The Plum Blossom Spray

ALTHOUGH it was early days to begin thinking about the little Akashi Princess’s Initiation, Genji seemed bent upon celebrating it immediately. The Heir Apparent’s Putting on of the Trousers was to take place in the second month, and it was perhaps Genji’s wish that the girl should go to the Palace as soon as the little prince set up a separate establishment. Towards the end of the first month, a moment when there is very little going on at home or abroad, Genji held an inspection of the perfumes and incenses that were to be used, at the Initiation. He first looked through the scents that had recently been forwarded to the Capital by the Governor of Tsukushi. He soon came to the conclusion that these modern importations fell far behind what used to reach this country in former times, and opening his storehouses at the Nijō-in he brought out all the old Chinese perfumes he could find and had them carried to his New Palace. ‘With perfumes,’ he said, ‘it is just as it is with embroideries and woven brocades. The old ones are far better workmanship than anything that is turned out to-day.’ So saying, he began to look out for likely pieces of embroidery and gold brocade; for many would be wanted to fringe the box-covers, carpets and cushions used in the ceremony of Presentation at the Palace. Luckily he came upon some particularly fine pieces presented to his father, the late Emperor, by the Korean soothsayers who had come to Court in the earlier part of his reign.⁵⁷⁴ These so far excelled what was now imported that he determined to make use only of ancient pieces, and distributed among his friends⁵⁷⁵ the stuffs sent in for the occasion by the Governor of Tsukushi. But with the perfumes to be used at the Initiation such a method was impossible, for the stock of ancient perfumes would soon have run out. In distributing a supply of perfumes to the various members of his household, he therefore ordered that new and old should be mixed. Then there were the presents to be got ready, for no one who came to the Initiation could be allowed to go away without some small gift; and in addition to these there were the particular rewards granted to the princes and noblemen who took the leading part in the affair. Both at the New Palace and at the Nijō-in there was such a bustle as seldom before, accompanied, in every quarter of each establishment, by a continual jingling of pestle and mortar⁵⁷⁶ Meanwhile Genji, who by some means or other had contrived to get hold of two secret recipes very jealously guarded by the Emperor Nimmyō,⁵⁷⁷ and thought never to have been transmitted to any of his descendants, was locked away in his own rooms, completely absorbed in certain mysterious experiments. Murasaki, not to be outdone, succeeded in discovering a recipe that had belonged to Prince Motoyasu, the son of Nimmyō, and ensconcing herself in a secret closet behind the double-doors of the Great Bedroom, refused to give any information as to what was afoot, though, as Genji remarked, he would soon know how she was getting on by the scent that emanated from her hiding-place. Indeed they both threw themselves into the thing with such abandon that it was hard to believe they were to play the part of dignified elders at the coming ceremony. Both he and she were obliged to seek the assistance of a few chosen attendants; for even when the perfumes were made there was still a great deal of work to be done. Such exquisite scents could not be crammed into any stray vessel that lay handy. Hours were spent in selecting jars of appropriate shape, incense-burners incised with an exactly suitable flower-pattern, boxes that would not disgrace the marvels they were to contain. And to add to their difficulties, there must be a touch of novelty, a suggestion of surprise, about every article. Meanwhile similar scenes were in progress throughout the New Palace and the Nijō-in, each competitor straining every nerve to produce a blend which should attract the notice of her fastidious patron.

Although it was still early to think about the little Akashi Princess’s Initiation, Genji seemed determined to celebrate it immediately. The Heir Apparent’s Putting on of the Trousers was to take place in the second month. Perhaps Genji wanted the girl to go to the Palace as soon as the little prince established a separate household. Toward the end of the first month, there was little happening at home or abroad. Genji took the opportunity to inspect the perfumes and incense for the Initiation. He first examined the scents recently sent to the Capital by the Governor of Tsukushi. He soon concluded that these recent imports were far inferior to those the country had received in earlier times. He opened his storehouses at the Nijō-in, brought out all the old Chinese perfumes he could find, and had them carried to his New Palace. ‘Perfumes are just like embroideries and woven brocades,’ he said. ‘The old ones are much better made than anything produced today.’ He then began looking for suitable pieces of embroidery and gold brocade. Many would be needed to trim the box covers, carpets, and cushions for the ceremony of Presentation at the Palace. Luckily, he found some exceptionally fine pieces. Korean soothsayers had presented them to his father, the late Emperor, at Court in the early part of his reign.⁵⁷⁴ These pieces were so much finer than current imports that Genji decided to use only old fabrics. He distributed among his friends⁵⁷⁵ the fabrics the Governor of Tsukushi had sent for the occasion. But he could not do the same with the perfumes for the Initiation, because the supply of old perfumes would soon run out. So, when he distributed perfumes to the members of his household, he ordered them to mix old and new. Presents also had to be prepared. No one who came to the Initiation could be allowed to leave without a small gift. There were also special rewards for the princes and noblemen who played the leading roles in the affair. Both the New Palace and the Nijō-in were busier than they had seldom been before. In every part of both households, the sound of pestles and mortars was constantly heard.⁵⁷⁶ Meanwhile, Genji had somehow obtained two secret recipes that Emperor Nimmyō had guarded jealously.⁵⁷⁷ They were thought never to have been passed down to any of his descendants. Genji shut himself away in his rooms, completely absorbed in some mysterious experiments. Murasaki, not to be outdone, managed to find a recipe that had belonged to Prince Motoyasu, Nimmyō’s son. She settled into a secret closet behind the double doors of the Great Bedroom and refused to say what she was doing. Genji remarked, though, that he would soon know how she was getting on from the scent coming from her hiding place. They both threw themselves into the work with such abandon that it was hard to believe they would play the part of dignified elders at the coming ceremony. Both needed the help of a few chosen attendants, because even after the perfumes were made, much work remained. Such exquisite scents could not be crammed into just any vessel that happened to be at hand. Hours were spent choosing jars of the right shape, incense burners engraved with just the right flower pattern, and boxes worthy of the marvels they would contain. To make matters harder, every article had to have a touch of novelty and an element of surprise. Similar scenes were taking place throughout the New Palace and the Nijō-in. Each competitor was doing her utmost to produce a blend that would attract the notice of her discerning patron.

On the tenth day of the second month there was a little rain, not more than was needed to bring to perfection the smell and colour of the red plum-blossom in front of Genji’s palace. Prince Sochi had heard of the existing preparations which were afoot, and being on intimate terms with the household, ventured to call, though he knew that every one must be very busy. After talking of one thing and another, he went out with Genji to look at the flowers; suddenly a messenger arrived, bearing a letter tied to a spray of half-scattered plum-blossom. He announced that he came from Princess Asagao, the former Vestal Virgin. Sochi had heard of Genji’s admiration for this lady: ‘What does she say?’ he asked. ‘I hope you are beginning to make a little progress.’ Genji smiled. ‘It is a business letter,’ he said. ‘She has heard that we are all making perfumes, and as she has had a good deal of experience in that line, she gives me a few hints.’ So saying, he quickly hid the letter. But there was evidently some truth in his account, for the messenger had also brought a cedar-wood box containing two glass bowls, each filled with large balls of incense. One was of blue glass, and on this there was a five-pointed pine-leaf pattern; the other was of white glass, carved with a plum-blossom spray. Even the cord with which the box was tied had evidently been chosen with the greatest care, and was delightfully soft to the touch. ‘What an elegant affair!’ exclaimed Prince Sochi, staring hard at the box. He was able as he did so to decipher the poem which was attached to it: ‘Though, like the plum-branch that I send, these perfumes have small fragrance of their own, yet worn by you they will not lack for regal scent....’ The entertainment of the messenger was entrusted to Yūgiri, who plied him with drink, and as payment for his trouble gave him a close-fitting Chinese lady’s gown, red plum-blossom colour without, yellow within. For his reply Genji chose paper of the same colour as the blossom she had sent, and attached the letter to a spray from the aforementioned trees in front of his own window. ‘I can imagine what sort of thing he is writing,’ thought Sochi as he watched Genji compose the answer. ‘But I really wonder that, after all the confidences we have exchanged, he should think it necessary to be so secretive,’ and he wondered whether there were not some additional mystery beyond what he could possibly surmise. ‘I can see you think you have scented a mystery,’ said Genji. ‘You are quite wrong; there is no corner of my heart which I am not willing you should explore.’ Genji’s poem ran: ‘Only too profoundly does the scent of your blossoms stir me, though lest the world should see my weakness I have hidden their fragrance deep within the folds of my dress.’

On the tenth day of the second month, a little rain fell. It was just enough to perfect the scent and color of the red plum blossoms outside Genji’s palace. Prince Sochi had heard about the preparations underway. He was close to the household, so he dared to call, though he knew everyone must be busy. After talking about various things, he went outside with Genji to look at the flowers. Suddenly a messenger arrived, carrying a letter tied to a spray of plum blossoms, some of which had fallen. He said he came from Princess Asagao, the former Vestal Virgin. Sochi had heard of Genji’s admiration for her. ‘What does she say?’ he asked. ‘I hope you’re beginning to make a little progress.’ Genji smiled. ‘It’s a business letter,’ he said. ‘She’s heard that we’re all making perfumes. She has a good deal of experience in that line, so she gives me a few hints.’ With that, he quickly hid the letter. But there was clearly some truth in his explanation. The messenger had also brought a cedarwood box containing two glass bowls, each filled with large balls of incense. One bowl was blue glass, with a pattern of five-pointed pine leaves. The other was white glass, carved with a spray of plum blossoms. Even the cord tying the box had clearly been chosen with great care. It was delightfully soft to the touch. ‘What an elegant gift!’ exclaimed Prince Sochi, staring at the box. As he did so, he managed to read the poem attached to it: ‘Though these perfumes, like the plum branch I send, have little fragrance of their own, they will have a royal scent when you wear them....’ Yūgiri was put in charge of entertaining the messenger. He gave him plenty to drink and, as payment for his trouble, a close-fitting Chinese lady’s gown. It was red plum-blossom color on the outside and yellow inside. For his reply, Genji chose paper the same color as the blossoms she had sent. He attached the letter to a spray from the trees outside his own window. Sochi watched Genji write. ‘I can imagine what sort of thing he’s writing,’ he thought. ‘But after all we’ve confided in each other, I really wonder why he feels the need to be so secretive.’ He wondered whether there was some further mystery he could not possibly guess at. ‘I can see you think you’ve scented a mystery,’ said Genji. ‘You’re quite wrong. There’s no corner of my heart I’m unwilling to let you explore.’ Genji’s poem read: ‘The scent of your blossoms moves me only too deeply. But I have hidden their fragrance deep in the folds of my robe, so the world won’t see my weakness.’

‘You will think,’ he said, turning to Prince Sochi, ‘that we are making a great deal too much fuss over the coming celebration. For my part I excuse myself on the ground that she is my only daughter. I am under no delusions about her looks or intelligence, and did not like to trouble any outside person to come and stand sponsor for her at the ceremony. The Empress Akikonomu, who is staying here on leave from the Palace, has kindly consented to undertake the task, and it is in deference to her position that I am doing everything in proper style.’ ‘I am so glad you got hold of the Empress,’ said Prince Sochi; ‘I think it is a very good idea; for we all hope that your little girl will one day occupy the position that Akikonomu holds now.’ At this moment messengers arrived from all the various quarters of the establishment where the blending of perfumes had been in progress, for Genji had decided that the last time to make trial of them was when the evening air began to grow damp. ‘You must help me to judge these perfumes,’ said Genji to his brother. ‘I am sure there is no one who knows more about it than you.’ The incense-burners were brought, and though Prince Sochi protested that this was not at all in his line, he was soon amazing every one present by the incredible delicacy of his perceptions. He would say of some perfume the ingredients of which were quite unknown to him: ‘There is a fraction too much cloves in this,’ or of another: ‘Just a trifle too little aloes.’ He never made any sweeping criticism, but established a sufficient number of small points to allow of arranging the competitors, all of whom would to any common critic have seemed equally unimpeachable, in a definite and justified order of precedence.

‘You will think we are making far too much fuss over the coming celebration,’ he said, turning to Prince Sochi. ‘I excuse myself because she is my only daughter. I have no illusions about her looks or intelligence. So I did not like to trouble anyone from outside the household to sponsor her at the ceremony. Empress Akikonomu, who is staying here on leave from the Palace, has kindly agreed to do it. It is out of respect for her position that I am doing everything in the proper style.’ ‘I am so glad you secured the Empress’s help,’ said Prince Sochi. ‘I think it is a very good idea. We all hope that your little girl will one day hold the position Akikonomu holds now.’ Just then, messengers arrived from the various parts of the household where perfumes had been blended. Genji had decided that the final test should take place as the evening air began to grow damp. ‘You must help me judge these perfumes,’ Genji said to his brother. ‘I am sure no one knows more about them than you.’ The incense burners were brought in. Prince Sochi protested that judging perfumes was not at all his specialty. Yet he soon amazed everyone present with the extraordinary delicacy of his senses. Of one perfume whose ingredients were entirely unknown to him, he would say, ‘There is a little too much clove in this.’ Of another, he would say, ‘Just a little too little aloes.’ He never made any sweeping criticism. Instead, he noted enough small differences to rank the competitors in a clear and justified order. To any ordinary critic, they would all have seemed equally flawless.

When this was over, Genji’s two secret blends were at last submitted to the light of day. Just as the Emperor Nimmyō had on a famous occasion buried his incense at the edge of the moat near the barracks of the Bodyguard of the Right, so Genji had now buried his two secret compounds under the bank of a little stream that ran out near the western cross-gallery of his palace. Koremitsu’s son Hyōye no Jō was now sent to dig them up, and they were finally laid before Prince Sochi by Yūgiri. ‘No, no,’ said Sochi. ‘The room is getting too smoky. In such an atmosphere it is quite impossible to go on judging....’ But nothing could be done, for in every quarter of the house the manufacture of incense had been proceeding so busily that the air was laden with perfume. The Prince went on sniffing bravely, and the subtlety with which, even under such adverse circumstances, he detected small merits and defects, won universal applause. Though there was very little to choose between the different kurobō submitted, on the whole Princess Asagao’s was declared to be the best, for it combined the strong fragrance usual to this species with a delightful delicacy and mildness. Among the various jijū incenses, Genji’s easily came out on top, for it was indeed an extraordinarily delightful and intriguing mixture. Murasaki had submitted three kinds. It was agreed that her baikwa was a more distinctive and ingenious blend than the other two; Prince Sochi was full of enthusiasm for it, saying he could imagine no incense that would mix so well with the prevailing scent of the air at this season.

When this was over, Genji’s two secret blends were finally brought to light. Emperor Nimmyō had once famously buried his incense at the edge of the moat near the Bodyguard of the Right’s barracks. In the same way, Genji had buried his two secret blends under the bank of a small stream. The stream ran out near the western cross-gallery of his palace. Koremitsu’s son Hyōye no Jō was sent to dig them up. Yūgiri then presented them to Prince Sochi. ‘No, no,’ said Sochi. ‘The room is getting too smoky. In air like this, it’s impossible to go on judging....’ But nothing could be done. Incense had been made so busily throughout the house that the air was heavy with perfume. The Prince bravely kept sniffing. Everyone applauded the subtle way he detected small merits and flaws, even under such difficult conditions. There was very little difference between the kurobō blends submitted. On the whole, though, Princess Asagao’s was judged the best. It combined the strong fragrance typical of this kind of incense with a delightful delicacy and mildness. Among the various jijū incenses, Genji’s was easily the best. It was an extraordinarily delightful and intriguing blend. Murasaki had submitted three kinds. Everyone agreed that her baikwa was more distinctive and ingenious than the other two. Prince Sochi was enthusiastic about it. He said he could imagine no incense that would blend so well with the scent in the air at this season.

The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers, thinking that if she allowed the gentlewomen under her control to send in a variety of perfumes the task of the judges would be tiresomely complicated and lengthy (for even in such a matter as this she did not fail to show her usual modesty), sent in only one kind of incense, the sort called Lotus Leaf, but of a very delicate and subtle variety, which seemed to Genji characteristic of her unassuming personality. The Lady from Akashi, who presided over the Winter Garden, and might have been expected to offer an incense appropriate to her own season, was not inclined to risk so direct a challenge to the mistresses of Summer and Spring. Fortunately she remembered a recipe that had been invented by Minamoto no Kintada⁵⁷⁸ with the help of notes inherited from the Emperor Uda.⁵⁷⁹ This by itself would have sufficed to win considerable approbation; but she also succeeded in recollecting the ingredients of the famous Hundred Steps Incense,⁵⁸⁰ and Sochi was obliged to pronounce each of those contributions deserving of the highest honours. ‘Our judge is losing his subtlety,’ complained Genji, ‘and is obliged to fall back upon praising everything indiscriminately.’

The Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers thought about the gentlewomen under her care. If she let them submit a variety of perfumes, the judges’ task would become tediously complicated and long. Even in such a matter, she showed her usual modesty. She submitted only one kind of incense, called Lotus Leaf, in a very delicate and subtle variety. To Genji, it seemed characteristic of her unassuming personality. The Lady from Akashi presided over the Winter Garden. She might have been expected to offer an incense suited to her own season. But she did not want to risk such a direct challenge to the mistresses of Summer and Spring. Fortunately, she remembered a recipe invented by Minamoto no Kintada⁵⁷⁸ with the help of notes inherited from the Emperor Uda.⁵⁷⁹ That recipe alone would have earned considerable praise. But she also managed to remember the ingredients of the famous Hundred Steps Incense.⁵⁸⁰ Sochi had to declare both contributions worthy of the highest honors. ‘Our judge is losing his subtlety,’ Genji complained, ‘and has to resort to praising everything without distinction.’

The moon had now risen. Supper was served, and afterwards stories were told by various members of the party. A slight mist veiled the moon with the most entrancing effect. The rain of the morning had left a slight breeze in its trail, that continually wafted into the already thickly perfumed rooms of the house fresh perfumes from the trees in the garden. From the Music Room came sounds of flute and string, for a practice was in progress, music being destined to play an important part in the ceremonies of the ensuing day. Many courtiers had arrived, and there was a noise of zitherns being got into trim, and an agreeable meandering of flutes. Tō no Chūjō’s sons Kashiwagi and Kōbai had come merely to make the formal announcement of their intention to take part in to-morrow’s proceedings. But they were now prevailed upon to stay and join in the music, Genji himself providing the instruments. At the same time he set a lute in front of Prince Sochi, and himself sent for his great Chinese zithern. Kashiwagi played upon the wagon,⁵⁸¹ and so a quite interesting combination was possible. Yūgiri then played upon the cross-flute, choosing airs appropriate to the season; away went the shrill notes on their journey to the country of the clouds. It will be remembered that Kashiwagi’s brother Kōbai was famous for his voice. It was he who as a boy sang the Ballad of Takasago at the time of the rhyme-covering competitions. He now sang Umegaye: ‘Look, to a bough of the plum-tree the nightingale has come to tell us that Spring is here. But though he sings, but though he sings, the snow is falling fast.’ Genji and his brother joined in the refrain, and though more practice would have been required to make the thing a complete success, it afforded a very agreeable evening’s entertainment. When the wine was handed round Prince Sochi recited the verse: ‘To an ecstasy the “Song of the nightingale” has carried us, who by the beauty of the snow-white boughs already were enthralled.’ To which Genji replied: ‘Prince, if this springtime no other beacon guide you to my house, let these frail flowers suffice to bring you back before their time is passed.’ So saying he handed the cup to Kashiwagi, who addressing Yūgiri recited the verse: ‘Play shrilly once again the flute-songs of the night, lest on his bed of flowers the weary nightingale should fall asleep.’ And Yūgiri: ‘Ask me not to shake with the shrill blast of piping those flowers that even the wild Spring wind had not the heart to stir.’ At this whimsical excuse every one laughed. When it came to Kōbai’s turn, he sang: ‘Did not the mists of Spring enfold both earth and sky, the birds that sleep so sound had long ago burst out into their clamorous daybreak song.’ And true enough, the first streaks of light were already appearing in the eastern sky. Sochi announced that he must go at once. As a reward for his services in judging at the competition Genji gave him a cloak from his own wardrobe and two jars of incense which had been left unopened during the trials. These were put in his carriage, and finding them there, Sochi improvised the poem: ‘Incense and fine clothes! What gifts are these for an honest man to carry home at dawn?’ ‘You must not be so frightened of your family,’ laughed Genji, waiting beside the carriage while the bulls were being yoked; and he answered Sochi with the poem; ‘Well can I believe it, dear friend, that your family will rub their eyes at seeing you come home with so decent a coat upon your back.’ Sochi, who thought himself a very well-dressed man, did not take this in very good part. The other guests also received small presents in memory of the occasion—a gown, a brocaded under-robe, or the like.

The moon had risen. Supper was served, and afterward several members of the party told stories. A light mist veiled the moon, creating a lovely sight. The morning rain had left a gentle breeze. It carried fresh scents from the garden trees into the rooms, which were already thick with perfume. Flutes and strings could be heard from the Music Room, where a practice was underway. Music would play an important part in the next day’s ceremonies. Many courtiers had arrived, and zithers could be heard being tuned, along with the pleasant wandering notes of flutes. Tō no Chūjō’s sons Kashiwagi and Kōbai had come only to announce formally that they intended to take part in tomorrow’s proceedings. But they were persuaded to stay and join in the music, with Genji himself providing the instruments. He placed a lute before Prince Sochi and sent for his own great Chinese zither. Kashiwagi played the wagon,⁵⁸¹ making a rather interesting combination possible. Yūgiri then played the cross-flute, choosing tunes suited to the season. The high notes rose toward the land of the clouds. It will be remembered that Kashiwagi’s brother Kōbai was famous for his voice. As a boy, he had sung the Ballad of Takasago at the rhyme-covering competitions. Now he sang Umegaye: ‘Look, the nightingale has come to a plum-tree branch to tell us that spring is here. But though he sings, though he sings, the snow is falling fast.’ Genji and his brother joined in the refrain. More practice would have been needed to make it a complete success, but it made for a very pleasant evening. When the wine was passed around, Prince Sochi recited the verse: ‘The “Song of the nightingale” has carried us into ecstasy, though we were already enchanted by the beauty of the snow-white branches.’ Genji replied: ‘Prince, if no other beacon guides you to my house this spring, let these delicate flowers bring you back before they fade.’ He then handed the cup to Kashiwagi, who addressed Yūgiri with a verse: ‘Play the flute’s high songs of the night once more, lest the tired nightingale fall asleep on his bed of flowers.’ Yūgiri replied: ‘Do not ask me to shake with the shrill blast of my flute the flowers that even the wild spring wind had not the heart to stir.’ Everyone laughed at this playful excuse. When Kōbai’s turn came, he sang: ‘If the mists of spring did not wrap both earth and sky, the birds sleeping so soundly would have burst into their noisy dawn song long ago.’ And indeed, the first streaks of light were already appearing in the eastern sky. Sochi said he had to leave at once. As a reward for judging the competition, Genji gave him a cloak from his own wardrobe. He also gave him two jars of incense that had been left unopened during the trials. They were put in Sochi’s carriage, and when he found them, he made up a poem: ‘Incense and fine clothes! What gifts are these for an honest man to carry home at dawn?’ ‘You must not be so frightened of your family,’ Genji laughed. He waited beside the carriage while the bulls were being yoked, and answered Sochi with a poem: ‘I can well believe, dear friend, that your family will rub their eyes when they see you come home wearing such a decent coat.’ Sochi, who thought himself a very well-dressed man, did not take this very well. The other guests also received small presents to remember the occasion, a gown, a brocaded under-robe, or something of the kind.

The ceremony of Initiation took place in Akikonomu’s rooms in the evening of the next day. The company arrived at the hour of the Dog.⁵⁸² The Empress herself was in the small side-room behind the double-doors at the western end of the corridor, and here she was soon joined by the gentlewomen entrusted with the dressing of the Initiate’s hair. For this room had been set apart as her dressing-place. Murasaki was also there, and as both ladies were attended by a full complement of gentlewomen-in-waiting, there was not much room to spare. The little Princess herself did not arrive till the hour of the Rat,⁵⁸³ when the actual Tying of the Belt took place. The room was lit only by the flickering rays of the great lamp in the corridor outside; but, from what she could see of the child, Akikonomu (who happened not to have come across her before) made her out to be very good-looking. Genji, however, whispered many apologies for her. ‘I knew you would help me,’ he said. ‘But of course the child is nothing out of the ordinary, and it seems a shame to give you all this trouble. You are doing what I suppose no Empress has ever done before....’ ‘I thought nothing of coming, and indeed imagined it would be a mere family affair. If it is on my account that you have done things on this grand style, I assure you it is I not you who ought to feel embarrassed.’ She looked so charming and still so young as she made this polite speech that Genji congratulated himself upon an occasion which, if it possessed no other importance, had at least the merit of bringing together in one room so many delightful women.

The Initiation ceremony took place in Akikonomu’s rooms the following evening. The guests arrived at the hour of the Dog.⁵⁸² The Empress was in the small side room behind the double doors at the western end of the corridor. The women assigned to dress the Initiate’s hair soon joined her there. The room had been set aside as the Initiate’s dressing room. Murasaki was there too. Both ladies had their full retinues of attendants, so there was little room to spare. The little Princess herself did not arrive until the hour of the Rat,⁵⁸³ when the Tying of the Belt took place. The room was lit only by the flickering light of the great lamp in the corridor outside. But Akikonomu could see enough of the child to find her very pretty. She had never met her before. Genji, however, whispered many apologies for her. ‘I knew you would help me,’ he said. ‘But of course the child is nothing out of the ordinary, and it seems a shame to trouble you so. You are doing what I suppose no Empress has ever done before....’ ‘I thought nothing of coming, and I imagined it would be a simple family affair. If you have made it so grand on my account, I assure you that I should be embarrassed, not you.’ She looked so charming and still so young as she said this that Genji congratulated himself on the occasion. If it had no other importance, it had at least brought so many delightful women together in one room.

He would very much have liked the child’s mother to take part in the ceremony, for he knew that it would pain her deeply not to be invited; but as the girl had been formally adopted by Murasaki, it was hard to see in what capacity the Lady from Akashi could be summoned, and very reluctantly he abandoned the idea.

He very much wanted the child’s mother to take part in the ceremony. He knew she would be deeply hurt if she were not invited. But Murasaki had formally adopted the girl, so he could not see what role the Lady from Akashi could be invited to play. Very reluctantly, he gave up the idea.

For Tō no Chūjō it was extremely galling to hear the accounts of all these preparations and festivities. His own daughter Lady Kumoi was now at the height of her beauty, and to see her wasting her youth and charm in the dull seclusion of the home, while the Akashi girl’s success was being bruited on every side, was naturally very hard for him to bear. Yūgiri’s attachment to her seemed neither to have ripened nor, on the other hand, declined. To do anything that savoured of a wish to negotiate with him might now only lead to a humiliating rebuff—a risk that had not existed in the days when Yūgiri’s passion was still open and declared. He felt that he had let things drift too far, and was indeed in these days more angry with himself than with Yūgiri.

Tō no Chūjō was deeply irritated to hear about all the preparations and festivities. His own daughter Lady Kumoi was now at the height of her beauty. She was wasting her youth and charm in the dull seclusion of her home. Meanwhile, everyone was talking about the Akashi girl’s success. Naturally, this was very hard for him to bear. Yūgiri’s attachment to Lady Kumoi seemed neither to have grown nor to have faded. If Tō no Chūjō did anything that suggested he wanted to negotiate with Yūgiri, he might now face a humiliating rejection. There had been no such risk when Yūgiri still openly declared his passion. Tō no Chūjō felt that he had let things drift too far. Indeed, he was now angrier with himself than with Yūgiri.

The young man heard that his uncle no longer spoke of him with any asperity; but the harshness of years was not so easy to forget, and Yūgiri could not bring himself to plead for the termination of a quarrel which had been entirely of Chūjō’s making. He therefore continued to behave exactly as before. Not but what his fidelity suffered at one time and another from considerable strains and stresses. Naturally it did; but he could never forget the day upon which her nurses had taunted him with his light-blue dress, and he was determined that until he could come forward as a full-blown Counsellor he would make no further advances.

The young man heard that his uncle no longer spoke harshly of him. But years of harsh treatment were not easy to forget. Yūgiri could not bring himself to plead for an end to a quarrel that was entirely Chūjō’s doing. So he continued to behave exactly as before. His faithfulness was not without its trials, of course. But he could never forget the day her nurses had mocked him for his light-blue clothes. He was determined to make no further advances until he could present himself as a full Counsellor.

Genji disapproved extremely of the boy’s solitary and unsettled mode of existence. Some time ago he had received a hint from the Minister of the Right that a proposition from Yūgiri would not be unwelcome; and now a similar intimation had come from a certain Prince Nakatsukasa.... Surely the boy would not allow a childish attachment to stand in the way of such solid alliances as these? He told Yūgiri of the two offers. ‘One or the other you must certainly accept,’ he said. ‘Try to make up your mind as quickly as you can.’ Yūgiri did not answer, but merely waited respectfully for his father to continue. ‘I know that, in a way, it is rather absurd for me to advise you about things of this kind,’ Genji said after a pause. ‘I remember how tiresome I used to find my father the old Emperor’s lectures on these and similar subjects. But I assure you that, irritating as it was at the time, his advice generally turned out to be perfectly sound, and I wish I had more often followed it.... But what I wanted to say to you now was this: your present unsettled way of living is doing your reputation a great deal of harm. Naturally every one assumes that a previous attachment of some kind is holding you back, and the impression most people are likely to get is that you have got tied up with some one so low-born or discreditable that you cannot possibly introduce her into your family. I know that this idea is the opposite of the truth; indeed no one could possibly accuse you of aiming too low. But it is now perfectly clear that you cannot get what you want.... Under such circumstances the only thing to do is to take what one can get, and make the best of it.

Genji strongly disapproved of the boy’s solitary, unsettled way of life. Some time ago, the Minister of the Right had hinted that he would welcome a proposal from Yūgiri. Now Prince Nakatsukasa had given a similar hint.... Surely the boy would not let a childish attachment stand in the way of such solid alliances? Genji told Yūgiri about the two offers. ‘You must accept one or the other,’ he said. ‘Try to decide as quickly as you can.’ Yūgiri did not answer. He simply waited respectfully for his father to continue. ‘I know it’s rather absurd for me to advise you about such things,’ Genji said after a pause. ‘I remember how tiresome I found my father’s lectures on these and similar subjects. He was the old Emperor. But I assure you, though his advice irritated me at the time, it usually turned out to be sound. I wish I had followed it more often.... But what I wanted to say is this: your unsettled way of life is doing your reputation a great deal of harm. Naturally, everyone assumes that some previous attachment is holding you back. Most people will probably think you’re involved with someone too low-born or disreputable to introduce to your family. I know the truth is quite the opposite. Indeed, no one could accuse you of aiming too low. But it’s now perfectly clear that you can’t get what you want.... In these circumstances, the only thing to do is take what you can get and make the best of it.

‘I myself had just the same sort of trouble at your age. But things were even worse; for in the Palace one is hedged round by all kinds of rules and restrictions. All eyes were upon me, and I knew that the slightest indication on my part would be eagerly seized upon and exploited by those who stood to gain by my undoing. In consequence of this I was always extremely careful.... Yes. In spite of all my precautions I did once get into trouble, and it even looked at one time as though I had ruined myself for good and all. I was still low in rank then and had not particularly distinguished myself in any way. I felt that I was free to do as I chose, and that if things went wrong I had not much to lose. As a matter of fact it is just at such a moment in life that one makes the most far-reaching and irreparable mistakes; for it is then that passion is at its strongest, while the checks and restraints, that in middle age inevitably protect us against the wilder forms of folly, have not yet come into play. To suggest that you need advice on this subject is in no way derogatory to your intelligence; for in their relations with women people who show the utmost good sense in other matters seem constantly to get into the most inextricable mess. One of the difficulties is that we tend to be attracted precisely by those people with whom it is most impossible that we should be permanently connected. I can think of a case in which the lady’s reputation was fatally injured and the man’s happiness destroyed, not only in this world but probably in the next, by the fierce resentment which she bore against him in consequence of this youthful indiscretion.

‘I had just the same kind of trouble at your age. But things were even worse for me, because life at the Palace was surrounded by rules and restrictions. Everyone was watching me. I knew that those who stood to gain from my downfall would eagerly seize on and exploit the slightest sign. So I was always extremely careful.... Yes. Despite all my precautions, I did get into trouble once. For a while, it even looked as though I had ruined myself forever. I was still low in rank then and had done nothing particularly distinguished. I felt free to do as I pleased. If things went wrong, I thought I had little to lose. In fact, that is just when people make their most serious and irreversible mistakes. Passion is strongest then, while the restraints of middle age have not yet come into play. Those restraints inevitably protect us against the wildest kinds of folly. Suggesting that you need advice on this subject is no insult to your intelligence. People who show the utmost good sense in other matters constantly seem to get into hopelessly complicated situations with women. One difficulty is that we tend to be attracted to precisely those people we cannot possibly stay with. I can think of a case where the lady’s reputation was ruined and the man’s happiness destroyed. Her bitter resentment over his youthful indiscretion destroyed his happiness not only in this world, but probably in the next as well.

‘And one thing more: suppose you get married and find that the match is not altogether a success. There will be moments at which you will be tempted to throw the whole thing over. But do not act rashly. Think out the situation afresh each time that it appears to you insupportable. Probably you will find that there is a very good reason for hanging on a little longer. Even if you have lost all affection for the lady herself, you may perhaps feel that for the sake of her parents you ought to make one more effort.... Or even if she has no parents or other supporters to whom you are under an obligation, you will very likely find on reflection that she has some small trick of speech or manner that still attracts you. It will in the end possibly be best both for you and for her if you can keep things going even in the most precarious way.’

‘And one more thing: suppose you get married and find that the marriage is not entirely successful. There will be times when you are tempted to end it altogether. But do not act rashly. Each time the marriage seems unbearable, think the situation through again. You will probably find a very good reason to stay a little longer. Even if you have lost all affection for your wife, you may feel you should try again for her parents’ sake.... Or perhaps she has no parents or other supporters to whom you owe anything. Even so, when you think about it, you will very likely find some small mannerism or way of speaking that still attracts you. In the end, it may be best for both of you to keep the marriage going, however uncertain it may be.’

So at moments of leisure used Genji to admonish the young man, never with any note of asperity in his tone. Nor did he once go beyond the vaguest general reflections and reminiscences.

In his free time, Genji would gently advise the young man, never speaking harshly. He never went beyond the vaguest general observations and recollections.

The suggestion that at his father’s advice he should at once transfer his affections to some quarter where they would be more acceptable struck Yūgiri as the most gratuitous piece of folly imaginable. Let them compel him if they chose, but at least refrain from insulting his love by veiling such senseless propositions under the cloak of kindness.

Yūgiri thought his father's advice was utterly foolish. His father had suggested that he immediately turn his love toward someone who would welcome it more. They could force him if they chose. But they should at least stop insulting his love by disguising such senseless suggestions as kindness.

Meanwhile Kumoi noticed that her father, who for a long time past had eyed her with a strangely sorrowful look, now gazed at her more mournfully than ever. She felt that through her own fault something had gone wrong with her life, and ceased soon to hope for any kind of happiness; but outwardly she showed no signs of this despair and seemed content to let her youth slip by unmarked. Yūgiri’s letters, written at moments when a sudden access of longing compelled him to seek an outlet for his emotion, were as passionate as at the first day of their separation. But did they represent his true feelings? Sometimes she came near to doubting it, and had she possessed other lovers who gave more tangible proof of their devotion, it would have been easy for her to assume that Yūgiri’s outpourings were utterly insincere. But an inexperienced girl cannot afford to doubt—that privilege is reserved for those with whom love has become a familiar distraction. His letters were her only interest, and she read them again and again. It soon reached Tō no Chūjō’s ears that Prince Nakatsukasa had offered his daughter, and that the suggestion had not been ill-received by Genji. He drew Kumoi aside and spoke of this, with evident agitation. ‘I am afraid this means that the young man has given way,’ he said. ‘No doubt Genji is offended at my not having accepted Yūgiri at the start, and is anxious to show that it is now too late for me to change my mind. For your sake I should be willing to humble myself before him to any extent; but I am afraid we should only be making ourselves ridiculous.’ There were tears in his eyes while he spoke. Embarrassed, for she had never seen him weep before, Kumoi turned away her head, thus managing also to conceal her own tears, which by now were beginning gently to fall. What should he do? It was unendurable to watch her misery. And determined to make a last desperate appeal to Genji, he fled abruptly from the room. At the sound of his departure she turned her head, and coming to the window stood gazing after him. What would her lover think, what would he do, could he but have seen her father’s strangely belated tears? It was not thus, she felt sure, that Yūgiri pictured the tyrant who stood between them. Just at this moment a messenger arrived. A letter from Yūgiri! Her first thought was that it would announce his engagement to this daughter of Prince Nakatsukasa, and for a while she had not the heart to open it. But when at last she did so she found that it was couched in terms as passionate as ever before. His poem ran: ‘Now faithlessness, that once was held a crime, rules all the world, and he a half-wit is accounted whose heart is steadfast for an hour.’ There was not in the letter a hint of any intention such as her father had referred to, but the more she thought about it the more convinced she became that the rumour could not be without foundation. ‘It seems that you, who preach so much of steadfast faith, yourself will soon be following the world’s new treacherous way.’ He had no notion what this could mean, and puzzled over it fruitlessly for many an hour.

Meanwhile, Kumoi noticed that her father was looking at her more sadly than ever. For a long time, he had watched her with a strangely sorrowful expression. She felt that something had gone wrong in her life through her own fault. Soon she gave up hope of any kind of happiness. But she showed no outward sign of her despair. She seemed content to let her youth pass without notice. Yūgiri wrote whenever a sudden rush of longing made him seek an outlet for his feelings. His letters were as passionate as they had been on the first day of their separation. But did they express his true feelings? At times she almost doubted it. If she had other lovers who gave more tangible proof of their devotion, she could easily have dismissed his outpourings as entirely insincere. But an inexperienced girl cannot afford to doubt. That privilege belongs to those for whom love has become a familiar pastime. His letters were her only interest, and she read them again and again. Soon Tō no Chūjō heard that Prince Nakatsukasa had offered his daughter in marriage and that Genji had welcomed the suggestion. He took Kumoi aside and spoke of it, clearly upset. ‘I’m afraid this means the young man has given in,’ he said. ‘No doubt Genji is offended because I didn’t accept Yūgiri at first. Now he wants to show that it’s too late for me to change my mind. For your sake, I would humble myself before him as much as necessary. But I’m afraid we would only make ourselves look ridiculous.’ There were tears in his eyes as he spoke. Kumoi was embarrassed, for she had never seen him weep before. She turned her head away, and so also managed to hide her own tears, which were beginning to fall. What should he do? He could not bear to watch her misery. Determined to make one last desperate appeal to Genji, he abruptly fled the room. When she heard him leave, she turned her head. She went to the window and stood looking after him. What would her lover think, and what would he do, if he could have seen her father’s strangely belated tears? She was sure Yūgiri did not imagine the tyrant who stood between them like this. Just then a messenger arrived. It was a letter from Yūgiri! Her first thought was that it would announce his engagement to Prince Nakatsukasa’s daughter. For a while, she could not bring herself to open it. But when she finally did, she found it was as passionate as ever. His poem read: ‘Now faithlessness, once thought a crime, rules the whole world. Anyone whose heart stays true for an hour is thought a fool.’ The letter gave no hint of the intention her father had mentioned. But the more she thought about it, the more convinced she became that the rumor must have some basis. ‘It seems that you, who preach so much about being faithful, will soon be following the world’s new faithless ways yourself.’ He had no idea what she meant and puzzled over her words for many hours without finding an answer.