can account for such dedication. Indeed, the depth of his understanding
makes me want to call him a saint who has not yet left the world."
"He has not taken the tonsure? But I remember now--the young
people do call him'the saint who is still one of us.'"
Kaoru chanced to be present at the interview. He listened intently. No
one knew better than he the futility of this world, and yet he passed useless
days, his devotions hardly so frequent or intense as to attract public notice.
The heart of a man who, though still in this world, was in all other respects
a saint--to what might it be likened?
The abbot continued:" He has long wanted to cut his last ties with the
world, but a trifling matter made it difficult for him to carry out his resolve.
Now he has two motherless children whom he cannot bring himself to
leave behind. They are the burden he must bear."
<P 781>
The abbot himself had not entirely given up the pleasures of the
world: he had a good ear for music. "And when their highnesses deign to
play a duet," he said, "they bid fair to outdo the music of the river, and
put one in mind of the blessed musicians above."
The Reizei emperor smiled at this rather fusty way of stating the
matter. "You would not expect girl s who have had a saint for their princi-
pal companion to have such accomplishments. How pleasant to know
about them--and what an uncommonly good father he must be! I am sure
that the thought of having to leave them is pure torment. It is always
possible that I will live longer than he, and if I do perhaps I may ask to
be given responsibility for them.
He was himself the tenth son of the family, younger than his brother
at Uji. There was the example of the Suzaku emperor, who had left his
young daughter in Genji's charge. Something similar might be arranged,
he thought. He would have companions to relieve the monotony of his
days.
Kaoru was less interested in the daughters than in the father. Quite
entranced with what he had heard, he longed to see for himself that figure
so wrapped in the serenity of religion.
"I have every intention of calling on him and asking him to be my
master," he said as the abbot left. "Might I ask you to find out, unobtru-
sively, of course, how he would greet the possibility?"
<N 7>
"And tell him, please," said the Reizei emperor, "that I have been
much affected by your description of his holy retreat." And he wrote down
a verse to be delivered to the Eighth Prince.
"Wearily, my soul goes off to your mountains,
And cloud upon circling cloud holds my person back?"
With the royal messenger in the lead, the abbot set off for Uji, think-
ing to visit the Eighth Prince on his way back to the monastery. The prince
so seldom heard from anyone that he was overjoyed at these tidings. He
ordered wine for his guests and side dishes peculiar to the region.
This was the poem he sent back to his brother:
"I am not as free as I seem. From the gloom of the world
I retreat only briefly to the Hill of Gloom."
He declined to call himself one of the truly enlightened. The vulgar
world still called up regrets and resentments, thought the Reizei emperor,
much moved.
<P 782>
The abbot also spoke of Kaoru, who, he said, was of a strongly
religious bent. "He asked me most earnestly to tell you about him: to tell
you that he has longed since childhood to give himself up to study of the
scriptures; that he has been kept busy with inconsequential affairs, public
and private, and has been unable to leave the world; that since these affairs
are trivial in any case and no one could call his career a brilliant one, he
could hardly expect people to notice if he were to lock himself up in
prayers and meditation; that he has had an unfortunate way of letting
himself be distracted. And when he had entrusted me with all this, he
added that, having heard through me of your own revered person, he could
"When there has been a great misfortune," said the prince, "when the
whole world seems hostile--that is when most people come to think it a
flimsy $F$ facade, and wish to have no more of it. I can only marvel that a
young man for whom everything lies ahead, who has had everything his
way, should start thinking of other worlds. In my own case, it often seems
to me, the powers deliberately arranged matters to give my mind such a
turn, and so I came to religion as if it were the natural thing. I have
managed to find a certain amount of peace, I suppose; but when I think
of the short time I have left and of how slowly my preparations creep
forward, I know that what I have learned comes to nothing and that in the
end it will still be nothing. No, I am afraid I would be a scandalously bad
teacher. Let him think of me as a fellow seeker after truth, a very humble
one."
Kaoru and the prince exchanged letters and presently Kaoru paid his
first visit.
<N 8>
It was an even sadder place than the abbot's description had led him
to expect. The house itself was like a grass hut put up for a few days'
shelter, and as for the furnishings, everything even remotely suggesting
luxury had been dispensed with. There were mountain villages that had
their own quiet charm; but here the tumult of the waters and the wailing
of the wind must make it impossible to have a moment free of sad
thoughts. He could see why a man on the way to enlightenment might seek
out such a place as a means of cutting his ties with the world. But what
of the daughters? Did they not have the usual fondness for delicate,
ladylike things?
A sliding partition seemed to separate the chapel from their rooms. A
youth of more amorous inclinations would have approached and made
himself known, curious to see what his reception would be. Kaoru was not
above feeling a certain excitement at being so near; but a show of interest
would have betrayed his whole purpose, which was to be free of just such
thoughts, here in distant mountains. The smallest hint of frivolity would
have denied the reason for the visit.
Deeply moved by the saintly figure before him, he offered the warm-
est avowals of friendship. His visits were frequent thereafter. Nowhere did
he find evidence of shallowness in the discourses to which he was treated;
<P 783>
nor was there a suggestion of pompousness in the prince's explanations of
the scriptures and of his profoundly significant reasons, even though he
had stopped short of taking the tonsure, for living in the mountains.
The world was full of saintly and learned men, but the stiff, forbid-
ding bishops and patriarchs who were such repositories of virtue had little
time of their own, and he found it far from easy to approach them with
his questions. Then there were lesser disciples of the Buddha. They were
to be admired for observing the discipline, it was true; but they tended to
be vulgar and obsequious in their manner and rustic in their speech, and
they could be familiar to the point of rudeness. Since Kaoru was busy with
official duties in the daytime, it was in the quiet of the evening, in the
intimacy of his private chambers, that he liked to have company. Such
people would not do.
Now he had found a man who combined great elegance with a reti-
cence that certainly was not obsequious, and who, even when he was
discussing the Good Law, was adept at bringing plain, familiar similes into
his discourse. He was not, perhaps, among the completely enlightened, but
people of birth and culture have their own insights into the nature of
things. After repeated visits Kaoru came to feel that he wanted to be
always at the prince's side, and he would be overtaken by intense longing
when official duties kept him away for a time.
Impressed by Kaoru's devotion, the Reizei emperor sent messages; and
so the Uji house, silent and forgotten by the world, came to have visitors
again. Sometimes the Reizei emperor sent lavish gifts and supplies. In
pleasant matters having to do with the seasons and the festivals and in
practical matters as well, Kaoru missed no chance to be of service.
<N 9>
Three years went by. It was the end of autumn, and the time had come
for the quarterly reading of the scriptures. The roar of the fish weirs was
more than a man could bear, said the Eighth Prince as he set off for the
abbot's monastery, there to spend a week in retreat.
The princesses were lonelier than ever. It had been weighing on Kao-
ru's mind that too much time had passed since his last visit. One night as
a late moon was coming over the hills he set out for Uji, his guard as
unobtrusive as possible, his caparison of the simplest. He could go on
horseback and did not have to worry about a boat, since the prince's villa
was on the near side of the Uji River. As he came into the mountains the
mist was so heavy and the underbrush so thick that he could hardly make
out the path; and as he pushed his way through thickets the rough wind
would throw showers of dew upon him from a turmoil of falling leaves.
He was very cold, and, though he had no one to blame but himself, he had
to admit that he was also very wet. This was not the sort of journey he
was accustomed to. It was sobering and at the same time exciting.
<P 784>
"From leaves that cannot withstand the mountain wind
The dew is falling. My tears fall yet more freely."
He forbade his outrunners to raise their usual cries, for the woodcut-
ters in these mountains could be troublesome. Brushing through a wattle
fence, crossing a rivulet that meandered down from nowhere, he tried as
best he could to silence the hoofs of his colt. But he could not keep that
extraordinary fragrance from wandering off on the wind, and more than
one family awoke in surprise at "the scent of an unknown master."
As he drew near the Uji house, he could hear the plucking of he did
not know what instrument, unimaginably still and lonely. He had heard
from the abbot that the prince liked to practice with his daughters, but
somehow had not found occasion to hear that famous koto. This would
be his chance. Making his way into the grounds, he knew that he had been
listening to a lute, tuned to the _o~jiki_ mode. There was nothing unusual
about the melody. Perhaps the strangeness of the setting had made it seem
different. The sound was cool and clean, especially when a string was
plucked from beneath. The lute fell silent and there were a few quiet
strokes on a koto. He would have liked to listen on, but he was challenged
by a man with a somewhat threatening manner, one of the guards, it would
seem.
The man immediately recognized him and explained that, for certain
reasons, the prince had gone into seclusion in a mountain monastery. He
would be informed immediately of the visit.
"Please do not bother," said Kaoru. "It would be a pity to interrupt
his retreat when it will be over soon in any case. But do tell the ladies that
I have arrived, sodden as you see me, and must go back with my mission
unaccomplished; and if they are sorry for me that will be my reward."
The rough face broke into a smile. "They will be informed."
But as he turned to depart, Kaoru called him back. "No, wait a minute.
For years I have been fascinated by stories I have heard of their playing,
and this is my chance. Will there be somewhere that I might hide and listen
for a while? If I were to rush in on them they would of course stop, and
that would be the last thing I would want."
His face and manner were such as to quell even the most untamed of
rustics. "This is how it is. They are at it morning and night when there is
no one around to hear. But let someone come from the city even if he is
in rags, and they won't let you have a twang of it. No one's supposed to
know they even exist. That's how His Highness wants it."
Kaoru smiled. "Now there is an odd sort of secret for you. The whole
world knows that two specimens of the rarest beauty are hidden here. But
come. Show me the way. I have all the best intentions. That is the way I
am, I assure you." His manner was grave and courteous. "It is hard to
believe that they can be less than perfect."
<P 785>
"Suppose they find out, sir. I might be in trouble."
Nonetheless he led Kaoru to a secluded wing fenced off by wattled
bamboo and the guards to the west veranda, where he saw to their needs
as best he could.
A gate seemed to lead to the princesses' rooms. Kaoru pushed it open
a little. The blind had been half raised to give a view of the moon, more
beautiful for the mist. A young girl, tiny and delicate, her soft robe some-
what rumpled, sat shivering at the veranda. With her was an older woman
similarly dressed. The princesses were farther inside. Half hidden by a
pillar, one had a lute before her and sat toying with the plectrum. Just
then the moon burst forth in all its brilliance.
"Well, now," she said. "This does quite as well as a fan for bringing
out the moon." The upraised face was bright and lively.
The other, leaning against an armrest, had a koto before her. "I have
heard that you summon the sun with one of those objects, but you seem
to have ideas of your own on how to use it." She was smiling, a melan-
choly, contemplative sort of smile.
"I may be asking too much, I admit, but you have to admit that lutes
and moons are related."
It was a charming scene, utterly unlike what Kaoru had imagined from
afar. He had often enough heard the young women of his household
reading from old romances. They were always coming upon such scenes,
and he had thought them the most unadulterated nonsense. And here,
hidden away from the world, was a scene as affecting as any in a romance.
