for the loss of Genji. Yet (one finds it hard to condone such greed) Genji was the one she really wanted.
Since Tō no Chūjō was secretive, Genji did not know that he had been replaced. Whenever Naishi caught sight of him she showered him with reproaches. He pitied her in her declining years and would have liked to do something for her, but was not inclined to trouble himself greatly.
One evening in the cool after a shower he was strolling past the Ummeiden Pavilion. Naishi was playing on her lute, most appealingly. She was a unique mistress of the instrument, invited sometimes to join men in concerts before the emperor. Unrequited love gave her playing tonight an especial poignancy.
“Shall I marry the melon farmer?” she was singing, in very good voice.
Though not happy at the thought of having a melon farmer supplant him, he stopped to listen. Might the song of the maiden of E-chou, long ago, have had the same plaintive appeal? Naishi seemed to have fallen into a meditative silence. Humming “The Eastern Cottage,” he came up to her door. She joined in as he sang: “Open my door and come in.” Few women would have been so bold.
“No one waits in the rain at my eastern cottage.
Wet are the sleeves of the one who waits within.”
It did not seem right, he thought, that he should be the victim of such reproaches. Had she not yet, after all these years, learned patience?
“On closer terms with the eaves of your eastern cottage
I would not be, for someone is there before me.”
He would have preferred to move on, but, remembering his manners, decided to accept her invitation. For a time they exchanged pleasant banter. All very novel, thought Genji.
Tō no Chūjō had long resented Genji’s self-righteous way of chiding him for his own adventures. The proper face Genji showed the world seemed to hide rather a lot. Tō no Chūjō had been on the watch for an opportunity to give his friend a little of what he deserved. Now it had come. The sanctimonious one would now be taught a lesson.
It was late, and a chilly wind had come up. Genji had dozed off, it seemed. Tō no Chūjō slipped into the room. Too nervous to have more than dozed off, Genji heard him, but did not suspect who it would be. The superintendent of palace repairs, he guessed, was still visiting her. Not for the world would he have had the old man catch him in the company of the old woman.
“This is a fine thing. I’m going. The spider surely told you to expect him, and you didn’t tell me.”
He hastily gathered his clothes and hid behind a screen. Fighting back laughter, Tō no Chūjō gave the screen an unnecessarily loud thump and folded it back. Naishi had indulged her amorous ways over long years and had had similarly disconcerting experiences often enough before. What did this person have in mind? What did he mean to do to her Genji? She fluttered about seeking to restrain the intruder. Still ignorant of the latter’s identity, Genji thought of headlong flight; but then he thought of his own retreating figure, robes in disorder, cap all askew. Silently and wrathfully, Tō no Chūjō was brandishing a long sword.
“Please, sir, please.”
Naishi knelt before him wringing her hands. He could hardly control the urge to laugh. Her youthful smartness had taken a great deal of contriving, but she was after all nearly sixty. She was ridiculous, hopping back and forth between two handsome young men. Tō no Chūjō was playing his role too energetically. Genji guessed who he was. He guessed too that this fury had to do with the fact that he was himself known. It all seemed very stupid and very funny. He gave the arm wielding the sword a stout pinch and Tō no Chūjō finally surrendered to laughter.
“You are insane,” said Genji. “And these jokes of yours are dangerous. Let me have my clothes, if you will.”
But Tō no Chūjō refused to surrender them.
“Well, then, let’s be undressed together.” Genji undid his friend’s belt 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
