazzling effect and carry all before her. This, too, would be very irritating. Perhaps the best that could be done under the circumstances was to put her into touch with his daughter Lady Chūjō,[11] who happened at the moment to be home from Court. It would then be possible to discover whether, when one got to know her better, this Lady from Ōmi were really such a monster as some people made out. He therefore said to Lady Chūjō one day: ‘I am going to send this new sister of yours to see you. It seems that her manners are rather odd, and I should be very much obliged if you would ask one of your older gentlewomen to take her in hand. Young girls are useless in such a case. They would merely lead her on to greater absurdities in order to amuse themselves. Her manner is at present, I gather, somewhat too boisterous’; and he smiled as he recollected some of the anecdotes which had already reached him. ‘I will gladly do all I can,’ answered Lady Chūjō. ‘I see no reason to suppose that the poor creature is anything like so outrageous as people are making out. It is only that Kōbai, wishing to gain credit for his discovery, tended to exaggerate her charms, and people are a little disappointed. I do not think there is any need for you to take alarm. I can quite understand that coming for the first time among surroundings such as these, she feels somewhat lost, and does not always quite do herself justice….’ She spoke very demurely. This Lady Chūjō was no great beauty; but there was about her a serene air of conscious superiority which, combined with considerable charm of manner, led most people to accept her as handsome, an impression shared at this moment by her father as he watched her lips part in a smile that reminded him of the red plum-blossom in the morning when its petals first begin to unfold. ‘I daresay you are right,’ he replied; ‘but all the same I think that Kōbai showed a lack of judgment such as I should have thought he had long ago outgrown….’ He was himself inclined to think that the Lady from Ōmi’s defects had probably been much exaggerated, and as he in any case must pass her rooms on his way back he now thought he had better go and have another look at her. Crossing the garden he noticed at once that her blinds were rolled back almost to the top of the windows. Clearly visible within were the figures of the Lady herself and of a lively young person called Gosechi, one of last year’s Winter Dancers. The two were playing Double Sixes,[12] and the Lady of Ōmi, perpetually clasping and unclasping her hands in her excitement, was crying out ‘Low, low! Oh, how I hope it will be low!’ at the top of her voice, which rose at every moment to a shriller and shriller scream. ‘What a creature!’ thought Tō no Chūjō, already in despair, and signalling to his attendants, who were about to enter the apartments and announce him, that for a moment he intended to watch unobserved, he stood near the double door and looked through the passage window at a point where the paper[13] did not quite meet the frame. The young dancer was also entirely absorbed in the game. Shouting out: ‘A twelve, a twelve. This time I know it is going to be a twelve!’ she continually twirled the dice-cup in her hand, but could not bring herself to make the throw. Somewhere there, inside that bamboo tube, the right number lurked, she saw the two little stones with six pips on each…. But how was one to know when to throw? Never were excitement and suspense more clearly marked on two young faces. The Lady of Ōmi was somewhat homely in appearance; but nobody (thought Tō no Chūjō) could possibly call her downright ugly. Indeed, she had several very good points. Her hair, for example, could alone have sufficed to make up for many shortcomings. Two serious defects, however, she certainly had; her forehead was far too narrow, and her voice was appallingly loud and harsh. In a word, she was nothing to be particularly proud of; but at the same time (and he called up before him the image of his own face as he knew it in the mirror) it would be useless to deny that there was a strong resemblance.
‘How are you getting on?’ he asked on being admitted to the room. ‘I am afraid it will take you some time to get the hang of things here. I wish I could see you more often, but, as you know, my time is not my own….’ ‘Don’t you worry about that,’ she answered, screaming as usual at the top of her voice. ‘I’m here, a’nt I? And that’s quite enough for me. I haven’t had the pleasure of setting eyes on you at all for all these years…. But I’ll own that when I came here and found I shouldn’t be with you all the time, like what I’d expected, I was as vexed as though I had thrown a “double-one” at dice.’ ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Tō no Chūjō, ‘I have not any one at present to run my messages and look after me generally; I had it in mind that, when you were a little more used to things here, I might train you to help me in that way. But I am not at all sure that such a post would suit you. I do not mean that as a lady-in-waiting in some other family you would not get on very nicely. But that would be different…. There would be a lot of other young women. … People would not notice so much. … I am afraid I am not expressing myself very happily. I only mean that a daughter or sister is bound to attract attention. People who come to the house ask “Now which of them is the daughter?” “Show me which of them is your sister!” and so on. That sort of thing sometimes makes a girl feel awkward, and it may even be rather embarrassing for the parents. Of course, in your case….’ He broke off.
Despite all his ingenuity he was in the end saying just what he had determined on no account to say. He was merely telling her that he was ashamed of her. But fortunately she did not take it in bad part. ‘That’s quite right,’ she said. ‘If you was to put me down among all the fine ladies and gentlemen, I shouldn’t know which way to look. I’d far rather you asked me to empty their chamber-pots; I think I might be able to manage that.’ ‘What odd ideas do come into your head!’ laughed Tō no Chūjō. ‘But before we go any further, I have a small request to make: if you have any filial feeling whatever towards a father whom you see so seldom, try to moderate your voice a little when you address him. Seriously, you will take years off my life if you persist in screaming at me in this way….’ How delightful to find that even a Minister could make jokes! ‘It’s no good,’ she said. ‘I’ve always been like that. I suppose I was born so. Mother was always going on at me about it ever since I can remember, and she used to say it all came of her letting an old priest from the Myōhō Temple into her bedroom when she was lying-in. He had a terrible loud voice, and all the while he was reading prayers with her, poor mother was wondering whether, when I was born, I shouldn’t take after him. And sure enough I did. But I wish for your sake I didn’t speak so loud….’ It was evident that she was sorry to distress him, and touched by this exhibition of filial affection he said to her kindly: ‘The fault, then, is evidently not yours but your mother’s for choosing her associates among the pious at so critical a moment in her existence. For it is written: “The tongue of the blasphemer shall tremble, his voice shall be silenced,” and it seems that, conversely, the voices of the pious generally tend to become more and more resonant.’
He himself stood somewhat in awe of his daughter Lady Chūjō. He knew that she would wonder what had induced him to import, without further enquiries so incongruous a resident into his household. He imagined, too, the pleasantries at his expense which would be exchanged among her people and soon repeated broadcast over the whole Court. He was on the verge of abandoning the plan, when he suddenly decided that it was too late to withdraw: ‘I wish you would sometimes go out and see your sister Lady Chūjō while she is staying here,’ he said. ‘I fancy she could give you one or two useful hints. It is, after all, only by mixing in the society of those who have had greater advantages than themselves, that ordinary people can hope to make any progress. I want you to bear that in mind when you are with her….’ ‘Well that will be a treat!’ she cried delightedly. ‘I never thought in my wildest dreams that, even if you one day sent for me, you would ever make me into a great lady like my sister. The best I hoped for was that I might wheedle you into letting me carry pitchers from the well….’ The last words were spoken in a tiny, squeaky voice like that of a new-fledged sparrow, for she had suddenly remembered her father’s injunctions. The effect was very absurd; but there was no use in scolding her any more, and he said good-humouredly: ‘I see no reason why you should draw water, or hew wood either. But if I send you to Lady Chūjō, you must promise me that you have made up your mind never again to model yourself on that pious personage from the Myōhō Temple.’ She took this very seriously. ‘I’ll do my best,’ she said. ‘When may I go and see her?’ Tō no Chūjō was now an important person; indeed, he was reckoned to be the most formidable enemy to the then Minister of State. But the Lady from Ōmi appeared quite unconscious of the subduing effect which his presence had upon every one else, and for her part spoke to him with the utmost confidence and composure. ‘I will enquire which day will be the best,’ he said. ‘But come to think of it, probably one day is quite as good as another. Yes, by all means go to-day…’ and with that he hastened from the room.
She gazed after him. He was attended by officers of the fourth and fifth ranks, who made a brave show as they escorted him towards the main building. But why were they all nudging one another and laughing? ‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘I have got a fine gentleman for my papa, and no mistake. It does seem queer to think what a funny little house I was brought up in, when by rights I ought to have been in this palace all the while.’ ‘If you ask my opinion,’ said her friend the dancer, ‘I think he is far too grand for you. You’d be a great deal better off if you had been claimed by some decent hard-working sort of man, who wouldn’t be ashamed of you….’ This was too bad! ‘There you go again,’ the Lady from Ōmi cried, ‘trying to put a body down whenever she opens her mouth. But you shan’t do it any more, indeed you shan’t; for they’ve made me into a lady now, and you’ll have to wait till I choose to let you speak. So there!’
Her face was flushed with anger. Seen thus, showing off in the presence of one whom she now regarded as an inferior, she became suddenly handsome and almost dignified. Only her manner of speech, picked up from the absolute riff-raff among whom she had been educated, remained irredeemably vulgar.
It is indeed a strange thing that a perfectly ordinary remark, if made in a quiet, colourless voice, may seem original and interesting; for instance, in conversations about poetry, some quite commonplace piece of criticism will be accepted as very profound merely because it is made in a particular tone of voice. Or again, half a verse from the middle of some little-known poem can make, if produced in the right tone of voice, a deep impression even among people who have no notion what the words imply. Whereas if some one speaks in a disagreeable voice or uses vulgar language, no matter how important or profound are the thoughts which he expresses, nobody will believe that it can possibly be worth while to pay any attention to him. So it was with the Lady from Ōmi. She had a loud rasping voice and in general behaved with no more regard for the impression she was making on those around her than a child screaming in its nurse’s lap. She thus seemed far sillier than she really was. Indeed, her facility in stringing together poems of thirty-one syllables, of the kind in which the beginning of any one poem might just as well be the end of any other, was quite prodigious.
‘But I must be getting ready,’ she now exclaimed. ‘My father told me I was to call on Lady Chūjō, and if I don’t go at once, her ladyship will think I don’t want to meet her. Do you know what? I think I’ll go this very night, for though I can see that my papa thinks the world of me, I shall never get on in this palace unless the ladies are on my side….’ Which again shows that she had more good sense than one would have supposed.
She now sat down at once and addressed the following letter to Lady Chūjō: ‘Honoured Madam, though we have been living these many days past with (as the saying goes) scarce so much as a hurdle between us, I have not hitherto, as they say, ventured to tread upon your shadow, for to tell the honest truth I was in two minds whether I should not find “No Admittance” in large letters on your door. But though I hardly like to mention it, we are (in the words of the poet) both “tinged with the purple of Musashi Moor.” If I am being too bold, pray tell me so and do not take offence.’ All this was written in a rather speckly hand. On the back was the postcript: ‘By the way, I have some thoughts of inflicting myself upon you this very same evening. And please forgive these blots, which (as the saying goes) all the waters of Minasé River would not wash away, so what is the use of trying?’ In the margin was the following extraordinary poem: ‘I wonder with as big a query as How Cape on the Sea of Hitachi where the grasses are so young and green, when oh when, like the waves on the shore of Tago, shall we meet face to face?’
‘I’ll write no more,’ she added at the side of the poem, ‘for I declare I feel as flustered as the foam on the great River at Yoshino….’
It was written on a single sheet of blue poetry-paper, in a very cursive style, copiously adorned with hooks and flourishes which seemed to wander about at their own will and stand for nothing at all. The tails of her ‘ shi ’s were protracted to an inordinate length, and the lines slanted more and more as the letter went on, till in the end they seemed in danger of falling over sideways. But so delighted was she with her own composition that she could hardly bear to part with it. At last, however, she gave it a final look of admiration, folded it up very small and attaching it to a carnation-blossom, handed it to her favourite messenger, a little peasant-boy who did the dirty work in her part of the palace. He was a good-looking child, and though he had only been in service for a very short while, he had made himself quite at home. Sauntering into Lady Chūjō’s apartments, he found his way to the servants’ sitting-room and demanded that the note should at once be taken to her Ladyship. For a moment they surveyed him with astonishment, but presently one of the under-servants exclaimed: ‘Why, it’s the little boy from the northern wing!’, and took the letter, which ultimately reached the hands of a certain gentlewoman named Tayū no Kimi. This lady actually carried it into Lady Chūjō’s presence, unfolded it at her bidding and then held it in front of her. The great lady glanced at it, smiled, and indicated that it might now be removed. It happened that a certain Lady Chūnagon was at the moment in attendance. She caught a side view of the letter where it lay, and hoping to be allowed to read it properly, she remarked: ‘At a distance, Madam, that looks an uncommonly fashionable note.’ Lady Chūjō motioned her to take the letter: ‘I cannot make head or tail of it,’ she said; ‘you will be doing me a service if you can tell me what it is about. Perhaps I am being stupid over these cursive characters….’ And a few minutes later: ‘How are you getting on? If my answer has no connection with the contents of her letter, she will think me very discourteous. I wish you would write an answer for me, I am sure you would do it very nicely….’ The young ladies-in-waiting, though they dared not openly show their amusement, were now all tittering behind their sleeves. Some one came to say that the boy was still waiting for an answer. ‘But the letter is just one mass of stock phrases that none of them seem to have anything to do with what she is trying to say,’ exclaimed Chūnagon in despair. ‘How can I possibly answer it? Besides, I must make it seem to come from you, Madam, not from a third person, or the poor creature’s feelings will be terribly hurt.’
‘It vexes me,’ wrote Chūnagon in her mistress’s name, ‘to think that we should have been at close quarters for so long without arranging to meet. By all means come….’ And at the side she wrote the poem: ‘Upon the shore of Suma, that is on the sea of Suruga in the land of Hitachi, mount, O ye waves, to where the Headland of Hako with pine-woods is clad.’[14]
‘I think you have gone too far,’ said Lady Chūjō when she saw the letter. ‘I certainly hope she will not think it was I who wrote this ridiculous nonsense….’ ‘I assure you, Madam,’ replied Chūnagon, ‘there is more sense in it than you think; quite enough at any rate to satisfy the person to whom it is addressed.’ And with that she folded the note and sent it on its way. ‘How quickly these great ladies take one’s meaning!’ exclaimed Ōmi, as she scanned the reply. ‘Look, too, how subtly she expresses herself! Merely by mentioning those pine-trees she lets me know, as plain as could be, that she is waiting for me at this minute….’ There was no time to be lost. She scented herself by repeated exposure to the fumes of an incense which seemed to contain far too generous an admixture of honey, daubed her cheeks with a heavy rouge, and finally combed out her hair, which being, as I have said, unusually fine and abundant, really looked very nice when she took sufficient trouble about it.
The subsequent interview can hardly have been otherwise than extremely diverting.
- ↑ Akikonomu, for example, had become Empress.
- ↑ I.e. the Fujiwaras, the clan to which the writer herself belonged.
- ↑ ‘In my house the awnings are at the doors and curtains are hanging about the bed. Come, my Prince! you shall have my daughter for your bride, and at the wedding-feast you shall have the fish you like best, be it awabi, oyster or what you will.’
- ↑ In some story now lost.
- ↑ Literally: ‘Thinking of a man, and yearning.’
- ↑ A reference to Tō no Chūjō’s poem, vol. i, p. 59.
- ↑ The rustic creature unearthed by Kōbai in his search for Tamakatsura.
- ↑ Of these there are several, the shortest of which runs (in Sanskrit) Namas samanta-vajrānām ham. ‘Praise be to all the Thunderbolt-bearers. Ay verily.’ Its impressiveness was partly due to the fact that very few Japanese knew what it meant.
- ↑ The princess from Akashi.
- ↑ Tō no Chūjō’s mother, Kumoi’s grandmother.
- ↑ On leave from the Palace; she was one of the Emperor’s consorts.
- ↑ Sugoroku, a kind of backgammon.
- ↑ Japanese windows are made of translucent paper, not of glass.
- ↑ The Lady of Ōmi’s poem contained three irrelevant place-names. This one contains four, and is intentionally senseless, for Chūnagon had not been able to make out what Ōmi’s rigmarole was about.