The tale of Genji
children run naked in the cold; the aged shiver for lack of winter
clothes.’ All at once he remembered the chilly appearance which that
unhappy bloom had given to the princess’s face and he could not help
smiling. If ever he were able to show her to Tō no Chūjō, what strange
comparison, he wondered, would Chūjō use concerning it? He remembered
how Chūjō had followed him on the first occasion. Had he continued to
do so? Perhaps even at this minute he was under observation. The
thought irritated him.
Had her defects been less striking he could not possibly have
continued these distressing visits. But since he had actually seen her
in all her tragic uncouthness pity gained the upper hand, and
henceforward he kept in constant touch with her and showed her every
kindness. In the hope that she would abandon her sables he sent her
presents of silk, satin and quilted stuffs. He also sent thick cloth
such as old people wear, that the old man at the gate might be more
comfortably dressed. Indeed he sent presents to everyone on the estate
from the highest to the lowest. She did not seem to have any objection
to receiving these donations, which under the circumstances was very
convenient as it enabled him for the most part to limit their very
singular friendship to good offices of this kind.
Utsusemi too, he remembered, had seemed to him far from handsome when
he had peeped at her on the evening of her sudden flight. But she at
least knew how to behave and that saved her plainness from being
obtrusive. It was hard to believe that the princess belonged to a
class so far above that of Utsusemi. It only showed how little these
things have to do with birth or station. For in idle moments he
still regretted the loss of Utsusemi and it rankled in him yet that he
had in the end allowed her unyielding persistency to win the day.
And so the year drew to its close. One day when he was at his
apartments in the Emperor’s Palace, Myōbu came to see him. He liked to
have her to do his hair and do small commissions for him. He was not
in the least in love with her; but they got on very well together and
he found her conversation so amusing that even when she had no duty to
perform at the Palace he encouraged her to come and see him whenever
she had any news. ‘Something so absurd has happened’ she said, ‘that I
can hardly bring myself to tell you about it ...,’ and she paused
smiling. ‘I can hardly think,’ answered Genji, ‘that there can be
anything which you are frightened of telling to me.’ ‘If it were
connected with my own affairs,’ she said, ‘you know quite well that I
should tell you at once. But this is something quite different. I
really find it very hard to talk about.’ For a long while he could get
nothing out of her, and only after he had scolded her for making so
unnecessary a fuss she at last handed him a letter. It was from the
princess. ‘But this,’ said Genji taking it, ‘is the last thing in the
world that you could have any reason to hide from me.’ She watched
with interest while he read it. It was written on thick paper drenched
with a strong perfume; the characters were bold and firm. With it was
a poem: ‘Because of your hard heart, your hard heart only, the sleeves
of this my Chinese dress are drenched with tears.’ The poem must, he
thought, refer to something not contained in the letter.
He was considering what this could be, when his eye fell on a clumsy,
old-fashioned clothes-box wrapped in a painted canvas cover. ‘Now’
said Myōbu, ‘perhaps you understand why I was feeling rather
uncomfortable. You may not believe it, but the princess means you to
wear this jacket on New Year’s Day. I am afraid I cannot take it back
to her; that would be too unkind. But if you like I will keep it for
you and no one else shall see it. Only please, since it was to you
that she sent, just have one look at it before it goes away.’ ‘But I
should hate it to go away,’ said Genji; ‘I think it was so kind of her
to send it.’ It was difficult to know what to say. Her poem was indeed
the most unpleasant jangle of syllables that he had ever encountered.
He now realized that the other poems must have been dictated to her,
perhaps by Jijū or one of the other ladies. And Jijū too it must
surely be who held the princess’s brush and acted as writing-master.
When he considered what her utmost poetic endeavour would be likely to
produce he realized that these absurd verses were probably her
masterpiece and should be prized accordingly. He began to examine the
parcel; Myōbu blushed while she watched him. It was a plain,
old-fashioned, buff-coloured jacket of finely woven material, but
apparently not particularly well cut or stitched. It was indeed a
strange present, and spreading out her letter he wrote something
carelessly in the margin. When Myōbu looked over his shoulder she saw
that he had written the verse: ‘How comes it that with my sleeve I
brushed this saffron-flower[11] that has no loveliness either of shape
or hue?’
What, wondered Myōbu, could be the meaning of this outburst against a
flower? At last turning over in her mind the various occasions when
Genji had visited the princess she remembered something[12] which she
had herself noticed one moonlit night, and though she felt the joke
was rather unkind, she could not help being amused. With practised
ease she threw out a verse in which she warned him that in the
eyes of a censorious world even this half-whimsical courtship might
fatally damage his good name. Her impromptu poem was certainly faulty;
but Genji reflected that if the poor princess had even Myōbu’s very
ordinary degree of alertness it would make things much easier; and it
was quite true that to tamper with a lady of such high rank was not
very safe.
At this point visitors began to arrive. ‘Please put this somewhere out
of sight,’ said Genji pointing to the jacket; ‘could one have believed
that it was possible to be presented with such an object?’ and he
groaned. ‘Oh why ever did I show it to him?’ thought Myōbu. ‘The only
result is that now he will be angry with me as well as with the
princess,’ and in very low spirits she slipped out of his apartments.
Next day she was in attendance upon the Emperor and while she was
waiting with other gentlewomen in the ladies’ common-room Genji came
up saying: ‘Here you are. The answer to yesterday’s letter. I am
afraid it is rather far-fetched,’ and he flung a note to her. The
curiosity of the other gentlewomen was violently aroused. Genji left
the room humming ‘The Lady of Mikasa Hill,’[13] which naturally amused
Myōbu very much. The other ladies wanted to know why the prince was
laughing to himself. Was there some joke...? ‘Oh, no,’ said Myōbu; ‘I
think it was only that he had noticed someone whose nose was a little
red with the morning cold. The song he hummed was surely very
appropriate.’ ‘I think it was very silly,’ said one of the ladies.
‘There is no one here to-day with a red nose. He must be thinking of
Lady Sakon or Higo no Uneme.’ They were completely mystified. When
Myōbu presented Genji’s reply, the ladies of the Hitachi Palace
gathered round her to admire it. It was written negligently on plain
white paper but was none the less very elegant. ‘Does your gift of a
garment mean that you wish a greater distance than ever to be kept
between us?’[14]
On the evening of the last day of the year he sent back the box which
had contained his jacket, putting into it a court dress which had
formerly been presented to him, a dress of woven stuff dyed
grape-colour and various stuffs of yellow-rose colour and the like.
The box was brought by Myōbu. The princess’s ancient gentlewomen
realized that Genji did not approve of their mistress’s taste in
colours and wished to give her a lesson. ‘Yes,’ they said grudgingly,
‘that’s a fine deep red while its new, but just think how it will
fade. And in Madam’s poem too, I am sure, there was much more good
sense. In his answer he only tries to be smart.’ The princess shared
their good opinion of her poem. It had cost her a great deal of effort
and before she sent it she had been careful to copy it into her
note-book.
Then came the New Year’s Day celebrations; and this year there was
also to be the New Year’s mumming, a band of young noblemen going
round dancing and singing in various parts of the Palace. After the
festival of the White Horse on the seventh day Genji left the
Emperor’s presence at nightfall and went to his own apartments in the
Palace as though intending to stay the night there. But later he
adjourned to the Hitachi Palace which had on this occasion a less
forbidding appearance than usual. Even the princess was rather more
ordinary and amenable. He was hoping that like the season she too had
begun anew, when he saw that sunlight was coming into the room. After
hesitating for a while, he got up and went out into the front room. The
double doors at the end of the eastern wing were wide open, and
the roof of the verandah having fallen in, the sunshine poured
straight into the house. A little snow was still falling and its
brightness made the morning light yet more exquisitely brilliant and
sparkling. She watched a servant helping him into his cloak. She was
lying half out of the bed, her head hanging a little downwards and her
hair falling in great waves to the floor. Pleased with the sight he
began to wonder whether she would not one day outgrow her plainness.
He began to close the door of the women’s apartments, but suddenly
feeling that he owed her amends for the harsh opinion of her
appearance which he had formed before, he did not quite shut the door,
but bringing a low stool towards it sat there putting his disordered
head-dress to rights. One of the maids brought him an incredibly
battered mirror-stand, Chinese combs, a box of toilet articles and
other things. It amused him to discover that in this household of
women a little male gear still survived, even in so decrepit a state.
He noticed that the princess, who was now up and dressed, was looking
quite fashionable. She was in fact wearing the clothes which he had
sent her before the New Year, but he did not at first recognize them.
He began however to have a vague idea that her mantle, with its rather
conspicuous pattern, was very like one of the things he had given her.
‘I do hope,’ he said presently, ‘that this year you will be a little
more conversational. I await the day when you will unbend a little
towards me more eagerly than the poet longs for the first nightingale.
If only like the year that has changed you too would begin anew!’ Her
face brightened. She had thought of a remark and trembling from head
to foot with a tremendous effort she brought out the quotation ‘When
plovers chirp and all things grow anew.’ ‘Splendid,’ said Genji, ‘This
is a sign that the new year has indeed begun’ and smiling
encouragingly at her he left the house, she following him with her
eyes from the couch on which she lay. Her face as usual was half
covered by her arm; but the unfortunate flower still bloomed
conspicuously. ‘Poor thing, she really _is_ very ugly,’ thought Genji
in despair.
When he returned to the Nijō-in he found Murasaki waiting for him. She
was growing up as handsome a girl as one could wish, and promised well
for the future. She was wearing a plain close-fitting dress of cherry
colour; above all, the unstudied grace and ease of her movements
charmed and delighted him as he watched her come to meet him. In
accordance with the wishes of her old-fashioned grandmother her teeth
were not blackened, but her eyebrows were delicately touched with
stain. ‘Why, when I might be playing with a beautiful child, do I
spend my time with an ugly woman? ‘Genji kept on asking himself in
bewilderment while they sat together playing with her dolls. Next she