Let us now change our subject. The Emperor, though he had already passed the meridian of life, was still fond of the society of the fair sex. And his Court was full of ladies who were well versed in the ways of the world. Some of these would occasionally amuse themselves by paying attentions to Genji. We will here relate the following amusing incident:—
There was at the Court a Naishi-no-Ske, who was already no longer young, and commonly called Gen-Naishi-no-Ske. Both her family and character were good. She was, however, in spite of her age, still coquettish, which was her only fault. Genji often felt amused at her being so young in temperament, and he enjoyed occasionally talking nonsense with her. She used to attend on the Emperor while his hair was being dressed. One day, after he had retired into his dressing-room, she remained in the other room, and was smoothing her own hair. Genji happened to pass by. He stole unperceived into the room and slyly tugged the skirt of her robe. She started, and instinctively half concealed her face with an old-fashioned fan, and looked back at Genji with an arch glance in her sunken eyes. “What an unsuitable fan for you!” exclaimed Genji, and took it from her hand. It was made of reddish paper, apparently long in use, and upon it an ancient forest had been thickly painted. In a corner was written, in antique style, the following words:—
“On grasses old, 'neath forest trees,
No steed will browse or swain delay,
However real that grass may be,
'Tis neither good for food nor play.”
Genji was highly amused. “There are many things one might write on fans,” thought he; “what made her think of writing such odd lines as these?”
“Ah!” said Genji, “I see, ‘its summer shade is still thick though!' ”4
While he was joking he felt something like nervousness in thinking what people might say if anyone happened to see him flirting with such an elderly lady. She, on her side, had no such fear. She replied—
“If beneath that forest tree,
The steed should come or swain should be,
Where that ancient forest grows,
Is grass for food, and sweet repose.”
“What?” retorted Genji,
“If my steed should venture near,
Perhaps he'd find a rival there,
Some one's steed full well, I ween,
Rejoices in these pastures green.”
And quitted the room.
The Emperor, who had been peeping unobserved into it, after he had finished his toilet, laughed heartily to himself at the scene.
Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ was somehow informed of Genji's fun with this lady, and became anxious to discover how far he meant to carry on the joke. He therefore sought her acquaintance. Genji knew nothing of this. It happened on a cool summer evening that Genji was sauntering round the Ummeiden in the palace yard. He heard the sound of a biwa (mandolin) proceeding from a veranda. It was played by this lady. She performed well upon it, for she was often accustomed to play it before the Emperor along with male musicians. It sounded very charming. She was also singing to it the “Melon grower.”
“Ah!” thought Genji, “the singing woman in Gakshoo, whom the poet spoke of, may have been like this one,” and he stood still and listened. Slowly he approached near the veranda, humming slowly, as he went, “Adzmaya,” which she soon noticed, and took up the song, “Do open and come in! but
I do not believe you're in the rain,
Nor that you really wish to come in.”
Genji at once responded,
“Whose love you may be I know not,
But I'll not stand outside your cot,”
and was going away, when he suddenly thought, “This is too abrupt!” and coming back, he entered the apartment.
How great was the joy of Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, who had followed Genji unperceived by him, when he saw this. He contrived a plan to frighten him, so he reconnoitred in order to find some favorable opportunity.
The evening breeze blew chill, and Genji it appears was becoming very indifferent. Choosing this moment Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ slyly stepped forth to the spot where Genji was resting.
Genji soon noticed his footsteps, but he never imagined that it was his brother-in-law. He thought it was Suri-no-Kami, a great friend of the lady. He did not wish to be seen by this man. He reproached her for knowing that he was expected, but that she did not give him any hint. Carrying his Naoshi on his arm, he hid himself behind a folding screen. Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, suppressing a laugh, advanced to the side of the screen, and began to fold it from one end to the other, making a crashing noise as he did so. The lady was in a dilemma, and stood aloof. Genji would fain have run out, and concealed himself elsewhere, but he could not get on his Naoshi, and his head-dress was all awry. The Chiûjiâ spoke not a word lest he should betray himself, but making a pretended angry expostulation, he drew his sword. All at once the lady threw herself at his feet, crying, “My lord! my lord!” Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ could scarcely constrain himself from laughing. She was a woman of about fifty seven, but her excitement was more like that of a girl of twenty.
Genji gradually perceived that the man's rage was only simulated, and soon became aware who it was that was there; so he suddenly rushed out, and catching hold of Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ's sword-arm, pinched it severely. Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ no longer maintained his disguise, but burst into loud laughter.
“How are you my friend, were you in earnest?” exclaimed Genji, jestingly—“but first let me put on my Naoshi.” But Tâno-Chiûjiâ caught it, and tried to prevent him putting it on.
“Then I will have yours,” cried Genji, seizing the end of Tâno-Chiûjiâ's sash, and beginning to unfasten it, while the latter resisted. Then they both began to struggle, and their Naoshi, soon began to tear.
“Ah,” cried Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ,
Like the Naoshi to the eye,
Your secrets all discovered lie.”
“Well,” replied Genji,
“This secret if so well you know,
Why am I now disturbed by you?”
And they both quitted the room without much noticing the state of their garments.
Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ proceeded to his official chamber, and Genji to his own apartment. The sash and other things which they had left behind them were soon afterwards sent to Genji by the lady.
The sash was that of Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ. Its color was somewhat deeper than his own, and while he was looking at this, he suddenly noticed that one end of a sleeve of his own Naoshi was wanting. “Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, I suppose, has carried it off, but I have him also, for here is his sash!” A page boy from Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ's office hereupon entered, carrying a packet in which the missing sleeve was wrapped, and a message advising Genji to get it mended before all things. “Fancy if I had not got this sash?” thought Genji, as he made the boy take it back to his master in return.
In the morning they were in attendance at Court. They were both serious and solemn in demeanor, as it happened to be a day when there was more official business than on other days; Tâno-Chiûjiâ (who being chief of the Kurand, which office has to receive and despatch official documents) was especially much occupied. Nevertheless they were amused themselves at seeing each other's solemn gravity.
In an interval, when free from duty, Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ came up to Genji and said, with envious eyes, “Have you not been a little scared in your private expedition?” when Genji replied, “No, why so? There was nothing serious in it; but I do sympathize with one who took so much useless trouble.”
They then cautioned each other to be discreet about the matter, which became afterwards a subject for laughter between them.
Now even some Royal Princes would give way to Genji, on account of his father's favor towards him, but Tâ-no-Chiûjiâ, on the contrary, was always prepared to dispute with him on any subject, and did not yield to him in any way. He was the only brother of the Lady Aoi by the same Royal mother, with an influential State personage for their father, and in his eyes there did not seem to be much difference between himself and Genji.
The incidents of the rivalry between them, therefore, were often very amusing, though we cannot relate them all.
In the month of July the Princess Wistaria was proclaimed Empress. This was done because the Emperor had a notion of abdication in favor of the Heir-apparent and of making the son of the Princess Wistaria the Heir-apparent to the new Emperor, but there was no appropriate guardian or supporter, and all relations on the mother's side were of the Royal blood, and thereby disqualified from taking any active part in political affairs.
For this reason the Emperor wished to make the position of the mother firmer.
The mother of the Heir-apparent, whom this arrangement left still a simple Niogo, was naturally hurt and uneasy at another being proclaimed Empress. Indeed she was the mother of the Heir-apparent, and had been so for more than twenty years. And the public remarked that it was a severe trial for her to be thus superseded by another.