The tale of Genji
a few moments he was seated again, but even into this brief extract
from a long dance he managed to import an unrivalled charm and grace.
Even his father-in-law who was not in the best of humour with him was
deeply moved and found himself wiping away a tear.
‘And why have we not seen Tō no Chūjō?’ said the Heir Apparent.
Whereupon Chūjō danced the Park of Willow Flowers, giving a far more
complete performance than Genji, for no doubt he knew that he would be
called upon and had taken trouble to prepare his dance. It was a great
success and the Emperor presented him with a cloak, which everyone
said was a most unusual honour. After this the other young noblemen
who were present danced in no particular order, but it was now so dark
that it was impossible to discriminate between their performances.
Then the poems were opened and read aloud. The reading of Genji’s
verses was continually interrupted by loud murmurs of applause.
Even the professional poets were deeply impressed, and it may well be
imagined what pride the Emperor, to whom at times Genji was a source
of consolation and delight, watched him upon such an occasion as this.
Fujitsubo, when she allowed herself to glance in his direction,
marvelled that even Kōkiden could find it in her heart to hate him.
‘It is because he is fond of me; there can be no other reason,’ she
decided at last and the verse ‘Were I but a common mortal who now am
gazing at the beauty of this flower, from its sweet petals not long
should I withhold the dew of love,’ framed itself on her lips, though
she dared not utter it aloud.
It was now very late and the banquet was over. The guests had
scattered. The Empress and the Heir Apparent had both returned to the
Palace—all was still. The moon had risen very bright and clear, and
Genji, heated with wine, could not bear to quit so lovely a scene. The
people at the Palace were probably all plunged in a heavy sleep. On
such a night it was not impossible that some careless person might
have left some door unfastened, some shutter unbarred. Cautiously and
stealthily he crept towards Fujitsubo’s apartments and inspected them.
Every bolt was fast. He sighed; here there was evidently nothing to be
done. He was passing the loggia of Kōkiden’s palace when he noticed
that the shutters of the third arch were not drawn. After the banquet
Kōkiden herself had gone straight to the Emperor’s rooms. There did
not seem to be anyone about. A door leading from the loggia into the
house was standing open, but he could hear no sound within. ‘It is
under just such circumstances as this that one is apt to drift into
compromising situations,’ thought Genji. Nevertheless he climbed
quietly on to the balustrade and peeped. Every one must be asleep. But
no; a very agreeable young voice with an intonation which was
certainly not that of any waiting-woman or common person was softly
humming the last two lines of the _Oborozuki-yo_.[1] Was not the voice
coming towards him? It seemed so, and stretching out his hand he
suddenly found that he was grasping a lady’s sleeve. ‘Oh, how you
frightened me,’ she cried. ‘Who is it?’ ‘Do not be alarmed,’ he
whispered. ‘That both of us were not content to miss the beauty of
this departing night is proof more clear than the half-clouded moon
that we were meant to meet,’ and as he recited the words he took her
gently by the hand and led her into the house, closing the door behind
them. Her surprised and puzzled air fascinated him. ‘There is someone
there,’ she whispered tremulously, pointing to the inner room. ‘Child’
he answered, ‘I am allowed to go wherever I please and if you send for
your friends they will only tell you that I have every right to be
here. But if you will stay quietly here....’ It was Genji. She knew
his voice and the discovery somewhat reassured her. She thought his
conduct rather strange, but she was determined that he should not
think her prudish or stiff. And so because he on his side was still
somewhat excited after the doings of the evening, while she was far
too young and pliant to offer any serious resistance, he soon got his
own way with her.
Suddenly they saw to their discomfiture that dawn was creeping into
the sky. She looked, thought Genji, as though many disquieting
reflections were crowding into her mind. ‘Tell me your name’ he said.
‘How can I write to you unless you do? Surely this is not going to be
our only meeting?’ She answered with a poem in which she said that
names are of this world only and he would not care to know hers if he
were resolved that their love should last till worlds to come. It
was a mere quip and Genji, amused at her quickness, answered ‘You are
quite right. It was a mistake on my part to ask.’ And he recited the
poem ‘While still I seek to find on which blade dwells the dew, a
great wind shakes the grasses of the level land.’ ‘If you did not
repent of this meeting,’ he continued, ‘you would surely tell me who
you are. I do not believe that you want....’ But here he was
interrupted by the noise of people stirring in the next room. There
was a great bustle and it was clear that they would soon be starting
out to fetch Princess Kōkiden back from the Palace. There was just
time to exchange fans in token of their new friendship before Genji
was forced to fly precipitately from the room. In his own apartments
he found many of his gentlemen waiting for him. Some were awake, and
these nudged one another when he entered the room as though to say
‘Will he never cease these disreputable excursions?’ But discretion
forbade them to show that they had seen him and they all pretended to
be fast asleep. Genji too lay down, but he could not rest. He tried to
recall the features of the lady with whom he had just spent so
agreeable a time. Certainly she must be one of Kōkiden’s sisters.
Perhaps the fifth or sixth daughter, both of whom were still
unmarried. The handsomest of them (or so he had always heard) were
Prince Sochi’s wife and the fourth daughter, the one with whom Tō no
Chūjō got on so badly. It would really be rather amusing if it did
turn out to be Chūjō’s wife. The sixth was shortly to be married to
the Heir Apparent. How tiresome if it were she! But at present he
could think of no way to make sure. She had not behaved at all as
though she did not want to see him again. Why then had she refused to
give him any chance of communicating with her? In fact he worried
about the matter so much and turned it over in his mind with such
endless persistency that it soon became evident he had fallen deeply
in love with her. Nevertheless no sooner did the recollection of
Fujitsubo’s serious and reticent demeanour come back to his mind than
he realized how incomparably more she meant to him than this
light-hearted lady.
That day the after-banquet kept him occupied till late at night. At
the Emperor’s command he performed on the thirteen-stringed zithern
and had an even greater success than with his dancing on the day
before. At dawn Fujitsubo retired to the Emperor’s rooms. Disappointed
in his hope that the lady of last night would somewhere or somehow
make her appearance on the scene, he sent for Yoshikiyo and Koremitsu
with whom all his secrets were shared and bade them keep watch upon
the lady’s family. When he returned next day from duty at the Palace
they reported that they had just witnessed the departure of several
coaches which had been drawn up under shelter in the Courtyard of the
Watch. ‘Among a group of persons who seemed to be the domestic
attendants of those for whom the coaches were waiting two gentlemen
came threading their way in a great hurry. These we recognized as Shii
no Shōshō and Uchūben,[2] so there is little doubt that the carriages
belonged to Princess Kōkiden. For the rest we noted that the ladies
were by no means ill looking and that the whole party drove away in
three carriages.’ Genji’s heart beat fast. But he was no nearer than
before to finding out which of the sisters it had been. Supposing her
father, the Minister of the Right, should hear anything of this, what
a to-do there would be! It would indeed mean his absolute ruin. It was
a pity that while he was about it he did not stay with her till it was
a little lighter. But there it was! He did not know her face, but yet
he was determined to recognize her. How? He lay on his bed
devising and rejecting endless schemes. Murasaki too must be growing
impatient. Days had passed since he had visited her and he remembered
with tenderness how low-spirited she became when he was not able to be
with her. But in a moment his thoughts had returned to the unknown
lady. He still had her fan. It was a folding fan with ribs of
hinoki-wood and tassels tied in a splice-knot. One side was covered
with silverleaf on which was painted a dim moon, giving the impression
of a moon reflected in water. It was a device which he had seen many
times before, but it had agreeable associations for him, and
continuing the metaphor of the ‘grass on the moor’ which she had used
in her poem he wrote on the fan—‘Has mortal man ever puzzled his head
with such a question before as to ask where the moon goes to when she
leaves the sky at dawn?’ And he put the fan safely away. It was on his
conscience that he had not for a long while been to the Great Hall;
but fearing that Murasaki too might be feeling very unhappy he first
went home to give her her lessons. Every day she was improving not
only in looks, but also in amiability of character. The beauty of her
disposition was indeed quite out of the common. The idea that so
perfect a nature was in his hands, to train and cultivate as he
thought best, was very attractive to Genji. It might however have been
objected that to receive all her education from a young man is likely
to make a girl somewhat forward in her manner.
First there was a great deal to tell her about what had happened at
the Court entertainments of the last few days. Then followed her music
lesson, and already it was time to go. ‘Oh why must he always go away
so soon?’ she wondered sadly, but by now she was so used to it that
she no longer fretted as she had done a little while ago.
At the Great Hall he could, as usual, scarcely get a word out of
Aoi. The moment that he sat idle a thousand doubts and puzzles began
to revolve in his mind. He took up his zithern and began to sing:
Not softlier pillowed is my head
That rests by thine, unloving bride,
Than were those jagged stones my bed
Through which the falls of Nuki stride.
At this moment Aoi’s father came by and began to discuss the unusual
success of the recent festivities. ‘Old as I am,’ he said—‘and I may
say that I have lived to see four illustrious sovereigns occupy the
Throne, I have never taken part in a banquet which produced verses so
spirited or dancing and music so admirably performed. Talent of every
description seems at present to exist in abundance; but it is
creditable to those in authority that they knew how to make good use
of it. For my part I enjoyed myself so much that had I but been a few
years younger I would positively have joined in the dancing!’ ‘No
special steps were taken to discover the musicians,’ answered Genji.
‘We merely used those who were known to the government in one part of
the country and another as capable performers. If I may say so, it was
Chūjō’s Willow Dance that made the deepest impression and is likely
always to be remembered as a remarkable performance. But if you, Sir,
had indeed honoured us a new lustre would have been added to my
Father’s reign.’ Aoi’s brothers now arrived and leaning against the
balustrade gave a little concert, their various instruments blending
delightfully.
Fugitive as their meeting had been it had sufficed to plunge the lady