Kōbai, the oldest surviving son of the late Tō no Chūjō, was now Lord Inspector. He was an energetic, clever, open man who from his boyhood had shown great promise. He had reached considerable eminence, of course, and was well thought of and a great favorite with the emperor. Upon his first wife’s death he married Makibashira, daughter of Higekuro, the chancellor. It was she who had such strong regrets for the cypress pillar when her mother left her father’s house. Her grandfather had arranged for her to marry Prince Hotaru, who had left her a widow. The inspector favored her with clandestine attentions after Prince Hotaru’s death, and would seem to have concluded that it was a sufficiently distinguished liaison to be made public. Having been left with two children, both daughters, he prayed to the gods native and foreign that his second wife bear him a son. The prayer was soon granted. Makibashira had brought with her a daughter by Prince Hotaru.
Kōbai was scrupulously impartial in his treatment of the three girls, but malicious, troublemaking women are to be found in most important households and his was no exception. There were unpleasant incidents, most of which, however, Makibashira, a cheerful, amiable lady, managed to smooth over so that no one was left feeling aggrieved. She did not let the princess’s claims influence her unduly, and it was on the whole a harmonious household over which she presided.
In rapid succession there were initiation ceremonies for the three girls. Kōbai built a spacious new hall, a beam span wider in either direction than most. To his older daughter he assigned the south rooms, to his younger the west, and to the prince’s daughter the east. The outsider is likely to pity the fatherless daughter among stepsisters but the princess had come into a good inheritance from both sides of her family and was able to indulge her tastes and interests quite as she wished, on festive occasions and at ordinary times as well.
Young ladies who enjoy such advantages are certain to be noticed, and as each of the girls reached maturity she was noticed by even the emperor and the crown prince, who sent inquiries. The empress so dominated court life, however, that Kōbai was uncertain how to reply. Presently he was able to persuade himself that a refusal to face competition is the worst possible thing for a young lady’s prospects. Yūgiri’s daughter, already married to the crown prince, would be the most formidable of competition, but the superior man did not let such difficulties control his life. An attractive young lady should not be wasted at home. So he gave his older daughter to the crown prince. She was seventeen or eighteen, very pretty and vivacious.
The second girl had, it was reported, a graver, deeper sort of beauty. Kōbai was most reluctant to give her in marriage to a commoner. Might Prince Niou perhaps be interested?
Niou was fond of joking with Kōbai’s young son when the two of them were at court together. The boy had artistic talents and a countenance that suggested considerable intellectual endowments as well.
“Tell your father,” said Niou, “that I am annoyed with him for keeping the rest of the family out of sight. You are surely not its most interesting member?”
The boy passed the remark on, and Kōbai was all smiles. There were times when it was good to have a daughter or two.
“It might not be a bad idea, you know. The competition at court is fierce, and a pretty daughter could do worse than marry one of the younger princes. The idea is rather exciting, now that I give it a little thought.”
This happened while he was getting his older daughter ready for presentation at court. He had been reminding the god of Kasuga that empresses were supposed to come from the Fujiwara family. It was the god’s own promise, and Tō no Chūjō had been badly used in the days when the Reizei emperor was preparing to name his consort. Perhaps something might be done now to make amends.
Court gossip had it that the older daughter was doing well in the competition for the crown prince’s affection. Knowing how strange and difficult court life can be, Kōbai sent Makibashira to be with her. Makibashira was a most admirable guardian and adviser, but Kōbai was bored without her, and the younger daughter was very much at loose ends. Prince Hotaru’s daughter did not choose, in this difficult time, to stand on her dignity, and the two girls often spent the night together, passing the time at music and more frivolous pursuits. Kōbai’s daughter accepted the other as her mentor and they got on very well together. The princess was an extremely retiring young lady, not completely open even with her own mother. It was indeed a degree of reserve that attracted unfavorable comment, though it stopped short of positive eccentricity. She was, as a matter of fact, a rather charming girl in her way, far better favored, certainly, than most.
Kōbai was feeling guilty about his stepdaughter, left out of all the excitement.
“You must make certain decisions,” he said to Makibashira. “I will do everything for her that I would do for one of my own daughters.”
“She seems to be completely without the hopes and plans one expects a young girl to have,” said Makibashira, brushing away a tear. “I certainly would not want to insist upon them. I suppose I must call it fate and keep her with me. She will have problems when I am gone, I am afraid, but perhaps people won’t laugh at her if she becomes a nun.” And she added that in spite of everything the girl had a great deal to recommend her.
Kōbai was determined to be a good father, and he wished that the girl would cooperate at least to the extent of letting him see her.
“It is not kind of you to insist upon hiding yourself.” He had taken to stealing up to her curtains and searching for a hole or a gap, but he always went away disappointed.
“I want to be father and mother to you,” he continued, having posted himself firmly before her curtains, “and I am hurt that you should treat me like a stranger.”
Her answers, in very soft tones, suggested great elegance, as indeed did everything about her. He wanted more than ever to see her. He was not prepared to admit that his own daughters were not the finest young ladies in the land, but he suspected that the princess might outshine them. The world was too wide and varied, that was the trouble. A man might think he had a peerless daughter, and somewhere a lovelier lady was almost certain to appear. Yes, he really must have a look at the princess.
“It has been a month and more since I last had the pleasure of hearing you play. Things have been in such a frightful stir. The girl in the west rooms is absolutely mad about the lute, you know. Do you think she has possibilities? The lute should be left alone unless it is played well. Give her a lesson or two, please, if you have nothing better to do. I am not the man I once was, and I never had regular lessons, but I was a passable musician in my day. I can still tell good from bad on almost any instrument. You are very parsimonious with your playing, but I do occasionally catch an echo, and it brings back old memories. Lord Yūgiri is still with us, of course, to keep the Rokujō tradition alive. Then there is his brother, the middle councillor, and there is Prince Niou. I am sure that they could have held their own against the best of the old masters. I am told that they are very serious about their music, though they may not have quite Yū- giri’s confident touch. Each time I hear your own lute I think how much it resembles his. People are always saying that the most important thing is tact and forbearance in the use of the left hand. That is important, of course, but a misplaced bridge can be a disaster, and for a lady a gentle touch with the right hand is very important too. Come, now, let me hear you play. A lute, someone!”
Her women were on the whole much less reticent than she, though one of them, very young and from a very good family, had annoyed him by withdrawing to a distant corner.
“Just see my lady, will you, way off over there. Who has she been led to think she is?”
His son came in, wearing casual court dress, more becoming, Kōbai thought, than full regalia.
He gave the boy a message for the daughter at court. “I cannot be with you this evening. You must do without me. Perhaps you can say that I am not feeling well.” That business out of the way, he smiled and turned to other business. “Bring your flute with you one of these days. It may be what your sister here needs to encourage her. Do you ever play for His Majesty? And do you please him, in your infantile way?”
He set the boy to a strain in the sōjō mode, which he managed very commendably.
“Good, very good. I can see that you have profited from our little musicales. And now you must join him,” he said to the princess.
She played with obvious reluctance and declined to use a plectrum, but the brief duo was ve............