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.
Other high courtiers danced, in no fixed order, but as it was growing dark one could not easily tell who were the better dancers. The poems were read. Genji’s was so remarkable that the reader paused to comment upon each line. The professors were deeply moved. Since Genji was for the emperor a shining light, the poem could not fail to move him too. As for the empress, she wondered how Kokiden could so hate the youth — and reflected on her own misfortune in being so strangely drawn to him.
“Could I see the blossom as other blossoms,
Then would there be no dew to cloud my heart.”
She recited it silently to herself. How then did it go the rounds and presently reach me?
The festivities ended late in the night.
The courtiers went their ways, the empress and the crown prince departed, all was quiet. The moon came out more brightly. It wanted proper appreciation, thought Genji. The ladies in night attendance upon the emperor would be asleep. Expecting no visitors, his own lady might have left a door open a crack. He went quietly up to her apartments, but the door of the one whom he might ask to show him in was tightly closed. He sighed. Still not ready to give up, he made his way to the gallery by Kokiden’s pavilion. The third door from the north was open. Kokiden herself was with the emperor, and her rooms were almost deserted. The hinged door at the far corner was open too. All was silent. It was thus, he thought, that a lady invited her downfall. He slipped across the gallery and up to the door of the main room and looked inside. Everyone seemed to be asleep.
“‘What can compare with a misty moon of spring?’” It was a sweet young voice, so delicate that its owner could be no ordinary serving woman.
She came (could he believe it?) to the door. Delighted, he caught at her sleeve.
“Who are you?” She was frightened.
“There is nothing to be afraid of.
“Late in the night we enjoy a Misty moon.
There is nothing misty about the bond between us.”
Quickly and lightly he lifted her down to the gallery and slid the door closed. Her surprise pleased him enormously.
Trembling, she called for help.
“It will do you no good. I am always allowed my way. Just be quiet, if you will, please.”
She recognized his voice and was somewhat reassured. Though of course upset, she evidently did not wish him to think her wanting in good manners. It may have been because he was still a little drunk that he could not admit the possibility of letting her go; and she, young and irresolute, did not know how to send him on his way. He was delighted with her, but also
