amiable. He had now placed the whole direction of public affairs in Tō no Chūjō’s hands; the experiment was working well, and such was Genji’s relief at escaping from the burden which had so long oppressed him that he found it impossible to be serious for a minute. To joke with Ukon, a very matter-of-fact old lady, was found by most people to be out of the question. But Genji had a peculiar gift of sympathy, which enabled him to penetrate the most obstinate gloom, the most imperturbable gravity.
‘Tell me about the interesting person whom you have discovered,’ he went on. ‘I believe it is another of your holy men. You have brought him back here, and now I am to let him pray for me. Have I not guessed right?’ ‘No, indeed,’ Ukon answered indignantly; ‘I should never dream of doing such a thing!’ And then, lowering her voice: ‘I have become acquainted with the daughter of a lady whom I served long ago…. The mother came to a miserable end…. You will know of whom it is I am speaking.’ ‘Yes,’ said Genji … ‘I know well enough, and your news is indeed very different from anything I had imagined. Where has the child been during all these years?’ ‘In the country,’ answered Ukon vaguely; this did not seem a good moment for going into the whole story. ‘Some of the old servants took charge of the child,’ she continued, ‘and are still in her service now that she has grown up. They of course knew nothing of the circumstances under which their former mistress… It was torture to speak of it; but I managed at last to tell them….’ ‘I think we had better talk about this some other time,’ Genji interrupted, drawing Ukon aside. But Murasaki had overheard them. ‘Pray do not trouble about me,’ she said with a yawn. ‘I am half-asleep in any case; and if it is something I am not to hear…’ So saying she covered her ears with her sleeves.
