wagi, who in outward manner is particularly quiet and diffident. By the way, has he written to you again? I remember we read his poem together. You cannot, of course, under the circumstances risk giving him any definite encouragement; but do not be too hard upon him.’
Even amid these very exceptional young men Yūgiri looked surprisingly handsome and distinguished, and Genji, pointing to him, said to Tamakatsura in a whisper: ‘I am terribly disappointed that Tō no Chūjō should take up his present attitude about that boy. It has come to this nowadays, that those people will not look at any one who is not part and parcel of their own gang.[1] A drop of other blood, even if it be that of the Royal House, seems to them a painful blemish….’ ‘That was not the way Royal Princes were regarded once upon a time,’ said Tamakatsura, and quoted the old folk-song Come to my house.[2] ‘They certainly seem in no hurry to make ready a banquet for poor Yūgiri,’ admitted Genji. ‘I am extremely sorry for those two. They took a fancy to each other when they were mere children and have never got over it. I know quite well that they have suffered a great deal through this long separation. If it is merely because of Yūgiri’s low rank that Tō no Chūjō refuses his consent, he might on this occasion be content to disregard the comments of the world and leave the matter in my hands. He surely does not suppose that I intend the boy to remain in the Sixth Rank for ever….’ Again he was speaking of Tō no Chūjō with asperity and, like her brothers a few hours ago, Tamakatsura was perturbed to discover that the breach between them was widening, partly because such a state of
- ↑ I.e. the Fujiwaras, the clan to which the writer herself belonged.
- ↑ ‘In my house the awnings are at the doors and curtains are hanging about the bed. Come, my Prince! you shall have my daughter for your bride, and at the wedding-feast you shall have the fish you like best, be it awabi, oyster or what you will.’
