Chapter III: Makibashira (2)

It happened to be a moment when the scene at Court was simplified by the absence of low-born favourites or clandestine mistresses. Four great ladies, Akikonomu, Lady Chūjō, Nishi no Miya (whom I have just mentioned), and finally a daughter of the Minister of the Left held absolute sway. Apart from them, two young girls, daughters of the Junior State Secretary and the Chancellor, enjoyed a certain prominence; but on the whole the field was remarkably clear.

This year the Mummers[31] visited all the apartments at Court where they had kinswomen or connections of any kind, and the whole affair was far more animated and interesting than usual. The reception given to the dancers in the various quarters they visited was of the most magnificent kind, such a display of hangings and gay-coloured favours seldom having been witnessed. One of the most dazzling displays took place in the rooms of the Crown Prince’s mother, Lady Jōkyōden. The Prince was still a mere child,[32] but his nursery had already become a centre of fashionable activities.

After performing before the Emperor, the Mummers visited the quarters of Lady Akikonomu, and finally finished their round very late in the day at the ex-Emperor Suzaku’s palace. There had been some talk of their going on to Genji’s; but it would have been inconvenient to receive them at such an hour, and he discouraged the visit. On their way back from Suzaku’s, already much enlivened by the hospitality which they had received during the course of the evening, they went the round of the Crown Prince’s apartments, singing the ‘Bamboo River’[33] at the tops of their voices. Faint streaks of light were already appearing in the sky when they were joined by a band of young men, which included some of Tō no Chūjō’s sons and a number of courtiers famous for the beauty of their voices. The youngest among them all was Chūjō’s eighth son, who being the child of his legitimate wife, had been brought up to regard himself as a little person of considerable consequence. He was a good-looking child, about the same age as Higekuro’s eldest boy, with whom he was often favourably compared. Unlike many of the other children who saw the sights that day, he was not at all overawed by the first appearance at Court of this much-talked-about lady, but on the contrary stared at her to his fill.

Tamakatsura had not so much experience of Court festivities as was possessed by most of her rivals and neighbours. She wisely refrained from venturing upon any unusual or particularly ambitious combinations of colour. But upon the general lines laid down by the taste of her competitors, she often achieved a success considerably greater than theirs. Both she and her gentlewomen found this sojourn at the Palace a most welcome distraction, and only wished that it might be indefinitely prolonged.

Wherever they went the Mummers were received with presents of costly wadded cloaks and a profusion of good things both to eat and drink. Though it was not at Tamakatsura’s that they were to have their set banquet, the entertainment she gave them was, by Higekuro’s help, on so generous a scale that it was hard to recognize in it the mere ‘passing refreshments,’[34] which it was supposed to represent. Higekuro was himself on duty at the Palace that day, and said to his wife more than once during the course of the festivities, ‘There is no need whatever for you to sleep here a second night; it would look as though you had changed your mind and meant to stay on in the Palace.’ She did not answer. But her gentlewomen protested that Genji had only allowed her to leave the New Palace on the express understanding that she should pay a leisurely visit to the Emperor, which, considering she had never once been to Court before and might not go again for a long time, was the least that ordinary good breeding demanded. To leave so soon as this would be far too precipitate....

He noted with pain her obvious reluctance to leave a place the chief charm of which, as he conjectured, lay in the fact that it afforded her a refuge from his embraces.

Prince Sochi was present when the Mummers performed at the Palace, and his heart beat wildly as he pressed near the Lady-of-the-Bedchamber’s[35] office. Knowing that if she recognized a note as coming from him she would not open it, he found an excuse for going to Higekuro’s official quarters and sent a messenger from there. Tamakatsura naturally thought that the note came from her husband, and reluctantly opened it: ‘Hatefullest of seasons for me has Spring become, who must stand by and watch the birds of the deep forest folded wing in wing.’ So ran his poem. She blushed crimson as she read it, and was just thinking how she could possibly reply, when the Emperor himself came that way. The moon had risen, and in its full light she scanned his countenance. He was, she at once noticed, extraordinarily like Genji, and it was a relief to her to discover that there were perhaps people in the world who possessed Genji’s beauty yet at the same time were not cut off from her by fictitious parental ties. But her guardian had been extremely fond of her, of that there could be no doubt; whereas this young man unfortunately showed no signs whatever of feeling for her one particle of the affection which Genji had attributed to him. His Majesty expressed in a very good-tempered and considerate way his regret that she had decided not to live permanently at the Palace. This made her feel extremely uncomfortable; she hid her face in her sleeve and did not reply. ‘I should like so much to know what is going on in your mind,’ he said at last. ‘I have a small piece of news for you which I flattered myself would not be unwelcome. But I now remember that not answering is a peculiarity of yours.’

He then handed her an acrostic poem in which he at the same time asked what previous affection on her side had for so long delayed their meeting, and also announced that she had been promoted to the Third Rank. ‘I had hoped that in time we might become very close friends,’ he added. ‘But I see that you hold a different view.’ There came into his voice as he said these few words a new tone, which proved to her in an instant that the Emperor’s feelings as well as his outward appearance were after all uncommonly like those of Genji. Her heart leapt, and she replied with the poem: ‘Of what former love you speak I know not; but henceforward him alone I serve who put the purple on my sleeve.’[36] ‘It is now my duty to earn what hitherto I have done so little to deserve,’ she said timidly. At this he laughed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘you have got your reward, and you had better make the most of it. I did not mean it as a bribe. But I think that any reasonable person would admit I had come very badly out of the business....’ He spoke lightly, but it was evident that he was genuinely piqued. ‘This is dreadful,’ thought poor Tamakatsura. ‘Will a handsome man never fall in love with me without saying in the same breath that we must part for ever?’ Evidently he regarded her marriage as a fatal bar to friendship. She became very staid in her manner. Noting this, the Emperor feared that he had shocked her, and made up his mind (for he had by no means abandoned the idea of continuing the acquaintance) henceforth to advance more cautiously.

Meanwhile it reached Higekuro’s ears that the Emperor was with her, and falling into a panic he again began scheming to carry her home at the earliest possible moment. Nor did she attempt to dissuade him, for repeated disasters had at last destroyed in her all capacity for resistance. Higekuro invented one pretext after another for her instant removal, and when each in turn had been easily disposed of, he tried to enlist the help of Tō no Chūjō and others of the Court Council. At last the Imperial sanction was obtained. ‘I see that I had better let her go,’ said the young Emperor good-humouredly. ‘If I keep her now, Higekuro will not allow her to come here again; and I am hoping for frequent visits. I think I am right in saying that I first began to take interest in her long before Prince Higekuro set eyes upon her. But he got to work much more quickly than I, and fully deserves the advantage which he has gained.... I have an idea that there was a famous case[37] of this kind in years gone by, but cannot now recall the names.’ When he had seen her in the distance years ago his curiosity had been aroused, and he had felt that she might be worth getting to know. But at close quarters he found her far more attractive than he had imagined or been led by those who knew her to suppose. He could not now forgive himself for having handled the affair so incompetently. Having at one moment determined to give her confidence by slow stages, he felt at the next that he had not made his sentiments sufficiently plain, and plunged into the most impassioned and hectic avowals. She could not help thinking how well her own state of mind matched that of the lady to whose story the Emperor had already referred.

Meanwhile the letters of several public men who were seeking audience with his Majesty had for some time been waiting in the corridor, and just outside the door Higekuro stood officiously mounting sentry over the apartment. ‘I know he is an officer in the Bodyguard,’ said the Emperor, annoyed by his persistency, ‘but I think that on this occasion he is performing his professional duties rather too thoroughly.’

At parting he gave her the poem: ‘Because the Ninefold Hedge of royalty girds me about, not even the scent of the plum-blossom, nay, not even so much[38] is carried to the steps of my Throne.’ Not a very remarkable poem, as on later reflection she would easily have perceived; but at the time it seemed to her a masterly performance. ‘Higekuro,’ the Emperor added, ‘is like the man who “went to gather violets”; I cannot expect that he should be willing even for the briefest space to “quit the fields of Spring.”[39] Nor have I the heart to ask it of him. Henceforward I shall not attempt to approach you....’

She could not but admire his delicacy of feeling: ‘Though the scent of this blossom be not as that of others that grow upon the tree, yet even so much let the wind carry to and from your Throne.’[40] It cost him much to part from her for the last time as he supposed, and it was with many backward glances that he now left her room.

Higekuro was determined that she should not sleep another night at the Palace. He knew that if he broached the matter beforehand to his colleagues on the Council they would certainly refuse to countenance so precipitate a step. Accordingly, without mentioning the matter to anybody, he went straight to Tamakatsura and said: ‘I have suddenly caught a severe chill, and it is essential that I should go at once to some place where I can be properly looked after. There is nothing so awkward as being ill in other people’s houses.’ He spoke in such a weak, plaintive tone that she felt quite sorry for him. A few hours later she was already installed in Higekuro’s house.

Her father Tō no Chūjō soon heard of this. He was not best pleased, for he feared that the Emperor would regard so sudden a flight as very discourteous. But on the whole he was glad he had not been consulted, for he had no desire to quarrel with Higekuro over so small a matter. In fact, as he usually did when things went wrong, he chose to regard it as Genji’s affair rather than his own; and Genji, although this sudden termination of his tutelage over the girl came as a great shock to him, naturally did not feel called upon to interfere.

Higekuro, though in his heart of hearts he knew that Tamakatsura had no more chosen this destiny than the smoke from the salt-kilns chooses to be blown back across the hill, was so much elated by his success that for the moment her contempt for him did not in the least spoil his pleasure. His state of mind was indeed that of some brigand chief who has carried off an unwilling bride at his saddle-croup. He did indeed scold her for having remained closeted so long with the Emperor. This seemed to her insufferably petty and vindictive on Higekuro’s part. Henceforward she took less and less pains even to keep up in public the appearance of being on any kind of terms with him. He was also cut off from all intercourse with Prince Hyōbukyō’s family. He tried to give the impression that he regarded this as no great loss; but in reality he felt this isolation acutely. However, he did not attempt to communicate with the Prince, and henceforward spent the whole of his time in lavishing unwanted attentions upon his new-won prize.

To Genji, who had for months past been preparing himself for Tamakatsura’s departure, her loss came as a far greater blow than he had ever anticipated. It was not indeed her departure (he explained to himself) that he found difficult to bear, but the suddenness and completeness with which Higekuro had taken possession. But be that as it may, he could not for an instant stop thinking about her, and soon fell into a condition of absent-mindedness and melancholy that was observed by all who met him. It is said that whatever happens to us is ruled by our conduct in previous existences, or, as others would express it, by Fate. But it seemed to Genji that for the miseries into which he constantly found himself plunged, no other person or power could possibly be held responsible. They sprang from his own excessive susceptibility, and from no other cause whatever. He longed to write to her; but it seemed impossible, now that she was in the hands of the grim, unbending Higekuro, to address to her the small humours and absurdities of which their correspondence was usually composed. In the second month a period of heavy rain set in; after the ceremonies of the New Year this season is apt to seem rather flat and stale, and, desperately in need of distraction, Genji broke all his resolutions and called at Prince Higekuro’s house. He knew, however, that there was no chance of his seeing her personally, and though it was painful to him, who had been used to spend hour after hour in her company, merely to send in a note, this was the most he dared to attempt. And even so, despite the fact that he was able to get hold of the old nurse Ukon and send the letter through her, he thought it unwise to send a closed note and was therefore obliged to express himself in the most guarded manner, trusting that she would be able to read between the lines. ‘In these dull days when hour on hour the spring rain spills upon the quiet earth, do you at times recall the people and the palace whence you came?’ So he wrote, adding: ‘This is a dreary season at best; and worse than ever for me, who am tormented by longings and recollections of which I cannot now speak.’ Ukon took the letter and succeeded in conveying it to Tamakatsura at one of the rare moments when Higekuro was absent from her side. The old woman, of course, knew nothing of Genji’s sentiments towards her mistress, who had never breathed to any one a word concerning his occasional indiscretions and excesses; but watching Tamakatsura’s face as she read the letter Ukon now guessed a good deal of the truth. But exactly how much had happened between them? That was a question about which Ukon henceforward frequently puzzled her head; but she was unable to reach any conclusion.

Throughout this time Genji was constantly reminded of his separation from Oborozuki[41] at the time when she became Consort of the Emperor Suzaku. She too was Lady-of-the-Bedchamber; she too was carried away and locked up in a place whither it was impossible for him to pursue her. He remembered having been very unhappy then, but nothing like so miserable as he was now. Was it that he was becoming more and more sentimental, he asked himself, or merely that the sufferings of the moment always seem more acute than those which we conjure up out of the past? But whether or no the miseries of to-day were really worse than those of yesterday, of this much he was sure, that from none of his divagations had anything but torment and agitation ever ensued. Well, it was all over now; henceforward his existence would be free from these devastating entanglements, and no doubt he would be a great deal happier than ever before. But for the moment it was not so very easy as he had imagined to begin this new life of resignation and tranquillity. He thought he would make use of the bad weather to practise a little on his zithern; but no sooner did he take it into his hands than he began to recall how Tamakatsura had played this and that phrase or run at the time when he was giving her a lesson every day. To break the spell of these recollections he tuned his instrument to the Eastern Mode and played the old song ‘Let the weeds grow.’[42] Could she have seen him as he sat playing that lovely air, it would have been strange indeed if she had not wished herself back in her late home.

The young Emperor too, though their acquaintance had been so brief, could not get Tamakatsura out of his head. ‘As she went by, trailing the skirts of her crimson gown....’[43] For some reason these words haunted him, though the poem could scarcely be more ill-sounding and crude than it is; and he too began to contrive secret ways of communicating with her. But she had long ago made up her mind that happiness was not to be her fate, and could not bring herself to toy with it by the familiar interchange of pretty thoughts and images. Letter after letter arrived; but in her replies she never went beyond a formal acknowledgment. Often she remembered with gratitude Genji’s untiring devotion to her interests and comforts. What matter if he fell between the two extremes of parent and lover? No one, she felt sure, would ever look after her as he had done.

It was now the third month. The wisteria and mountain-kerria in the gardens of the New Palace were in full bloom, loveliest of all at evening, when the light of the setting sun slanted through the hanging sprays of delicate blossom. This was a moment of the year that had always given him an intense delight; but now it hardly seemed to move him. He left Murasaki’s domain and made his way to the western garden.[44] Here too the mountain-kerria was in magnificent bloom. In especial he noticed a great trail of it that hung across a clump of Chinese bamboos and recited to himself the poem: ‘O mountain flower that lovest to grow upon the rocks,[45] thou shalt teach me to endure in silence,[45] the love that I must hide.’ Never before had he repented so bitterly of his determination to surrender the girl into other hands. It had seemed while she was with him so easy to be wise, to make self-sacrificing resolutions. But now that he had lost her it was incredible that he could ever have deliberately planned and executed so terrible a disaster. He happened to notice that there were a lot of eggs in the pigeon-house, and arranging them prettily in a basket along with oranges and lemons he sent it as a present to Tamakatsura, not with any very definite intention.[46] When Higekuro saw the basket with its accompanying note, he burst out laughing: ‘What an extraordinary man this Genji is!’ he said. ‘Why, even if he were your real father he could not now that you are married expect to meet you except on particular occasions. What does he want? He seems, in one way or another, to be always complaining that he does not see you.’ She did not seem to have any intention of acknowledging the gift, and as the messenger was still waiting, Higekuro said: ‘Let me answer it for you!’ ‘I am not minded that any should reclaim her, this fledgling that was not counted among the brood of either nest.’ Such was the poem he sent, and he added: ‘My wife was surprised at the nature of your gift, and was at a loss how to reply without seeming to attach an undue importance to it....’

Genji laughed when the note was brought to him. ‘I have never known Higekuro stoop to concern himself in such trifles as this,’ he said. ‘What is the world coming to?’ But in his heart he was deeply offended by the arrogantly possessive tone of Higekuro’s letter.

As the months went by Lady Makibashira became more and more deeply buried in her own dark and frightful thoughts. Soon she seemed to be gradually lapsing into complete helplessness and imbecility. Higekuro enquired after her constantly and did everything in his power to make her comfortable, incurring considerable outlay on her behalf, and indeed watching over her practical interests exactly as he would have done if she had still been at home. He continued to be devotedly attached to his children, but Prince Hyōbukyō would not allow him to see the little girl. The boys, however, were constantly at their father’s house, and came back chattering about ‘such a nice, new lady’ who had come to live there. ‘She knows all sorts of lovely games and plays with us all day,’ they said. The little girl stared at them open-eyed, having formed in her mind a very different picture of the woman whom her present guardians represented always as the unscrupulous monster who had ruined their father’s home. But in reality it was not surprising that Tamakatsura should have won the boys’ hearts, for she possessed an extraordinary faculty for making herself liked by people of all sorts and ages wherever she went.

In the eleventh month of that year she bore Higekuro a handsome boy. The father’s delight knew no bounds, and the solicitude with which he watched over both mother and child can easily be imagined. Tō no Chūjō too rejoiced that the match should be turning out so unqualified a success and felt that he had acted very wisely in recommending it. And certainly, he said to himself, she deserved a success, for she possessed quite as much charm as the sisters over whom he had taken a great deal more trouble. Kashiwagi too was glad that all seemed to be going well, for he had settled down into the position of an extremely helpful and admiring brother. Perhaps, however, he still cared for her with something more than brotherly affection; he had a feeling that he would have preferred the child to be some one else’s rather than Higekuro’s; for example, if only she had borne such a child (so he reflected as he gazed at the infant) to the Emperor Ryōzen, who constantly lamented that he had no children, what a future might have been in store for it!

After her recovery Tamakatsura continued to administer the business of the Bedchamber from her husband’s house, and seemed to show no intention of ever again appearing at the Palace. There were precedents for such an arrangement as this, and no exception could well be taken to it.

But to go back a little. In the autumn of this year Tō no Chūjō’s eccentric daughter, foiled in her ambition to become Lady-of-the-Bedchamber, added to the embarrassment of her relations by a series of the most flutter-brained flirtations. Her sister Lady Chūjō lived in a constant state of agitation, convinced that sooner or later this Lady of Ōmi would get into some scrape of a kind which might seriously compromise the whole family. She saw no reason why she should be saddled with so needless a responsibility and begged her father to intervene. Tō no Chūjō accordingly sent for her and warned her as impressively as he could that she must in future stay in her sister’s rooms and not wander all over the house, as she had lately developed the habit of doing. This remonstrance, however, had no effect, and she was soon causing as much anxiety as ever to her unwilling sponsors.

It happened one day that a number of distinguished courtiers had come to the house; it was an autumn night of exceptional beauty, music was in progress, and every one was in uncommonly good spirits. Even Yūgiri, usually so quiet and orderly, was talking in rather an excited manner. Some one amid the group of ladies at the end of the room pointed him out to her neighbour and made some remark to the effect that she had never seen him look so handsome. ‘Handsome! Who’s handsome?’ screamed a piercing voice, the owner of which suddenly craned her neck in the direction indicated; and before any one could stop her the Lady of Ōmi had pressed her way to the front of the throng, where she stood staring at Yūgiri open-mouthed, while every one present wondered what hideous piece of folly or impertinence would shortly issue from those ecstatically parted lips. But all she did was to point at the embarrassed Yūgiri and say in a voice which, though it was meant to be a whisper, was audible all over the room: ‘Look at that one, now, just look at him!’ And she recited in a ringing voice the poem:

If your ship is lost at sea
And you cannot land where you’d like to be,
You’d better come aboard of me.[47]

‘Like the man who lost his rudder said, when he found himself at the same place where he started: “It all comes to the same thing in the end,”’ she added encouragingly.

Who on earth could, this extraordinary madcap be, wondered poor Yūgiri, when suddenly he recollected the queer stories that had a little while ago been current about some odd girl whom Tō no Chūjō had adopted. This of course must be she, and laughing, he answered her with the poem:

Though my good ship should split in two,
I’d rather be drowned with all my crew
Than trust my life to one like you.

That does not sound very kind, she thought.

[24] One of Tamakatsura’s maids.

[25] Prince Higekuro.

[26] The soul of a woman is helped across the Stream of Death by the spectre of her first lover.

[27] While Makibashira, Higekuro’s mad wife, was still there.

[28] In order to drive the ‘possession’ out of her.

[29] For this woman’s character see vol. i, p. 145. She had pursued her rival, Murasaki’s mother, ‘with constant vexations and affronts; day in and day out this obstinate persecution continued, till at last she died of heart-break.’

[30] See vol. iii, p. 139.

[31] See vol. iii, p. 24.

[32] He must by now be about eleven, having been born shortly before Genji’s exile.

[33] See vol. iii, p. 215.

[34] ‘Mizu-umaya,’ or water-stabling, as it was technically called by the dancers. The regular banquet was called ‘ii-umaya,’ or rice-stabling.

[35] Tamakatsura.

[36] Promoted her to the Third Rank.

[37] In the 9th century Fujiwara no Tokihira carried off a lady who had for some time been admired by Taira no Sadabumi. When reproached by Sadabumi for her fickleness, the lady replied: ‘What in waking hours I may have promised I know not; but now I wander in the mazes of a dream; or _some one_ wanders, for I scarce think it can be I.’

[38] _Ka bakari_ means ‘so much,’ and also ‘only the scent.’

[39] Allusion to a poem by Yamabe no Akahito (8th century).

[40] I.e. write to me sometimes.

[41] Vol. ii, p. 54.

[42] ‘The water-weeds that grow in the pool on the plain of Oshitaka where wild doves feed—do not cut them at the root, for they will not grow again. Do not cut them at the root.’

[43] ‘Outdoors I think, at home I think of how she looked that day as she went by trailing the skirts of her crimson gown.’ _Manyōshū_ 2550. A very rough, primitive poem.

[44] Tamakatsura’s former apartments.

[45]_Iwa_—‘rock’ and ‘silent.’

[46] But there is a hint that Tamakatsura is shut away in Higekuro’s palace like a tame bird in a cage. The bird mentioned is really a kind of duck, but much smaller. ‘Duck’s eggs’ would give a wholly wrong visual impression.

[47] If you can’t have Kumoi, why not marry me?