At the side of the road he noticed a little orange-tree almost buried in snow. He ordered one of his attendants to uncover it. As though jealous of the attention that the man was paying to its neighbour a pine-tree near by shook its heavily laden branches, pouring great billows of snow over his sleeve. Delighted with the scene Genji suddenly longed for some companion with whom he might share this pleasure; not necessarily someone who loved such things as he did, but one who at least responded to them in an ordinary way.
The gate through which his carriage had to pass in order to leave the grounds was still locked. When at last the man who kept the key had been discovered he turned out to be immensely old and feeble. With him was a big, awkward girl who seemed to be his daughter or grand-daughter. Her dress looked very grimy in contrast with the new snow amid which she was standing. She seemed to be suffering very much from the cold, for she was hugging a little brazier of some kind with a stick or two of charcoal burning none too brightly in it. The old man had not the strength to push back the door, and the girl was dragging at it as well. Taking pity on them one of Genji’s servants went to their assistance and quickly opened it. Genji remembered the poem in which Po Chü-i describes the sufferings of villagers in wintry weather and he murmured the lines ‘The little 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.