difference. Look at the case of His Lordship. He was the handsomest and
the most gifted of them all, and still he was made a commoner. His
maternal grandfather was just not important enough, and his mother was
one of the lesser ladies at court. And if there are these distinctions among
princes, think how much more extreme they are among us commoners.
Even the daughter of a prince or a minister is at a great disadvantage if her
mother's family does not have influence. Her father cannot do the things
that one might expect from his rank. Your own little girl can look forward
to only one thing if a daughter is born to one of the grand ladies: she will
be forgotten. The ones with a chance in the world are the ones whose
parents give them that chance. I don't care how much we spend on her,
no one is going to pay the slightest attention off here in the hills. No, you
must turn her over to His Lordship and see what he means to do for her."
<N 4>
Through well-placed friends she consulted renowned fortunetellers
and it was their uniform opinion, to her considerable distress, that the child
should be put in Murasaki's charge. Genji had of course long been of that
opinion, but had not wished to seem unreasonable or importunate.
What did she propose, asked Genji, in the matter of the bestowing of
trousers?
"It is of course as you say. It would be quite unfair to leave the child
with a useless person like myself. And yet I fear for her. Might they not
make fun of her if you were to take her away with you?"
He felt very sorry for her indeed.
He had a propitious day selected and quietly saw to arrangements for
the move. The thought of giving up the child was almost more than the
lady could bear, but she held herself under tight control, trying to keep
everything from her mind but the future that was spreading before the
child.
<P 333>
"And so you must leave?" she said to the nurse. "You have been my
comfort through the loneliness and boredom. I shall be quite lost without
you."
The nurse too was in tears. "We must reconcile ourselves, my lady,
to what must be. I shall not forget your unfailing kindness since we came
together so unexpectedly, and I know that we shall continue to think of
each other. I refuse to accept it as a final parting. The prospect of going out
among strangers is very frightening, and my comfort will be the thought
that we will soon be near each other again."
The Twelfth Month came.
<N 5>
There were snow and sleet to add to the gloom. What sort of legacy
was hers from other lives, asked the lady, that she must put up with so
much in this one? She spent more time than ever with the little girl,
combing her hair, changing her clothes. On a dark morning of drifting
snows she went to the veranda and gazed out at the ice on the river, and
thought of what was past and what was to come. It was not like her to
expose herself so. She preferred the inner rooms of the house. Warmed by
several soft white robes, she sat lost in thought; and the molding of her
head and the flow of her hair and robes made her women feel sure that
the noblest lady in the land could not be lovelier.
She brushed away a tear and said to the nurse: "This sort of weather
will be even more trying now.
"These mountain paths will be closed by snow and clouds.
Do not, I pray you, let your tracks be lost."
The nurse replied:
"And were you to move to deepest Yoshino,
I still would find you, through unceasing snow."
<N 6>
The snow had melted a little when Genji paid his next visit. She would
have been delighted except for the fact that she knew its purpose. Well,
she had brought it on herself. The decision had been hers to make. Had
she refused he would not have forced her to give up the child. She had
made a mistake, but would not risk seeming mercurial and erratic by trying
to rectify it at this late date.
The child was sitting before her, pretty as a doll. Yes, she was meant
for unusual things, one could not deny it. Since spring her hair had been
allowed to grow, and now, thick and flowing, it had reached the length that
would be usual for a nun. I shall say nothing of the bright eyes and the
glowing, delicately carved features. Genji could imagine the lady's anguish
at sending her child off to a distant foster mother. Over and over again he
Sought to persuade her that it was the only thing to do.
"Please, you needn't. I will be happy if you see that she becomes
something more than I have been myself." But for all her valiant efforts
at composure she was in tears.
The little girl jumped innocently into the waiting carriage, the lady
<P 334>
having brought her as far as the veranda to which it had been drawn up.
She tugged at her mother's sleeves and in charming baby talk urged her
to climb in too.
"It is taken away, the seedling pine, so young.
When shall I see it grandly shading the earth?"
Her voice broke before she had come to the end.
She had every right to weep, thought Genji.
"A seedling, yes, but with the roots to give
The thousand years of the pines of Takekuma.
"You must be patient."
He was right, of course. She resumed the struggle, which was not
entirely successful, to control herself.
Only the nurse and a very personable young woman called Sho~sho~ got
into the little girl's carriage, taking with them the sword which Genji had
sent to Akashi and a sacred guardian doll. In a second carriage were
several other handsome women and some little page girls. And so the
Akashi lady saw them off.
Knowing how lonely she would be, Genji asked himself whether he
was committing a crime for which he would one day be summoned to do
penance. It was dark when they reached Nijo~. He had feared that the
suddenly lavish surroundings would intimidate these provincial women,
but Murasaki had gone to a great deal of trouble. The west room of her
west wing had been fitted most charmingly to resemble a doll's house. She
assigned the nurse a room on the north side of the adjoining gallery.
The girl had slept most of the way. She did not weep as she was taken
from the carriage. When sweets had been set before her, she looked around
and saw that her mother was not with her. The puckered little face was
very pretty. Her nurse sought to comfort her.
Genji's thoughts were on that mountain dwelling, where the gloom
and tedium must be next to unbearable. But he had the child's education
to think about. A little jewel, quite flawless--and why had such a child not
been born at Nijo~?
She wept and hunted for her mother; but she was of a docile, affec-
tionate nature, and soon she had quite taken to Murasaki. For Murasaki
it was as if her last wish had been granted. She was always taking the child
in her arms, and soon she and the nurse were very close friends. A second
nurse, a woman of good family, had by now joined the household.
Though no very lavish preparations were made for bestowing the
trousers, the ceremony became of its own accord something rather special.
The appurtenances and decorations were as if for the finest doll's house
<P 335>
in the world. The stream of congratulatory visitors made no distinction
between day and night--though one might not have found it remarkably
different from the stream that was always pouring in and out of the Nijo~
mansion. The trousers cord, everyone said, was the most charming little
detail of all.
<N 7>
The Akashi lady went on thinking that she had brought gratuitous
sorrow upon herself. Her mother had been so brave and confident; but old
people weep easily, and she was weeping, though pleased at news that the
child was the center of such attention. What could they send by way of
congratulation? They contented themselves with robes for the nurse and
the other women, hoping that the colors gave them a certain distinction.
Oi continued to be much on Genji's mind. It was just as she had
thought it would be, the lady was no doubt saying to herself; and so he
paid a quiet visit late in the year. Oi was a lonely place at best, and she
had lost her dearest treasure. He wrote constantly. Murasaki's old bitter-
ness had left her. She had the child, and the account was settled.
<N 8>
The New Year came. The skies were soft and pleasant and nothing
<P 336>
seemed wanting at the Nijo~ mansion, which had been refurbished for the
holidays. On the seventh day there was a continious stream of venerable
and eminent callers, and younger people too, all the picture of prosperity.
No doubt there were dissatisfactions beneath the surface, but it was a
surface of contentment and pleasure.
The lady of the orange blossoms was very happy indeed in the east
lodge. Her retinue was efficient and well mannered and the mere fact of
being near Genji had changed her life enormously. Sometimes when he
had nothing else to do he would look in on her, though never with the
intention of staying the night. She was an undemanding creature, and she
asked nothing more. Her life was quiet, remarkably free of unsettling
events, and as the seasonal observances came and went she had no reason
to think that she was being slighted. In point of smooth and efficient
service, indeed, she perhaps had the better of it over Murasaki.
<N 9>
He continued to worry about Oi and his inability to visit. Choosing
a time when little was happening at court and taking more than usual care
with his dress, he set off. His underrobes were beautifully dyed and
scented, and over them he had thrown an informal court robe of white
lined with red. Looking after him as he came to say goodbye, his radiance
<P 337>
competing with the evening sunlight, Murasaki felt vaguely apprehensive.
The little girl clung to his trousers and seemed prepared to go with
him.
"I've a twenty-acre field," he sang, looking fondly down at her, "and
I'll be back tomorrow."
Chujo~ was waiting in the gallery with a poem from her mistress:
"We shall see if you are back tomorrow,
If no one there essays to take your boat."
Chu~jo~,s elocution was beautiful. He smiled appreciatively.
"I go but for a while, and shall return
Though she may wish I had not come at all."
Murasaki no longer really thought a great deal about her rival. The
little girl, scampering and tumbling about, quite filled her thoughts. Yet
she did feel for the Akashi lady, knowing how desperate her own loneli-
ness would be in such circumstances. Taking the little girl in her arms, she
playfully offered one of her own small breasts. It was a charming scene.
What had gone wrong? asked her women. Why was Genji's daughter not
hers? But such was the way of the world.
Life at Oi was quiet and dignified. The house was pleasing as country
houses can be, and each time he saw the lady Genji thought how little there
was to distinguish her from ladies of the highest rank. Judged by them-
selves her appearance and manner were beyond reproach. By herself she
could compete--such things did happen--with the best of them, even
though she had that very odd father. He wished he might find time
someday for a really satisfying visit. "A bridge that floats across dreams?"
he whispered, reaching for a koto. Always at such times their last night
at Akashi came back to him. Diffidently she took up the lute which he
pushed towards her, and they played a brief duet. He marveled again that
her accomplishments should be so varied. He told her all about the little
girl. Sometimes, though a great deal argued against it, he would take a light
supper and stay the night. Katsura and his chapel provided the excuse. His
manner toward the lady was not, it is true, his most gallant, but neither
<P 338>
was it chilly or uncivil. One might have classed it as rather above the
ordinary in warmth and tenderness. She understood and was content, and
was careful to seem neither forward nor obsequiously deferential. She
wanted to be what he wanted her to be, and she succeeded. Rumor had
told her that he was stiffer and more formal with most women, and the
wiser course seemed to be to keep her distance. If she were nearer she
would be vulnerable, too easy a target for the other ladies. She would count
it her good fortune that he troubled himself to visit her occasionally, and
ask no more.
Her father had told her that last day that he was no longer a part of
her life. Yet he worried, and from time to time he would send off a retainer
to make quiet inquiry about Genji's behavior. Some of the reports dis-
turbed him, some pleased him.
At about this time Aoi's father died. He had been a loyal and useful
public servant, and the emperor was deeply grieved. He had been much
missed when he retired from court even briefly, and now he was gone
forever. Genji was sadder than anyone. He had had time for himself
because he had shared the business of government with his father-in-law.
Now it would all be his.
The emperor was mature for his age and his judgment was to be
trusted. Yet he did need support and advice. To whom was he to look
besides Genji? Sadly, Genji concluded that his plans for a life of quiet
meditation would have to be deferred. He was even more attentive than
the chancellor's sons to the details of the funeral and memorial services.
It was a time of bad omens, erratic movements of the celestial bodies
and unsettling cloud formations. The geomancers and soothsayers issued
portentous announcements. Genji had his own very private reasons for
disquiet.
Fujitsubo had been ill from early in the year, and from the Third
Month her condition was grave. Her son, the emperor, called upon her. He
