“If Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ observed this, what would he not have to say?” thought he, as he drove back slowly to his mansion.
After this time communications were frequently sent from Genji to the Princess. This he did because he pitied the helpless condition and circumstances he had witnessed more than for any other reason. He also sent her rolls of silk, which might replace the old-fashioned sable-skins, some damask, calico and the like. Indeed, presents were made even to her aged servants and to the gatekeeper.
In ordinary circumstances with women, particular attention such as this might make a blush, but the Princess did not take it in such a serious light, nor did Genji do this from any other motive than kindness.
The year approached its end! He was in his apartment in the Imperial Palace, when one morning Tayû came in. She was very useful to him in small services, such as hairdressing, so she had easy access to him, and thus she came to him this morning.
“I have something strange to tell you, but it is somewhat trying for me to do so,” she said, half smiling.
“What can it be? There can be nothing to conceal from me!”
“But I have some reason for my hesitation to reveal it,” replied Tayû.
“You make a difficulty, as usual,” rejoined Genji.
“This is from the Princess,” she said, taking a letter from her pocket and presenting it.
“Is this a thing of all others that you ought to conceal,” cried Genji, taking the letter and opening it. It was written on thick and coarse paper of Michinok manufacture. The verse it contained ran as follows:—
“Like this, my sleeves are worn away,
By weeping at your long delay.”
These words puzzled Genji. Inclining his head in a contemplative way, he glanced from the paper to Tayû, and from Tayû to the paper. Then she drew forth a substantial case of antique pattern, saying, “I cannot produce such a thing without shame, but the Princess expressly sent this for your New Year. I could not return it to her nor keep it myself; I hope you will just look at it.”
“Oh, certainly,” replied Genji. “It is very kind of her,” at the same time thinking, “What a pitiful verse! This may really be her own composition. No doubt Kojijiû has been absent, besides she seems to have had no master to improve her penmanship. This must have been written with great effort. We ought to be grateful for it, as they say.” Here a smile rose on Genji's cheeks, and a blush upon Tayû's. The case was opened, and a Naoshi (a kind of gown), of scarlet, shabby and old-fashioned, of the same color on both sides was found inside. The sight was almost too much for Genji from its very absurdity. He stretched out the paper on which the verse had been written and began to write on one side, as if he was merely playing with the pen. Tayû, glancing slyly, found that he had written:—
This color pleases not mine eye,
Too fiery bright its gaudy hue,
And when the saffron flower was nigh,
The same pink tinge was plain to view.
He then erased what he had written, but Tayû quickly understood what he really meant by “saffron flower,” referring to the pinkness of its flower, so she remarked:—
“Although the dress too bright in hue,
And scarlet tints may please you not,
At least to her, who sends, be true,
Soon will Naoshi be forgot.”
While they were thus prattling on the matter, people were entering the room to see him, so Genji hastily put the things aside, and Tayû retired.
A few days after, Genji one morning looked into the Daihansho (large parlor), where he found Tayû, and threw a letter to her, saying, “Tayû, here is the answer. It has cost me some pains,” and then passed through, humming as he went, with a peculiar smile,
“Like that scarlet-tinged plum.”
None but Tayû understood the real allusion. One of the women observed, “The weather is too frosty, perhaps he has seen some one reddened by the frost.” Another said, “What an absurdity! There is no one among us of that hue, but perhaps Sakon or Unemé may be like this,” and thus they chattered on till the matter dropped.
The letter was soon sent by Tayû to the Princess, who assembled all her attendants round her, and they all read it together, when the following was found in it:—
Of my rare visits you complain,
But can the meaning be,
Pray come not often, nor again,
For I am tired of thee.
On the last day of the year he made the following presents to the Princess, sending them in the same case as the Naoshi had been sent to him: stuff for a complete dress, which had originally been presented to himself; also rolls of silk, one of the color of the purple grape, another of the Kerria japonica color, and others. All these were handed to the Princess by Tayû. It should be observed that these presents were made by Genji to the Princess chiefly on account of her reduced circumstances. Her attendants, however, who wished to flatter their mistress, exclaimed, “Our scarlet dress was very good, too. Scarlet is a color which never fades. The lines we sent were also excellent. Those of the Prince are, no doubt, a little amusing, but nothing more.”
The Princess, flattered by the remarks, wrote down her verse in her album, as if worthy of preservation.
The New Year began with the morrow; and it was announced that the Otoko-dâka (gentlemen's singing dances) would soon take place in which Genji would take part. Hence he was busy in going backwards and forwards, to practise, but the lonely residence of the saffron flower began to draw his thoughts in that direction. So after the ceremony of the State Festival, on the seventh day, he betook himself there in the evening, after he had left the Emperor's presence, having made a pretence of retiring to his own private apartments. On this occasion the appearance of the lady happened to be a little more attractive, and Genji was pleased, thinking there might be a time when she would improve still more. When the sun shone forth he rose to leave. He opened the casement on the western side of the mansion, and, looking at the corridor, perceived that its roof was broken. Through it the sunshine peeped, and shone upon the slight cover of snow scattered in the crevices. The scene, as we have before said, betrayed everywhere dilapidation and decay.
The mirror-stand, combs, and dressing-case were brought in by an attendant. They were all of an extremely antique pattern. He drew an “arm-stool” near him, and resting himself upon it began combing his hair. He was amused at the sight of these articles, which were doubtless a legacy from her parents. The dress of the Princess was in every way nicer. It had been made out of the silk of Genji's present. He recognized it by the tasteful pattern. Turning to her he said, “This year you might become a little more genial, the only thing I wait for above all is a change in your demeanor.” To which she, with some awkwardness, said,
“In the spring, when numerous birds sing.”
Such poetic responses were a great delight to Genji, who thought they were the silent touches of time, and that she had made some improvement. He then left and returned to his mansion in Nijiâ, where he saw the young Violet innocently amusing herself. She wore with grace a long close-fitting cherry-colored dress of plain silk. She had not yet blackened her teeth,5 but he now made her do so, which gave a pleasant contrast to her eyebrows. He played at their usual games at toys with her, trying in every way to please her. She drew pictures and painted them, so did he also. He drew the likeness of a lady with long hair, and painted her nose with pink. Even in caricature it was odd to see. He turned his head to a mirror in which he saw his own image reflected in great serenity. He then took the brush and painted his own nose pink. Violet, on seeing this, screamed.
“When I become ornamented in this way what shall I be like?” inquired Genji.
“That would be a great pity. Do wipe it off, it might stain,” she replied.
Genji partly wiped it off, saying, “Need I wipe it off any more? Suppose I go with this to the Palace?”
On this Violet approached and carefully wiped it for him. “Don't put any more color,” cried Genji, “and play upon me as Heijiû.”6
The mild sun of spring descended in the west, and darkness slowly gathered over the forest tops, obscuring all but the lovely white plum blossoms which were still visible amidst the gloom. At the front of the porch, also, a red plum blossom, which usually opens very early, was deeply tinged with glowing hues. Genji murmured:—
“The ‘red-tinged flower' is far from fair,
Nor do my eyes delight to see,
But yon red plum which blossoms there,
Is full of loveliness of me.”
What will become of all these personages!