The tale of Genji
escape and then, despite his annoyance at having been followed, burst
into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. ‘Are you in your right mind?’
said Genji at last. ‘This is really a very poor sort of joke. Do you
mind letting me get into my cloak?’ Whereupon Chūjō snatched the
cloak from him and would not give it back. ‘Very well then,’ said
Genji; ‘if you are to have my cloak I must have yours,’ and so saying
he pulled open the clasp of Chūjō’s belt and began tugging his cloak
from his shoulders. Chūjō resisted and a long tussle followed in which
the cloak was torn to shreds. ‘Should you now get it in exchange for
yours, this tattered cloak will but reveal the secrets it is meant to
hide,’ recited Tō no Chūjō; to which Genji replied with an acrostic
poem in which he complained that Chūjō with whom he shared so many
secrets should have thought it necessary to spy upon him in this
fashion. But neither was really angry with the other and setting their
disordered costumes to rights they both took their departure. Genji
discovered when he was alone that it had indeed upset him very much to
find his movements had been watched, and he could not sleep. The lady
felt utterly bewildered. On the floor she found a belt and a buckle
which she sent to Genji next day with a complicated acrostic poem in
which she compared these stranded properties to the weeds which after
their straining and tugging the waves leave upon the shore. She added
an allusion to the crystal river of her tears. He was irritated by her
persistency but distressed at the shock to which she had been
subjected by Chūjō’s foolish joke, and he answered with the poem: ‘At
the antics of the prancing wave you have good cause to be angry; but
blameless indeed is the shore on whose sands it lashed.’ The belt was
Chūjō’s; that was plain for it was darker in colour than his own
cloak. And as he examined his cloak he noticed that the lower half of
one sleeve was torn away. What a mess everything was in! He told
himself with disgust that he was becoming a rowdy, a vulgar
night-brawler. Such people, he knew, were always tearing their clothes
and making themselves ridiculous. It was time to reform.
The missing sleeve soon arrived from Chūjō’s apartments with the
message: ‘Had you not better have this sewn on before you wear your
cloak?’ How had he managed to get hold of it? Such tricks were very
tiresome and silly. But he supposed he must now give back the belt,
and wrapping it in paper of the same colour he sent it with a riddling
poem in which he said that he would not keep it lest he should make
trouble between Chūjō and the lady. ‘You have dragged her away from me
as in the scuffle you snatched from me this belt,’ said Chūjō in his
answering poem, and added ‘Have I not good reason to be angry with you?’
Later in the morning they met in the Presence Room. Genji wore a
solemn and abstracted air. Chūjō could not help recollecting the
absurd scene of their last meeting, but it was a day upon which there
was a great deal of public business to dispatch and he was soon
absorbed in his duties. But from time to time each would catch sight
of the other’s serious face and heavy official bearing, and then they
could not help smiling. In an interval Chūjō came up to Genji and
asked him in a low voice whether he had decided in future to be a
little more communicative about his affairs. ‘No, indeed,’ said Genji;
‘but I feel I owe you an apology for preventing you from spending a
happy hour with the lady whom you had come to visit. Everything in
life seems to go wrong.’ So they whispered and at the end each
solemnly promised the other not to speak of the matter to anybody. But
to the two of them it furnished a constant supply of jokes for a long
while to come, though Genji took the matter to heart more than he
showed and was determined never to get mixed up with such a tiresome
creature again. He heard however that the lady was still much ruffled,
and fearing that there might be no one at hand to comfort her he had
not the heart quite to discontinue his visits.
Chūjō, faithful to his promise, did not mention the affair to
anyone, not even to his sister, but kept it as a weapon of
self-defence should Genji ever preach high morality to him again.
Such marked preference did the Emperor show in his treatment of Genji
that even the other princes of the Blood Royal stood somewhat in awe
of him. But Tō no Chūjō was ready to dispute with him on any subject,
and was by no means inclined always to let him have his own way. He
and Aoi were the only children of the Emperor’s sister. Genji, it is
true, was the Emperor’s son; but though Chūjō’s father was only a
Minister his influence was far greater than that of his colleagues,
and as the son of such a man by his marriage with a royal princess he
was used to being treated with the greatest deference. It had never so
much as occurred to him that he was in any way Genji’s inferior; for
he knew that as regards his person at least he had no reason to be
dissatisfied; and with most other qualities, whether of character or
intelligence, he believed himself to be very adequately endowed. Thus
a friendly rivalry grew up between the two of them and led to many
diverting incidents which it would take too long to describe.
In the seventh month two events of importance took place. An empress
was appointed[18] and Genji was raised to the rank of Counsellor. The
Emperor was intending very soon to resign the Throne. He would have
liked to proclaim his new-born child as Heir Apparent in place of
Kōkiden’s son. This was difficult, for there was no political function
which would have supported such a choice. Fujitsubo’s relations were
all members of the Imperial family[19] and Genji, to whom he might
have looked for help owing to his affiliation with the Minamoto clan,
unfortunately showed no aptitude for political intrigue. The best
he could do was at any rate to strengthen Fujitsubo’s position and
hope that later on she would be able to exert her influence. Kōkiden
heard of his intentions, and small wonder if she was distressed and
astounded. The Emperor tried to quiet her by pointing out that in a
short time her son would succeed to the Throne and that she would then
hold the equally important rank of Empress Mother. But it was indeed
hard that the mother of the Heir Apparent should be passed over in
favour of a concubine aged little more than twenty. The public tended
to take Kōkiden’s side and there was a good deal of discontent. On the
night when the new Empress was installed Genji, as a Counsellor, was
among those who accompanied her to the Middle Palace. As daughter of a
previous Empress and mother of an exquisite prince she enjoyed a
consideration at Court beyond that which her new rank would have alone
procured for her. But if it was with admiring devotion that the other
great lords of her train attended her that day, it may be imagined
with what fond yet agonized thoughts Prince Genji followed the litter
in which she rode. She seemed at last to have been raised so far
beyond his reach that scarce knowing what he did he murmured to
himself the lines: ‘Now upon love’s dark path has the last shadow
closed; for I have seen you carried to a cloud-land whither none may
climb.’
As the days and months went by the child grew more and more like
Genji. The new Empress was greatly distressed, but no one else seemed
to notice the resemblance. He was not of course so handsome; how
indeed should he have been? But both were beautiful, and the world was
content to accept their beauty without troubling to compare them, just
as it accepts both moon and sun as lovely occupants of the sky.
[1] They were not allowed to leave the palace.
[2] The bird that sings in Paradise.
[3] See above p. 19.
[4] In allusion to a boy-prince of seven years old whom the jealous
gods carried off to the sky. See the _Ōkagami_.
[5] Those who stand in a circle round the dancers while the latter
change their clothes.
[6] Reading ‘Sadaijin,’ not ‘Sadaishō.’
[7] Another illegitimate son of the Emperor; Genji’s step-brother.
[8] Fujitsubo’s brother; Murasaki’s father.
[9] Another name for the _nadeshiko_, ‘Child-of-my-heart,’ see p. 58.
[10] _Shū-i Shū_ 967.
[11] A sō no koto.
[12] That hate kills is a fundamental thesis of the book.
[13] ‘So withered is the grass beneath its trees that the young colt
will not graze there and the reapers do not come.’
[14] ‘So sweet is its shade that all the summer through its leafy
avenues are thronged,’ alluding to the lady’s many lovers.
[15] The headquarters of the Ladies of the Bedchamber.
[16] An old folk-song the refrain of which is ‘At the melon-hoeing he
said he loved me and what am I to do, what am I to do?’
[17] The poem referred to is not the famous _Lute Girl’s Song_, but a
much shorter one (_Works_ x. 8) on a similar theme. O-chou is the
modern Wu-ch‘ang in Hupeh.
[18] In the song the lady says: ‘The door is not bolted or barred.
Come quickly and talk to me. Am I another’s bride, that you should be
so careful and shy?’
[18] The rank of Empress was often not conferred till quite late in a
reign. It was of course Fujitsubo whom the Emperor chose in this case.
[19] And therefore debarred from taking part in political life.
CHAPTER VIII
THE FLOWER FEAST
About the twentieth day of the second month the Emperor gave a Chinese
banquet under the great cherry-tree of the Southern Court. Both
Fujitsubo and the Heir Apparent were to be there. Kōkiden, although
she knew that the mere presence of the Empress was sufficient to spoil
her pleasure, could not bring herself to forego so delightful an
entertainment. After some promise of rain the day turned out
magnificent; and in full sunshine, with the birds singing in every
tree, the guests (royal princes, noblemen and professional poets
alike) were handed the rhyme words which the Emperor had drawn by lot,
and set to work to compose their poems. It was with a clear and
ringing voice that Genji read out the word ‘Spring’ which he had
received as the rhyme-sound of his poem. Next came Tō no Chūjō who,
feeling that all eyes were upon him and determined to impress himself
favourably on his audience, moved with the greatest possible elegance
and grace; and when on receiving his rhyme he announced his name,
rank, and titles, he took great pains to speak pleasantly as well as
audibly. Many of the other gentlemen were rather nervous and looked
quite pale as they came forward, yet they acquitted themselves well
enough. But the professional poets, particularly owing to the high
standard of accomplishment which the Emperor’s and Heir Apparent’s
lively interest in Chinese poetry had at that time diffused
through the Court, were very ill at ease; as they crossed the long
space of the garden on their way to receive their rhymes they felt
utterly helpless. A simple Chinese verse is surely not much to ask of
a professional poet; but they all wore an expression of the deepest
gloom. One expects elderly scholars to be somewhat odd in their
movements and behaviour, and it was amusing to see the lively concern
with which the Emperor watched their various but always uncouth and
erratic methods of approaching the Throne. Needless to say a great
deal of music had been arranged for. Towards dusk the delightful dance
known as the Warbling of Spring Nightingales was performed, and when
it was over the Heir Apparent, remembering the Festival of Red Leaves,
placed a wreath on Genji’s head and pressed him so urgently that it
was impossible for him to refuse. Rising to his feet he danced very
quietly a fragment of the sleeve-turning passage in the Wave Dance. In