.
and sought to pull off his clothes, and as they disputed the matter Genji burst a seam in an underrobe.
“Your fickle name so wants to be known to the world
That it bursts its way through this warmly disputed garment.
“It is not your wish, I am sure, that all the world should notice.”
Genji replied: “You taunt me, sir, with being a spectacle When you know full well that your own summer robes are showy.”
Somewhat rumpled, they went off together, the best of friends. But as Genji went to bed he felt that he had been the loser, caught in such a very compromising position.
An outraged Naishi came the next morning to return a belt and a pair of trousers. She handed Genji a note:
“I need not comment now upon my feelings.
The waves that came in together went out together, leaving a dry river bed.”
It was an inappropriate reproof after the predicament in which she had placed him, thought Genji, and yet he could imagine how upset she must be. This was his reply:
“I shall not complain of the wave that came raging in,
But of the welcoming strand I must complain.”
The belt was Tō no Chūjō‘s of a color too dark to go with Genji’s robe. He saw that he had lost a length of sleeve. A most unseemly performance. People who wandered the way of love found themselves in mad situations. With that thought he quelled his ardor.
On duty in the palace, Tō no Chūjō had the missing length of sleeve wrapped and returned, with the suggestion that it be restored to its proper place. Genji would have liked to know when he had succeeded in tearing it off. It was some comfort that he had the belt.
He returned it, wrapped in matching paper, with this poem:
“Not to be charged with having taken your take,
I return this belt of indigo undamaged.”
An answer came immediately:
“I doubted not that you took my indigo belt,
And charge you now with taking the lady too.
You will pay for it, sir, one day.”
Both were at court that afternoon. Tō no Chūjō had to smile at Genji’s cool aloofness as he sorted out petitions and orders, and his own business-like efficiency was as amusing to Genji. They exchanged frequent smiles.
Tō no Chūjō came up to Genji when no one else was near. “You have had enough, I hope,” he said, with a fierce sidelong glance, “of these clandestine adventures?”
“Why, pray, should I? The chief hurt was to you who were not invited — and it matters a great deal, since you do so love each other.” And they made a bond of silence, a vow that they would behave like the Know–Nothing River.
Tō no Chūjō lost no opportunity to remind Genji of the incident. And it had all been because of that troublesome old woman, thought Genji. He would not again make such a mistake. It was a trial to him that she continued, all girlishly, to make known her resentment. Tō no Chūjō did not tell his sister, Genji’s wife, of the affair, but he did want to keep it in reserve. Because he was his father’s favorite, Genji was treated respectfully even by princes whose mothers were of the highest rank, and only Tō no Chūjō refused to be awed by him. Indeed he was prepared to contest every small point. He and his sister, alone among the minister’s children, had the emperor’s sister for their mother. Genji belonged, it was true, to the royal family, but the son of the emperor’s sister and of his favorite minister did not feel that he had to defer to anyone; and it was impossible to deny that he was a very splendid young gentleman. The rivalry between the two produced other amusing stories, I am sure, but it would be tedious to collect and recount them.
In the Seventh Month, Fujitsubo was made empress. Genji was given a seat on the council of state. Making plans for his abdication, the emperor wanted to name Fujitsubo’s son crown prince. The child had no strong backing, however. His uncles were all princes of the blood, and it was not for them to take command of public affairs. The emperor therefore wanted Fujitsubo in an unassailable position from which to promote her son’s career.
Kokiden’s anger, most naturally, reached new peaks of intensity.
“You needn’t be in such a stir,” said the emperor. “Our son’s day is coming, and no one will be in a position to challenge you.”
As always, people talked. It was not an easy thing, in naming an empress, to pass over a lady who had for more than twenty years been the mother of the crown prince. Genji was in attendance the night Fujitsubo made her formal appearance as empress. Among His Majesty’s ladies she alone was the daughter of an empress, and she was herself a flawless jewel; but for one man, at least, it was not an occasion for gladness. With anguish he thought of the lady inside the ceremonial palanquin. She would now be quite beyond his reach.
“I see her disappear behind the clouds
And am left to grope my way through deepest darkness.”
The days and months passed, and the little prince was becoming the mirror image of Genji. Though Fujitsubo was in constant tenor, it appeared that no one had guessed the truth. How, people asked, could someone who was not Genji yet be as handsome as Genji? They were, Genji and the little prince, like the sun and moon side by side in the heavens.
The Tale of Genji, by Murasaki Shikibu
Chapter 8
The Festival of the Cherry Blossoms
Towards the end of the Second Month, the festival of the cherry blossoms took place in the Grand Hall. The empress and the crown prince were seated to the left and right of the throne. This arrangement of course displeased Kokiden, but she put in an appearance all the same, unable to let such an occasion pass. It was a beautiful day. The sky was clear, birds were singing. Adepts at Chinese poetry, princes and high courtiers and others, drew lots to fix the rhyme schemes for their poems.
“I have drawn ‘spring,’” said Genji, his voice finely resonant in even so brief a statement.
Tō no Chūjō might have been disconcerted at something in the eyes of the assembly as they turned from Genji to him, but he was calm and poised, and his voice as he announced his rhyme was almost as distinguished as Genji’s. Several of the high courtiers seemed reluctant to follow the two, and the lesser courtiers were more reluctant still. They came stiffly out into the radiant garden, awed by the company in which they found themselves — for both the emperor and the crown prince were connoisseurs of poetry, and it was a time when superior poets were numerous. To produce a Chinese poem is never an easy task, but for them it seemed positive torture. Then there were the great professors who took such occasions in their stride, though their court dress may have been a little shabby. It was pleasant to observe the emperor’s interest in all these varied sorts of people.
The emperor had of course ordered the concert to be planned with the greatest care. “Spring Warbler,” which came as the sun was setting, was uncommonly fine. Remembering how Genji had danced at the autumn excursion, the crown prince himself presented a sprig of blossoms for his cap and pressed him so hard to dance that he could not refuse. Though he danced only a very brief passage, the quiet waving of his sleeves as he came to the climax was incomparable. The Minister of the Left forgot his anger at his negligent son-in-law. There were tears in his eyes.
“Where is Tō no Chūjō?” asked the emperor. “Have him come immediately.”
Tō no Chūjō, whose dance was “Garden of Willows and Flowers,” danced with more careful and deliberate art than had Genji, perhaps because he had been prepared for the royal summons. It was so interesting a performance that the emperor presented him with a robe — a most gratifying sign of royal approval, everyone agreed.
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