THE PICTURE COMPETITION
It will be remembered that after Rokujō’s death Genji decided that her
daughter Princess Akikonomu had best come and live with him till the
time came for her Presentation at Court. At the last minute, however,
he altered his mind, for such a step seemed too direct a provocation to
Princess Akikonomu’s admirer, the young ex-Emperor Suzaku. But though
he did not remove her from her palace in the Sixth Ward he felt his
responsibilities towards this unfortunate orphan very keenly and paid
her many lengthy visits. He had now definitely arranged with Fujitsubo
that Akikonomu was soon to enter the Emperor’s Palace; but he was
careful not to betray in public any knowledge of this plan, and to the
world at large he seemed merely to be giving the girl such general
guidance and support as might be expected from a guardian and family
friend.
Suzaku was indeed bitterly disappointed at the intelligence that the
Princess had been handed over to a mere infant such as the present
Emperor. He often thought of writing to her but at the same time
dreaded the scandal which would ensue if his attachment became known.
When however the day of Presentation at last arrived his caution
suddenly deserted him, and he sent to Akikonomu’s palace an assortment
of the most costly and magnificent gifts which his treasury could
supply—comb-boxes, scrap-boxes, cases for incense-jars; all of the most
exquisite workmanship and material; with these was a supply of
the most precious perfumes both for burning and for the scenting of
clothes, so that the bales in which these gifts arrived scented the
air for a full league on every side. This extravagant magnificence,
besides relieving Suzaku’s feelings, had another very definite object.
It was particularly intended to annoy the lady’s guardian, to whom, as
Suzaku very well knew, the contents of these packages would immediately
be shown. It so happened that Genji was actually at Akikonomu’s palace
when the scented bales arrived; her servants at once showed them to him
and told him whence they came. He picked up at random one of a pair of
comb-boxes; it was a work of fascinating elegance and delicacy. Near
it was a box for combs such as are worn in the hair, decorated with a
pattern of flowers. In the very centre of one petal was an inscription.
Looking closer he read the poem:
‘Come not again!’[1] Because it fell to me,
Who least would have it so,
At Heaven’s command your exile to ordain;
To others, not to me who bade you go,
You come again!
Somehow or other, in cases of this kind, Genji could never help
imagining what he himself would feel if he were in the same position.
Supposing that he had fallen in love with some one all those years ago
and that the beloved person had gone away immediately to some far-off
place; and suppose that he, instead of forgetting all about her as
might have been expected, had waited patiently year after year and,
when at last she returned, had been told that she was to be handed
over to some one else—he saw on reflection that the situation was
really very painful. Judging from his own experience he knew that
Suzaku’s complete lack of employment, now that he had resigned
all his official duties, would gravely aggravate the case. Yes, he
must indeed be passing through a period of terrible agitation! He was
now extremely sorry that he had ever suggested the Presentation of the
young Princess. He had indeed in the past good reason to resent his
brother’s conduct towards him. But lately Suzaku had shown nothing
but affability.... He stood for a long while lost in thought. It was
all very perplexing. Turning at last to Akikonomu’s gentlewomen who
were inspecting these magnificent presents, he asked whether their
mistress had already composed her answering poem. ‘And surely a letter
must also have come with these things?’ he added. There was indeed a
letter and the gentlewomen had read it, but they very much doubted
whether it was fit for Genji’s eyes and made no offer to produce it.
The princess herself was distressed by this exhibition of devotion
on the part of one with whom she could no longer have any dealings.
What answer could she possibly contrive? But her maids were pressing
round her, insisting that it would be intolerably rude to allow the
messengers to depart without handing to them a word of thanks, and
Genji was telling her that not to reply was out of the question; a
few words would suffice. No doubt they were right. She felt very much
embarrassed by Suzaku’s attentions; but she remembered distinctly how
handsome, how distinguished he had seemed to her on that day of the
farewell ceremony. There had been tears in his eyes, and though it all
happened so many years ago she could recall as distinctly as if it
were yesterday the vague feelings of childish sympathy and admiration
which her meeting with the young Emperor had aroused in her on that
last morning when she went to the Palace for her Crowning. With these
memories were blended others; thoughts, for example, of her mother Lady
Rokujō and of the long exile which they had shared. She wrote no
letter, but only the poem:
“Come not again!” I wept to hear those words,
Thinking you willed it so,
When Heaven’s command my exile did ordain;
Now hearing that it grieved you I should go,
I weep again.
The messengers who had brought the presents were richly rewarded and
sent upon their way. Genji would very much have liked to see her reply,
but she refused to show it to him.
She was small and frail. How well Suzaku, with his almost girlish
beauty, would have suited her; while as for the Emperor, he was years
her junior, scarcely out of the nursery. Did she too (though she
certainly breathed no word of complaint) secretly resent the steps
which he had taken for her worldly advancement? This idea troubled him
sorely; but it was by now far too late to undo the arrangement, and the
best he could do was to stay with her for a little while and advise her
as kindly and discreetly as possible how to conduct herself in the new
life that was before her. He then interviewed the Court chamberlains
who were to arrange her Presentation, and having settled everything
satisfactorily with them he made his way to the Inner Palace. He did
not wish it to appear that he was himself standing sponsor for the new
arrival nor that he was in the Palace as her relative or guardian. He
therefore gave his coming the appearance of an ordinary ceremonial
visit.
Princess Akikonomu’s palace was famous for the unusual number of
good-looking gentlewomen who were in service there. Many of these
had recently been living at their homes, but they now assembled in
full force, and arriving with their mistress at Court created a most
dazzling impression. Were Rokujō alive, with what solicitude
would she be watching over that day’s momentous proceedings, thought
Genji, as he saw the procession arrive; and remembering her singular
gifts and lively intelligence, he felt how great a loss she was not to
himself only, but to the whole life of the Court. So rare indeed (as it
now seemed to him) was her perfection both of mind and person that he
seldom encountered among his acquaintance talent or accomplishment of
any kind without immediately recalling how slender these attainments
would seem if set beside those of Lady Rokujō.
On the day of the Presentation Fujitsubo was at the Palace. When she
told the Emperor that some one new was coming to see him, he listened
very earnestly and attentively. He was an intelligent and lively child,
very forward for his age. After telling him all about the princess,
‘So you see she is rather an important lady,’ Fujitsubo continued,
‘and when she comes this evening you must be very polite to her and
not play any of your tricks....’ The Emperor said nothing, but he
thought to himself that if the lady were indeed so grown up and so
important, far from wanting to tease her he would be very frightened
of her indeed. Great was his delight then when very late that evening
there arrived at the Palace a very shy, shrinking girl, very small and
fragile, not indeed looking like a grown-up person at all. He thought
her very pretty; but he was much more at his ease with Chūjō’s little
daughter, who had lived at the Palace for some while and was very
sociable and affectionate, while the new princess was terribly silent
and shy. Still, though he found her rather difficult to get on with,
he felt, partly owing to the deference with which, as Prince Genji’s
ward, she was treated by every one else at Court, and partly owing to
the magnificence with which she was served and apparelled—he felt
that she was in some way which he did not understand a person of very
great importance. In the evenings indeed he allowed the one to wait
upon him as often as the other; but when he wanted a partner in some
game or some one to amuse him in the early part of the day, it was
seldom Akikonomu for whom he sent.
Tō no Chūjō had presented his daughter at Court with the express
intention that she should one day share the Throne. The presence
of this formidable rival at the Palace could not fail to cause him
considerable anxiety.
The poem with which Princess Akikonomu had acknowledged the
ex-Emperor’s gifts had but served to increase his agitation. He knew
that he must now banish all thought of her from his mind; but it was
hard indeed to do so. He was brooding now over his loss, when Genji
arrived on a visit. They talked for a long while about many different
matters, and in the course of this conversation mention was made of the
ceremonies upon the occasion of Lady Akikonomu’s departure for Ise.
This was a subject which they had often discussed before; but now,
as on previous occasions, the conversation terminated without Suzaku
making the slightest allusion to the real reason why this topic so
much interested him. Genji naturally did not betray his knowledge of
the secret; but he was envious to know exactly how far this mysterious
passion went, and he could not restrain himself from experimenting upon
his brother with various anecdotes concerning the lady in question
and her recent admission to the Emperor’s suite. It was apparent in a
moment that Suzaku suffered acutely while these subjects were being
discussed, and Genji, ashamed of his unkindness, hastily turned the
conversation to other matters.
At such a ceremony as that of the crowning of the Vestal the Emperor
meets the lady whom he is to initiate face to face and during
the whole proceedings no curtain or screen divides them. Suzaku must
therefore at least know what Princess Akikonomu looked like; which
was more than Genji did, for she had till this day never received him
except in an unlighted room or behind her curtains-of-state. In what
exactly did her charm consist? What was it that had kindled in the
ex-Emperor’s heart a passion that had survived the lapse of so many
years? The problem intrigued him and he almost envied his brother
the knowledge which he must possess on the subject. She was indeed
evidently of a very melancholy, indolent disposition. If only she would
sometimes forget herself, show a little of the impetuosity of youth,
then in course of time he might hope for a moment to catch a glimpse
of her as she really was! But while her gravity and reticence seemed
to become every day more pronounced, all his dealings with her tended
only to confirm his conviction that underneath all this reserve was
concealed an interesting and admirable character.
Now that all the Emperor’s time was divided between the two princesses
of his retinue, Prince Hyōbukyō had given up all idea of presenting
his second daughter at Court. Perhaps an opportunity would occur later
on when the Emperor was of an age to perceive for himself that such a
match was by no means to be despised. Meanwhile his favour seemed to
be pretty equally divided between the two existing claimants. He was
particularly interested in pictures and had as a result of this taste
himself acquired considerable skill. It happened that Lady Akikonomu
painted very charmingly, and so soon as he discovered this the Emperor
began constantly sending for her to paint pictures with him. Among
the serving-women in the Palace he had always taken an interest in
any who were said to be fond of pictures; and it was natural that
when he discovered painting to be the favourite occupation of
the pretty princess he should become very much attached to her. Hers
were not solemn pictures, but such clever, quick sketches; so that
just to watch her do them was an exciting game. And when, sitting so
charmingly beside him on the divan, she paused and held her brush in
the air for a moment wondering where to put the next stroke, she looked
so daring that the little Emperor’s heart was completely captivated.
Soon he was going to her rooms at all hours, and Tō no Chūjō became
seriously alarmed lest his own daughter should lose her primacy.
But he was determined not to be outdone, and being of an extremely
ingenious and resourceful nature he soon had a plan for putting an end
to this menacing situation. He sent for all the most skilful painters
in the land and under strict bond of secrecy set them to work upon a
collection of pictures which was to be like nothing that had ever been
seen before. They were to be illustrations to romances, which would
be preferable to purely ingenious subjects, the significance being
more easily grasped by a young mind and all the most interesting and
exciting stories were chosen. In addition to these illustrations there
was to be a set of ‘Months,’ a very attractive subject, with texts
specially written for the occasion. In due time Princess Chūjō[2]
showed them to the Emperor, who was naturally very much interested
and soon afterwards asked for them again, saying that he thought
Princess Akikonomu would like to see them. At this Princess Chūjō
began to make difficulties, and though His Majesty promised to show
them to no one else and carry them with the greatest care straight to
the other princess’s apartments, she refused to part with them.
Genji heard of this and was amused to see that Tō no Chūjō could still
throw himself into these absurd conspiracies with the same childish
excitement as in their young days. ‘I am very sorry,’ he said to the
Emperor, ‘to hear that Princess Chūjō hides her pictures from you and
will not let you take them away and study them at your ease. It seems,
too, that she was quite cross and quarrelsome about it, which was most
reprehensible. But I have some very nice pictures, painted a long while
ago. I will send them to you.’
At the Nijō-in there were whole cupboards full of pictures both old
and new. Taking Murasaki with him he now inspected their contents
and together they went through the whole collection, putting on one
side those which were most likely to appeal to modern taste. There
were naturally many illustrations of the _Everlasting Wrong_[3] and
the story of Wang Chao-chün,[4] both of them very interesting and
moving subjects, but unfortunately quite inappropriate to the present
occasion. These therefore had to be excluded. But it occurred to Genji
that his own sketches made during his sojourn at Suma and Akashi might
be of interest, and sending for the box in which they were kept he took
advantage of this occasion to go through them with Murasaki. Even some
one seeing them without any knowledge of the circumstances under which
they were painted would, if possessed of the slightest understanding
of such matters, have at once been profoundly moved by these drawings.
It may be imagined then with what emotion they were examined by one to
whom each scene came as an answer to the questionings and anxieties
of some evil dream from which it seemed there could be no awakening.
She told him more of what she had suffered in those unforgettable
days than she had ever done before. Why had he not sometimes sent such
pictures as these? How they would have comforted and reassured her.
And she recited the verse: ‘Better had it been for me when I was alone
to look at pictures of the realms where fishers dwell, than stare at
nothing, as I did all day long!’ Genji was deeply moved and with tears
in his eyes he answered with the verse: ‘It was an evil time; yet never
once in all those days was my heart sore as now when, hand in hand, we
view the pictured past.’
To one other person only had he shown them—the ex-Empress Fujitsubo.
Going through the whole collection sketch by sketch, in order to choose
out the best and also to give as good an idea as possible of the
different estuaries and bays, he could not help wondering all the time
how things were faring in the house of his host at Akashi.
On hearing of the preparations that were taking place at the Nijō-in,
Tō no Chūjō went through his pictures again and had them all fitted out
with the most elegant ivory-rollers, backings and ribbons.[5] It was
about the tenth day of the third month. The weather was delightful,
things were looking at their best and every one was in a good temper;
moreover it was a time at which no particular fêtes or ceremonies
occupied the Court, so that uninterrupted attention could be now given
to those lighter pastimes in which the Emperor so much delighted,
and whole days were spent unrolling painting after painting. The one
ambition of every one at Court was to rout out and bring to the Palace
some picture which should particularly catch the young Emperor’s fancy.
Both Akikonomu’s partisans and those of Lady Chūjō had brought forward
vast numbers of scrolls. On the whole, illustrated romances proved to
be the most popular. Akikonomu’s side was strongest in ancient
works of well-established reputation; while Lady Chūjō patronized all
the cleverest modern painters, so that her collection, representing as
it did all that most appealed to the fashionable tastes of the moment,
made at first sight a more dazzling impression. The Emperor’s own
ladies-in-waiting were divided in opinion. Some of the most intelligent
were on the side of the ancients; others favoured the present day. But
on the whole modern works tended to win their approval.
It happened that Fujitsubo was paying one of her periodical visits to
the Court, and having given a casual inspection to the exhibits of both
parties she decided to suspend her usual religious observances and
devote herself to a thorough study of all these works, for painting was
a matter in which she had always taken a deep interest. Hearing the
animated discussions which were taking place between the supporters
of modern and ancient art, she suggested that those present should be
formed into two teams. On Lady Akikonomu’s side the principal names
were Heinaishi no Suke, Jijū no Naishi, Shōshō no Myōbu; on Lady
Chūjō’s,—Daini no Naishi no Suke, Chūjō no Myōbu and Hyōye no Myōbu.
These were considered the cleverest women of the day, and Fujitsubo
promised herself very good entertainment from such an interchange of
wit and knowledge as their rivalry was likely to afford.
In the first contest that archetype and parent of all romances, _The
Bamboo Cutter’s Story_,[6] was matched against the tale of Toshikage
in _The Hollow Tree_. The partisans of antiquity defended their choice
as follows: ‘We admit that this story, like the ancient bamboo-stem in
which its heroine was found, has in the course of ages become a
little loose in the joints. But the character of Lady Kaguya herself,
so free from all stain of worldly impurity, so nobly elevated both in
thought and conduct, carries us back to the Age of the Gods, and if
such a tale fails to win your applause, this can only be because it
deals with matters far beyond the reach of your frivolous feminine
comprehensions.’ To this the other side replied: ‘The Sky Land to which
Lady Kaguya was removed is indeed beyond our comprehensions, and we
venture to doubt whether any such place exists. But if we regard merely
the mundane part of your story, we find that the heroine emanated from
a bamboo joint. This gives to the story from the start an atmosphere
of low life which we for our part consider very disagreeable. We are
told that from the lady’s person there emanated a radiance which lit up
every corner of her foster-father’s house. But these fireworks, if we
remember aright, cut a very poor figure when submitted to the august
light of his Majesty’s Palace. Moreover the episode of the fireproof
ratskin ends very tamely, for after Abe no Ōshi[7] had spent thousands
of gold pieces in order to obtain it, no sooner was it put to the test
than it disappeared in a blaze of flame. Still more lamentable was
the failure of Prince Kuramochi[7] who, knowing that the journey to
Fairyland was somewhat difficult, did not attempt to go there but had a
branch of the Jewel Tree fabricated by his goldsmith; a deception which
was exposed at the first scratch.’
The picture was painted by Kose no Ōmi[8] and the text was in the hand
of Ki no Tsurayki.[9] It was on Kanya paper backed with Chinese
silk. The cover was of a reddish violet tinge, the rollers being of
sandal-wood,—by no means an extraordinary get-up. The moderns then
proceeded to defend their own exhibit; ‘Toshikage,’[10] they said,
‘though buffeted by wind and wave, pitched headlong into a stormy sea
and in the end cast up upon an unknown shore, pursued, undaunted by
suffering and disaster, the purpose which he had set before him, and
succeeded at last in displaying, both at the foreign Court[11] and in
our own country, the marvellous talent which it had cost him so much to
acquire. The adventures of so dauntless a character, affording as they
do a comparison between the manners of the Land Beyond the Sea and of
our own Land of Sunrise, cannot fail to be of interest; moreover the
same contrast has been maintained in the style of the pictures as in
the matter of the text.’
It was painted on thick white paper such as poem-slips are made of, the
outer cover was of blue paper and the roller of yellow jade. The artist
was Tsunenori;[12] the scribe, Onō no Michikaze,[13]—a combination
that could hardly have been more dazzling in its fashionableness
and modernity. Against such claims as these the partisans of the
antique were quite unable to prevail and Lady Chūjō’s side scored the
overwhelming victory.
In the next contest the _Tales of Ise_[14] were pitted against the
story of Shō Sammi.[15] A long discussion ensued; but here
again the fact that _Shō Sammi_ deals with persons in a comfortable
and prosperous situation, presents scenes of Court life and shows the
world as we know it to-day could not fail to render this work far more
attractive to the majority of these young critics. An opposite opinion
was voiced by Heinaishi, who recited the verse: ‘Shall we leave the
deep heart of Ise’s waters unexplored till time shall have effaced
their secret, like a footprint that the tide washes from the shore?’
‘Shall the fame of Narihira,’[16] she added, ‘be eclipsed by modern
tittle-tattle dressed up in the finery of a specious style?’ To this
Daini no Naishi no Suke replied with the verse: ‘Upon the topmost
regions of the sky[17] our hero’s heart is set; with scorn he views
your shoals, upon which, heavy as a thousand watery fathoms, the ages
rest.’
‘Well,’ said Fujitsubo, ‘ambition such as that of Prince Hyōye[18] is
no doubt a very valuable quality; but I sincerely hope that admiration
for him and his like will never cause us to let the fame of Captain
Laigo[19] sink into decay!’ And she recited the verse: ‘Has the old
fisherman of Ise shore, like seaweed that the ebbing tide reveals, so
long been flattered by the public eye, only to sink at last beneath the
rising sea of scorn?’
These feminine discussions are capable of continuing, more or less at
cross-purposes for an indefinite length of time. It would indeed be
impossible to record all the arguments and counter-arguments that were
expended over even one of these pictures. Moreover the younger and
less considered of the gentlewomen present, though any one of
them would have given her eyes not to miss any of the paintings that
were being unrolled, were hustled into the background, even though
they belonged to the Emperor’s own or to Lady Fujitsubo’s household,
and were scarcely able to see anything at all. This occasioned much
jealousy and heart-burning.
Presently Genji arrived at the Palace and was greatly diverted by the
spectacle of this disorderly and embittered combat. ‘If you will get
up another competition,’ he said, ‘I will arrange for the Emperor to
be present and will myself make the awards.’ In preparation for this
event, which he had indeed been contemplating for some time, he made a
further selection from the pictures which he had recently put aside,
and having done so he could not resist inserting among them the two
scrolls of his sketches made at Suma and Akashi. Tō no Chūjō meanwhile,
determined not to be outdone, was straining every nerve in preparation
for the new contest. It was indeed a moment in the history of our
country when the whole energy of the nation seemed to be concentrated
upon the search for the prettiest method of mounting paper-scrolls. In
arranging the conditions of the contest Genji had said: ‘My idea is
that it should be confined to paintings already in existence; we do not
want a lot of new work hurriedly executed for this special purpose....’
But Tō no Chūjō could not resist the temptation to set some of his
favourite masters to work, and improvising a little studio with a
secret door he strove to steal a march on his rivals. The secrecy was
not however as well maintained as he could have desired; even Suzaku,
in his secluded apartments, heard the story and determined to put his
own collection at the service of Princess Akikonomu. He had a series of
‘Festivals All the Year Round,’ painted by various famous old masters;
texts explaining these pictures had been added by no less a hand
than that of the Emperor Daigo.[20] Why should he not order a series
of paintings illustrating the principal events of his own reign? Among
these subjects one would naturally be the crowning of the Vestal at
the Daigoku Hall upon the day of her departure for Ise. He entrusted
this scene to Kose no Kimmochi[21] and it may be imagined with what
care and insistence he discussed every detail of a work so dear to his
heart. It was encased in a delicately fretted box of aloes-wood. The
pattern on the wrappings and decorations of the roll was a heart-shaped
crest formed by leaves of the same tree. Nothing could have been more
delightfully up-to-date. He sent it by the hand of the Captain of the
Senior Bodyguard, who was one of his retainers. There was no message,
save for a poem written on the picture just by where the Vestal was
shown arriving in her litter at the Daigoku Hall: ‘Though I no longer
within the Circle of the Gods a place may take, yet unforgotten is the
concourse which in those hours with bright Divinities I held.’
To return no answer would show too great a disrespect towards one who
had once occupied the Throne, and though these attentions distressed
her she broke off a piece of the ritual comb which he had fastened
in her hair on that day long ago, and tying to it the verse ‘Not yet
forgotten is that high converse, and once again within the Precinct of
the Gods oh were it but my lot to stray!’ she wrapped the broken comb
in Chinese paper of deep colour and gave it to the messenger, whom she
rewarded with many handsome presents. The ex-Emperor when he opened
the packet was deeply moved, and for the first time regretted that he
had so soon resigned the Throne. Not unnaturally he was feeling
somewhat bitterly against Prince Genji; but he realized that he had
himself, in past days, deserved none too well at his brother’s hands.
Most of the ex-Emperor’s pictures had belonged to his mother, the
Empress Kōkiden; unfortunately a considerable part of her collection
had however come into the possession of Lady Chūjō, who was her
grand-daughter.
The ex-Emperor’s wife, Lady Oborozuki, was also extremely interested
in painting and had shown the utmost discrimination in forming her
collection.
When the great day came, though there had not been much time for
preparation everything was arranged in the most striking and effective
manner. The ladies-in-waiting belonging to the two sides stood drawn up
in line on either side of the Imperial Throne; the courtiers, very much
on the alert, were ranged up in the verandah of the small back room.
Lady Chūjō’s party (the left) exhibited their pictures in boxes of
purple sandal-wood mounted on sapan-wood stands, over which was thrown
a cover of Chinese brocade worked on a mauve ground. The carpet on
which the boxes stood was of Chinese fine-silk, dyed to the colour of
grape-juice. Six little girls were in attendance to assist in handling
the boxes and scrolls; they were dressed in mantles with white scarves
lined with pink; their tunics were of scarlet, worn with facings blue
outside and light green within.
Akikonomu’s boxes were of aloes-wood arranged on a low table of similar
wood, but lighter in colour. The carpet was of Korean brocade on a
blue-green ground. The festoons hanging round the table and the design
of the table-legs were carefully thought out and in the best taste.
The little girls in attendance wore blue mantles, with willow-coloured
scarves; their tunics, brown outside and yellow within. When all the
boxes were duly arranged on their stands, the Emperor’s own ladies
took up their places, some with Lady Chūjō’s supporters, some with the
opposing side. At the summons of the herald Genji and Tō no Chūjō now
appeared and with them Genji’s half-brother, Prince Sochi no Miya,
who among the various arts which he cultivated was particularly fond
of painting. He had received no official summons on this particular
occasion, but had in the end yielded to Genji’s entreaties that he
would come and help him in his difficult task. Prince Sochi was at once
called to the Emperor’s side and appointed part-umpire in the coming
contest. An amazing collection of paintings had been assembled and
assuredly the task of the judges was no light one. A great impression
was made when Akikonomu’s side produced the famous series of ‘Four
Seasons’ by noted masters of antiquity. Both the charming fancy
displayed in the choice of episodes for illustration and the easy,
flowing character of the brush-strokes rendered these works highly
attractive; and the modern paintings on paper, being necessarily
limited in size, sometimes, especially in landscape, made a certain
impression of incompleteness. Yet the far greater richness both of
brushwork and invention gave even to the more trivial of these modern
works a liveliness which made them compare not unfavourably with the
masterpieces of the past. Thus it was very difficult indeed to reach
any decision, save that to-day, as on the previous occasion, both sides
had produced many works of absorbing interest.
The sliding-screen of the breakfast-room was now pushed aside and Lady
Fujitsubo entered. Remembering how learned she was in these matters
Genji felt somewhat shy, and contented himself henceforward as exhibit
after exhibit was produced with an occasional comment or suggestion,
discreetly thrown in only when some point of especial difficulty
threatened an indefinite delay. The contest was still undecided when
night fell.
At last the moment arrived when there was only one more picture to
show on each side. Amid intense excitement Princess Akikonomu’s side
produced the roll containing Genji’s sketches at Suma. Tō no Chūjō was
aghast. His daughter’s side too had reserved for their last stroke
one of the most important works at their disposition; but against the
prospect of so masterly a hand working at complete leisure and far
from the distracting influences which beset an artist in town, Lady
Chūjō’s supporters at once knew that they could not hope to prevail.
An additional advantage was given to Genji’s paintings by the pathos
of the subject. That during those years of exile he had endured a
cheerless and monotonous existence those present could well conjecture.
But when they saw, so vividly presented, both the stern manner of his
life and in some sort even the feelings which this rustic life had
aroused in one used to every luxury and indulgence, they could not but
be deeply moved, and there were many (Prince Sochi no Miya among them)
who could scarcely refrain from tears. Here were presented in the most
vivid manner famous bays and shores of the Suma coast, so renowned in
story yet to these city folk so utterly unknown and unimagined. The
text was written in cursive Chinese characters, helped out here and
there with a little native script, and unlike the business day-to-day
journals that men generally keep it was varied by the insertion of an
occasional poem or song. The spectators now clamoured only for more
specimens of Genji’s handiwork, and it would have been impossible at
that moment to interest them in anything else. It seemed to them as
though all the interest and beauty of the many pictures which they
had been examining had in some strange manner accumulated and
attached themselves to this one scroll. By universal and ungrudging
consent Princess Akikonomu’s side was awarded the victory.
It was already nearing the dawn when Genji, feeling somewhat
discursive, sent round the great tankard and presently began telling
stories to the company. ‘From my earliest childhood,’ he said at last,
‘I have always been fond of books; and my father the late Emperor,
fearing that I might become wholly absorbed in my studies, used to say
to me: “Perhaps learning carries with it inevitably so great a share
of the world’s esteem that, to redress the balance, the scholar, once
he advances beyond a certain stage of learning, is doomed to pay for
his enviable attainments either by ill health or poverty. Those who
are born to greatness may be certain that, whether they exert their
minds or not, the advantages of noble birth will suffice to distinguish
them from their fellows; and for you of all men the acquisition of
such ill-starred accomplishments would be entirely superfluous. I
sincerely hope that you will not allow them to occupy too much of your
time.” He arranged that most of my lessons should be in practical
subjects connected with national administration and economy. I got on
fairly well, but there was no branch in which I showed any particular
aptitude. It was only in painting, which my preceptors considered a
very trivial and unbecoming pastime, that I displayed any unusual
talent. Often I used to wonder whether I should ever get the chance of
using this gift to the full, for the time allotted to these lighter
distractions was very short. At last, with my unexpected retirement
to a remote shore, the longed-for opportunity arrived. On every side
the great sea spread about me; I began to learn its secrets, became
so intimate with its every mood and aspect that where these sketches
fail it is not for lack of understanding, but because there came
at last a point where my brush could no longer keep pace with the
visions that beset my brain. Not having previously had any opportunity
of showing these sketches to His Majesty, I took advantage of this
occasion to display them. But I fear that my action in using them for
this competition will when reflected upon provoke very unfavourable
comments....’ The conversation was carried on by Prince Sochi no Miya:
‘I know, of course,’ he said, ‘that mere industry will not carry one
far in any art; his heart must be in the matter. But all the same there
is a great deal which can simply be learnt from masters; so that a
man, without any understanding of what is really important, will often
easily succeed in imitating the outward forms and procedures of an art.
But painting and draughts demand an extraordinary degree of natural
equipment and also furnish us with the strangest surprises; for some
apparently half-witted fellow, who does not seem capable of any useful
activity, will turn out to be a genius at draughts or painting! On the
other hand I have occasionally come across instances where intelligent
children of good family have possessed what I may term a general
superiority, showing an unusual capacity in every form of art and
learning.
‘My father the late Emperor gave personal attention to the training
of all his children, both girls and boys, in every imaginable art and
accomplishment. But it was in your education, Genji, that he took by
far the greatest interest, and it was to you, whom he considered most
likely to profit by it, that he was at pains to hand on the great
store of information which in the course of his long life he had
here and there acquired. In literature of course you were far ahead
of any of us; just as you were in other less important matters, such
as playing upon the zithern, which was indeed perhaps your principal
accomplishment. But I remember that, in addition to this, you
played reasonably well on the flute, guitar, and great zithern; as
indeed your father often mentioned with wonder. These talents of
yours were well known at Court, and I for my part had heard that
you occasionally amused yourself with brushes and paints. But I had
always supposed that this was a mere pastime, and I confess that
the masterpieces which you have exhibited before us to-day took me
completely by surprise. I assure you that even the great ink-painters
of antiquity would feel no small uneasiness should their works be set
beside these sketches of yours. You are indeed a prodigy!’ He spoke
rather thickly and indistinctly, for he was already a little bit
fuddled with wine; and being for the same reason somewhat lachrymose,
when mentioning his late father’s name he suddenly burst into tears.
It was towards the end of the month and the late moon had at last
risen. The rooms where they were assembled were still dark, but the
sky outside was already aglow with dawn. The Keeper of Books and
Instruments was asked to bring out the zitherns. Tō no Chūjō took the
_wagon_,[22] which he played, if not so well as Genji, at any rate in
a very distinguished manner. Sochi no Miya took the great-zithern and
Genji the _kin_.[23] The lute was played by Akikonomu’s gentlewoman
Shōshō no Myōbu. There was a certain courtier who had a genius for
beating time; he was now sent for and a most agreeable concert ensued.
Dawn was spreading fast. Colour began to come into the flowers, and the
features of those sitting by became dimly discernible in the growing
light. The birds were singing lustily; a pleasant morning had begun.
Presents were now distributed to the guests by Lady Fujitsubo on behalf
of the Emperor; Prince Sochi no Miya received in addition the
special tribute of a cloak from the wardrobe, in recognition of his
services as umpire.
Genji gave instructions that the Suma scroll should be left with
Fujitsubo. Hearing that it was only one of a series, she begged to be
shown the rest. ‘You shall see them all in good time,’ Genji said;
‘there are far too many of them to go through at one sitting.’ The
little Emperor, too, seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the proceedings,
which was a great comfort to those who had engineered them.
When Tō no Chūjō saw with what zest Genji supported his ward Princess
Akikonomu even in such trifling matters as this contest he again
became a little uneasy about Lady Chūjō’s position. But observing the
situation closely, he noted that the young Emperor, who certainly began
by being very deeply attached to his little playmate, after the first
excitement of recognizing this new companion with her interesting
grown-up accomplishments had passed away, settled down again quite
happily to his old love. For the present at any rate there was no need
for anxiety.
Genji had a strong presentiment the Court ceremony and festivals of the
reign were destined to be taken as a model in future times. It was for
this reason that even in the matter of private pastimes and receptions
he took great pains that everything should be carried out in the most
perfectly appropriate and pleasurable manner. Hence life at Court
during this period became one long series of exquisitely adjusted pomps
and festivities.
Genji was still haunted by the impermanence of worldly things, and now
that the Emperor was beginning to reach years of discretion he often
thought quite seriously of embracing a monastic life. It seemed to him
that in history one so often reads of men who at an immature age rose
to high position and became conspicuous figures in the world only
to fall, after a very short time, into disaster and ignominy. With
regard to himself he had felt since his exile that if the position in
which he now found himself was beyond that to which he was properly
entitled, this was only fate’s kind compensation for the indignities to
which in his early life he had suddenly been exposed. But now the debt
which fortune owed him was fully discharged and he could not believe
that he was far from the brink of some fresh disaster. He would have
liked to shut himself away in some retired corner and devote himself to
meditations upon the life to come; he did indeed choose a quiet site on
a hill near the City and build a hermitage there, which he even went
so far as to furnish with images and holy books. But so many questions
arose concerning the education of his children and their future at
Court, that there could be no question of his actually taking his vows,
at any rate for some considerable time; and what exactly he had in mind
when he began building this hermitage it would be hard to say.
[1] The formula with which the Emperor despatches the Vestal of Ise.
[2] Chūjō’s daughter. Actually she is called Kōkiden, but this is a
name of another character in the book, and as the use of it would lead
to confusion, I have given her a name which links her to her father.
[3] The story of Ming Huang and Yang Kuei-fei; a long poem by Po Chū-i.
[4] A Chinese princess given to a Tartar king in marriage and carried
away into the north.
[5] For tying up the rolls.
[6] A 9th-century story about a fairy who was found in a bamboo-stem,
set various fantastic ordeals to her lovers and finally disappeared in
the Land Above the Sky. It is written in a rather disjointed style.
Translated by Victor Dickins in _Japanese Texts_. See above, p. 15.
[7] One of the suitors.
[8] Also called Aimi. Successor of Kose no Kanaoka, who founded the
Kose school in the 9th century.
[9] 883–946 A.D. Editor of the _Kokinshū_, the first official anthology
of poetry.
[10] Having set out from Japan to China he was wrecked on the coast
of Persia, where he acquired a magic zithern and the knowledge of
unearthly tunes, armed with which he won great fame as a musician in
China and Japan. See Aston’s _History of Japanese Literature_, p. 76,
and above, p. 16.
[11] China.
[12] Asukabe Tsunenori, flourished about 964 A.D.
[13] Also called Ono no Dōfū, the most celebrated calligraphist of
Japan.
[14] A collection of short love-episodes, each centring round a poem or
poems. See Aston’s _History of Japanese Literature_, p. 80.
[15] Already lost in the 15th century.
[16] Hero of the _Tales of Ise_.
[17] I.e., upon promotion at Court. Courtiers were called ‘men above
the clouds.’
[18] Presumably the hero of the tale of Shō Sammi.
[19] Narihira, hero of the _Tales of Ise_.
[20] 898–930, a great patron of literature, and himself an important
poet and calligrapher.
[21] Grandson of the great Kose no Kanaoka. Flourished about 960 A.D.
[22] Japanese zithern.
[23] Chinese zithern.