In a certain reign1 there was a lady not of the first rank whom the emperor loved more than any of the others. The grand ladies with high ambitions thought her a presumptuous2 upstart, and lesser3 ladies were still more resentful. Everything she did offended someone. Probably aware of what was happening, she fell seriously ill and came to spend more time at home than at court. The emperor’s pity and affection quite passed bounds. No longer caring what his ladies and courtiers might say, he behaved as if intent upon stirring gossip.
His court looked with very great misgiving4 upon what seemed a reckless infatuation. In China just such an unreasoning passion had been the undoing5 of an emperor and had spread turmoil6 through the land. As the resentment7 grew, the example of Yang Kuei-fei was the one most frequently cited against the lady.
She survived despite her troubles, with the help of an unprecedented8 bounty10 of love. Her father, a grand councillor, was no longer living. Her mother, an old-fashioned lady of good lineage, was determined11 that matters be no different for her than for ladies who with paternal13 support were making careers at court. The mother was attentive14 to the smallest detail of etiquette15 and deportment. Yet there was a limit to what she could do. The sad fact was that the girl was without strong backing, and each time a new incident arose she was next to defenseless.
It may have been because of a bond in a former life that she bore the emperor a beautiful son, a jewel beyond compare. The emperor was in a fever of impatience16 to see the child, still with the mother’s family; and when, on the earliest day possible, he was brought to court, he did indeed prove to be a most marvelous babe. The emperor’s eldest17 son was the grandson of the Minister of the Right. The world assumed that with this powerful support he would one day be named crown prince; but the new child was far more beautiful. On public occasions the emperor continued to favor his eldest son. The new child was a private treasure, so to speak, on which to lavish18 uninhibited affection.
The mother was not of such a low rank as to attend upon the emperor’s personal needs. In the general view she belonged to the upper classes. He insisted on having her always beside him, however, and on nights when there was music or other entertainment he would require that she be present. Sometimes the two of them would sleep late, and even after they had risen he would not let her go. Because of his unreasonable19 demands she was widely held to have fallen into immoderate habits out of keeping with her rank.
With the birth of the son, it became yet clearer that she was the emperor’s favorite. The mother of the eldest son began to feel uneasy. If she did not manage carefully, she might see the new son designated crown prince. She had come to court before the emperor’s other ladies, she had once been favored over the others, and she had borne several of his children. However much her complaining might trouble and annoy him, she was one lady whom he could not ignore.
Though the mother of the new son had the emperor’s love, her detractors were numerous and alert to the slightest inadvertency. She was in continuous torment20, feeling that she had nowhere to turn. She lived in the paulownia Court. The emperor had to pass the apartments of other ladies to reach hers, and it must be admitted that their resentment at his constant comings and goings was not unreasonable. Her visits to the royal chambers21 were equally frequent. The robes of her women were in a scandalous state from trash strewn along bridges and galleries. Once some women conspired22 to have both doors of a gallery she must pass bolted shut, and so she found herself unable to advance or retreat. Her anguish23 over the mounting list of insults was presently more than the emperor could bear. He moved a lady out of rooms adjacent to his own and assigned them to the lady of the paulownia Court and so, of course, aroused new resentment.
When the young prince reached the age of three, the resources of the treasury24 and the stewards’ offices were exhausted25 to make the ceremonial bestowing27 of trousers as elaborate as that for the eldest son. Once more there was malicious28 talk; but the prince himself, as he grew up, was so superior of mien29 and disposition30 that few could find it in themselves to dislike him. Among the more discriminating31, indeed, were some who marveled that such a paragon32 had been born into this world.
In the summer the boy’s mother, feeling vaguely33 unwell, asked that she be allowed to go home. The emperor would not hear of it. Since they were by now used to these indispositions, he begged her to stay and see what course her health would take. It was steadily34 worse, and then, suddenly, everyone could see that she was failing. Her mother came pleading that he let her go home. At length he agreed.
Fearing that even now she might be the victim of a gratuitous35 insult, she chose to go off without ceremony, leaving the boy behind. Everything must have an end, and the emperor could no longer detain her. It saddened him inexpressibly that he was not even permitted to see her off. A lady of great charm and beauty, she was sadly emaciated36. She was sunk in melancholy37 thoughts, but when she tried to put them into words her voice was almost inaudible. The emperor was quite beside himself, his mind a confusion of things that had been and things that were to come. He wept and vowed38 undying love, over and over again. The lady was unable to reply. She seemed listless and drained of strength, as if she scarcely knew what was happening. Wanting somehow to help, the emperor ordered that she be given the honor of a hand-drawn40 carriage. He returned to her apartments and still could not bring himself to the final parting.
“We vowed that we would go together down the road we all must go. You must not leave me behind.”
She looked sadly up at him. “If I had suspected that it would be so —” She was gasping41 for breath.
“I leave you, to go the road we all must go.
The road I would choose, if only I could, is the other.”
It was evident that she would have liked to say more; but she was so weak that it had been a struggle to say even this much.
The emperor was wondering again if he might not keep her with him and have her with him to the end.
But a message came from her mother, asking that she hurry. “We have obtained the agreement of eminent42 ascetics43 to conduct the necessary services, and I fear that they are to begin this evening.”
So, in desolation, he let her go. He passed a sleepless44 night.
He sent off a messenger and was beside himself with impatience and apprehension45 even before there had been time for the man to reach the lady’s house and return. The man arrived to find the house echoing with laments46. She had died at shortly past midnight. He returned sadly to the palace. The emperor closed himself up in his private apartments.
He would have liked at least to keep the boy with him, but no precedent9 could be found for having him away from his mother’s house through the mourning. The boy looked in bewilderment at the weeping courtiers, at his father too, the tears streaming over his face. The death of a parent is sad under any circumstances, and this one was indescribably sad.
But there must be an end to weeping, and orders were given for the funeral. If only she could rise to the heavens with the smoke from the pyre, said the mother between her sobs47. She rode in the hearse with several attendants, and what must her feelings have been when they reached Mount Otaki? It was there that the services were conducted with the utmost solemnity and dignity.
She looked down at the body. “With her before me, I cannot persuade myself that she is dead. At the sight of her ashes I can perhaps accept what has happened.”
The words were rational enough, but she was so distraught that she seemed about to fall from the carriage. The women had known that it would be so and did what they could for her.
A messenger came from the palace with the news that the lady had been raised to the Third Rank, and presently a nunciary arrived to read the official order. For the emperor, the regret was scarcely bearable that he had not had the courage of his resolve to appoint her an imperial consort48, and he wished to make amends49 by promoting her one rank. There were many who resented even this favor. Others, however, of a more sensitive nature, saw more than ever what a dear lady she had been, simple and gentle and difficult to find fault with. It was because she had been excessively favored by the emperor that she had been the victim of such malice50. The grand ladies were now reminded of how sympathetic and unassuming she had been. It was for just such an occasion, they remarked to one another, that the phrase “how well one knows” had been invented.
The days went dully by. The emperor was careful to send offerings for the weekly memorial services. His grief was unabated and he spent his nights in tears, refusing to summon his other ladies. His serving women were plunged51 into dew-drenched autumn.
There was one lady, however, who refused to be placated52. “How ridiculous,” said the lady of the Kokiden pavilion, mother of his eldest son, “that the infatuation should continue even now.”
The emperor’s thoughts were on his youngest son even when he was with his eldest. He sent off intelligent nurses and serving women to the house of the boy’s grandmother, where he was still in residence, and made constant inquiry53 after him.
The autumn tempests blew and suddenly the evenings were chilly54. Lost in his grief, the emperor sent off a note to the grandmother. His messenger was a woman of middle rank called Myōbu, whose father was a guards officer. It was on a beautiful moonlit night that he dispatched her, a night that brought memories. On such nights he and the dead lady had played the koto for each other. Her koto had somehow had overtones lacking in other instruments, and when she would interrupt the music to speak, the words too carried echoes of their own. Her face, her manner — they seemed to cling to him, but with “no more substance than the lucent dream.”
Myōbu reached the grandmother’s house. Her carriage was drawn through the gate — and what a lonely place it was! The old lady had of course lived in widowed retirement55, but, not wishing to distress56 her only daughter, she had managed to keep the place in repair. Now all was plunged into darkness. The weeds grew ever higher and the autumn winds tore threateningly at the garden. Only the rays of the moon managed to make their way through the tangles57.
The carriage was pulled up and Myōbu alighted.
The grandmother was at first unable to speak. “It has been a trial for me to go on living, and now to have one such as you come through the dews of this wild garden — I cannot tell you how much it shames me.”
“A lady who visited your house the other day told us that she had to see with her own eyes before she could really understand your loneliness and sorrow. I am not at all a sensitive person, and yet I am unable to control these tears.”
After a pause she delivered a message from the emperor. “He has said that for a time it all seemed as if he were wandering in a nightmare, and then when his agitation58 subsided59 he came to see that the nightmare would not end. If only he had a companion in his grief, he thought — and it occurred to him that you, my lady, might be persuaded to come unobtrusively to court. He cannot bear to think of the child languishing60 in this house of tears, and hopes that you will come quickly and bring him with you. He was more than once interrupted by sobs as he spoke62, and It was apparent to all of us that he feared having us think him inexcusably weak. I came away without hearing him to the end.” “I cannot see for tears,” said the old lady. “Let these sublime63 words bring me light.”
This was the emperor’s letter: “It seems impossibly cruel that although I had hoped for comfort with the passage of time my grief should only be worse. I am particularly grieved that I do not have the boy with me, to watch him grow and mature. Will you not bring him to me? We shall think of him as a memento64.”
There could be no doubting the sincerity65 of the royal petition. A poem was appended to the letter, but when she had come to it the old lady was no longer able to see through her tears:
“At the sound of the wind, bringing dews to Miyagi plain,
I think of the tender hagi upon the moor66.”
“Tell His Majesty67,” said the grandmother after a time, “that it has been a great trial for me to live so long.‘Ashamed before the Takasago pines I think that it is not for me to be seen at court. Even if the august invitation is repeated, I shall not find it possible to accept. As for the boy, I do not know what his wishes are. The indications are that he is eager to go. It is sad for me, but as it should be. please tell His Majesty of these thoughts, secret until now. I fear that I bear a curse from a previous existence and that it would be wrong and even terrible to keep the child with me.”
“It would have given me great pleasure to look in upon him,” said Myōbu, getting up to leave. The child was asleep. “I should have liked to report to his royal father. But he will be waiting up for me, and it must be very late.”
“May I not ask you to come in private from time to time? The heart of a bereaved68 parent may not be darkness, perhaps, but a quiet talk from time to time would do much to bring light. You have done honor to this house on so many happy occasions, and now circumstances have required that you come with a sad message. The fates have not been kind. All of our hopes were on the girl, I must say again, from the day she was born, and until he died her father did not let me forget that she must go to court, that his own death, if it came early, should not deter12 me. I knew that another sort of life would be happier for a girl without strong backing, but I could not forget his wishes and sent her to court as I had promised. Blessed with favors beyond her station, she was the object of insults such as no one can be asked to endure. Yet endure them she did until finally the strain and the resentment were too much for her. And so, as I look back upon them, I know that those favors should never have been. Well, put these down, if you will, as the mad wanderings of a heart that is darkness.” She was unable to go on.
It was late.
“His Majesty says much the same thing,” replied Myōbu. “it was, he says, an intensity69 of passion such as to startle the world, and perhaps for that very reason it was fated to be brief. He cannot think of anything he has done to arouse such resentment, he says, and so he must live with resentment which seems without proper cause. Alone and utterly70 desolate71, he finds it impossible to face the world. He fears that he must seem dreadfully eccentric. How very great — he has said it over and over again — how very great his burden of guilt72 must be. One scarcely ever sees him that he is not weeping.” Myōbu too was in tears. “It is very late. I must get back before the night is quite over and tell him what I have seen.”
The moon was sinking over the hills, the air was crystal clear, the wind was cool, and the songs of the insects among the autumn grasses would by themselves have brought tears. It was a scene from which Myōbu could not easily pull herself.
“The autumn night is too short to contain my tears
Though songs of bell cricket weary, fall into silence.”
This was her farewell poem. Still she hesitated, on the point of getting into her carriage.
The old lady sent a reply:
“Sad are the insect songs among the reeds.
More sadly yet falls the dew from above the clouds.
“I seem to be in a complaining mood.”
Though gifts would have been out of place, she sent as a trifling73 memento of her daughter a set of robes, left for just such an occasion, and with them an assortment74 of bodkins and combs.
The young women who had come from court with the little prince still mourned their lady, but those of them who had acquired a taste for court life yearned75 to be back. The memory of the emperor made them join their own to the royal petitions.
But no — a crone like herself would repel76 all the fine ladies and gentlemen, said the grandmother, while on the other hand she could not bear the thought of having the child out of her sight for even a moment.
Myōbu was much moved to find the emperor waiting up for her. Making it seem that his attention was on the small and beautifully plant garden before him, now in full autumn bloom, he was talking quietly with four or five women, among the most sensitive of his attendants. He had become addicted77 to illustrations by the emperor Uda for “The Song of Everlasting78 Sorrow” and to poems by Ise and Tsurayuki on that subject, and to Chinese poems as well. He listened attentively80 as Myōbu described the scene she had found so affecting. He took up the letter she had brought from the grandmother.
“I am so awed81 by this august message that I would run away and hide; and so violent are the emotions it gives rise to that I scarcely know what to say.
“The tree that gave them shelter has withered82 and died.
One fears for the plight83 of the hagi shoots beneath.”
A strange way to put the matter, thought the emperor; but the lady must still be dazed with grief. He chose to overlook the suggestion that he himself could not help the child.
He sought to hide his sorrow, not wanting these women to see him in such poor control of himself. But it was no use. He reviewed his memo- ries over and over again, from his very earliest days with the dead lady. He had scarcely been able to bear a moment away from her while she lived. How strange that he had been able to survive the days and months since on memories alone. He had hoped to reward the grandmother’s sturdy devotion, and his hopes had come to nothing.
“Well,” he sighed, “she may look forward to having her day, if she will only live to see the boy grow up.”
Looking at the keepsakes Myōbu had brought back, he thought what a comfort it would be if some wizard were to bring him, like that Chinese emperor, a comb from the world where his lost love was dwelling84. He whispered:
“And will no wizard search her out for me,
That even he may tell me where she is?”
There are limits to the powers of the most gifted artist. The Chinese lady in the paintings did not have the luster85 of life. Yang Kuei-fei was said to have resembled the lotus of the Sublime Pond, the willows86 of the Timeless Hall. No doubt she was very beautiful in her Chinese finery. When he tried to remember the quiet charm of his lost lady, he found that there was no color of flower, no song of bird, to summon her up. Morning and night, over and over again, they had repeated to each other the lines from “The Song of Everlasting Sorrow”:
“In the sky, as birds that share a wing.
On earth, as trees that share a branch.”
It had been their vow39, and the shortness of her life had made it an empty dream.
Everything, the moaning of the wind, the humming of autumn insects, added to the sadness. But in the apartments of the Kokiden lady matters were different. It had been some time since she had last waited upon the emperor. The moonlight being so beautiful, she saw no reason not to have music deep into the night. The emperor muttered something about the bad taste of such a performance at such a time, and those who saw his distress agreed that it was an unnecessary injury. Kokiden was of an arrogant87 and intractable nature and her behavior suggested that to her the emperor’s grief was of no importance.
The moon set. The wicks in the lamps had been trimmed more than once and presently the oil was gone. Still he showed no sign of retiring. His mind on the boy and the old lady, he jotted88 down a verse:
“Tears dim the moon, even here above the clouds.
Dim must it be in that lodging89 among the reeds.”
Calls outside told him that the guard was being changed. It would be one or two in the morning. people would think his behavior strange in deed. He at length withdrew to his bedchamber. He was awake the whole night through, and in dark morning, his thoughts on the blinds that would not open, he was unable to interest himself in business of state. He scarcely touched his breakfast, and lunch seemed so remote from his inclinations90 that his attendants exchanged looks and whispers of alarm.
Not all voices were sympathetic. perhaps, some said, it had all been foreordained, but he had dismissed the talk and ignored the resentment and let the affair quite pass the bounds of reason; and now to neglect his duties so — it was altogether too much. Some even cited the example of the Chinese emperor who had brought ruin upon himself and his country.
The months passed and the young prince returned to the palace. He had grown into a lad of such beauty that he hardly seemed meant for this world — and indeed one almost feared that he might only briefly91 be a part of it. When, the following spring, it came time to name a crown prince, the emperor wanted very much to pass over his first son in favor of the younger, who, however, had no influential92 maternal93 relatives. It did not seem likely that the designation would pass unchallenged. The boy might, like his mother, be destroyed by immoderate favors. The emperor told no one of his wishes. There did after all seem to be a limit to his affections, people said; and Kokiden regained94 her confidence.
The boy’s grandmother was inconsolable. Finally, because her prayer to be with her daughter had been answered, perhaps, she breathed her last. Once more the emperor was desolate. The boy, now six, was old enough to know grief himself. His grandmother, who had been so good to him over the years, had more than once told him what pain it would cause her, when the time came, to leave him behind.
He now lived at court. When he was seven he went through the ceremonial reading of the Chinese classics, and never before had there been so fine a performance. Again a tremor95 of apprehension passed over the emperor — might it be that such a prodigy96 was not to be long for this world?
“No one need be angry with him now that his mother is gone.” He took the boy to visit the Kokiden Pavilion. “And now most especially I hope you will be kind to him.”
Admitting the boy to her inner chambers, even Kokiden was pleased. Not the sternest of warriors97 or the most unbending of enemies could have held back a smile. Kokiden was reluctant to let him go. She had two daughters, but neither could compare with him in beauty. The lesser ladies crowded about, not in the least ashamed to show their faces, all eager to amuse him, though aware that he set them off to disadvantage. I need not speak of his accomplishments98 in the compulsory99 subjects, the classics and the like. When it came to music his flute100 and koto made the heavens echo — but to recount all his virtues101 would, I fear, give rise to a suspicion that I distort the truth.
An embassy came from Korea. Hearing that among the emissaries was a skilled physiognomist, the emperor would have liked to summon him for consultation102. He decided103, however, that he must defer104 to the emperor Uda’s injunction against receiving foreigners, and instead sent this favored son to the Kōro mansion105, where the party was lodged106. The boy was disguised as the son of the grand moderator, his guardian107 at court. The wise Korean cocked his head in astonishment108.
“It is the face of one who should ascend109 to the highest place and be father to the nation,” he said quietly, as if to himself. “But to take it for such would no doubt be to predict trouble. Yet it is not the face of the minister, the deputy, who sets about ordering public affairs.”
The moderator was a man of considerable learning. There was much of interest in his exchanges with the Korean. There were also exchanges of Chinese poetry, and in one of his poems the Korean succeeded most skillfully in conveying his joy at having been able to observe such a countenance110 on this the eve of his return to his own land, and sorrow that the parting must come so soon. The boy offered a verse that was received with high praise. The most splendid of gifts were bestowed111 upon him. The wise man was in return showered with gifts from the palace.
Somehow news of the sage’s remarks leaked out, though the emperor himself was careful to say nothing. The Minister of the Right, grandfather of the crown prince and father of the Kokiden lady, was quick to hear, and again his suspicions were aroused. In the wisdom of his heart, the emperor had already analyzed112 the boy’s physiognomy after the japanese fashion and had formed tentative plans. He had thus far refrained from bestowing imperial rank on his son, and was delighted that the Korean view should so accord with his own. Lacking the support of maternal relatives, the boy would be most insecure as a prince without court rank, and the emperor could not be sure how long his own reign would last. As a commoner he could be of great service. The emperor therefore encouraged the boy in his studies, at which he was so proficient113 that it seemed a waste to reduce him to common rank. And yet — as a prince he would arouse the hostility114 of those who had cause to fear his becoming emperor. Summoning an astrologer of the Indian school, the emperor was pleased to learn that the Indian view coincided with the japanese and the Korean; and so he concluded that the boy should become a commoner with the name Minamoto or Genji.
The months and the years passed and still the emperor could not forget his lost love. He summoned various women who might console him, but apparently115 it was too much to ask in this world for one who even resembled her. He remained sunk in memories, unable to interest himself in anything. Then he was told of the Fourth Princess, daughter of a former emperor, a lady famous for her beauty and reared with the greatest care by her mother, the empress. A woman now in attendance upon the emperor had in the days of his predecessor116 been most friendly with the princess, then but a child, and even now saw her from time to time.
“I have been at court through three reigns117 now,” she said, “and never had I seen anyone who genuinely resembled my lady. But now the daughter of the empress dowager is growing up, and the resemblance is most astonishing. One would be hard put to find her equal.”
Hoping that she might just possibly be right, the emperor asked most courteously118 to have the princess sent to court. Her mother was reluctant and even fearful, however. One must remember, she said, that the mother of the crown prince was a most willful lady who had subjected the lady of the paulownia Court to open insults and presently sent her into a fatal decline. Before she had made up her mind she followed her husband in death, and the daughter was alone. The emperor renewed his petition. He said that he would treat the girl as one of his own daughters.
Her attendants and her maternal relatives and her older brother, Prince Hyōbu, consulted together and concluded that rather than languish61 at home she might seek consolation119 at court; and so she was sent off. She was called Fujitsubo. The resemblance to the dead lady was indeed astonishing. Because she was of such high birth (it may have been that people were imagining things) she seemed even more graceful120 and delicate than the other. No one could despise her for inferior rank, and the emperor need not feel shy about showing his love for her. The other lady had not particularly encouraged his attentions and had been the victim of a love too intense; and now, though it would be wrong to say that he had quite forgotten her, he found his affections shifting to the new lady, who was a source of boundless121 comfort. So it is with the affairs of this world.
Since Genji never left his father’s side, it was not easy for this new lady, the recipient122 of so many visits, to hide herself from him. The other ladies were disinclined to think themselves her inferior, and indeed each of them had her own merits. They were all rather past their prime, however. Fujitsubo’s beauty was of a younger and fresher sort. Though in her childlike shyness she made an especial effort not to be seen, Genji occasionally caught a glimpse of her face. He could not remember his own mother and it moved him deeply to learn, from the lady who had first told the emperor of Fujitsubo, that the resemblance was striking. He wanted to be near her always.
“Do not be unfriendly,” said the emperor to Fujitsubo. “Sometimes it almost seems to me too that you are his mother. Do not think him forward, be kind to him. Your eyes, your expression: you are really so uncommonly123 like her that you could pass for his mother.”
Genji’s affection for the new lady grew, and the most ordinary flower or tinted124 leaf became the occasion for expressing it. Kokiden was not pleased. She was not on good terms with Fujitsubo, and all her old resentment at Genji came back. He was handsomer than the crown prince, her chief treasure in the world, well thought of by the whole court. People began calling Genji “the shining one.” Fujitsubo, ranked beside him in the emperor’s affections, became “the lady of the radiant sun.”
It seemed a pity that the boy must one day leave behind his boyish attire125; but when he reached the age of twelve he went through his initiation126 ceremonies and received the cap of an adult. Determined that the ceremony should be in no way inferior to the crown prince’s, which had been held some years earlier in the Grand Hall, the emperor himself bustled127 about adding new details to the established forms. As for the banquet after the ceremony, he did not wish the custodians128 of the storehouses and granaries to treat it as an ordinary public occasion.
The throne faced east on the east porch, and before it were Genji’s seat and that of the minister who was to bestow26 the official cap. At the appointed hour in midafternoon Genji appeared. The freshness of his face and his boyish coiffure were again such as to make the emperor regret that the change must take place. The ritual cutting of the boy’s hair was performed by the secretary of the treasury. As the beautiful locks fell the emperor was seized with a hopeless longing129 for his dead lady. Repeatedly he found himself struggling to keep his composure. The ceremony over, the boy withdrew to change to adult trousers and descended130 into the courtyard for ceremonial thanksgiving. There was not a person in the assembly who did not feel his eyes misting over. The emperor was stirred by the deepest of emotions. He had on brief occasions been able to forget the past, and now it all came back again. Vaguely apprehensive131 lest the initiation of so young a boy bring a sudden aging, he was astonished to see that his son delighted him even more.
The Minister of the Left, who bestowed the official cap, had only one daughter, his chief joy in life. Her mother, the minister’s first wife, was a princess of the blood. The crown prince had sought the girl’s hand, but the minister thought rather of giving her to Genji. He had heard that the emperor had similar thoughts. When the emperor suggested that the boy was without adequate sponsors for his initiation and that the support of relatives by marriage might be called for, the minister quite agreed.
The company withdrew to outer rooms and Genji took his place below the princes of the blood. The minister hinted at what was on his mind, but Genji, still very young, did not quite know what to say. There came a message through a chamberlain that the minister was expected in the royal chambers. A lady-in-waiting brought the customary gifts for his services, a woman’s cloak, white and of grand proportions, and a set of robes as well. As he poured wine for his minister, the emperor recited a poem which was in fact a deeply felt admonition:
“The boyish locks are now bound up, a man’s.
And do we tie a lasting79 bond for his future?”
This was the minister’s reply:
“Fast the knot which the honest heart has tied.
May lavender, the hue132 of the troth, be as fast.”
The minister descended from a long garden bridge to give formal thanks. He received a horse from the imperial stables and a falcon133 from the secretariat. In the courtyard below the emperor, princes and high courtiers received gifts in keeping with their stations. The moderator, Genji’s guardian, had upon royal command prepared the trays and baskets now set out in the royal presence. As for Chinese chests of food and gifts, they overflowed134 the premises135, in even larger numbers than for the crown prince’s initiation. It was the most splendid and dignified136 of ceremonies.
Genji went home that evening with the Minister of the Left. The nuptial137 observances were conducted with great solemnity. The groom138 seemed to the minister and his family quite charming in his boyishness. The bride was older, and somewhat ill at ease with such a young husband.
The minister had the emperor’s complete confidence, and his principal wife, the girl’s mother, was the emperor’s sister. Both parents were therefore of the highest standing139. And now they had Genji for a son-in-law. The Minister of the Right, who as grandfather of the crown prince should have been without rivals, was somehow eclipsed. The Minister of the Left had numerous children by several ladies. One of the sons, a very handsome lad by his principal wife, was already a guards lieutenant140. Relations between the two ministers were not good; but the Minister of the Right found it difficult to ignore such a talented youth, to whom he offered the hand of his fourth and favorite daughter. His esteem141 for his new son-in-law rivaled the other minister’s esteem for Genji. To both houses the new arrangements seemed ideal.
Constantly at his father’s side, Genji spent little time at the Sanjō mansion of his bride. Fujitsubo was for him a vision of sublime beauty. If he could have someone like her — but in fact there was no one really like her. His bride too was beautiful, and she had had the advantage of every luxury; but he was not at all sure that they were meant for each other. The yearning142 in his young heart for the other lady was agony. Now that he had come of age, he no longer had his father’s permission to go behind her curtains. On evenings when there was music, he would play the flute to her koto and so communicate something of his longing, and take some comfort from her voice, soft through the curtains. Life at court was for him much preferable to life at Sanjō. Two or three days at Sanjō would be followed by five or six days at court. For the minister, youth seemed sufficient excuse for this neglect. He continued to be delighted with his son-in-law
The minister selected the handsomest and most accomplished143 of ladies to wait upon the young pair and planned the sort of diversions that were most likely to interest Genji. At the palace the emperor assigned him the apartments that had been his mother’s and took care that her retinue144 was not dispersed145. Orders were handed down to the offices of repairs and fittings to remodel146 the house that had belonged to the lady’s family. The results were magnificent. The plantings and the artificial hills had always been remarkably147 tasteful, and the grounds now swarmed148 with workmen widening the lake. If only, thought Genji, he could have with him the lady he yearned for.
The sobriquet149 “the shining Genji,” one hears, was bestowed upon him by the Korean.
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1
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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presumptuous
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| adj.胆大妄为的，放肆的，冒昧的，冒失的 | |
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lesser
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| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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misgiving
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| n.疑虑，担忧，害怕 | |
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undoing
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| n.毁灭的原因，祸根；破坏，毁灭 | |
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turmoil
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| n.骚乱，混乱，动乱 | |
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resentment
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| n.怨愤，忿恨 | |
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unprecedented
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| adj.无前例的，新奇的 | |
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precedent
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| n.先例，前例；惯例；adj.在前的，在先的 | |
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bounty
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| n.慷慨的赠予物，奖金；慷慨，大方；施与 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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deter
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| vt.阻止，使不敢，吓住 | |
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paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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lavish
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| adj.无节制的；浪费的；vt.慷慨地给予，挥霍 | |
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unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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anguish
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| n.(尤指心灵上的)极度痛苦，烦恼 | |
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treasury
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| n.宝库；国库，金库；文库 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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bestowing
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| 砖窑中砖堆上层已烧透的砖 | |
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malicious
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| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
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mien
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| n.风采；态度 | |
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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discriminating
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| a.有辨别能力的 | |
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paragon
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| n.模范，典型 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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gratuitous
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| adj.无偿的，免费的；无缘无故的，不必要的 | |
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emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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vowed
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| 起誓，发誓（vow的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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vow
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| n.誓(言)，誓约；v.起誓，立誓 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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ascetics
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| n.苦行者，禁欲者，禁欲主义者( ascetic的名词复数 ) | |
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sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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laments
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| n.悲恸，哀歌，挽歌( lament的名词复数 )v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的第三人称单数 ) | |
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47
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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consort
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| v.相伴；结交 | |
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amends
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| n. 赔偿 | |
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50
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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51
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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52
placated
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| v.安抚，抚慰，使平静( placate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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53
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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54
chilly
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| adj.凉快的，寒冷的 | |
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55
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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56
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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57
tangles
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| （使）缠结， （使）乱作一团( tangle的第三人称单数 ) | |
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58
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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59
subsided
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| v.（土地）下陷（因在地下采矿）( subside的过去式和过去分词 )；减弱；下降至较低或正常水平；一下子坐在椅子等上 | |
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60
languishing
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| a. 衰弱下去的 | |
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61
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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62
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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63
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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64
memento
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| n.纪念品，令人回忆的东西 | |
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65
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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66
moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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67
majesty
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| n.雄伟，壮丽，庄严，威严；最高权威，王权 | |
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68
bereaved
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| adj.刚刚丧失亲人的v.使失去（希望、生命等）( bereave的过去式和过去分词)；（尤指死亡）使丧失（亲人、朋友等）；使孤寂；抢走（财物） | |
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69
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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70
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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71
desolate
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| adj.荒凉的，荒芜的；孤独的，凄凉的；v.使荒芜，使孤寂 | |
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72
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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73
trifling
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| adj.微不足道的；没什么价值的 | |
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74
assortment
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| n.分类，各色俱备之物，聚集 | |
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75
yearned
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| 渴望，切盼，向往( yearn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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76
repel
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| v.击退，抵制，拒绝，排斥 | |
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77
addicted
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| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
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78
everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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79
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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80
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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81
awed
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| adj.充满敬畏的，表示敬畏的v.使敬畏，使惊惧( awe的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
withered
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| adj. 枯萎的，干瘪的，（人身体的部分器官）因病萎缩的或未发育良好的 动词wither的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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83
plight
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| n.困境，境况，誓约，艰难；vt.宣誓，保证，约定 | |
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84
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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85
luster
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| n.光辉；光泽，光亮；荣誉 | |
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86
willows
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| n.柳树( willow的名词复数 )；柳木 | |
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arrogant
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| adj.傲慢的，自大的 | |
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88
jotted
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| v.匆忙记下( jot的过去式和过去分词 )；草草记下，匆匆记下 | |
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89
lodging
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| n.寄宿，住所；(大学生的)校外宿舍 | |
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inclinations
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| 倾向( inclination的名词复数 )； 倾斜； 爱好； 斜坡 | |
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briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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influential
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| adj.有影响的，有权势的 | |
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93
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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regained
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| 复得( regain的过去式和过去分词 )； 赢回； 重回； 复至某地 | |
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95
tremor
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| n.震动，颤动，战栗，兴奋，地震 | |
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96
prodigy
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| n.惊人的事物，奇迹，神童，天才，预兆 | |
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warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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accomplishments
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| n.造诣；完成( accomplishment的名词复数 )；技能；成绩；成就 | |
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compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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100
flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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101
virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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102
consultation
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| n.咨询；商量；商议；会议 | |
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103
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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104
defer
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| vt.推迟，拖延；vi.(to)遵从，听从，服从 | |
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105
mansion
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| n.大厦，大楼；宅第 | |
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106
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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108
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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109
ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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110
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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111
bestowed
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| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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112
analyzed
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| v.分析( analyze的过去式和过去分词 )；分解；解释；对…进行心理分析 | |
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113
proficient
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| adj.熟练的，精通的；n.能手，专家 | |
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114
hostility
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| n.敌对，敌意；抵制［pl.］交战，战争 | |
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115
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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116
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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117
reigns
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| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
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118
courteously
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| adv.有礼貌地，亲切地 | |
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119
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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120
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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121
boundless
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| adj.无限的；无边无际的；巨大的 | |
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recipient
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| a.接受的,感受性强的 n.接受者,感受者,容器 | |
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uncommonly
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| adv. 稀罕(极，非常) | |
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tinted
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| adj. 带色彩的 动词tint的过去式和过去分词 | |
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attire
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| v.穿衣，装扮[同]array；n.衣着；盛装 | |
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initiation
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| n.开始 | |
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bustled
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| 闹哄哄地忙乱，奔忙( bustle的过去式和过去分词 )； 催促 | |
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custodians
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| n.看守人，保管人( custodian的名词复数 ) | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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hue
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| n.色度；色调；样子 | |
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falcon
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| n.隼，猎鹰 | |
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overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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dignified
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| a.可敬的，高贵的 | |
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nuptial
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| adj.婚姻的，婚礼的 | |
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groom
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| vt.给（马、狗等）梳毛，照料，使...整洁 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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lieutenant
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| n.陆军中尉，海军上尉；代理官员，副职官员 | |
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esteem
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| n.尊敬，尊重；vt.尊重，敬重；把…看作 | |
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yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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143
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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retinue
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| n.侍从；随员 | |
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dispersed
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| adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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remodel
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| v.改造，改型，改变 | |
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remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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swarmed
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| 密集( swarm的过去式和过去分词 )； 云集； 成群地移动； 蜜蜂或其他飞行昆虫成群地飞来飞去 | |
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149
sobriquet
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| n.绰号 | |
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