8

“Father says I must go see Sister, and so that's just what I'll do. Wouldn't want to disappoint him. Maybe I'll go right away. No, maybe I'll wait till dark. I'm Father's own little pet, but that won't do me much good if we're not chums, me and all the rest of them.”

The rest of them did not seem to be so eager.

She immediately set about composing a letter to her sister.

“Though here beside your fence of rushes,* the fact I have not had the happiness of stepping on your shadow might be from a gate which says 'Come not my way.'* It may be rude to mention Musashi when we haven't been introduced yet+ but forgive me.” This last was followed by several ditto marks, and there were underlinings. Then there was a “please turn over,” and: “Yes, I forgot. I may come see you this evening because unfriendliness intensifies my longing.# I'm all in a dither and writing poorly, very poorly. It must be I am like the Minase.” ** And there was a poem, and one final remark:

“Cape How of the grassy pastures of Hitachi

Says how can the waves of Farmer Beach come see you.

“And the waves of the river broad.” ++

It was on a single sheet of green paper in a somewhat impatient style, the style of what master one could not easily have said. Given to wanderings and extensions, it seemed in spite of everything much pleased with itself, though asking for a larger piece of paper. She smiled at her composition and, folding it into a demure little knot, fastened it to a wild carnation. For her messenger she chose a little scullery maid, pretty and confident though new to the service.

“This is for _her_,” said the messenger, marching in upon the ladies-inwaiting.

“A letter has come from the north wing.” The woman who took it recognized her and opened the letter.

Another woman, called Chu~nagon, glanced curiously at the minister's daughter, who smiled as she put it down. “It looks like a most stylish sort of letter.”

“I do not seem to be very good at the cursive style,” said the lady, handing it to her. “I can't somehow quite get the thread of it. But she will look down upon me if I do not answer in a similarly sophisticated and literary vein. Work up a draft for me, if you will, please.”

The younger women were giggling.

“It was not easy,” said Chu~nagon, presenting her draft, “to maintain the graceful, poetic tone. And we would not wish to insult her with anything from the hand of a scrivener.”

She had made it seem that the answer had come from the hand of the lady herself:

“It does indeed seem cruel that I should not have the pleasure of your company when you are so near.

“You waves of the Suma coast of Suruga-

Hitachi, the pine of Hakosaki waits.”

“Oh, no! Everyone will think I wrote it.

“Few will make that mistake, my lady.”

And so it was put in an envelope and sent off.

“What a nice poem,” said the Omi lady. “What a nice poem. And she's waiting for me, she says.”

She scented and rescented her robes, though the first scenting made them insistent, and put on crimson rouge and brushed furiously at her hair. Her completed toilet was very gay and rather charming.

No doubt there was a certain boldness too in her address.

{Flares}