Young Wisteria Leaves

DESPITE his friendship for the little Princess, Yūgiri had shown no interest in the recent proceedings at the New Palace. He had indeed lately heard that the ‘watchman of the gate,’⁵⁸⁴ worn out by a vigil so unexpectedly prolonged, already showed signs of collapse. The boy, extremely sensitive to rebuffs, would far rather that the first step should be taken by the other side, and though constantly planning to approach his uncle, he felt when it came to the point unable to do so unless Chūjō’s manner towards him in some way indicated that the rumoured change of attitude had really taken place.

Despite his friendship with the little Princess, Yūgiri had shown no interest in recent events at the New Palace. He had recently heard that the ‘watchman of the gate,’⁵⁸⁴ exhausted by his unexpectedly long vigil, was already showing signs of collapse. The boy was extremely sensitive to rejection and would much rather the other side made the first move. He was always planning to approach his uncle. But when the time came, he could not bring himself to do it. First, he needed some sign in Chūjō’s manner toward him that the rumored change of attitude had really taken place.

Meanwhile Kumoi, convinced that Yūgiri’s engagement to the Nakatsukasa girl would soon be announced, was doing her best to wipe out from her thoughts all memory of the lover who had betrayed her. Thus, though in effect the way was now clear, a tangle of misunderstandings made it impossible for either side to advance. Her father, whose ill-judged obstinacy was responsible for the whole situation, was by now willing to make any compromise. Above all it was essential, at the cost of whatever humiliation, to forestall Prince Nakatsukasa’s definite and final offer, which did not seem yet to have been made. For after all that had happened it might be exceedingly difficult to procure the girl an even tolerable alliance. Despite all the precautions of her family Kumoi’s early friendship with Yūgiri had become known, and innocent though it had been, she would inevitably share in the discredit which attaches to the jilted. He foresaw indeed that belated efforts to find her a husband would involve both him and the girl herself in even greater humiliations than would ensue from an immediate surrender. This time he determined to approach the boy himself; but though they occasionally met and were to outward appearances on perfectly good terms, he found it very difficult to embark suddenly upon such a subject as this. To send for Yūgiri on purpose to discuss the matter seemed to be making altogether too much fuss about it, and would indeed mark a point of surrender beyond what, even in his present mood, he was prepared to bring himself to. At last, however, circumstances afforded just such an occasion as he sought. On the 20th day of the third month, the anniversary of his mother’s⁵⁸⁵ death, a memorial service was held at the Gyokurakuji.⁵⁸⁶ There was a great gathering of princes and noblemen, among whom Yūgiri, now grown to his full stature and to-day magnificently accoutred, cut no discreditable figure. The presence of Tō no Chūjō, who was of course in charge of the proceedings, always had the effect of damping Yūgiri’s spirits, and his particularly subdued cautious manner did not to-day escape his uncle’s notice. A special recitation of the scriptures was also held at Genji’s expense, and Yūgiri himself, as grandson of the deceased, was naturally responsible for many of the arrangements. They were all going home late in the afternoon amid a shower of falling blossoms, when Tō no Chūjō, overcome by the memories which had crowded to his mind during this melancholy celebration, paused for a moment to gaze upon the scene about him. Yūgiri too was deeply moved by the beauty of the evening and had also halted. There was a rainy feeling in the air, and some of their companions shouted to them to come on quickly if they did not want to catch a wetting. Turning round Tō no Chūjō saw that, like himself, Yūgiri was spellbound by the sadness of the closing day, and pulling him gently by the sleeve he said: ‘What does this mean? All day you have been doing your best to avoid me. I should have thought that on such an occasion you would have been willing to call a truce. I feel that to-day I have reached a turning-point in my life. I am beginning to be an old man, and I cannot afford to lose the affection of those who are growing up around me....’ ‘I remember,’ Yūgiri answered, ‘that before she died my grandmother begged me if I were ever in trouble to come first to you for advice. And I would gladly have done so, had you not made it clear that you had no wish at all to see me....’ But there the conversation ended; for the wind had suddenly risen, bringing with it a violent storm of rain, and the whole party were obliged to make for home as fast as they could.

Meanwhile, Kumoi was convinced that Yūgiri’s engagement to the Nakatsukasa girl would soon be announced. She was doing her best to forget the lover who had betrayed her. So, although the way was now clear, a tangle of misunderstandings kept either side from moving forward. Her father’s misguided stubbornness had caused the whole situation, but he was now willing to make any compromise. Above all, he had to prevent Prince Nakatsukasa from making a definite, final offer, however humiliating that might be. The offer did not yet seem to have been made. After all that had happened, it might be extremely difficult to find Kumoi even a tolerable match. Despite her family’s precautions, her early friendship with Yūgiri had become known. Though it had been innocent, she would inevitably suffer the shame that falls on someone who has been jilted. Her father foresaw that a belated search for a husband would bring them both greater humiliation than giving in now. This time he decided to approach Yūgiri himself. They met occasionally and seemed to be on perfectly good terms, but he found it hard to raise the subject so suddenly. Sending for Yūgiri specifically to discuss it seemed like making far too much fuss. It would also be a greater surrender than he was prepared to make, even now. At last, however, circumstances gave him the opportunity he wanted. On the 20th day of the third month, the anniversary of his mother’s⁵⁸⁵ death, a memorial service was held at the Gyokurakuji.⁵⁸⁶ A great gathering of princes and noblemen attended. Among them, Yūgiri, now fully grown and magnificently dressed for the occasion, made a respectable impression. Tō no Chūjō was in charge of the proceedings. His presence always dampened Yūgiri’s spirits, and his uncle noticed how especially quiet and cautious he was that day. A special recitation of the scriptures was also held at Genji’s expense. As the grandson of the deceased, Yūgiri himself was naturally responsible for many of the arrangements. Late in the afternoon, they were all going home amid a shower of falling blossoms. Tō no Chūjō was overwhelmed by the memories that had crowded into his mind during the sad ceremony. He paused for a moment to gaze at the scene around him. Yūgiri, too, was deeply moved by the beauty of the evening and had stopped. Rain was in the air, and some of their companions shouted for them to hurry if they did not want to get wet. Turning around, Tō no Chūjō saw that Yūgiri, like himself, was spellbound by the sadness of the closing day. He pulled him gently by the sleeve and said: ‘What does this mean? All day you have done your best to avoid me. I would have thought you’d be willing to call a truce on such an occasion. I feel that today I have reached a turning point in my life. I am beginning to grow old, and I cannot afford to lose the affection of those growing up around me....’ ‘I remember,’ Yūgiri answered, ‘that before she died, my grandmother begged me to come to you first for advice if I were ever in trouble. And I would gladly have done so, had you not made it clear that you had no wish at all to see me....’ But the conversation ended there. The wind had suddenly risen, bringing a violent rainstorm, and the whole party had to hurry home.

Never before had Tō no Chūjō addressed such words to him; and though there was no direct allusion to the trouble over Kumoi, he could not help feeling that they were meant as a definite hint of encouragement. For Yūgiri’s thoughts were continually occupied by this subject, and he was apt to see a reference to it in the most ordinary remarks. Of this he was conscious, and all night long he turned over in his mind what Chūjō had said to him.

Tō no Chūjō had never spoken to Yūgiri this way before. Though he did not directly mention the trouble over Kumoi, Yūgiri could not help taking his words as a clear hint of encouragement. Yūgiri was always thinking about Kumoi, so he tended to see references to her even in the most ordinary remarks. He knew this, and all night he turned Chūjō’s words over in his mind.

But in point of fact Yūgiri’s years-long patience had at last triumphed completely. If there was a slight further delay it was only because Tō no Chūjō was waiting for a not too inappropriate occasion upon which to make his full and unqualified surrender.

But in fact, Yūgiri’s years of patience had finally won out completely. If there was a slight further delay, it was only because Tō no Chūjō was waiting for a reasonably suitable occasion to surrender fully and unconditionally.

Early in the fourth month, one evening when the unusual magnificence of the wistaria in his courtyard (it had never been so profuse in blossom or so splendid in colour as this year) induced him to invite a few friends with whom to feast and make music, when the dusk was already gathering and the beauty of the flowers, as they gleamed in the half-night, was even more dazzling than before, Tō no Chūjō plucked a spray of the blossom and asked his son Kasiwagi to deliver it to Yūgiri with the message: ‘I should very much like to continue our conversation of a few days ago, and if you have nothing better to do, please come round and see me....’ Attached to the wistaria spray was the poem: ‘The wistaria in my garden is at its deepest hue, and now not many nights are left in which to see it shining through the dusk.’ Yūgiri could not for a moment doubt that this was the signal he had waited for. He thanked Kashiwagi for bringing the message and handed to him the poem: ‘Alas, I fear lest groping through the dusk I now may miss the hour when these deep-coloured blossoms shed their splendour on the night.’ ‘I am ashamed of this poem,’ he said to Kashiwagi, ‘and beg you to amend it in any way you can.’ ‘Are you not coming straight back with me?’ said the other. ‘No,’ answered Yūgiri decisively. ‘My retainers would be a trouble to you,’ and he sent Kashiwagi away. This took place in Genji’s presence, and looking at the poem, he said: ‘This of course is all you could desire. Well, I am glad it has happened at last. No doubt the other day’s proceedings awakened in him the feeling that he had often treated his mother very badly, and his present surrender is a sort of propitiation....’ This confident, off-hand tone jarred on Yūgiri. ‘I don’t think this invitation means anything out of the ordinary,’ he replied, blushing. ‘The wistaria is in bloom and they are having some music in the courtyard. It is quite natural that he should send for me....’ ‘Well, in any case,’ replied Genji, ‘he is evidently anxious to have you there, or he would not have sent Kashiwagi on purpose. You had better go at once.’ To a casual observer Yūgiri would have appeared at this moment apathetic—impassively obedient. But his heart within staggered with excitement, and in sheer intensity of expectation he almost fainted away. ‘Wait a minute!’ his father called after him. ‘That dark cloak will not do at all! It was well enough while you were a young nobody and did not attend the Council. But now you have every right to make a better show.... Let me lend you something,’ and sending a servant to his wardrobe, he presently displayed a whole pile of the most magnificent Court cloaks, one of which Yūgiri carried off to his own room. By the time his toilet was complete twilight had turned to darkness. He hurried to his uncle’s house, arriving just when Tō no Chūjō, to his chagrin, had decided that it was useless to expect him. He was led into the house by a band of some seven or eight young men, headed by Kashiwagi. A seat of honour had been set apart for him by Tō no Chūjō, who for the moment was absent, having gone to change his Court hat for a more comfortable form of head-dress. His wife and some young ladies-in-waiting helped him to change. ‘You must take a peep at our new guest,’ he said to them. ‘I saw him arriving a moment ago. He has really grown up into a most distinguished-looking young man; and he dresses admirably. He looks to me as though he would turn out to have more strength and decision of character than his father. Genji of course was always very good company; when one is with him, one is indeed so completely carried away by his high spirits and charm that the worries and difficulties of everyday life seem suddenly to lose all reality. But in public affairs he seems to me to suffer from a certain lack of earnestness, of gravity.... However, that may be a fault on the right side. Certainly this son of his has not inherited any such defect; I hear that he is a better scholar than his father, and is indeed a most serious and persevering character....’ Tō no Chūjō now rejoined his guests, and after the usual compliments had been exchanged he said to Yūgiri: ‘You should have come when the spring flowers were at their best. It was an astonishing sight this year. Every imaginable colour. But the spring treated us badly; never has its stay been so short. And now all that is left us to console ourselves with is these wonderful blossoms here, which are already almost in summer bloom. For my part I take an immense delight in them, and I hope that to you as well their colour has to-night a special significance ...’⁵⁸⁷ and he smiled reassuringly. The moon had now risen, and having admired by its light what little was to be seen of the wistaria blossom, they settled down again to music and drink. Seeing that Yūgiri’s shyness required overcoming by some more drastic procedure than mere friendly encouragement, Tō no Chūjō affected to be more drunk than he actually was, and under cover of this pretence pressed the drink upon Yūgiri with a boisterous insistence. But the boy was determined to keep all his wits about him, and over and over again refused. ‘I hear,’ said Tō no Chūjō, ‘that you are becoming such a scholar as in these latter days we never hoped to see again. Perhaps that is why you are so cold towards your old acquaintances who can boast no such world-wide reputation. But even in your learned books I fancy there is a good deal about “family visits,” and there is a certain person,⁵⁸⁸ very dear to those of your persuasion, who made such small formalities the groundwork of his teaching. You must know far more about all this than I do, and it can only be for some very particular reason that you so determinedly avoid your uncle’s house....’ Such a complaint came quite naturally amid the general sentimentality induced by wine and music. ‘Come,’ answered Yūgiri, ‘did nothing else attach me to you, the memory of my mother and grandmother would alone make me ready to serve you with my last breath, and I cannot conceive what I have done to merit such a reproach. It was you who in the first place gave me to understand that I was not welcome....’ Tō no Chūjō held his peace; but when a suitable opportunity occurred he rose to his feet and sang the old song: ‘If like the leaf ...’⁵⁸⁹ while Kashiwagi, evidently at his father’s bidding, plucked a spray of wistaria blossom, the deepest-coloured and longest he could find, and twined it round the guest’s wine-cup. Yūgiri modestly protested; whereupon Tō no Chūjō recited the verse: ‘That as token of kinship this flower you should invoke I waited⁵⁹⁰ till the blossom hung lower than the pine-boughs; then at last I humbled my pride.’

Early in the fourth month, Tō no Chūjō invited a few friends to feast and make music one evening. The wisteria in his courtyard was unusually magnificent. It had never bloomed so abundantly or shown such splendid color as it did that year. As dusk gathered, the flowers gleamed in the half-light and looked even more dazzling than before. Tō no Chūjō picked a spray and asked his son Kasiwagi to take it to Yūgiri with a message: ‘I would very much like to continue our conversation from a few days ago. If you have nothing better to do, please come and see me....’ Attached to the spray was a poem: ‘The wisteria in my garden is at its deepest color, and few nights remain to see it shining through the dusk.’ Yūgiri had no doubt that this was the signal he had been waiting for. He thanked Kashiwagi for bringing the message and handed him a poem: ‘Alas, I fear that, groping through the dusk, I may miss the hour when these deep-colored blossoms cast their splendor on the night.’ ‘I am ashamed of this poem,’ he said to Kashiwagi. ‘Please improve it in any way you can.’ ‘Aren’t you coming straight back with me?’ Kashiwagi asked. ‘No,’ Yūgiri answered firmly. ‘My attendants would be a burden to you.’ And he sent Kashiwagi away. All this took place in Genji’s presence. Looking at the poem, Genji said: ‘This is everything you could want, of course. Well, I’m glad it has happened at last. No doubt what happened the other day made him realize how badly he had often treated his mother. His giving way now is a kind of attempt to make amends....’ Genji’s confident, casual tone grated on Yūgiri. ‘I don’t think this invitation means anything unusual,’ he replied, blushing. ‘The wisteria is in bloom, and they are having music in the courtyard. It’s quite natural for him to send for me....’ ‘Well, in any case,’ Genji replied, ‘he clearly wants you there, or he would not have sent Kashiwagi specially. You had better go at once.’ A casual observer would have thought Yūgiri indifferent and passively obedient. But his heart reeled with excitement, and he nearly fainted from the intensity of his anticipation. ‘Wait a minute!’ his father called after him. ‘That dark cloak won’t do at all! It was good enough when you were an unknown young man and didn’t attend the Council. But now you have every right to dress more splendidly.... Let me lend you something.’ He sent a servant to his wardrobe and soon brought out a whole pile of magnificent Court cloaks. Yūgiri took one to his own room. By the time he had finished dressing, twilight had turned to darkness. He hurried to his uncle’s house. He arrived just as Tō no Chūjō had reluctantly decided it was useless to expect him. A group of seven or eight young men, led by Kashiwagi, showed him into the house. Tō no Chūjō had set aside a place of honor for him. For the moment, his host was away, changing his Court hat for a more comfortable headdress. His wife and some young ladies-in-waiting helped Tō no Chūjō change. ‘You must take a look at our new guest,’ he told them. ‘I saw him arrive a moment ago. He has grown into a most distinguished-looking young man, and he dresses beautifully. I think he may prove to have more strength and determination than his father. Genji was always very good company, of course. When you are with him, his high spirits and charm sweep you away completely. The worries and difficulties of everyday life suddenly seem unreal. But in public affairs, he seems to me to lack a certain seriousness and gravity.... Still, that may be a fault on the right side. Certainly his son has inherited no such fault. I hear that he is a better scholar than his father, and a very serious and determined young man....’ Tō no Chūjō now rejoined his guests. After they had exchanged the usual courtesies, he said to Yūgiri: ‘You should have come when the spring flowers were at their best. They were an astonishing sight this year, in every imaginable color. But spring treated us badly. It has never stayed so briefly. Now all we have left to console us are these wonderful blossoms here, already almost in summer bloom. I take immense pleasure in them, and I hope their color has a special meaning for you tonight as well ...’⁵⁸⁷ He smiled reassuringly. The moon had risen. They admired what little they could see of the wisteria blossoms by its light, then settled down to music and drink again. Tō no Chūjō saw that friendly encouragement alone would not overcome Yūgiri’s shyness. So he pretended to be drunker than he was and used this as an excuse to press drinks on Yūgiri with noisy insistence. But the young man was determined to keep his wits about him, and he refused again and again. ‘I hear,’ said Tō no Chūjō, ‘that you are becoming the kind of scholar we no longer hoped to see in these latter days. Perhaps that is why you are so cold toward your old acquaintances, who cannot boast such a worldwide reputation. But I imagine your learned books have quite a lot to say about “family visits.” There is a certain person,⁵⁸⁸ very dear to people of your persuasion, who made such small formalities the foundation of his teaching. You must know far more about all this than I do. So there can only be some very particular reason why you so determinedly avoid your uncle’s house....’ Such a complaint came naturally amid the sentimentality brought on by wine and music. ‘Come,’ Yūgiri answered, ‘even if nothing else bound me to you, the memory of my mother and grandmother would make me ready to serve you with my last breath. I cannot imagine what I have done to deserve such a reproach. It was you who first made me understand that I was not welcome....’ Tō no Chūjō said nothing. But when a suitable moment came, he stood and sang the old song: ‘If like the leaf ...’⁵⁸⁹ Kashiwagi, apparently at his father’s bidding, picked the longest, deepest-colored spray of wisteria he could find and twined it around the guest’s wine cup. Yūgiri modestly protested. Tō no Chūjō then recited the verse: ‘I waited⁵⁹⁰ for you to take this flower as a token of kinship, until the blossoms hung lower than the pine boughs. Then at last I humbled my pride.’

Yūgiri, holding the cup, made a slight obeisance, and answered: ‘Strange that through so many dewy springtimes I was doomed to pass before I met the season when this flower for me its blossom should unfold.’ So saying he handed the cup to Kashiwagi, and as it went the round every one in turn produced the best he could in the way of a poem. But amid the confused revel it was not likely that anything very good should come to light, and the verses that followed were even more ragged than those I have already quoted. The moon was only seven days old, and across the mirror of the silent lake hung a thin veil of mist. The trees still lacked their full profusion of summer green, and it was over bare and lonely-looking boughs that the wistaria, not merged as at a later season in the general mass of leafage, hung its heavy loads of blossom. Kōbal, whose voice was always in request upon such occasions, sang ‘The Hedge of Reeds’⁵⁹¹ very charmingly. ‘Come,’ broke in Tō no Chūjō, ‘no one has broken down any hedges here!’ and next time the refrain came he drowned it with the words: ‘Welcome to this ancient house!’⁵⁹² Soon all trace of embarrassment on either side had completely disappeared, and the party was kept up with a great deal of noisy singing and other merriment till a very late hour in the night. At last Yūgiri thought the time had come for a hint on his side, and pretending to be much more drunk than he really was, he said to Tō no Chūjō: ‘I am afraid I am not good for much more of this. Could you possibly allow me to sleep here to-night? My head goes round, and I doubt whether, even if I managed to set out for home, I should ever get there safely.’ ‘Kashiwagi!’ cried Tō no Chūjō, ‘a bed for Yūgiri! I would see to it myself, but I am already far more drunk than an old person of my age has any right to be, and I must ask you to continue the concert without me.’ So saying, he went straight to his room. ‘I know what it is,’ said Kashiwagi, turning to Yūgiri. ‘“You came to see the flowers, and with the flowers you would stay.” I’ll do what I can for you. But it may not be so easy as you suppose.’ ‘This is no wild fancy of the moment,’ answered Yūgiri. ‘Is not the pine-tree called “the lover of these flowers,” and does he not all the year “wait changeless till at their own time the blossoms come”? Bring me to her....’

Yūgiri held the cup, bowed slightly, and replied: ‘How strange that I had to pass through so many dewy springs before this flower finally blossomed for me.’ He then handed the cup to Kashiwagi. As it went around, everyone took a turn and offered the best poem he could. But amid the disorderly revelry, nothing very good was likely to emerge. The verses that followed were even rougher than those I have already quoted. The moon was only seven days old, and a thin veil of mist hung over the mirrorlike surface of the still lake. The trees had not yet grown their full summer foliage. The wisteria hung in heavy clusters over bare, lonely-looking branches. Later in the season, its blossoms would blend into the mass of leaves. Kōbal, who was always asked to sing on such occasions, gave a charming rendition of ‘The Hedge of Reeds’⁵⁹¹. ‘Come,’ Tō no Chūjō interrupted, ‘no one has broken down any hedges here!’ The next time the refrain came, he drowned it out with the words: ‘Welcome to this ancient house!’⁵⁹² Soon all embarrassment on both sides had disappeared. The party continued late into the night, with much noisy singing and other merriment. At last, Yūgiri thought it was time to drop a hint of his own. Pretending to be much drunker than he was, he said to Tō no Chūjō: ‘I’m afraid I can’t take much more of this. Could you let me sleep here tonight? My head is spinning. Even if I managed to set out for home, I doubt I would get there safely.’ ‘Kashiwagi!’ cried Tō no Chūjō. ‘A bed for Yūgiri! I would see to it myself, but I’m already much drunker than someone my age has any right to be. I must ask you to continue the concert without me.’ With that, he went straight to his room. ‘I know what it is,’ Kashiwagi said, turning to Yūgiri. ‘“You came to see the flowers, and with the flowers you would stay.” I’ll do what I can for you. But it may not be as easy as you think.’ ‘This is no passing fancy,’ Yūgiri replied. ‘Isn’t the pine tree called “the lover of these flowers”? Doesn’t he “wait changeless till at their own time the blossoms come” all year long? Take me to her....’

Kashiwagi was not sure that this was what his father had intended, and was somewhat loath to take so great a responsibility; but he greatly admired Yūgiri and had always hoped that matters would end in this way. It was therefore without any great misgiving that he now led the way to his sister’s room....

Kashiwagi was not sure this was what his father had intended. He was somewhat reluctant to take on such a great responsibility. But he greatly admired Yūgiri and had always hoped things would end this way. So, without much worry, he led the way to his sister’s room....

Next day was the Festival of Buddha’s Baptism.⁵⁹³ The priests carrying the sacred image arrived somewhat late, and it was evening when the little girls sent from the various quarters of Genji’s household arrived with their thank-offerings and alms. This part of the ceremony was carried out in Genji’s palace exactly as at Court, while Genji’s levée on the evening of the festival was even better attended than that held by the Emperor; so that the priests in charge of the image, who had got through the ordeal of appearing before the Emperor pretty comfortably, felt much less sure of themselves at this second and, as it seemed to them, far more critical gathering. But these proceedings did not in the least interest Yūgiri, who at an early hour put on his best clothes and hurried away towards Tō no Chūjō’s house. Several of the younger ladies-in-waiting at the New Palace, without being actually in love with him, had always taken a considerable interest in his doings, and were not best pleased to hear that his prolonged bachelordom had at last come to a close.

The next day was the Festival of Buddha’s Baptism.⁵⁹³ The priests carrying the sacred image arrived somewhat late. By the time little girls came from the various quarters of Genji’s household with their offerings of thanks and alms, it was evening. This part of the ceremony was conducted at Genji’s palace exactly as it was at Court. Genji’s reception that evening was even better attended than the Emperor’s. The priests in charge of the image had appeared before the Emperor without much difficulty. But they felt much less confident at this second gathering, which seemed to them far more critical. None of this interested Yūgiri in the least. He put on his best clothes early and hurried off to Tō no Chūjō’s house. Several of the younger ladies-in-waiting at the New Palace had always taken considerable interest in his doings. Though they were not actually in love with him, they were not pleased to hear that his long bachelorhood had finally ended.

The accumulated longing of years, satisfied at last in a manner beyond the wildest dreams of either, made the union of these two young people into a basket⁵⁹⁴ that certainly let no water through. Tō no Chūjō, too, liked Yūgiri more and more as he got to know him better, and lavished upon him every sort of attention. He could not help still feeling a little sore at having had to surrender in so abject a manner. At the same time he had a great respect for the tenacity and single-heartedness which Yūgiri had displayed in the face of every discouragement during these last years, and he bore the boy no grudge at all. There was a certain feeling against him in the household, for Kumoi had now grown to be indubitably prettier and in every way more interesting than her sister, Lady Chūjō. This had for some time past excited the jealousy of Lady Chūjō’s mother and of such gentlewomen as sided with her; and this faction in the household did its best to keep Yūgiri in his place. But Kumoi’s mother⁵⁹⁵ and many other people were delighted to hear of the engagement.

After years of longing, the two young people were finally together, in a way neither had dared dream possible. Their union was like a basket⁵⁹⁴ that certainly let no water through. Tō no Chūjō, too, liked Yūgiri more and more as he got to know him. He showered him with every kind of attention. He could not help feeling a little sore at having had to give in so completely. Still, he greatly respected Yūgiri’s persistence and single-minded devotion through years of discouragement. He bore the young man no grudge at all. Some members of the household were against Yūgiri, however. Kumoi had now grown to be unquestionably prettier and more interesting in every way than her sister, Lady Chūjō. For some time, this had made Lady Chūjō’s mother and the gentlewomen who sided with her jealous. This group in the household did its best to keep Yūgiri in his place. But Kumoi’s mother⁵⁹⁵ and many others were delighted to hear of the engagement.

The Akashi Princess’s actual move into the Crown Prince’s palace was fixed for the 20th of the fourth month. Meanwhile Murasaki expressed a desire to visit the August Birthplace.⁵⁹⁶ The other ladies of the household were eager to accompany her; but she did not like the idea of a huge miscellaneous excursion, and in the end she confined the party to her own gentlewomen and servants. Even as it was there were twenty coaches, but everything was done as unostentatiously as possible, and the number of outriders was extremely small. The visit to the Shrine was made very early on the morning of the Festival,⁵⁹⁷ and Murasaki was back in time to view the processions from the usual Stand. There was a good deal of rough hustling and pushing among the grooms and outriders of various ladies, each of whom was determined to secure a prominent place for her equipage; but as soon as Murasaki’s carriage came in sight the rest fell back respectfully to let her pass. Genji, who was already waiting in the Stand, could not but recollect how at that other Kamo Festival years ago there had been an awkward clash of coaches. ‘I am glad you got through without any trouble,’ he said. ‘There is often a good deal of ill-feeling on these occasions. I am afraid the favourite of the moment is apt to abuse her power, sweeping mercilessly aside all who stand in her path. Yūgiri’s mother was by no means given to self-assertion. Yet her death was due to the resentment she incurred by allowing her servants to behave with insolence during one of these holiday encounters. It was the present Empress’s mother who suffered upon that occasion; and it is strange that whereas her child has reached the highest position to which any lady can aspire, poor Aoi’s son has only just begun to get on, even in the most modest way. We must never forget how uncertain everything in this world is. I have no reason to suppose that things will not now go smoothly with me to the end. But should you survive me, you might easily find yourself in a very precarious position....’

The Akashi Princess’s move into the Crown Prince’s palace was set for the 20th of the fourth month. Meanwhile, Murasaki said she wanted to visit the August Birthplace.⁵⁹⁶ The other ladies of the household were eager to go with her. But she disliked the idea of a huge outing with everyone mixed together. In the end, she took only her own gentlewomen and servants. Even so, there were twenty coaches. But they kept the outing as modest as possible, and there were very few outriders. Murasaki visited the Shrine very early on the morning of the Festival.⁵⁹⁷ She returned in time to watch the processions from the usual Stand. There was a good deal of rough pushing among the grooms and outriders of various ladies. Each group was determined to secure a prominent place for its lady’s carriage. But as soon as Murasaki’s carriage appeared, the others respectfully moved aside to let her pass. Genji was already waiting in the Stand. He could not help remembering the awkward clash of coaches at that other Kamo Festival years ago. ‘I am glad you got through without any trouble,’ he said. ‘There is often a good deal of ill feeling on these occasions. I fear the current favorite is apt to abuse her power, ruthlessly sweeping aside everyone in her path. Yūgiri’s mother was not at all inclined to assert herself. Yet her death was caused by the resentment she aroused by letting her servants behave insolently during one of these holiday encounters. ‘The present Empress’s mother was the one who suffered on that occasion. It is strange that her daughter has reached the highest position any lady can aspire to. Yet poor Aoi’s son has only just begun to make progress, and even that has been modest. We must never forget how uncertain everything in this world is. I have no reason to think things will not go smoothly for me to the end. But if you outlive me, you could easily find yourself in a very precarious position....’

A number of princes and noblemen had now assembled near Murasaki’s Stand to pay her their respects, and Genji joined them. Kashiwagi was to-day the representative⁵⁹⁸ of the Imperial Bodyguard, and it was at his father’s house that the gentlemen who now accompanied him had that morning assembled.

Several princes and noblemen had gathered near Murasaki’s Stand to pay their respects, and Genji joined them. Kashiwagi was the representative⁵⁹⁸ of the Imperial Bodyguard that day. The gentlemen accompanying him had gathered at his father’s house that morning.

Koremitsu’s daughter, who, as will be remembered, now held a post in the Bedchamber, was also present as representative of her office. She was just now having a prodigious success at Court, and to-day her coach was attracting as great a throng of admirers as that of any lady from the Palace, the Crown Prince’s apartments or the Sixth Ward.⁵⁹⁹ Among those who paid their respects to her this morning was Yūgiri. He had courted her in old days, in a somewhat half-hearted way it is true, but the news of his sudden engagement to the daughter of so eminent a house piqued her more than she would have expected. ‘If on no other day, then surely with this wreath⁶⁰⁰ about your brow, lady, you call to mind that once we met!’⁶⁰¹ Such was the poem that he handed into her coach, and distracted though she was by the importunities of her admirers, she was touched that he should remember her at such a moment, and despite the fact that a carriage-seat is no place for writing verse, she answered him with the poem: ‘That “hollyhock” spells “meeting” is for scholars to conclude. They know it not who pluck the flowers, nor they that weave them as a crown about their brow.’ It was not meant seriously; but Yūgiri felt that it was a snub and retired, somewhat surprised to find that in his present happiness any other woman’s reply could make the slightest difference to him.

Koremitsu’s daughter, who now held a post in the Bedchamber, was also present as a representative of her office. She was enjoying enormous success at Court. Today, her coach attracted as many admirers as that of any lady from the Palace, the Crown Prince’s apartments, or the Sixth Ward.⁵⁹⁹ Yūgiri was among those who paid their respects to her that morning. He had courted her in the past, though rather half-heartedly. Even so, the news of his sudden engagement to the daughter of such an eminent family upset her more than she would have expected. He handed a poem into her coach: ‘If on no other day, then surely with this wreath⁶⁰⁰ around your brow, lady, you remember that we once met!’⁶⁰¹ Though distracted by her admirers’ persistent attentions, she was touched that he remembered her at such a moment. A carriage seat was hardly a place to write verse, but she replied with a poem: ‘That “hollyhock” means “meeting” is for scholars to decide. Those who pick the flowers do not know it, nor do those who weave them into a crown for their brow.’ She did not mean it seriously. But Yūgiri took it as a snub and withdrew. He was somewhat surprised that, despite his present happiness, another woman’s reply could matter to him at all.

It was usual, when the Heir Apparent’s consort was of very immature age, for her to be accompanied at Court by her mother or guardian. Murasaki had adopted the Akashi Princess in its infancy, and according to the usual practice it would now be she who followed the girl to the Eastern Palace. But Genji would not sanction a plan that involved continual and prolonged absence from home, and the opportunity seemed an excellent one for restoring the child to the care of her true mother, the Lady of Akashi. Murasaki had long felt that the separation of the girl from her mother, though from a worldly point of view advantageous to her, was an arrangement too inhumane to be otherwise than temporary. The little Princess herself, now that she was of an age to understand the situation, was obviously becoming more and more dissatisfied with it. To stand in the way of a reunion which promised so much happiness on both sides was out of the question, and on her own initiative Murasaki said to Genji: ‘Would it not be possible for the Lady from Akashi to go with the child to the Eastern Palace? She still needs a lot of looking after, and almost all her ladies are far too young to be much use in that respect. She has her nurses, of course, who will do all they can. But there are many points which people of that kind cannot reasonably be expected to decide. Were I myself to take charge of her I could not possibly be on the spot all the time. I would much rather she had some one who could give undivided attention....’ What a comfort that she took so sensible a view! Genji hastened to inform the mother of this decision, and her delight was touching to behold. Indeed, her only anxiety was lest after all these years of retirement she should herself have become too dowdy to mingle with the bevy of resplendent young creatures who had been chosen for her daughter’s service, and she began hastily providing herself with a new outfit.

When the Heir Apparent’s consort was very young, her mother or guardian usually accompanied her to Court. Murasaki had adopted the Akashi Princess as an infant. By custom, she would now follow the girl to the Eastern Palace. But Genji would not approve a plan that would keep Murasaki away from home so often and for so long. This seemed an excellent opportunity to return the child to the care of her true mother, the Lady of Akashi. Murasaki had long felt that separating the girl from her mother was too cruel to be anything but temporary. This was true even though the arrangement benefited the girl in worldly terms. Now that the little Princess was old enough to understand the situation, she was clearly becoming more and more unhappy with it. A reunion promised so much happiness to both mother and daughter that Murasaki could not stand in its way. Of her own accord, she said to Genji: ‘Could the Lady of Akashi go with the child to the Eastern Palace? She still needs a lot of care, and almost all her ladies are far too young to help much. Of course, she has her nurses, who will do all they can. But there are many matters that people in their position cannot reasonably be expected to decide. Even if I took charge of her, I could not possibly be there all the time. I would much rather she had someone who could give her undivided attention....’ What a comfort that she took such a sensible view! Genji hurried to tell the mother of the decision, and her delight was touching to see. Indeed, her only worry was that, after so many years in seclusion, she might have become too dowdy. She feared she would not fit in among the splendid young women chosen to serve her daughter. So she hurried to get herself a new wardrobe.

Her mother, the old recluse’s wife, heard with profound relief that the little girl’s prospects were now finally assured, and henceforward she clung desperately to life, despite many infirmities and troubles, in the one hope that she might see her grandchild again before she went down into the grave. But she lived a long way from the Court, and at last began to wonder disconsolately whether the meeting would ever really take place.

Her mother, the old recluse’s wife, was deeply relieved to hear that the little girl’s future was finally secure. From then on, she desperately clung to life, despite her many illnesses and troubles. She hoped only to see her grandchild again before she died. But she lived far from the Court. At last, she began to wonder sadly whether they would ever meet again.

On the night of the actual Presentation Murasaki accompanied the child in the hand-litter which was to convey her to the Eastern Palace. It was open to the Lady of Akashi to follow on foot, and as far as she herself was concerned she would have been ready enough to do so. But she feared that her presence would spoil the effect of the Princess’s entry, and remained for the time being in her own apartments, feeling, as may well be imagined, very unwanted and forlorn. The ceremony of introduction was, at Genji’s request, performed with as little publicity as possible. But it is in any case an elaborate affair, such as is bound to arouse a good deal of interest. While dressing the little Princess in all the finery that this trying occasion demanded, Murasaki could not help passionately wishing that this lovely child were really hers. And to Genji as well as to Yūgiri the same thought occurred: if only this one thing were not lacking, surely Lady Murasaki would be the happiest, the most fortunate woman on earth!

On the night of the Presentation, Murasaki accompanied the child in the hand-carried litter that would take her to the Eastern Palace. The Lady of Akashi could have followed on foot, and she would have been happy enough to do so. But she feared that her presence would spoil the effect of the Princess’s entrance. So, for the time being, she stayed in her own rooms, feeling, as one might imagine, very unwanted and lonely. At Genji’s request, the ceremony of introduction was held with as little publicity as possible. But the ceremony is elaborate in any case, and it is bound to attract a good deal of interest. As Murasaki dressed the little Princess in all the finery the difficult occasion demanded, she could not help wishing passionately that this lovely child were really hers. Genji and Yūgiri had the same thought. If only Lady Murasaki had a child of her own, surely she would be the happiest, most fortunate woman on earth!

After three days she left the Palace, and on the way out met the child’s own mother, who had now come to take charge. They got into conversation, and Murasaki said: ‘Seeing the little Princess in these grown-up clothes has reminded me how long it is since you first came to live with us. I think, having been neighbours all these years, we ought by now to know one another a little better than we do....’ It was not an easy conversation to get started, but Murasaki’s manner was so obviously kindly and sympathetic that a friendship was soon struck up between them. Murasaki, for her part, was so much attracted by the other’s manner and way of speaking that she soon well understood Genji’s admiration for her; while the Lady of Akashi could not fail to be delighted by Murasaki’s noble bearing and faultless beauty. She felt it to be perfectly natural that among all the women who had received Genji’s favours, this lady should always have held the unquestioned supremacy; she thought indeed at this moment that even to have been set beside her as the humblest participant in Genji’s affection was an honour of which she might justly be proud.

After three days, she left the Palace. On her way out, she met the child’s own mother, who had come to take charge. They began talking, and Murasaki said: ‘Seeing the little Princess in these grown-up clothes reminds me how long you have lived with us. After all these years as neighbours, I think we should know each other a little better by now....’ The conversation was hard to begin, but Murasaki was so clearly kind and sympathetic that they soon became friends. Murasaki was so drawn to the other woman’s manner and way of speaking that she soon understood Genji’s admiration for her. The Lady of Akashi, in turn, could not help admiring Murasaki’s noble bearing and perfect beauty. It seemed entirely natural to her that Murasaki should always have held first place among all the women Genji had favoured. At that moment, she felt she could justly be proud to share even the smallest part of Genji’s affection with her.

Murasaki’s return was attended by great pomp and solemnity. She was permitted the use of a hand-litter, a privilege usually restricted to the Emperor’s consorts, and the Lady of Akashi, as she watched her leave the Palace, once more felt for a moment painfully conscious of her own utter inferiority.

Murasaki’s return was marked by great ceremony and solemnity. She was allowed to use a hand-litter, a privilege usually reserved for the Emperor’s consorts. As the Lady of Akashi watched her leave the Palace, she once again felt painfully aware of her own complete inferiority.

The sight of her lovely child, waiting for her with a doll-like and neat composure, was more than she could bear, and so near are the outward signs of grief and joy that no one seeing her then could have guessed that the tears which now rushed to her eyes were those of the purest and tenderest delight. For years it had seemed as though fate were utterly against her, and she were destined to drift on only into greater depression and obscurity. But now a brighter prospect had opened, and remembering her pious father’s constant prayers and oblations she could not but think that it was the God of Sumiyoshi who had at last set her fortunes on a fairer course.

The sight of her lovely child waiting for her, neat and composed like a doll, overwhelmed her. Grief and joy look so much alike that no one watching her could have guessed why tears filled her eyes. They were tears of the purest, tenderest delight. For years, it had seemed that fate was entirely against her. She had expected to drift into ever greater sadness and obscurity. But now a brighter future lay ahead. Remembering her devout father’s constant prayers and offerings, she could only believe that the God of Sumiyoshi had finally changed her fortunes for the better.

The little Princess had been so carefully brought up by Murasaki that she needed very little guidance. Every one in the Eastern Palace was at once charmed by her beauty and friendly disposition, not least the Crown Prince himself. For, mere child though he was, he could not fail to perceive that she far outshone all other companions whom fate had put in his way. Those whose designs had been frustrated by the little Princess’s arrival made a point of speaking disparagingly in his Highness’s presence of the child’s mother, saying with mock sympathy that it would be a great handicap to her at Court to have so homely a creature always at her side. But such remarks had no effect. Not only was the child unusually quick-witted, but it soon became apparent that she already possessed considerable will and character of her own. Her every whim was now gratified, and as many of her ladies had admirers among the most fashionable young noblemen at Court, her rooms became the scene of the most dazzling fêtes and receptions. It was indeed all the Lady of Akashi could do to keep the ladies-in-waiting in proper trim for all these festivities, after she had attended to the Princess’s outfit and made the necessary household arrangement. Murasaki managed occasionally to visit them, and was delighted to find that there was in the Lady of Akashi’s manner towards her no longer any of the distrust and coldness which had for so long made it wellnigh impossible for them to meet.

The little Princess had been raised so carefully by Murasaki that she needed very little guidance. Everyone in the Eastern Palace was immediately charmed by her beauty and friendly manner, especially the Crown Prince himself. Although he was only a child, he could see that she far outshone all the other companions fate had given him. Those whose plans had been frustrated by the little Princess’s arrival made a point of criticizing her mother before the Crown Prince. With mock sympathy, they said that having such a plain woman always at her side would be a great disadvantage at Court. But their remarks had no effect. The child was unusually quick-witted. It soon became clear that she also had a strong will and character of her own. Her every wish was now granted. Many of her ladies had admirers among the most fashionable young noblemen at Court. As a result, her rooms became the setting for the most dazzling parties and receptions. The Lady of Akashi had to attend to the Princess’s clothes and make the necessary household arrangements. After that, she could barely manage to keep the ladies-in-waiting properly dressed for all these festivities. Murasaki was able to visit them occasionally. She was delighted to find that the Lady of Akashi no longer treated her with distrust and coldness. For so long, those feelings had made it almost impossible for them to meet.

Genji, who could never think of himself as living to any great age, was profoundly thankful that he had now provided for his daughter in a manner which seemed to make her happiness assured. And even Yūgiri, whose excellent qualities of heart had seemed at one time likely to condemn him to a state of permanent unsettledness and despondency, was now happily provided for.... It seemed in fact to Genji at this time that all the worst dangers and difficulties of his life had been successfully overmounted, and that he might now even manage to arrive at the finish without any very serious disaster. Were he to die now his only anxiety would be on Murasaki’s behalf; but so long as Akikonomu, who had always regarded her as a second mother, retained her influence, Murasaki was not likely to come to any great harm. Moreover, as foster-mother of a future Empress she would be certain of a considerable position at Court even in the event of Akikonomu’s death or retirement.

Genji had never expected to live to a great age. He was deeply thankful that he had provided for his daughter in a way that seemed to assure her happiness. Even Yūgiri was now happily provided for. At one time, Yūgiri’s goodness of heart had seemed likely to leave him forever unsettled and despondent.... Genji now felt that he had overcome all the worst dangers and difficulties of his life. He thought he might even reach the end without any very serious disaster. If he died now, his only worry would be for Murasaki. But Akikonomu had always regarded Murasaki as a second mother. As long as Akikonomu kept her influence, Murasaki was unlikely to come to any great harm. Moreover, Murasaki was the foster mother of a future Empress. This would assure her a prominent position at court, even if Akikonomu died or retired.

He sometimes had qualms about the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. She, poor thing, certainly did not have a very gay time of it; but for the moment she had Yūgiri to keep an eye on her. Generally speaking, he could remember no time at which his affairs had been in such hopeful trim.

He sometimes worried about the Lady from the Village of Falling Flowers. The poor woman certainly did not have a very happy time. But for now, Yūgiri was there to look after her. On the whole, he could not remember a time when his affairs had looked so promising.

Next year would see his fortieth birthday, and he heard that both at Court and in the country at large great preparations were afoot for celebrating this event. Already in the autumn of the present year he was proclaimed equal in rank to an Imperial Parent, and his fiefs and patronage were correspondingly increased. His actual power had for a long time past been absolute and complete, so that these changes brought him no great advantage. Indeed, in one respect they were inconvenient; for in defiance of a very well-established precedent he was burdened with the special retinue of his new rank, which, magnificent though it made his public appearances, rendered his comings and goings in the Palace very burdensome, and he was no longer able to meet the Emperor so often as he desired.

He would turn forty the following year. He heard that great preparations were underway at Court and throughout the country to celebrate. Already, in the autumn of the present year, he had been declared equal in rank to an Imperial Parent. His estates and patronage were increased accordingly. But his power had long been absolute, so these changes brought him little advantage. In one respect, they were inconvenient. Contrary to a well-established precedent, he was burdened with the special retinue that came with his new rank. Although the retinue made his public appearances magnificent, it made moving about the Palace very troublesome. He could no longer meet the Emperor as often as he wished.

Ryōzen still felt acutely the illegality of his own position and would at any moment have been prepared to resign the Throne, had not Genji refused to sanction such a step, pointing out that it would have a disastrous effect on public opinion if it became known that the true line of succession had been impaired.

Ryōzen was still painfully aware that his claim to the throne was unlawful. He would have been ready to give up the throne at any moment, but Genji refused to approve. Genji pointed out that public opinion would suffer disastrously if people learned that the true line of succession had been disrupted.

Tō no Chūjō of course succeeded to the position which Genji had vacated, and Yūgiri at last became a Palace Counsellor. On the day when the new officers went to Court to receive their Investiture Tō no Chūjō was greatly struck by the improvement in the boy’s carriage and appearance. For the first time he felt that Kumoi would after all be far better off with this young man as her devoted slave and protector than she would ever have been in the Palace, where she could not at best hope for more than a perfunctory share of the Emperor’s attention.

Tō no Chūjō, of course, took the position Genji had vacated, and Yūgiri finally became a Palace Counsellor. On the day the new officers went to Court to receive their appointments, Tō no Chūjō noticed a great improvement in the boy’s bearing and appearance. For the first time, he felt that Kumoi would be much better off with this young man as her devoted slave and protector. She would never have been so well off in the Palace, where she could have hoped for only a token share of the Emperor’s attention at best.

Yūgiri’s new estate required more spacious quarters than were available in his father’s palace, and soon after his promotion he moved into his grandmother’s old house in the Third Ward. It was somewhat out of repair, but the damage was soon put to rights, and the Princess’s former apartments were modified to suit the requirements of the newly-married pair. For both of them the place was full of old and tender memories. They could remember as clumps of scraggy, freshly planted trees, plantations that now yielded an ample shade, and one bed of miscanthus, planted by the old Princess herself, had by now grown so thick and tangled that they were obliged to thin it out and cut it back, lest it should keep the sun off the plants around. The moat too needed clearing out and, when fresh water-plants had been set in it, looked very inviting. One lovely autumn evening the young pair stood by the water, talking of their childhood and of all the tribulations that were now happily overcome. Kumoi, among much that it was delightful to recall, could not help remembering several small incidents that had seemed to her of no significance at the time, but now made her somewhat uncomfortable in the presence of her grandmother’s old servants, most of whom had joyfully welcomed the opportunity of returning to their old positions. Yūgiri, gazing into the water, recited the poem: ‘Guardian of secrets, thou only could’st tell whither her soul is fled, but speakest not, O rock-fed wellspring of our house.’ To this Kumoi answered: ‘Of her that is departed no shadow haunts thy waters, O springlet, as calm and unrepentant thy waves flow onward to their goal!’

Yūgiri’s new rank required more spacious quarters than his father’s palace could offer. Soon after his promotion, he moved into his grandmother’s old house in the Third Ward. It was somewhat run-down, but the damage was soon repaired. The Princess’s former apartments were adapted to suit the newly married couple. For both of them, the place was full of tender memories. They remembered when the groves that now offered plenty of shade had been clusters of scraggly, newly planted trees. The old Princess had planted a bed of miscanthus herself. It had grown so thick and tangled that they had to thin it and cut it back. Otherwise, it would have blocked the sun from the surrounding plants. The moat also needed clearing. Once fresh water plants had been set in it, it looked very inviting. One lovely autumn evening, the young couple stood by the water. They talked of their childhood and of all the troubles they had now happily overcome. Kumoi delighted in recalling many things. But she also remembered several small incidents that had seemed unimportant to her at the time. Now they made her somewhat uncomfortable around her grandmother’s old servants. Most of the servants had joyfully welcomed the chance to return to their old positions. Yūgiri gazed into the water and recited the poem: ‘Guardian of secrets, only you could tell where her soul has gone, but you do not speak, rock-fed spring of our house.’ Kumoi answered: ‘No shadow of her who has departed haunts your waters, little spring, as your waves flow on toward their goal, calm and unrepentant!’

At this moment Tō no Chūjō, drawn hither by the beauty of the autumn leaves, came into the garden for a while on his way back from the Palace. The house, full once more of movement and life, looked (thought Tō no Chūjō) just as he had known it on many an autumn day in his parents’ lifetime, and as he wandered from one familiar spot to another it affected him strangely to find those whom he had recently thought of as mere children playing the part of dignified masters and possessors amid the scenes where he himself had once submitted to his elders’ rule. Yūgiri too seemed slightly embarrassed by the situation; he blushed noticeably when giving orders, and his manner was oddly subdued. They were, thought Tō no Chūjō, a singularly handsome and well-matched pair. Kumoi, indeed, was no very exceptional beauty; but the boy was certainly as graceful and well-built as any young man he knew. Glancing among some papers covered with practice-writing, Chūjō noticed the poems about the wellspring which the young pair had just composed. Deeply moved, he said: ‘I too have it in my heart to invoke the spirit of this familiar stream; but for one who stands so near the margin of the grave....’⁶⁰² Nevertheless, he took a brush and wrote the verse: ‘Long must it be indeed since the old tree withered; for already its seedlings spread their green roots across the shaded earth.’ Some of the old Princess’s aged servants were sitting in a group near by, croaking mysterious tales of vanished wonders. Among them was Yūgiri’s old nurse. She had never forgiven Tō no Chūjō for his former harshness towards her young master, and overhearing the recital of his ‘seedling’ poem, she was unable to restrain her indignation and burst out with the lines: ‘Some of us have tended these two seedlings since first they put forth leaf, and have not only at this last hour discovered that they cast upon the earth a pleasant shade.’ This encouraged several of the other aged dames to vent their views, and Yūgiri for his part was much amused by their quaint impromptus. But Kumoi found their fulsome compliments somewhat embarrassing, and was glad when their inspiration ran out.

Just then, Tō no Chūjō stopped in the garden on his way back from the Palace, drawn by the beautiful autumn leaves. The house was full of movement and life again. He thought it looked just as it had on many autumn days during his parents’ lifetime. As he wandered among familiar places, he felt strange seeing the people he had recently thought of as mere children. They were acting as dignified masters and owners in the very places where he had once obeyed his elders. Yūgiri, too, seemed slightly embarrassed by the situation. He blushed noticeably when he gave orders, and his manner was strangely subdued. Tō no Chūjō thought the two made an exceptionally handsome and well-matched pair. Kumoi was not especially beautiful, but the boy was certainly as graceful and well-built as any young man he knew. Looking through some papers covered with writing practice, Chūjō noticed the poems about the spring that the young couple had just composed. Deeply moved, he said: ‘I too want to call on the spirit of this familiar stream, but for someone so near the edge of the grave....’⁶⁰² Nevertheless, he took a brush and wrote the verse: ‘It must be a long time since the old tree withered, for its seedlings are already spreading their green roots across the shaded earth.’ Some of the old Princess’s elderly servants were sitting together nearby, croaking mysterious tales of wonders long gone. Yūgiri’s old nurse was among them. She had never forgiven Tō no Chūjō for his earlier harshness toward her young master. When she overheard the ‘seedling’ poem, she could not contain her indignation. She burst out with the lines: ‘Some of us have tended these two seedlings since they first put out leaves. We have not just now discovered that they cast a pleasant shade on the earth.’ This encouraged several of the other elderly women to speak their minds, and Yūgiri was greatly amused by their quaint impromptu verses. But Kumoi found their lavish compliments somewhat embarrassing, and she was glad when their inspiration ran out.

Late in the tenth month the Emperor declared his intention of visiting Genji in the New Palace. Knowing that the maple leaves would be particularly lovely at this season, he invited the ex-Emperor Suzaku to accompany him. The visit of a reigning sovereign and his predecessor to the house of a subject had seldom if ever occurred before, and the event aroused great interest throughout the country. The simultaneous reception of two such august visitors was a matter that required much forethought, and the dazzling preparations which Genji set afoot cost him hours of deliberation.

Late in the tenth month, the Emperor announced that he intended to visit Genji at the New Palace. He knew the maple leaves would be especially beautiful at that time, so he invited the former Emperor Suzaku to join him. A reigning Emperor and his predecessor had rarely, if ever, visited a subject’s home together. The event stirred great interest throughout the country. Receiving two such distinguished visitors at once required careful planning. Genji spent hours considering the splendid preparations he set in motion.

The guests arrived at the hour of the Serpent.⁶⁰³ The first ceremony was a parade of the Bodyguards of the Right and Left, who lined up beside their horses exactly as at the Imperial Race-meeting in the fifth month. Early in the afternoon the Emperor proceeded to the Main Hall. All the plank bridges and galleries along which he passed were carpeted with costly brocades, and his progress was screened from the public gaze by heavy canvas curtains painted with landscape scenery. At the Eastern Lake the party embarked on boats, and the head cormorant-fisher from the Palace, combined with Genji’s men, gave a display with his birds, who brought up a number of small gibel in their beaks. This fishing display was not part of the original programme, but was improvised at the last moment, lest the royal personages should be bored on the way from the parade-ground to the main palace. Every knoll in the gardens was crowned by the scarlet of maple leaves; but nowhere were they in better colour than in Akikonomu’s Western Garden, and in order that his Majesty might in passing have a better view of them, part of the wall that divided her domain from the Great Gardens had been hastily removed.

The guests arrived at the hour of the Serpent.⁶⁰³ The first ceremony was a parade of the Bodyguards of the Right and Left. They lined up beside their horses, just as they did at the Imperial Race-meeting in the fifth month. Early in the afternoon, the Emperor went to the Main Hall. All the plank bridges and galleries along his route were covered with costly brocades. Heavy canvas curtains painted with landscapes shielded him from public view. At the Eastern Lake, the party boarded boats. The Palace’s chief cormorant fisher joined Genji’s men to give a display with his birds. The birds brought up several small gibel in their beaks. The fishing display was not part of the original program. It was arranged at the last moment to keep the royal guests from becoming bored on the way from the parade ground to the main palace. Every hill in the gardens was crowned with scarlet maple leaves. But nowhere were the colors more beautiful than in Akikonomu’s Western Garden. Part of the wall separating her grounds from the Great Gardens had been hastily removed. This gave the Emperor a better view of the leaves as he passed.

The seats of the two visitors had been placed side by side in the Great Hall, with Genji’s at a considerable distance; but at the Emperor’s request Genji’s seat was brought into line with theirs. This treatment, which to those present appeared in the highest degree flattering, was indeed far less than the Emperor would have liked to do for Genji, before whom the laws of filial piety demanded that he should kneel in humble reverence. The fish caught on the lake were to be submitted to the Emperor’s approval by the Colonel of the Bodyguard of the Left. Meanwhile Genji’s falconers returned from the Northern Fields with a string of birds which were handed over to the Colonel of the other Guard, who entering the Main Hall by the eastern doors submitted the game kneeling at one side of the steps,⁶⁰⁴ while the fish were displayed on the other side. Tō no Chūjō, at his Majesty’s command, directed the cooking of these viands, which were served to the Emperor himself, while the princes and noblemen in attendance were offered a repast of the most appetizing kind, in which every dish was served in a manner to some degree out of the ordinary. When every one had had as much as he wanted and dusk was setting in, the musicians were sent for. It was not a formal concert, but there was some very lively dancing by various young pages from Court. The ex-Emperor Suzaku could not but remember the dancing at the Festival of Red Leaves years ago, an occasion which often came back to his mind. When the Ga-ō-on⁶⁰⁵ was played, Tō no Chūjō’s sons, ten in all, danced to it with such success that the Emperor rewarded them with the gift of his own cloak, which Tō no Chūjō received on their behalf with an elaborate budō.⁶⁰⁶ Genji was meanwhile recalling the day when he had been Tō no Chūjō’s partner in the Dance of the Blue Waves, and plucking a chrysanthemum he addressed to him the poem: ‘Though like this flower you have as time goes by put on a deeper hue, do you recall a day when in the autumn wind your sleeve flapped close to mine?’ Yes, then indeed (thought Tō no Chūjō) they were partners, and there was little to choose between them in rank and prospects. But now, despite the very important position he held, he knew well enough that, compared with Genji, he was in popular estimation a very insignificant person indeed. ‘Not to a flower shall I compare thee, who hidest amid the pomp of regal clouds, but to a star that shines out of an air stiller and clearer than our own.’ Such was Tō no Chūjō’s answer. By now the evening wind was stirring among the red leaves that lay heaped upon the courtyard floor, weaving them into patterns of brown and red. Here some pretty little boys, children of various noble houses, were imitating in play the dances of their elders. They wore blue and crimson tunics, and shirts of yellow with dark-red facings. Apart from their little Court hats they had no formal insignia, and it was a pretty sight to see them capering about amid the maple leaves, through which the setting sun now slanted its last rays. The professional musicians were not called upon to give any very exacting performance, and at an early hour the private playing began, led by the Emperor, who sent to the Palace Library for a selection of zitherns. Prompted by the beauty of the season and hour, one after another of the great personages there present called for his instrument and gave vent upon it to the feelings of the moment. Suzaku was deeply moved at hearing the familiar tones of Uda no Hōshi.⁶⁰⁷ Turning to the Emperor he recited the verse: ‘Though, watcher of the woods, through many rainy autumns I have passed, such tints as these it never was my lot in any devious valley to behold.’ He said this in his usual tone of gentle complaint. The Emperor answered: ‘You speak as though mere leaves were on the ground; here rather has autumn woven a brocade that, could it be an heirloom, after-ages would covet to possess.’

The two visitors’ seats had been placed side by side in the Great Hall, with Genji’s seat some distance away. But at the Emperor’s request, Genji’s seat was moved into line with theirs. Everyone present saw this as a great honor. Yet the Emperor would have liked to do much more for Genji. The laws of filial duty required him to kneel before Genji in humble reverence. The Colonel of the Bodyguard of the Left was to present the fish caught on the lake for the Emperor’s approval. Meanwhile, Genji’s falconers returned from the Northern Fields with a string of birds. They handed them to the Colonel of the other Guard. He entered the Main Hall through the eastern doors and knelt to present the game on one side of the steps,⁶⁰⁴ while the fish were displayed on the other. At the Emperor’s command, Tō no Chūjō directed the cooking of the fish and game. These were served to the Emperor himself. The princes and noblemen in attendance were offered a most appetizing meal. Every dish was served in a way that was, to some degree, unusual. When everyone had eaten enough and dusk was falling, the musicians were summoned. There was no formal concert, but several young court pages danced with great liveliness. The ex-Emperor Suzaku could not help remembering the dancing at the Festival of Red Leaves years before. He often thought back to that occasion. When the Ga-ō-on⁶⁰⁵ was played, all ten of Tō no Chūjō’s sons danced to it. They danced so well that the Emperor rewarded them with his own cloak. Tō no Chūjō accepted it on their behalf with an elaborate budō.⁶⁰⁶ Meanwhile, Genji was remembering the day he had danced the Dance of the Blue Waves with Tō no Chūjō. He picked a chrysanthemum and addressed this poem to him: ‘Though, like this flower, you have deepened in color over time, do you remember that day? In the autumn wind, your sleeve fluttered close to mine.’ Yes, Tō no Chūjō thought, they had been partners then. There had been little difference between their rank and prospects. But now, despite his own important position, he knew that people thought him very insignificant compared with Genji. He answered: ‘I will not compare you to a flower, for you hide among the splendid clouds of royalty. You are a star shining in air calmer and clearer than our own.’ By now the evening wind was stirring the red leaves heaped across the courtyard floor. It wove them into patterns of brown and red. There, some charming little boys from noble families were playing at the dances of their elders. They wore blue and crimson tunics and yellow shirts with dark-red facings. Apart from their little court hats, they wore no formal insignia. It was a pretty sight to see them capering among the maple leaves. The last rays of the setting sun slanted through the leaves. The professional musicians were not asked to perform anything very demanding. Early in the evening, the guests began playing for themselves. The Emperor led them, sending to the Palace Library for a selection of zitherns. Moved by the beauty of the season and the hour, the great people present called for their instruments, one after another. Each played to express what he felt at that moment. Suzaku was deeply moved when he heard the familiar tones of Uda no Hōshi.⁶⁰⁷ Turning to the Emperor, he recited this verse: ‘Though I have watched over the woods through many rainy autumns, I have never seen colors like these in any winding valley.’ He spoke in his usual tone of gentle complaint. The Emperor answered: ‘You speak as though these were only leaves on the ground. Autumn has woven a brocade here. If it could be kept as an heirloom, future generations would long to own it.’

Now that he was grown to full manhood the Emperor’s likeness to Genji was astonishingly complete. Equally striking was his resemblance to Yūgiri. The latter of course had not that complete self-possession and authority of manner which His Majesty had naturally acquired during his years of rule; but Yūgiri had distinctly the better complexion. He was now called upon to play the flute; among the courtiers who, drawn up along the steps, were singing the words of the tune was Tō no Chūjō’s son Kōbai, long famous for the beauty of his voice. It was indeed a memorable occasion, and one which it seemed that some special Providence must have contrived.

Now that the Emperor was a grown man, his resemblance to Genji was astonishingly complete. His resemblance to Yūgiri was equally striking. Of course, Yūgiri lacked the complete composure and air of authority the Emperor had naturally gained during his years of rule. But Yūgiri had a distinctly better complexion. He was now asked to play the flute. The courtiers lined up along the steps sang the words of the tune. Among them was Tō no Chūjō’s son Kōbai, who had long been famous for his beautiful voice. It was a memorable occasion, one that seemed arranged by some special Providence.