with so rueful an expression that the fellow edged behind the bystanders and finally slipped out of the room, fearing that he had committed a grave breach of etiquette in introducing so pitiful an object into the presence of the Exalted Ones. His plight was the occasion of much whispering and laughter among his fellow servants. But laugh as one might at the absurd scenes which the princess’s archaic behaviour invariably provoked, the very fact that adherence to bygone fashions could produce so ludicrous a result suggested the most disquieting reflexions. ‘It is no laughing matter,’ said Genji. ‘Her “Chinese dress” and “discoloured with the brine of tears” made me feel thoroughly uncomfortable. With the writers of a generation or two ago every dress was “Chinese,” and, no matter what the occasion of the poem, its sleeves were invariably soaked with tears. But what about your poems and mine? Are they not every bit as bad? Our tags may be different from those of the princess; but we use them just as hard and when we come to write a poem are as impervious as she is to the speech of our own day. And this is true not only of amateurs such as ourselves, but of those whose whole reputation depends on their supposed poetical gifts. Think of them at Court festivals, with their eternal madoi, madoi.[1] It is a wonder they do not grow tired of the word. A little while ago adabito “Faithless one” was used by well-bred lovers in every poem which they exchanged. They declined it (“of the faithless one,” “from the faithless one” and so on) in the third line, thus gaining time to think out their final couplet. And so we all go on, poring over nicely stitched Aids to Song, and when we have committed a sufficient number of phrases to memory, producing them on the next occasion when they are required. It is not a method which leads to very much variety.
- ↑ ‘I go astray.’
