The Glowworm

Genji was now in a singularly fortunate position. The government of the country lay wholly in his hands; but though his power was supreme, he was now seldom troubled by the uninteresting details of public business; for he had some while ago delegated all such minor decisions to Tō no Chūjō, and the arrangement continued to work very successfully. In varying ways and degrees his dependants naturally benefited by his increased leisure and security. Not only was he able to devote far more time to looking after their affairs, but they could also feel that, such as it was, their position was now something permanent and dependable; whereas in the old days, when the powers arrayed against him were still unshaken, they knew quite well that he might at any moment find himself far more in need of patronage than able any longer to dispense it. Most of them, even those who received a very small share of his attentions, were nowadays fairly well content with their lot; but the Princess⁴⁸⁴ in the Western Wing continued to view with great apprehension the imprudent turn which her guardian had lately given to their relationship, and different as were his manners from those of her persecutor⁴⁸⁵ on the Island, she was now scarcely less alarmed than in the weeks which preceded her flight. She felt that in first insisting on their playing the part of father and daughter, and then suddenly revealing himself in another character, he had taken advantage of her in a very mean way, and despite his protestations it seemed vain to suppose that, out of consideration for her at any rate, he would restrain himself sufficiently to avoid an open scandal. She had no one to whom she could turn, and now that she was face to face with the actual difficulties of life she realized far more acutely than she had even done as a child the irreparable loss which she had sustained in her mother’s death.

Genji was now in an exceptionally fortunate position. The government of the country was entirely in his hands. Yet, though his power was supreme, he was seldom troubled by the dull details of public business. Some time ago, he had left all such minor decisions to Tō no Chūjō. The arrangement continued to work very well. His dependants naturally benefited in different ways and to different degrees from his increased leisure and security. He could spend much more time looking after their affairs. They could also feel that their position, whatever it might be, was now permanent and dependable. In the old days, the powers against him had remained strong. His dependants knew then that he might at any moment need a patron himself and no longer be able to support them. Most of them were now fairly content with their lives, even those who received very little of his attention. But the Princess⁴⁸⁴ in the Western Wing remained deeply worried by the reckless turn her guardian had recently given their relationship. His manner was different from that of her persecutor⁴⁸⁵ on the Island. Even so, she was now almost as frightened as she had been in the weeks before her escape. He had first insisted that they act as father and daughter. Then he had suddenly revealed himself in a different role. She felt that he had taken advantage of her in a very mean way. Despite his assurances, she could not believe that he would hold himself back enough to avoid a public scandal, at least not out of concern for her. She had no one to turn to. Now that she faced the real difficulties of life, she felt the irreparable loss of her mother more keenly than she ever had as a child.

Genji, on his side, was exceedingly vexed with himself for having acted so imprudently. He had not breathed a word about the matter to any one, and being anxious to convince himself that his behaviour on that unlucky night had been altogether exceptional, he visited her frequently and, apart from a few rather ambiguous remarks (which however he was careful never to let fall in the presence of her gentlewomen and attendants) he behaved in a manner to which exception could not be taken. Each time that he began to venture on dangerous ground she felt her heart beat violently and, if he had been any one else, would have cut him short and sent him about his business. But as it was she merely pretended not to notice what he was saying.

Genji, for his part, was deeply upset with himself for acting so recklessly. He had not told anyone about it. He wanted to convince himself that his behavior on that unfortunate night had been entirely out of character. So he visited her often and behaved in a way no one could object to. He did make a few rather suggestive remarks, but he was careful never to make them before her gentlewomen or attendants. Whenever he began to venture onto dangerous ground, her heart would beat wildly. If he had been anyone else, she would have cut him short and sent him away. But since it was Genji, she merely pretended not to notice what he was saying.

She was naturally of a very cheerful and lively disposition, so that she made friends easily. Prince Sochi and her other suitors, though they themselves had obtained so little encouragement from her, continued to hear on all sides nothing but praises of her good looks and general charm. They therefore redoubled their efforts; but to their chagrin the rains of the fifth month⁴⁸⁶ had already set in without any sign that their industry was likely to be rewarded.

She was naturally cheerful and lively, so she made friends easily. Prince Sochi and her other suitors had received little encouragement from her. Yet everywhere they heard only praise for her beauty and charm. So they tried even harder. But, to their disappointment, the rains of the fifth month⁴⁸⁶ had already begun, with no sign that their efforts would pay off.

Among some letters which Tamakatsura was showing to him Genji found one from Prince Sochi: ‘If you could but find it in your heart to admit me for one single moment to your presence, you would earn my undying gratitude, even though I should never see you again. For I should thus enjoy a respite, the first for many months, from the tortures which I now endure....’ ‘I have never seen Prince Sochi making love,’ said Genji as he read the letter. ‘It would be a sight worth seeing. Please tell him he may come,’ and he began suggesting the terms in which she should reply. But the idea did not at all appeal to her, and alleging that she was feeling giddy and could not, at the moment, possibly handle a pen, she attempted to lead the conversation into other channels. ‘But there is no need that you should write yourself,’ said Genji, returning to his project; ‘we will dictate a letter between us.’

Among the letters Tamakatsura showed Genji, he found one from Prince Sochi: ‘If you could find it in your heart to see me for just one moment, I would be forever grateful, even if I never saw you again. It would give me my first break in many months from the torment I now endure....’ ‘I have never seen Prince Sochi courting anyone,’ Genji said as he read the letter. ‘It would be worth seeing. Please tell him he may come.’ He began suggesting what she should say in reply. But the idea did not appeal to her at all. She said she felt dizzy and could not possibly hold a pen just then. Then she tried to change the subject. ‘But you need not write it yourself,’ Genji said, returning to his plan. ‘We can dictate a letter together.’

Among Tamakatsura’s gentlewomen there was none in whom she placed any great confidence. The only exception was a certain Saishō no Kimi, a daughter of her mother’s younger brother, who seemed to have far more sense than most young women. Hearing that this girl was in difficult circumstances Tamakatsura had sent for her to see what could be done; and finding that Saishō was not only the sort of person whom it would be useful in a general way to have about her, but was also an unusually good pen-woman, she retained this young cousin in her service. Genji, who knew that Tamakatsura often used the girl as her amanuensis, now sent for Saishō and proceeded to dictate a letter. For he was consumed by an overwhelming curiosity to see how his half-brother, with whose conduct in all other situations he was so familiar, would conduct himself at such an interview as this. As for Tamakatsura, she had, since the occasion of Genji’s unpardonable indiscretion, begun to pay a good deal more attention to the communications of her suitors. She had no reason to give any preference to Prince Sochi; but he, as much as any other husband, represented a way of escape from the embarrassment in which she found herself. She was, however, far from having ever thought of him seriously in this connection.

Tamakatsura had little confidence in any of her gentlewomen, with one exception. Saishō no Kimi was the daughter of her mother’s younger brother and seemed much more sensible than most young women. When Tamakatsura heard that Saishō was in difficult circumstances, she sent for her to see what she could do. She found that Saishō would be useful to have around and was also an unusually good writer. So she kept her young cousin in her service. Genji knew that Tamakatsura often had Saishō write letters for her. He now sent for Saishō and began dictating a letter. He was consumed by curiosity about how his half-brother would behave at such a meeting. He was familiar with his half-brother’s behavior in every other situation. Since Genji’s unforgivable indiscretion, Tamakatsura had begun paying much more attention to messages from her suitors. She had no reason to prefer Prince Sochi. But marriage to him, as much as to any other man, offered a way out of her embarrassing situation. Even so, she had never seriously considered him as a husband.

Little knowing that his success was due to a whim of Prince Genji’s rather than to any favourable impression that his own suit had made, Sochi no Miya in great elation rushed round to the New Palace and presented himself at Tamakatsura’s door. He could not complain of his treatment; for he was at once accommodated with a divan which was only a few paces from her curtains-of-state. He looked about him. On every side he recognized such presents and appurtenances as far more commonly emanate from a lover than from a parent. The air was laden with costly perfumes. There were hangings, brocades, a thousand trifles any one of which would have been enough to arouse in Sochi’s heart the suspicion that Genji, from whom he was convinced that those bounties flowed, was not her father. And if he was not her father, then inevitably, as Sochi ruefully recognized, he must be reckoned with as a serious rival. Tamakatsura herself made no effort to converse with him or even answer his questions. Her maids seemed quite incapable of replying on her behalf, and when even Saishō, reputed to be so capable in every emergency, continued to sit in awkward silence, Genji whispered: ‘What is the matter with you all? Have you become rooted to your seats? Get up, do something.... Be civil!’ But all this had no effect. They merely stared helplessly in front of them.

Sochi no Miya did not realize that his success was due to a whim of Prince Genji’s. It was not because his own suit had made a favorable impression. Overjoyed, he rushed to the New Palace and presented himself at Tamakatsura’s door. He could not complain of his treatment. He was immediately given a divan only a few paces from her ceremonial curtains. He looked around. Everywhere he saw gifts and furnishings that would more often come from a lover than a parent. The air was heavy with expensive perfumes. There were hangings, brocades, and a thousand small things. Any one of them would have been enough to make Sochi suspect that Genji was not her father. He was convinced that all these gifts came from Genji. And if Genji was not her father, Sochi ruefully realized, he must be a serious rival. Tamakatsura made no effort to talk to Sochi or even answer his questions. Her maids seemed unable to reply for her. Even Saishō, who was known for being capable in any emergency, continued to sit in awkward silence. Genji whispered, ‘What is the matter with you all? Are you rooted to your seats? Get up, do something.... Be polite!’ But none of this had any effect. They merely stared helplessly ahead.

The evening was now drawing in, and as the sky was very much overcast the room was almost dark. Beyond her curtains Tamakatsura could just discern the motionless form of her suitor, gracefully outlined against the gloom, while from her side a stirring of the evening air would occasionally carry towards him a fragrance enhanced by a strange perfume⁴⁸⁷ which, though it was familiar to him, he could not then identify. The room seemed full of diverse and exquisite scents that inflamed his imagination, and though he had previously pictured her to himself as handsome, he now (as these perfumes floated round him) thought of her as a hundred times more beautiful than he had ever done before. Her curtains were thick and it was now quite dark. He could not see her and could only guess that she was still near him; but so vividly did she now appear before his mind’s eye that it was as though no barrier were between them, and he began to address her in the most passionate terms. There was now in his style no longer anything of the professional courtier or hardened man-of-the-world. The long outpouring to which Genji, ensconced in his corner of her curtained daïs, now listened with considerable emotion, was natural, direct—almost boyish. When it was over, Prince Sochi was rewarded by a note from Saishō, informing him that her mistress had some time ago retired to the inner room!⁴⁸⁸ ‘This is too bad!’ whispered Genji, creeping to the door of her refuge (he had himself been so intent upon his brother’s eloquence that he had not seen her slip away). ‘You cannot simply disappear while people are talking to you. You are governed by absurd pre-conceived notions, and never stop to consider the merits of the case in question. To treat any visitor, and above all a person of Prince Sochi’s standing, in the manner I have just witnessed would not be tolerated in a child; and in your case, seeing that you are a grown woman not without some experience of Court life, such behaviour is insufferable. Even if you are too shy to converse with him, you might at least sit within reasonable distance....’ Genji had never yet pursued her into the inner room; but she had no doubt that on the present occasion, in his eagerness to reform her manners, he would have no scruple in doing so; and reluctantly she left her place of retreat and once more seated herself near the edge of her curtained daïs. Sochi now attempted to begin a more general conversation, but no topic seemed to arouse her interest. Suddenly her attention was distracted by a light which had begun to glimmer quite close to where she sat. It seemed to move when Genji moved. She now saw him go to her curtains-of-state and, at a certain point, hook back the inner curtain, leaving only a single thickness of light transparent stuff. Here he suspended something bright, that looked like a paper candle.... What was he doing? She was dumbfounded.

Evening was coming on, and the heavily clouded sky made the room almost dark. Beyond her curtains, Tamakatsura could just make out her suitor’s motionless figure, gracefully outlined against the gloom. Now and then, a breath of evening air carried her fragrance toward him. It was enhanced by a strange perfume⁴⁸⁷ that he recognized but could not identify. The room seemed full of varied, exquisite scents that stirred his imagination. He had already imagined her as beautiful. But as the perfumes floated around him, he thought her a hundred times more beautiful than before. Her curtains were thick, and it was now quite dark. He could not see her and could only guess that she was still near him. But he pictured her so vividly that it was as if no barrier stood between them. He began to speak to her with great passion. There was nothing left in his manner of the practiced courtier or the hardened man of the world. Genji, settled in his corner of her curtained daïs, listened with considerable emotion. The long speech was natural, direct, almost boyish. When it was over, Prince Sochi was rewarded with a note from Saishō. It told him that her mistress had gone into the inner room some time ago!⁴⁸⁸ ‘This is too bad!’ Genji whispered as he crept to the door of her refuge. He had been so absorbed in his brother’s eloquence that he had not seen her slip away. ‘You cannot simply disappear while people are talking to you. You let absurd preconceptions govern you and never consider each case on its merits. A child would not be allowed to treat any visitor as you have just done. And Prince Sochi is a person of high standing. In your case, the behavior is unbearable. You are a grown woman with some experience of Court life. Even if you are too shy to talk to him, you could at least sit within a reasonable distance....’ Genji had never followed her into the inner room before. But she had no doubt that this time, in his eagerness to correct her manners, he would not hesitate. Reluctantly, she left her refuge and sat down again near the edge of her curtained daïs. Sochi now tried to start a more general conversation, but no topic seemed to interest her. Suddenly, a light began to glimmer quite close to where she sat, distracting her attention. It seemed to move when Genji moved. She saw him go to her curtains-of-state and hook back the inner curtain at one point. Only a single layer of light, transparent fabric remained there. He hung something bright at that spot. It looked like a paper candle.... What was he doing? She was dumbfounded.

The fact was that on his way to her apartments earlier in the evening Genji had encountered an unusual number of glow-worms. Collecting them in a thin paper bag he had concealed this improvised lantern under the folds of his cloak and, on his arrival, disposed of it in a safe corner. Startled by the sudden glow of light, Tamakatsura snatched up her fan and buried her face behind it, not before Sochi had caught an enchanting glimpse of her beauty. This was just what Genji had intended. The attentions which his brother had hitherto paid to Tamakatsura were, he suspected, due solely to the fact that Sochi had accepted the current story and imagined her indeed to be Genji’s daughter. He knew that, despite her fame as a delightful accession to the Court, Prince Sochi could have but a vague conception of her charm; and in order that he might the sooner escape from his own dilemma he was determined that Sochi should no longer merely pay formal court to the girl, but should really lose his head about her. He imagined that he was now at any rate indisputably playing the part of a fond and disinterested parent. A strange delusion! For had he reflected for a moment he would have seen that nothing would ever have induced him so crudely to thrust his own daughter, the Princess of Akashi, upon a suitor’s notice. He now stole away by a back door and returned to his own apartments.

Earlier that evening, Genji had encountered an unusual number of glow-worms on his way to Tamakatsura’s apartments. He collected them in a thin paper bag and hid this makeshift lantern under his cloak. When he arrived, he put it in a safe corner. Startled by the sudden glow, Tamakatsura snatched up her fan and hid her face behind it. But Sochi had already caught an enchanting glimpse of her beauty. This was exactly what Genji had intended. Genji suspected that his brother had paid attention to Tamakatsura only because he believed the current story. Sochi thought she really was Genji’s daughter. Tamakatsura was famous as a delightful addition to the Court. But Genji knew that Prince Sochi could have only a vague idea of her charm. Genji wanted to escape his own dilemma sooner. So he was determined that Sochi should stop merely courting her as a formality and really lose his head over her. Genji imagined that he was now unquestionably acting like a loving, selfless parent. What a strange delusion! If he had stopped to think, he would have seen that nothing could have persuaded him to thrust his own daughter, the Princess of Akashi, so crudely upon a suitor’s notice. He now slipped out through a back door and returned to his own apartments.

Sochi was feeling much encouraged. He now discredited Saishō’s note and imagined that the lady had been sitting during the whole time of his discourse in the position where the light of the glow-worms revealed her. ‘After all,’ he thought to himself, ‘I have interested her. She listens patiently and apparently even likes to be near me.’ And with that he pulled back the light gauze flap at the part of her curtains where Genji had removed the thick inner hanging. She was now but a few feet away from him, and though a bag of glow-worms makes no very famous⁴⁸⁹ illumination, he saw enough by this fitful and glimmering light to confirm his impression that she was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. In another moment Tamakatsura’s maids, summoned hastily to the scene, had detached the strange lantern and carried it somewhere out of sight.

Sochi felt greatly encouraged. He no longer believed Saishō’s note. He imagined that the lady had sat in the spot where the glow-worms’ light revealed her throughout his talk. ‘After all,’ he thought, ‘I have interested her. She listens patiently and apparently even likes to be near me.’ With that, he pulled back the light gauze flap where Genji had removed the thick inner curtain. She was now only a few feet away. A bag of glow-worms gives no great⁴⁸⁹ light. Even so, he saw enough in the flickering glow to confirm his impression. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. A moment later, Tamakatsura’s maids hurried over when they were called. They took down the strange lantern and carried it out of sight.

Genji’s stratagem was indeed abundantly successful. This momentary vision of Tamakatsura huddled disconsolately upon her couch had profoundly disturbed him. ‘Does the harsh world decree that even the flickering glow-worm, too shy for common speech, must quench the timid torchlight of its love!’ So he now recited; and she, thinking that if she appeared to be taking much trouble about her reply, he would suppose she attached more importance to the matter than was actually the case, answered instantly: ‘Far deeper is the glow-worm’s love that speaks in silent points of flame, than all the passions idle courtiers prate with facile tongue.’ She spoke coldly; moreover she had now withdrawn to the far side of her daïs. For some while he pleaded in vain against this inhospitable treatment. But he soon saw that he would gain nothing, even should he stay where he was till dawn; and though he could hear by the water dripping from the eaves that it was a most disagreeable night, he rose and took his leave. Despite the rain the nightingales were singing lustily; but he was in no mood to enjoy their song and did not pause an instant to hear them.

Genji’s plan had been a great success. His brief glimpse of Tamakatsura, huddled unhappily on her couch, had deeply troubled him. He recited: ‘Does the harsh world demand that even the flickering glow-worm, too shy to speak openly, put out the timid light of its love?’ She answered at once. If she seemed to take too much trouble over her reply, he might think she cared more about the matter than she did. ‘The glow-worm’s love, speaking in silent points of light, is far deeper than all the passions idle courtiers speak of so easily.’ She spoke coldly and had moved to the far side of her raised platform. For a while he pleaded with her to treat him more kindly, but in vain. He soon saw that he would gain nothing, even if he stayed until dawn. Though he could hear water dripping from the eaves and knew it was a very unpleasant night, he got up and left. Despite the rain, the nightingales were singing loudly. But he was in no mood to enjoy their song and did not pause for a moment to listen.

On the fifth day of the fifth month, business at the Stables brought Genji in the direction of her apartments, and he availed himself of this opportunity to discover what had happened on the night of Sochi’s visit. ‘Did the prince stay very late?’ he asked. ‘I hope you did not let him go too far. He is the sort of man who might very easily lose control of himself ... not that he is worse than others. It is really very unusual indeed to meet with any one who is capable of acting with self-restraint under such circumstances.’ And this was the match-maker who on the very occasion to which he was now referring, had driven her into Prince Sochi’s arms! She could not help being amused at his unblushing inconsistency. But all the while he was warning her against the very man for whose visit he had himself been responsible. Tamakatsura scanning him in his holiday clothes thought that he could not, by any imaginable touch of art or nature, have looked more beautiful. That thin cloak—what a marvellous blend of colours! Did fairies preside over his dyeing-vats? Even the familiar and traditional patterns, she thought, on such days as this take on a new significance and beauty. And then looking again at Genji: ‘If only we were not on this tiresome footing,’ she said to herself, ‘I believe I should long ago have fallen very much in love with him.’

On the fifth day of the fifth month, business at the Stables brought Genji near her apartments. He took the chance to find out what had happened on the night of Sochi’s visit. ‘Did the prince stay very late?’ he asked. ‘I hope you didn’t let him go too far. He’s the sort of man who might easily lose control of himself ... not that he’s worse than others. It’s really very unusual to meet anyone who can show self-restraint in such circumstances.’ Yet this was the matchmaker who had driven her into Prince Sochi’s arms on the very night he was asking about! She could not help being amused by his shameless inconsistency. He was warning her against the very man whose visit he had arranged. As Tamakatsura studied him in his holiday clothes, she thought nothing in art or nature could have made him look more beautiful. What a marvelous blend of colors his thin cloak was! Did fairies tend his dyeing vats? Even the familiar, traditional patterns, she thought, took on new meaning and beauty on days like this. Then she looked at Genji again. ‘If only we weren’t on this tiresome footing,’ she said to herself, ‘I believe I would have fallen deeply in love with him long ago.’

A letter arrived. It was from Prince Sochi, written on thin white paper in a competent hand, and couched in terms which at the time seemed very spirited and apposite. I fear, however, that were I to reproduce it here, this admired letter would seem in no way remarkable, and I will only record the poem which accompanied it: ‘Shall I, like the flower that grows unnoticed by the stream though holiday-makers in their dozens pass that way, find myself still, when this day closes, unwanted and passed-by?’ The letter was attached to the tallest and handsomest flag-iris⁴⁹⁰ she had ever seen. ‘He is quite right,’ said Genji; ‘to-day there is no escape for you.’ And when one after another of her gentlewomen had pleaded with her that this once at any rate she should answer him with her own hand, she produced the following reply, which had, however, very little to do with what was going on in her mind: ‘Better had the flower remained amid the waters, content to be ignored, than prove, thus swiftly plucked, how feeble were the roots on which it stood.’

A letter arrived from Prince Sochi. It was written in a skillful hand on thin white paper. At the time, its words seemed lively and fitting. But I fear that if I reproduced this admired letter here, it would seem unremarkable. So I will record only the poem that came with it: ‘Will I be like the flower growing unnoticed by the stream, though dozens of holiday-makers pass by? When this day ends, will I still be unwanted and passed over?’ The letter was attached to the tallest and most beautiful flag-iris⁴⁹⁰ she had ever seen. ‘He is quite right,’ said Genji. ‘Today you cannot escape him.’ One after another, her gentlewomen urged her to answer him in her own hand, at least this once. She finally wrote the following reply, though it had little to do with what she was thinking: ‘The flower would have been better off staying in the water, content to be ignored. Plucked so quickly, it has only shown how weak its roots were.’

It was an idle repartee, and even the handwriting seemed to Prince Sochi’s expectant eye somewhat vague and purposeless. He was, indeed, not at all sure, when he saw it, that he had not made a great mistake.... Tamakatsura, on the other hand, was disposed to be in rather a good humour with herself. She had this morning received Magic Balls⁴⁹¹ of the utmost variety and splendour from an unprecedented number of admirers. A more complete contrast than that between her poverty-stricken years on the island and her present pampered existence could hardly be imagined. Her ideas on a variety of subjects were becoming far less rigid than when she first arrived at the New Palace; and she began to see that provided her relationship with Genji could be maintained upon its present harmless footing she had everything to gain from its continuance.

It was a casual reply, and even the handwriting seemed vague and aimless to the eager Prince Sochi. When he saw it, he was not at all sure he had not made a great mistake.... Tamakatsura, on the other hand, was feeling rather pleased with herself. That morning, she had received Magic Balls⁴⁹¹ of every kind and of great splendor from more admirers than ever before. Her pampered life now could hardly have been more different from her years of poverty on the island. Her views on various subjects were becoming much less rigid than when she first arrived at the New Palace. She was beginning to see that she had everything to gain from continuing her relationship with Genji, as long as it remained as harmless as it was now.

Later in the day Genji called upon the lady in the Eastern Quarter.⁴⁹² ‘The young men in the Royal Body Guard are holding their sports here to-day,’ he said. ‘Yūgiri will be bringing them back with him to his rooms and is counting on you to prepare for their entertainment. They will arrive just before sunset. There will also probably be a great deal of company besides; for ever since a rumour spread round the Court that we were secretly harbouring in the New Palace some fabulous prodigy of wit and beauty, an overwhelming interest has been taken in us, and we have not had a moment’s peace. So be prepared for the worst!’

Later that day, Genji visited the lady in the Eastern Quarter.⁴⁹² ‘The young men of the Royal Body Guard are holding their games here today,’ he said. ‘Yūgiri will bring them back to his rooms afterward. He is counting on you to prepare for their entertainment. They will arrive just before sunset. There will probably be many other guests too. A rumor has spread around the Court that we are secretly hiding someone in the New Palace, a person of extraordinary wit and beauty. Ever since then, people have shown an overwhelming interest in us, and we have not had a moment’s peace. So be prepared for the worst!’

Part of the race-course was not far away from this side of the palace and a good view could be obtained from the porticos and outer galleries. ‘You had better throw open all the garden-doors along the passage between this wing and the main house,’ he said. ‘The young people will see very well from there. The Bodyguard of the Right is exceptionally strong this year. In my opinion they are a far more interesting lot than most of the present high officers at Court.’ This whetted, as it was intended to do, the curiosity of the young people in that part of the house, and the galleries were soon thronged. The pages and younger waiting-women from Tamakatsura’s wing also came to see the sights and were accommodated at the open doors along the passage, the persons of quality being ensconced behind green shutters or curtains dyed in this new-fashioned way according to which the colour is allowed to run down into the fringe. Among the dresses of the visitors were many elaborate Chinese costumes, specially designed for the day’s festivity, the colour of the young dianthus leaf tending to prevail. The ladies who belonged to this wing had not been encouraged to make any special effort for the occasion and were for the most part in thin summer gowns, green without and peach-blossom colour within. There was a great deal of rivalry and harmless self-display, which was rewarded from time to time by a glance from one of the young courtiers who were assembled on the course.

Part of the racecourse was close to this side of the palace. It could be seen clearly from the porticos and outer galleries. ‘You should open all the garden doors along the passage between this wing and the main house,’ he said. ‘The young people will have a good view from there. The Bodyguard of the Right is exceptionally strong this year. I think they are much more interesting than most of the current high officers at Court.’ As he intended, this stirred the curiosity of the young people in that part of the house. Soon the galleries were crowded. The pages and younger waiting women from Tamakatsura’s wing also came to see the sights. They found places at the open doors along the passage. The high-ranking visitors settled behind green shutters or curtains dyed in the new fashion, with color running down into the fringe. Many visitors wore elaborate Chinese costumes, specially made for the day’s festivities. The color of young dianthus leaves was especially popular. The ladies of this wing had not been encouraged to dress specially for the occasion. Most wore thin summer gowns, green on the outside and peach-blossom colored within. There was plenty of rivalry and harmless showing off. Now and then, a young courtier gathered on the racecourse would reward them with a glance.

Genji arrived on the scene at the hour of the Sheep,⁴⁹³ and found just such a concourse of distinguished visitors as he had predicted. It was interesting to see the competitors, whom he knew only in their official uniforms, so differently arrayed, each with his following of smartly dressed squires and assistants. The sports continued till evening. The ladies, although they had a very imperfect understanding of what was going on, were at least capable of deriving a great deal of pleasure from the sight of so many young men in elegant riding-jackets hurling themselves with desperate recklessness into the fray. The finish of the course was not so very far from Murasaki’s rooms, so that her gentlewomen too were able to get some idea of what was going on. The races were followed by a game of polo played to the tune of Tagyūraku.⁴⁹⁴ Then came a competition of rival pairs in the Nasori.⁴⁹⁵ All this was accompanied by a great din of bells and drums, sounded to announce the gaining of points on one side and another. It was now getting quite dark and the spectators could barely see what was going on. The first part of the indoor entertainment which came next consisted in the distribution of prizes among the successful riders. Then followed a great banquet and it was very late indeed when the guests began to withdraw. Genji had arranged to sleep that night in the Eastern Wing. He sat up a long while talking to the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. ‘Did you not think to-day,’ he said, ‘that Prince Sochi was immeasurably superior to any of the other visitors? His appearance is of course not particularly in his favour. But there is something in his manners and mode of address which I at any rate find very attractive. I was able recently to observe him on an occasion when he had no reason to believe that he was being watched, and came to the conclusion that those who so loudly praise his wit and ingenuity have no idea what constitutes his real charm.’ ‘I know that he is your younger brother,’ she answered; ‘but he certainly looks considerably older than you. I am told that he has visited here very frequently during the last few months. But as a matter of fact I had not till to-day once set eyes on him since I saw him years ago when my sister was at Court. I confess I then had no idea that he would turn out so well as he has done. In those days it was his younger brother, the Viceroy of Tsukushi, whom I used to admire. But I see now that he had not the same princeliness of air and carriage which you rightly attribute to Prince Sochi.’ He saw that, brief as was the time she had spent in Prince Sochi’s company that day, she had already completely succumbed to his charms. He smiled, but did not draw her on into a general discussion of his guests and their merits or defects. He had always had a great dislike of those who cannot mention an acquaintance without immediately beginning to pick his character to pieces and make him seem utterly contemptible. When he heard the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers going into raptures over Prince Higekuro, he did indeed find it hard not to disillusion her, particularly as he was just then beginning to be somewhat alarmed lest this prince, whom he regarded as rather unsuitable, should in the end turn out to be the strongest candidate for Tamakatsura’s favour.

Genji arrived at the hour of the Sheep,⁴⁹³ and found the gathering of distinguished visitors he had expected. He knew the competitors only in their official uniforms. It was interesting to see them dressed so differently, each with his own group of smartly dressed squires and assistants. The sports continued until evening. The ladies understood very little of what was happening. Still, they took great pleasure in watching so many young men in elegant riding jackets throw themselves recklessly into the contest. The finish line was not far from Murasaki’s rooms, so her gentlewomen could also see something of the events. The races were followed by a game of polo played to the tune of Tagyūraku.⁴⁹⁴ Then came a competition between rival pairs in the Nasori.⁴⁹⁵ Throughout, bells and drums made a great din as they announced points won by one side or the other. It was now growing quite dark, and the spectators could barely see what was happening. The entertainment then moved indoors, beginning with the presentation of prizes to the successful riders. A great banquet followed, and it was very late indeed when the guests began to leave. Genji had arranged to sleep that night in the Eastern Wing. He stayed up for a long time talking to the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. ‘Did you not think today,’ he said, ‘that Prince Sochi was far superior to all the other visitors? His appearance is of course not particularly in his favour. But I, at least, find something very attractive in his manners and the way he speaks. Recently I was able to observe him when he had no reason to think he was being watched. I concluded that those who praise his wit and ingenuity so loudly have no idea what his real charm is.’ ‘I know that he is your younger brother,’ she answered, ‘but he certainly looks much older than you. I am told that he has visited here very often during the last few months. But until today, I had not seen him since I saw him years ago, when my sister was at Court. I confess that I had no idea then that he would turn out so well. In those days I admired his younger brother, the Viceroy of Tsukushi. But I see now that he did not have the same princely air and bearing you rightly find in Prince Sochi.’ Genji saw that, though she had spent little time with Prince Sochi that day, she had already fallen completely under his spell. He smiled, but did not encourage her to discuss his guests and their merits or faults in general. He had always disliked people who could not mention an acquaintance without immediately picking apart his character and making him seem utterly contemptible. When the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers praised Prince Higekuro enthusiastically, he did find it hard not to correct her. He was especially tempted because he was beginning to fear that the prince might prove Tamakatsura’s strongest suitor. Genji thought him rather unsuitable.

He and the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers had for years past been on terms merely of ordinary confidence and friendliness. It was assumed on this occasion as on others that they would presently retreat each to a separate resting-place. How and why had this assumption first begun? He could not remember, and felt that to-night he would very gladly have broken the rule. But she seemed to take for granted that he would presently wish to retire, and so far from resenting this or seeming to be at all depressed, she evidently felt highly gratified that her own quarters had been selected as the scene of a festivity the like of which she had not witnessed in person for a very great number of years. ‘The withered grass that even the woodland pony left untouched, to-day with the wild iris of the pool-side has been twisted in one wreath.’ Thus she expressed her gratitude and pride. He was touched that so small an event should mean so much to her, and answered with the verse: ‘The colt whose shadow falls upon the waters close where the wild-swan’s wing is mirrored in the lake, from iris and sweet marsh-marigold shall ne’er be far away.’ How easily was she now contented, and how vague had his own compliments become! ‘Though I so seldom manage to see you,’ he said, ‘I assure you I am never happier than when I am here.’ It would have been unlike her to take him to task for the insincerity of this last speech. She merely accepted it quietly and they parted for the night. He found that she had given up her own bed to him, and had all her things carried to another place. Had she not seemed so convinced that anything in the way of greatest intimacy was out of the question, he might have felt inclined on this occasion to suggest a different arrangement.

For years, he and the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers had shared only ordinary trust and friendship. As on other occasions, they assumed they would soon go to separate rooms to sleep. How and why had they first begun to assume this? He could not remember, and tonight he would gladly have broken the rule. But she seemed to assume he would soon want to retire. Far from resenting this or seeming at all unhappy, she was plainly delighted. Her rooms had been chosen for a celebration unlike any she had witnessed in many years. ‘The withered grass that even the woodland pony left untouched has today been woven into a wreath with wild iris from the pool’s edge.’ In this way, she expressed her gratitude and pride. He was touched that so small an event meant so much to her. He answered with a verse: ‘The colt whose shadow falls on the water beside the reflection of a wild swan’s wing will never be far from iris and sweet marsh-marigold.’ How easily she was pleased now, and how vague his own compliments had become! ‘Though I so seldom manage to see you,’ he said, ‘I assure you I am never happier than when I am here.’ It would not have been like her to challenge the insincerity of this last remark. She simply accepted it quietly, and they parted for the night. He found that she had given him her own bed and had her things carried elsewhere. Had she not seemed so sure that anything more intimate was out of the question, he might have suggested a different arrangement this time.

This year the rainy season lasted much longer than usual, and whereas the monotony of the downpour is usually relieved by an occasional day of sunshine, this time there was nothing but one continuous drizzle for weeks on end. The inhabitants of the New Palace found it very hard to get through the day and tried one amusement after another. In the end they mostly betook themselves to reading illustrated romances. The Lady of Akashi had, among her other accomplishments, a talent for copying out and finely decorating such books as these; and being told that every one was clamouring for some occupation which would help them to get through the day, she now sent over a large supply to the Princess, her daughter. But the greatest enthusiast of all was Lady Tamakatsura, who would rise at daybreak and spend the whole day absorbed in reading or copying out romances. Many of her younger ladies-in-waiting had a vast stock of stories, some legendary, some about real people, which they told with considerable skill. But Tamakatsura could not help feeling that the history of her own life, should it ever come to be told, was really far more interesting than any of the tales with which her ladies sought to entertain her. True the sufferings of the princess in the Sumiyoshi Tale⁴⁹⁶ had at certain points a resemblance to her own experiences. But she could see no reason why for generations past so many tears of indignation and pity should have been shed over the fate of this princess at the hands of her unscrupulous lover.⁴⁹⁷ Judged as an episode, thought Tamakatsura, her own escape from the violence of Tayū was quite as exciting.

That year, the rainy season lasted much longer than usual. Normally, an occasional sunny day relieved the monotony of the rain. This time, though, the drizzle continued without a break for weeks. The people at the New Palace found it hard to pass the time and tried one amusement after another. In the end, they mostly turned to reading illustrated romances. Among her other accomplishments, the Lady of Akashi had a talent for copying and beautifully decorating such books. She was told that everyone was eager for something to help them pass the time. So she sent a large supply of books to her daughter, the Princess. But Lady Tamakatsura was the greatest enthusiast of all. She rose at daybreak and spent the whole day absorbed in reading or copying romances. Many of her younger ladies-in-waiting knew a great many stories, some legendary and some about real people. They told them with considerable skill. But Tamakatsura could not help feeling that her own life story, if it were ever told, was far more interesting. It was more interesting than any of the tales her ladies told to entertain her. The princess in the Sumiyoshi Tale⁴⁹⁶ had suffered in ways that sometimes resembled Tamakatsura’s own experiences. But Tamakatsura could see no reason why generations had wept with anger and pity over the princess’s fate. The princess’s unscrupulous lover had caused her suffering.⁴⁹⁷ As an episode, Tamakatsura thought, her own escape from Tayū’s violence was just as exciting.

One day Genji, going the round with a number of romances which he had promised to lend, came to Tamakatsura’s room and found her, as usual, hardly able to lift her eyes from the book in front of her. ‘Really, you are incurable,’ he said, laughing. ‘I sometimes think that young ladies exist for no other purpose than to provide purveyors of the absurd and improbable with a market for their wares. I am sure that the book you are now so intent upon is full of the wildest nonsense. Yet knowing this all the time, you are completely captivated by its extravagances and follow them with the utmost excitement: why, here you are on this hot day, so hard at work that, though I am sure you have not the least idea of it, your hair is in the most extraordinary tangle.... But there; I know quite well that these old tales are indispensable during such weather as this. How else would you all manage to get through the day? Now for a confession. I too have lately been studying these books and have, I must tell you, been amazed by the delight which they have given me. There is, it seems, an art of so fitting each part of the narrative into the next that, though all is mere invention, the reader is persuaded that such things might easily have happened and is as deeply moved as though they were actually going on around him. We may know with one part of our minds that every incident has been invented for the express purpose of impressing us; but (if the plot is constructed with the requisite skill) we may all the while in another part of our minds be burning with indignation at the wrongs endured by some wholly imaginary princess. Or again we may be persuaded by a writer’s eloquence into accepting the crudest absurdities, our judgment being as it were dazzled by sheer splendour of language.

One day, Genji was making his rounds with several romances he had promised to lend. He came to Tamakatsura’s room and found her, as usual, barely able to look up from her book. ‘Really, you’re hopeless,’ he said, laughing. ‘Sometimes I think young ladies exist only to provide a market for sellers of absurd and improbable stories. I’m sure the book you’re so absorbed in is full of the wildest nonsense. Yet, though you know that perfectly well, you’re completely captivated by its extravagances and follow them with great excitement. Look at you on this hot day, working so hard at your reading. I’m sure you haven’t noticed, but your hair is in an extraordinary tangle.... Still, I know very well that these old tales are indispensable in weather like this. How else would you all get through the day? ‘Now I have a confession. I too have lately been studying these books, and I must tell you, I’ve been amazed by how much I enjoyed them. There seems to be an art to fitting each part of a story into the next. Though it’s all made up, the reader is convinced that such things could easily have happened. The reader is as deeply moved as if they were actually happening nearby. Part of us may know that every incident was invented expressly to impress us. But if the plot is skillfully constructed, another part of us may still burn with indignation at the wrongs suffered by a completely imaginary princess. Or a writer’s eloquence may persuade us to accept the crudest absurdities. The sheer splendor of the language dazzles our judgment.

I have lately sometimes stopped and listened to one of our young people reading out loud to her companions and have been amazed at the advances which this art of fiction is now making. How do you suppose that our new writers come by this talent? It used to be thought that the authors of successful romances were merely particularly untruthful people whose imaginations had been stimulated by constantly inventing plausible lies. But that is clearly unfair....’ ‘Perhaps, she said, ‘only people who are themselves much occupied in practising deception have the habit of thus dipping below the surface. I can assure you that for my part, when I read a story, I always accept it as an account of something that has really and actually happened.’

Lately, I have sometimes stopped to listen to one of our young people reading aloud to her companions. I have been amazed at the progress the art of fiction is making. How do you suppose our new writers come by this talent? People used to think that authors of successful romances were simply very dishonest. They thought that constantly inventing plausible lies had stimulated their imaginations. But that is clearly unfair....’ ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘only people who spend a great deal of time deceiving others have the habit of looking beneath the surface like that. I can assure you that when I read a story, I always take it as an account of something that really happened.’

So saying she pushed away from her the book which she had been copying. Genji continued: ‘So you see as a matter of fact I think far better of this art than I have led you to suppose. Even its practical value is immense. Without it what should we know of how people lived in the past, from the Age of the Gods down to the present day? For history-books such as the Chronicles of Japan show us only one small corner of life; whereas these diaries and romances which I see piled around you contain, I am sure, the most minute information about all sorts of people’s private affairs....’ He smiled, and went on: ‘But I have a theory of my own about what this art of the novel is, and how it came into being. To begin with, it does not simply consist in the author’s telling a story about the adventures of some other person. On the contrary it happens because the story-teller’s own experience of men and things, whether for good or ill—not only what he has passed through himself, but even events which he has only witnessed or been told of—has moved him to an emotion so passionate that he can no longer keep it shut up in his heart. Again and again something in his own life or in that around him will seem to the writer so important that he cannot bear to let it pass into oblivion. There must never come a time, he feels, when men do not know about it. That is my view of how this art arose.

With that, she pushed aside the book she had been copying. Genji continued: ‘So you see, I think much more highly of this art than I have led you to believe. Even its practical value is immense. Without it, what would we know about how people lived from the Age of the Gods to the present? History books like the Chronicles of Japan show us only one small part of life. But these diaries and romances piled around you surely contain the smallest details of all sorts of people’s private lives....’ He smiled and went on: ‘But I have my own theory about what the art of the novel is and how it began. To begin with, it is not simply a matter of an author telling someone else’s adventures. Instead, it arises from the storyteller’s experience of people and things, whether good or bad. This includes not only what he has lived through, but also what he has witnessed or been told. These experiences stir such passionate emotions in him that he can no longer keep them in his heart. Again and again, something in his own life or the life around him seems deeply important to the writer. He cannot bear to let it be forgotten. He feels that people must always know about it. That is my view of how this art began.

‘Clearly then, it is no part of the story-teller’s craft to describe only what is good or beautiful. Sometimes, of course, virtue will be his theme, and he may then make such play with it as he will. But he is just as likely to have been struck by numerous examples of vice and folly in the world around him, and about them he has exactly the same feelings as about the pre-eminently good deeds which he encounters: they are important and must all be garnered in. Thus anything whatsoever may become the subject of a novel, provided only that it happens in this mundane life and not in some fairyland beyond our human ken.

‘Clearly, a storyteller’s craft is not limited to describing what is good or beautiful. Sometimes, of course, virtue will be his subject, and he may treat it as he wishes. But he is just as likely to notice many examples of vice and foolishness in the world around him. He feels exactly the same about them as he does about the exceptionally good deeds he encounters. They are important, and he must gather them all in. So anything at all may become the subject of a novel. It need only happen in this everyday life, not in some fairyland beyond human understanding.

‘The outward forms of this art will not of course be everywhere the same. At the Court of China and in other foreign lands both the genius of the writers and their actual methods of composition are necessarily very different from ours; and even here in Japan the art of story-telling has in course of time undergone great changes. There will, too, always be a distinction between the lighter and the more serious forms of fiction.... Well, I have said enough to show that when at the beginning of our conversation I spoke of romances as though they were mere frivolous fabrications, I was only teasing you. Some people have taken exception on moral grounds to an art in which the perfect and imperfect are set side by side. But even in the discourses which Buddha in his bounty allowed to be recorded, certain passages contain what the learned call Upāya or ‘Adapted Truth’—a fact that has led some superficial persons to doubt whether a doctrine so inconsistent with itself could possibly command our credence. Even in the scriptures of the Greater Vehicle⁴⁹⁸ there are, I confess, many such instances. We may indeed go so far as to say that there is an actual mixture of Truth and Error. But the purpose of these holy writings, namely the compassing of our Salvation, remains always the same. So too, I think, may it be said that the art of fiction must not lose our allegiance because, in the pursuit of the main purpose to which I have alluded above, it sets virtue by the side of vice, or mingles wisdom with folly. Viewed in this light the novel is seen to be not, as is usually supposed, a mixture of useful truth with idle invention, but something which at every stage and in every part has a definite and serious purpose.’

‘The outward forms of this art will not, of course, be the same everywhere. At the Court of China and in other foreign lands, writers’ talents and methods are necessarily very different from ours. Even here in Japan, storytelling has changed greatly over time. There will also always be a distinction between lighter and more serious fiction.... Well, I have said enough to show that I was only teasing you. At the beginning of our conversation, I spoke of romances as if they were nothing but frivolous inventions. Some people have objected on moral grounds to an art that places the perfect and the imperfect side by side. But Buddha, in his generosity, allowed his discourses to be recorded. Even some passages in those discourses contain what scholars call Upāya or ‘Adapted Truth’. This has led some superficial people to doubt that a doctrine so inconsistent with itself could deserve our belief. I admit that even the scriptures of the Greater Vehicle⁴⁹⁸ contain many such instances. We might even say that they contain a mixture of Truth and Error. But the purpose of these holy writings, to bring about our Salvation, always remains the same. In the same way, I think we should not abandon fiction because it places virtue beside vice or mingles wisdom with folly. It does so in pursuit of the main purpose I mentioned earlier. Seen in this light, the novel is not, as people usually suppose, a mixture of useful truth and idle invention. It is something with a definite and serious purpose at every stage and in every part.’

Thus did he vindicate the story-teller’s profession as an art of real importance.

In this way, he defended storytelling as a truly important art.

Murasaki, who had first taken to reading romances in order to see whether they were suitable for her adopted daughter, the Princess from Akashi, was now deeply immersed in them. She was particularly fond of the Tale of Komano⁴⁹⁹ and showing to Genji an illustrated copy of it she said one day: ‘Do you not think that these pictures are very well painted?’ The reason that she liked the illustrations so much was that one of them showed the little girl in the story lying peacefully asleep in her chair, and this somehow reminded Murasaki of her own childhood. ‘And do you mean to tell me,’ asked Genji, ‘that such an infant as that has already, at this early point in the story, been the heroine of gallant episodes? When I remember the exemplary way in which I looked after you during your childhood I realize that my self-restraint is even more unusual than I supposed.’ It could not be denied that his conduct was in many ways unusual; but hardly, perhaps, exemplary in the common sense of the word. ‘I hope you are very careful not to allow the little princess to read any of the looser stories,’ he continued. ‘She would realize, I am sure, that the heroines of such books are acting very wrongly in embarking upon these secret intrigues; but I had much rather she did not know that such things go on in the world at all.’ ‘This is really too much!’ thought Murasaki. ‘That he should come straight from one of his interminable visits to Tamakatsura and at once begin lecturing me on how to bring up young ladies!’

Murasaki had first started reading romances to see if they were suitable for her adopted daughter, the Princess from Akashi. Now she was deeply absorbed in them. She was especially fond of the Tale of Komano⁴⁹⁹. One day, she showed Genji an illustrated copy and said, ‘Don’t you think these pictures are beautifully painted?’ She liked the illustrations so much because one showed the little girl in the story sleeping peacefully in her chair. Somehow, it reminded Murasaki of her own childhood. ‘Are you telling me,’ Genji asked, ‘that a child so young has already had romantic adventures at this early point in the story? When I remember how admirably I looked after you as a child, I realize my self-restraint was even more unusual than I thought.’ His behavior was certainly unusual in many ways, but perhaps hardly admirable in the usual sense of the word. ‘I hope you’re very careful not to let the little princess read any of the more improper stories,’ he continued. ‘I’m sure she would understand that the heroines of such books are acting very wrongly when they begin these secret affairs. But I’d much rather she didn’t know such things happened in the world at all.’ ‘This is really too much!’ thought Murasaki. ‘He comes straight from one of his endless visits to Tamakatsura and immediately starts lecturing me on how to raise young ladies!’

‘I should be very sorry,’ she said, ‘if she read books in which licentious characters were too obviously held up to her as an example. But I hope you do not wish to confine her reading to The Hollow Tree.⁵⁰⁰ Lady Até certainly knows how to look after herself, in a blundering sort of way; and she gets her reward in the end, but at the expense of so grim a tenacity in all her dealings that, in reading the book, we hardly feel her to be a woman at all.’ ‘Not only did such women actually exist in those days,’ replied Genji, ‘but I can assure you that we have them still among us. It comes of their being brought up by unsocial and inhuman people who have allowed a few one-sided ideas to run away with them. The immense pains which people of good family often take over their daughters’ education is apt to lead only to the production of spiritless creatures whose minds seem to grow more and more child-like in proportion to the care which is lavished on their upbringing. Their ignorance and awkwardness are only too apparent; and after wondering in what, precisely, this superior education consisted, people begin to regard not only the children as humbugs but the parents as well.

‘I would be very sorry,’ she said, ‘if she read books that too obviously presented immoral characters as examples to follow. But I hope you do not want to limit her reading to The Hollow Tree.⁵⁰⁰ Lady Até certainly knows how to take care of herself, though she does it rather clumsily. She gets her reward in the end, but she is so grimly determined in everything she does that, when we read the book, she hardly seems like a woman at all.’ ‘Not only did such women exist in those days,’ Genji replied, ‘but I assure you they are still among us. They become that way because they are raised by unfriendly, inhuman people who let a few narrow ideas take over. Families of good standing often take enormous pains over their daughters’ education. But this often produces only spiritless creatures. The more care lavished on their upbringing, the more childlike their minds seem to become. Their ignorance and awkwardness are all too obvious. People wonder what this superior education consisted of, then begin to regard both the children and their parents as frauds.

‘On the other hand if the children happen to have natural talents, parents of this kind at once attribute the faintest sign of such endowment to the efficacy of their own inhuman system, and become distressingly pleased with themselves, using with regard to some very ordinary girl or stripling terms of the most extravagant eulogy. The world consequently expects much more of the unfortunate creatures than they can possibly perform, and having waited in vain for them to do or say something wonderful, begins to feel a kind of grudge against them....’

‘On the other hand, children may happen to have natural talents. If they do, parents like these immediately credit the slightest sign of talent to their own inhuman system. They become distressingly pleased with themselves and lavish extravagant praise on some very ordinary girl or boy. As a result, the world expects far more from these unfortunate children than they can possibly do. After waiting in vain for them to do or say something wonderful, people begin to resent them....’

‘Overpraise,’ he added, ‘does a great deal of harm to the young. Servants are very dangerous in this respect....’ Nevertheless he did not object, as Murasaki had often noticed, to the little Princess from Akashi being praised by any one who came along, and he often put himself to immense trouble in order that she might escape a scolding which he knew she thoroughly deserved.

‘Too much praise,’ he added, ‘does young people a great deal of harm. Servants are very dangerous in this respect....’ Yet Murasaki had often noticed that he did not object when anyone praised the little Princess from Akashi. He also often went to immense trouble to spare her a scolding he knew she thoroughly deserved.

Step-mothers in books usually behave very spitefully towards the children entrusted to them. But he was now learning by his own experience that in real life this does not always happen. In choosing books for Murasaki and her charge he was therefore careful to eliminate those that depict step-mothers in the traditional light; for he feared she might otherwise think he was trying to give her a quite unnecessary warning.

In books, stepmothers are usually very cruel to the children in their care. But he was now learning from experience that this does not always happen in real life. So, when choosing books for Murasaki and her charge, he avoided those that portrayed stepmothers in the usual way. He feared Murasaki might otherwise think he was trying to give her a warning she did not need.

Yūgiri, as has been said before, saw very little of Murasaki; but it was natural that he should sometimes visit his little sister, the Princess from Akashi, and Genji did not discourage this. On the contrary he was anxious to establish an affectionate relationship between them. For Genji, young though he still was, often thought of what would happen after his death, and he could imagine circumstances in which the princess might stand sorely in need of her brother’s help. He therefore gave the boy permission to visit her and even go behind her curtains-of-state as often as he chose, though he still forbad him to enter into conversation with Lady Murasaki’s gentlewomen. So few were the children of the house that a great deal more trouble was taken about them than is usually the case. Yūgiri certainly seemed to have repaid this care. In the ordinary affairs of life he showed great judgment and good-sense, and Genji had the comfortable feeling that whatever went amiss, Yūgiri at least could always be relied upon.

As mentioned before, Yūgiri saw very little of Murasaki. But it was natural for him to visit his little sister, the Princess from Akashi, sometimes. Genji did not discourage these visits. On the contrary, he wanted the two to develop an affectionate relationship. Though Genji was still young, he often thought about what would happen after his death. He could imagine circumstances in which the princess might badly need her brother’s help. So Genji allowed Yūgiri to visit her and even go behind her curtains of state whenever he wished. But he still forbade him to speak with Lady Murasaki’s gentlewomen. There were so few children in the household that they received much more attention than was usual. Yūgiri certainly seemed to have rewarded that care. In everyday matters, he showed good judgment and common sense. Genji felt reassured that, whatever went wrong, he could always rely on Yūgiri.

The little girl was only seven years old and dolls were still her principal interest. Yūgiri, who a year or two ago used so often to play just such games with his little companion at the Great Hall, made an excellent major-domo of the doll’s-house, though the part, bringing as it did a host of recollections to his mind, was often a painful one. Indeed more than once he was obliged to turn away for an instant, his eyes full of tears. During these visits he naturally met many of the princess’s other playmates, and a great deal of chattering took place on every conceivable subject. He took his share in these conversations; but he did not get to know any of the little girls at all well, nor did they, so far as he could see, take any particular interest in him. Was all that side of life forever to be closed to him? Yūgiri asked himself. But though this was the thought which instantly recurred to him during these meetings, his outward behaviour seemed only to betoken complete indifference. His green badge!⁵⁰¹ Yes, it was that which lay at the bottom not only of these smaller troubles but also of the great disaster⁵⁰² which had wrecked all his chances of happiness.

The little girl was only seven, and dolls were still her main interest. A year or two earlier, Yūgiri had often played similar games with his little companion at the Great Hall. He was excellent at managing the dollhouse, though the role often pained him because it brought back so many memories. More than once, he had to turn away for a moment, his eyes full of tears. During these visits, he naturally met many of the princess’s other playmates. They chatted a great deal about every subject imaginable, and he joined in. But he did not get to know any of the little girls well. Nor did they, as far as he could tell, take any particular interest in him. Would that whole side of life be closed to him forever, Yūgiri wondered? The thought came back to him at once during these meetings, though he acted as if he were completely indifferent. His green badge!⁵⁰¹ Yes, that was the cause of these smaller troubles. It was also the cause of the great disaster⁵⁰² that had ruined all his chances of happiness.

Sometimes the idea came to him that if he simply went straight to Kumoi’s father and tackled him about the matter—insisted, shouted, made a great scene—Tō no Chūjō would suddenly give in. But he had suffered enough already in private; there was nothing to be gained by also making himself publicly ridiculous. No, the better way was to convince Kumoi herself by his behaviour, above all by a complete and obvious indifference to the rest of the world, that so far as his own feelings were concerned nothing was altered by one jot or tittle since the day when he first told her of his love.

Sometimes he thought that if he went straight to Kumoi’s father and confronted him, Tō no Chūjō might suddenly give in. He could insist, shout, and make a great scene. But he had suffered enough in private. Nothing would be gained by making himself look ridiculous in public too. No, it was better to convince Kumoi through his behavior. Above all, he would show complete and obvious indifference to the rest of the world. Then she would see that his feelings had not changed at all since he first told her he loved her.

Between him and her brothers slight difficulties were always arising which resulted, for the time being, in a certain coldness. For example, Kashiwagi, Kumoi’s eldest brother, in ignorance of the fact that Lady Tamakatsura was his sister, continued to pay his addresses to her, and finding that his letters often failed to reach their destination, naturally turned to Yūgiri for assistance. Never once did he offer to perform a similar service in return, though it was presumably as easy for him to see Kumoi as it was for Yūgiri to see Tamakatsura. The request irritated him and he firmly refused. Not that they ceased to be friends; for their relationship, like that of their fathers, had always been built up of small rivalries and feuds.

Small disagreements often arose between Yūgiri and Kumoi’s brothers, making them somewhat distant for a time. For example, Kashiwagi, Kumoi’s eldest brother, continued to court Lady Tamakatsura, not knowing that she was his sister. His letters often failed to reach her, so he naturally turned to Yūgiri for help. Yet he never offered to do the same for Yūgiri. Presumably, it was as easy for Kashiwagi to see Kumoi as it was for Yūgiri to see Tamakatsura. The request irritated Yūgiri, and he firmly refused. But the two remained friends. Like their fathers’ friendship, theirs had always been built on small rivalries and feuds.

Tō no Chūjō had an unusually large number of children, most of whom had amply fulfilled, as regards both popularity and attainments, the high promise of their early years. His position in the State had enabled him to do extremely well for all his sons. As regards his daughters (who were, however, not so numerous) he had been less fortunate. His plans for the future of the eldest girl had entirely miscarried;⁵⁰³ he had signified his desire to present Lady Kumoi at Court, but had hitherto received no command to do so. He had not in all these years ever forgotten the little girl who, along with her mother, had so mysteriously disappeared, and sometimes spoke of her to those who had at the time been aware of his attachment to that unhappy lady. What had become of them both? He imagined that her strange timidity had driven the mother to take flight with that exquisite child into some lonely and undiscoverable place. He fell into the habit of staring hard into the face of every girl whom he met; and the commoner, the more ill-clad and wretched the creature was, the surer he became that this was his lost child. For the lower she had sunk, the less likely it was that she would be able to persuade any one that she was indeed his daughter. It was impossible, he felt, that sooner or later one or other of his agents should not get news of her, and then what reparation he would make for the down-trodden existence that she must now be leading! He told his sons her child-name and begged them to report to him immediately if they should ever come across any one who bore it. ‘In my early days,’ he said, ‘I am afraid I became involved in a great many rather purposeless intrigues. But this was quite a different matter. I cared for the mother very deeply indeed, and it distresses me intensely that I should not only have lost the confidence of the lady herself, but also have been able to do nothing at all for the one child that bore witness to our love.’

Tō no Chūjō had an unusually large number of children. Most had more than lived up to their early promise, both in popularity and accomplishments. His position in the government had allowed him to provide extremely well for all his sons. He had been less fortunate with his daughters, though he had fewer of them. His plans for his eldest daughter’s future had gone completely wrong.⁵⁰³ He had expressed his wish to present Lady Kumoi at Court, but had received no command to do so. Over the years, he had never forgotten the little girl who had mysteriously disappeared with her mother. He sometimes spoke of her to those who had known of his attachment to the unhappy lady. What had become of them both? He imagined that the mother’s strange shyness had driven her to flee with the exquisite child to some lonely, undiscoverable place. He took to staring intently at every girl he met. The poorer, more badly dressed, and more miserable the girl, the more certain he was that she was his lost child. For the lower she had sunk, the less likely she was to persuade anyone that she really was his daughter. He felt sure that sooner or later one of his agents would hear news of her. Then he would make amends for the oppressed life she must now be leading! He told his sons the name she had been called as a child. He begged them to tell him at once if they ever met anyone with that name. ‘In my younger days,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I became involved in a great many rather pointless affairs. But this was quite different. I cared for the mother very deeply. It pains me terribly that I lost her trust. And I have been unable to do anything at all for the one child who bore witness to our love.’

For long periods, especially if nothing happened to remind him of the matter, he succeeded in putting it out of his head. But whenever he heard of any one adopting a stray girl or taking some supposed poor relation into their house, he at once became very suspicious, made innumerable enquiries and was bitterly disappointed when it was finally proved to him that his supposition was entirely unfounded.

For long periods, he managed to put the matter out of his mind, especially if nothing reminded him of it. But whenever he heard of someone adopting a stray girl or taking in a supposed poor relative, he became suspicious. He asked countless questions and was bitterly disappointed when his suspicions were finally proved entirely unfounded.

About this time he had a curious dream, and sending for the best interpreters of the day asked them what it meant. ‘It seems to mean,’ they said, ‘that you have at last heard what has become of a child that you had lost sight of for many years, the reason that you have failed to discover her being that she is thought by the world at large to be some one else’s child.’ ‘Heard what has become ...’ he faltered. ‘No, on the contrary I have heard no such thing. I cannot imagine what you are talking about.’

Around this time, he had a strange dream. He sent for the best dream interpreters of the day and asked what it meant. ‘It seems to mean,’ they said, ‘that you have finally heard what happened to a child you lost sight of many years ago. You have been unable to find her because everyone believes she is someone else’s child.’ ‘Heard what happened ...’ he faltered. ‘No, on the contrary, I have heard nothing of the kind. I cannot imagine what you are talking about.’