Volume 4 — CHAPTER VI WAKANA (‘Young Shoots’) PART I (continued 2)

Kashiwagi still lived in his father’s house, all alone in the eastern wing. It was not a very lively form of existence for a man of his age, but this solitude was entirely of his own seeking. Sometimes he felt wretched, and thought of marrying the first girl who came his way. But then he remembered that his father was Grand Minister. There was no reason at all why he should content himself with a plebeian marriage, and he determined to remain as he was until he obtained the bride to whom he considered himself in every way entitled. To-night he sat all alone in his room puzzling till his head ached.... How should he ever manage to see her again, how contrive to catch even so hasty and unsatisfying a glimpse as he had enjoyed to-day? With other women it was different. There was always the chance that some religious vow or omen of the stars might drive them into the open. And if such things did not spontaneously occur, they could easily be arranged.... But with Nyosan these simple and recognized expedients would be of no avail. Nothing was more improbable than that she should ever leave her apartments; and it was difficult enough even to let her know of his feelings. However, he wrote a letter (by no means the first with which Nyosan’s maid Kojijū had in recent days been entrusted): ‘Madam, one day not long since, the springtime lured me to trespass within the barrier that hides your sovereign precincts from the grosser world, an audacity for which I fear you condemn me with the bitterest scorn. On that occasion, Madam, like the poet105 of old, “I saw, yet did not see.” Since when such a turmoil has reigned in my heart as only the vision of what those baffling shadows hid from me can ever put to rest.’ With this was the poem: ‘Though flowers of sorrow only, my hand could reach on the high tree, would I were back amid the shadows of that provoking night.’

Kojijū knew nothing about the ‘day not long since,’ and thought that the letter was an unusually pointless collection of stock lamentations. Waiting for a moment when Nyosan was alone she brought in the letter, saying: ‘I wish your Kashiwagi were a little less faithful. I am tired of bringing these continual messages. Why then do I accept them? you ask. I suppose it is because I can see that he would be in despair if I refused. But why should I mind his being in despair? Really, I have not the least idea....’ and she burst out laughing. ‘What odd things you say,’ replied Nyosan, taking the letter. By the allusion to ‘seeing yet seeing not’ she understood at once that he had caught sight of her during that unfortunate accident with the curtains. She blushed, not however at the idea of Kashiwagi’s having seen her, but at the recollection that Genji had more than once warned her not to expose herself in Yūgiri’s presence. Now she remembered that Yūgiri had on that occasion been sitting at Kashiwagi’s side. What one saw, the other too would have seen. Her sole concern was lest Yūgiri should mention her carelessness to Genji, and then she would get a scolding. As had often occurred before, the task of writing an answer fell to Kojijū. Only a conventional acknowledgment was necessary, and she dashed off the following: ‘Why you should speak of “seeing, yet not seeing” passes my comprehension. Despite the embarrassment in which your proximity placed us, you certainly posted yourself at a point of vantage where nothing was likely to escape you.’ With this was the poem: ‘Feel what you will, but tell not to the world that where no hand may reach, upon the mountain cherry’s topmost bough your heart you fain would hang.’

The promised archery meeting at the New Palace took place on the last day of the third month. Kashiwagi felt very little inclined for company, and if he accepted the invitation it was only in the vague hope of some second accident such as that which had occurred at the football match. Yūgiri at once noticed that his friend was still particularly silent and distracted. He knew well enough what this meant, and was genuinely distressed not only at the prospect of unpleasant scenes in which he would himself be involved, but also on Kashiwagi’s account. For Yūgiri was extremely fond of him, and could never bear to see him, even for small everyday reasons, depressed or in ill-humour.

On this occasion Kashiwagi had come with the firm intention of behaving with perfect propriety, for not only did he stand in great awe of Genji, but also was extremely sensitive to public opinion in general, and nothing was more painful to him than the idea of his name figuring in the scurrilous gossip of the Court. If he had designs of any kind, they were not upon Nyosan but upon her cat. A fancy seized him that it would make him less miserable if he could get possession of this creature and have it always about him. But even this, as he well knew, was a mad idea, and under the circumstances to purloin the cat was not much easier than to make off with its mistress. The archery meeting proved uneventful. But a few days afterwards he was reminded of his project by seeing in the Crown Prince’s rooms a very handsome kitten which had just arrived as a present from the Emperor’s Palace. His Majesty’s court-cat had just given birth to a large family of kittens, which had been distributed among his acquaintances. ‘I happened the other day,’ said Kashiwagi casually, ‘to catch sight of a remarkably fine cat belonging to one of the ladies at Genji’s palace. I never saw so handsome a creature. By the way, I think they said that it is your sister Nyosan’s....’ This was a very good move, for the Crown Prince had a passion for cats, and the subject was one that he was willing to converse upon for any length of time. He began questioning Kashiwagi about this marvellous cat of Nyosan’s, which he did not remember to have seen. ‘You have some of the same breed here,’ said Kashiwagi, ‘but there was something uncommon about that particular creature. It seemed so much more friendly and intelligent than any that I have ever known.’ Thus began a long conversation upon the merits of different cats. The Crown Prince first of all borrowed those belonging to his wife, the Akashi Princess, and finally sent a message to his sister Nyosan asking if she would mind lending him hers. Upon its arrival every one agreed that it was undoubtedly a very fine cat. Kashiwagi, who knew the Crown Prince would give his sister a full account of the reception that her favourite had received, thought it better on this occasion not to display any great interest in the animal. But some days later he called again, on the pretext of giving the Prince a long promised lesson upon the zithern. ‘Which is the fellow I saw at Genji’s?’ he asked, in the course of conversation. ‘Is he still here? You have so many that I find it hard to keep them apart....’ But as a matter of fact he had already recognized Nyosan’s cat, and was soon fondling it upon his lap. ‘Isn’t he behaving beautifully?’ said the Crown Prince. ‘Considering you only saw him in the distance the other day, it is extraordinary that he should recognize you. But he certainly does, for they are by nature very distrustful creatures, and will not let any one touch them unless they remember having seen him before. However, our cats often remember some one who has only been here for a moment and took no particular notice of them.’ ‘They may not have reasoning powers such as we have,’ answered Kashiwagi, ‘but I am convinced that some of them at any rate have souls like ours.’ Presently he added: ‘Perhaps, as you have so many delightful cats of your own here, you would lend me this one of Nyosan’s for a little while?’ It was only after he had made this request that he realized how eccentric it must appear.

The cat lay close by him all night, and the first thing he did in the morning was to see to its wants, combing it and feeding it with his own hand. The most unsociable cat, when it finds itself wrapped up in some one’s coat and put to sleep upon his bed—stroked, fed and tended with every imaginable care—soon ceases to stand upon its dignity; and when, a little later, Kashiwagi posted himself near the window, where he sat gazing vacantly before him, his new friend soon stole gently to his side and mewed several times as though in the tenderest sympathy. Such advances on the part of a cat are rare indeed, and smiling, he recited to the animal the following verse: ‘I love and am not loved. But you, who nestle daily in my dear one’s arms—what need have you to moan?’ He gazed into the cat’s eyes as he spoke, and again it began mewing piteously, till he took it up into his lap, and he was still nursing it thus when the first visitors of the day began to arrive. ‘This is very sudden,’ they whispered to one another. ‘He used not to take the slightest interest in such creatures.’ Presently a messenger arrived from the Crown Prince, asking that the cat might be sent back at once. But Kashiwagi refused to part with it.