Ben were saddened at Genji's withdrawal and refusal to write. Fujitsubo
too was disturbed: it would serve the drown prince badly if Genji were to
turn against her, and it would be a disaster if, having had enough of the
world, he were to take holy orders. A repetition of the recent incident
would certainly give rise to rumors which would make visits to the palace
even more distasteful. She was becoming convinced that she must relin-
quish the title that had aroused the implacable hostility of Kokiden. She
remembered the detailed and emphatic instructions which the old emperor
had left behind. Everything was changed, no shadow remained of the past.
She might not suffer quite as cruel a fate as Lady Ch'i, but she must
doubtless look forward to contempt and derision. She resolved to become
a nun. But she must see the crown prince again before she did. Quietly,
she paid him a visit.
Though Genji had seen to all her needs in much more complicated
matters than this one, he pleaded illness and did not accompany her to
court. He still made routine inquiries as civility demanded. The women
who shared his secret knew that he was very unhappy, and pitied him.
Her little son was even prettier than when she had last seen him. He
clung to her, his pleasure in her company so touching that she knew how
difficult it would be to carry through her resolve. But this glimpse of court
life told her more clearly than ever that it was no place for her, that the
things she had known had vanished utterly away. She must always worry
about Kokiden, and these visits would be increasingly uncomfortable; and
in sum everything caused her pain. She feared for her son's future if she
continued to let herself be called empress.
<P 199>
"What will you think of me if I do not see you for a very long time
and become very unpleasant to look at?"
He gazed up at her. "Like Shikibu?" He laughed. "But why should
you ever look like her?"
She wanted to weep. "Ah, but Shikibu is old and wrinkled. That is
not what I had in mind. I meant that my hair would be shorter and I would
wear black clothes and look like one of the priests that say prayers at night.
And I would see you much less often."
"I would miss you," he said solemnly, turning away to hide his tears.
The hair that fell over his shoulders was wonderfully lustrous and the glow
in his eyes, warmer as he grew up, was almost enough to make one think
he had taken Genji's face for a mask. Because his teeth were slightly
decayed, his mouth was charmingly dark when he smiled. One almost
wished that he had been born a girl. But the resemblance to Genji was for
her like the flaw in the gem. All the old fears came back.
Genji too wanted to see the crown prince, but he wanted also to make
Fujitsubo aware of her cruelty. He kept to himself at Nijo~. Fearing that his
indolence would be talked about and thinking that the autumn leaves
would be at their best, he went off to the Ujii Temple, to the north of the
city, over which an older brother of his late mother presided. Borrowing
the uncle's cell for fasting and meditation, he stayed for several days.
The fields, splashed with autumn color, were enough to make him
forget the city. He gathered erudite monks and listened attentively to their
discussions of the scriptures. Though he would pass the night in the
thoughts of the evanescence of things to which the setting was so condu-
cive, he would still, in the dawn moonlight, remember the lady who was
being so cruel to him. There would be a clattering as the priests put new
flowers before the images, and the chrysanthemums and the falling leaves
of varied tints, though the scene was in no way dramatic, seemed to offer
asylum in this life and hope for the life to come. And what a purposeless
life was his!
"All who invoke the holy name shall be taken unto Lord Amita~bha
and none shall be abandoned," proclaimed Genji's uncle in grand, linger-
ing tones, and Genji was filled with envy. Why did he not embrace the
religious life? He knew (for the workings of his heart were complex) that
the chief reason was the girl at Nijo~.
He had been away from her now for an unusually long time. She was
much on his mind and he wrote frequently. "I have come here," he said
in one of his letters, "to see whether I am capable of leaving the world. The
serenity I had hoped for eludes me and my loneliness only grows. There
are things I have yet to learn. And have you missed me? " It was on heavy
Michinoku paper. The hand, though casual, was strong and distinguished.
"In lodgings frail as the dew upon the reeds
I left you, and the four winds tear at me."
<P 200>
It brought tears to her eyes. Her answer was a verse on a bit of white
paper:
"Weak as the spider's thread upon the reeds,
The dew-drenched reeds of autumn, I blow with the winds."
He smiled. Her writing had improved. It had come to resemble his,
though it was gentler and more ladylike. He congratulated himself on
having such a perfect subject for his pedagogical endeavors.
The Kamo Shrines were not far away. He got off a letter to Princess
Asagao, the high priestess. He sent it through Chu~jo~, with this message for
Chu~jo~ herself: "A traveler, I feel my heart traveling yet further afield; but
your lady will not have taken note of it, I suppose."
This was his message for the princess herself:
"The gods will not wish me to speak of them, perhaps,
But I think of sacred cords of another autumn.
'Is there no way to make the past the present?'"
He wrote as if their relations might permit of a certain intimacy. His
note was on azure Chinese paper attached most solemnly to a sacred
branch from which streamed ritual cords.
Chu~jo~'s answer was courteous and leisurely." We live a quiet life here,
and I have time for many stray thoughts, among them thoughts of you and
my lady."
There was a note from the princess herself, tied with a ritual cord:
" Another autumn--what can this refer to?
A secret hoard of thoughts of sacred cords?
And in more recent times?"
The hand was not perhaps the subtlest he had seen, but it showed an
admirable mastery of the cursive style, and interested him. His heart
leaped (most blasphemously) at the thought of a beauty of feature that
would doubtless have outstripped the beauty of her handwriting.
He remembered that just a year had passed since that memorable
night at the temporary shrine of the other high priestess, and (blasphe-
mously again) he found himself berating the gods, that the fates of his two
cousins should have been so strangely similar. He had had a chance of
successfully wooing at least one of the ladies who were the subjects of
these improper thoughts, and he had procrastinated; and it was odd that
he should now have these regrets. When, occasionally, Princess Asagao
answered, her tone was not at all unfriendly, though one might have taxed
her with a certain inconsistency.
<P 201>
He read the sixty Tendai fascicles and asked the priests for explana-
tions of difficult passages. Their prayers had brought this wondrous radi-
ance upon their monastery, said even the lowliest of them, and indeed
Genji's presence seemed to bring honor to the Blessed One himself.
Though he quietly thought over the affairs of the world and was reluctant
to return to it, thoughts of the lady at Nijo~ interfered with his meditations
and made it seem useless to stay longer. His gifts were lavish to all the
several ranks in the monastery and to the mountain people as well; and so,
having exhausted the possibilities of pious works, he made his departure.
The woodcutters came down from the hills and knelt by the road to see
him off. Still in mourning, his carriage draped in black, he was not easy
to pick out, but from the glimpses they had they thought him a fine figure
of a man indeed.
Even after this short absence Murasaki was more beautiful and more
sedately mature. She seemed to be thinking about the future and what
they would be to each other. Perhaps it was because she knew all about
his errant ways that she had written of the "reeds of autumn." She pleased
him more and more and it was with deeper affection than ever that he
greeted her.
<P 202>
He had brought back autumn leaves more deeply tinted by the dews
than the leaves in his garden. Fearing that people might be remarking upon
his neglect of Fujitsubo, he sent a few branches as a routine gift, and with
them a message for Omyo~bu:
"The news, which I received with some wonder, of your lady's visit
to the palace had the effect of making me want to be in retreat for a time.
I have rather neglected you, I fear. Having made my plans, I did not think
it proper to change them. I must share my harvest with you. A sheaf of
autumn leaves admired in solitude is like 'damasks worn in the darkness
of the night.' Show them to your lady, please, when an occasion presents
itself."
They were magnificent. Looking more closely, Fujitsubo saw hidden
in them a tightly folded bit of paper. She flushed, for her women were
watching. The same thing all over again! So much more prudent and
careful now, he was still capable of unpleasant surprises. Her women
would think it most peculiar. She Wad One of them put the leaves in a vase
out near the veranda.
Genji was her support in private matters and in the far more important
matter of the crown prince's well-being. Her clipped, businesslike notes
left him filled with bitter admiration at the watchfulness with which she
eluded his advances. People would notice if he were suddenly to terminate
his services, and so he went to the palace on the day she was to return to
her family.
He first called on the emperor, whom he found free from court busi-
ness and happy to talk about recent and ancient events. He bore a strong
resemblance to their father, though he was perhaps handsomer, and there
was a gentler, more amiable cast to his features. The two brothers ex-
changed fond glances from time to time. The emperor had heard, and
himself had had reason to suspect, that Genji and Oborozukiyo were still
seeing each other. He told himself, however, that the matter would have
been worth thinking about if it had only now burst upon the world, but
that it was not at all strange or improper that old friends should be inter-
ested in each other. He saw no reason to caution Genji. He asked Genji's
opinion about certain puzzling Chinese texts, and as the talk naturally
turned to little poems they had sent and received he remarked on the
departure of the high priestess for Ise. How pretty she had been that day!
Genji told of the dawn meeting at the temporary shrine.
It was a beautiful time, late in the month. A quarter moon hung in the
sky. One wanted music on nights like this, said the emperor.
"Her Majesty is leaving the palace this evening," said Genji, "and I
<P 203>
was thinking of calling on her. Father left such detailed instructions and
there is no one to look after her. And then of course there is the crown
prince."
"Yes, Father did worry a great deal about the crown prince. Indeed one
of his last requests was that I adopt him as my own son. He is, I assure
you, much on my mind, but one must worry about seeming partial and
setting a precedent. He writes remarkably well for his age, making up for
my own awkward scrawl and general incompetence."
"He is a clever child, clever beyond his years. But he is very young."
As he withdrew, a nephew of Kokiden happened to be on his way to
visit a younger sister. He was on the winning side and saw no reason to
hide his light. He stopped to watch Genji's modest retinue go by.
"A white rainbow crosses the sun," he grandly intoned. "The crown
prince trembles."
Genji was startled but let the matter pass. He was aware that Koki-
den's hostility had if anything increased, and her relatives had their ways
of making it known. It was unpleasant, but one was wise to look the other
way.
"It is very late, I fear," he sent in to Fujitsubo. "I have been with the
emperor.
On such nights his father's palace would have been filled with music.
The setting was the same, but there was very little left by which to
remember the old reign.
Omyo~bu brought a poem from Fujitsubo:
"Ninefold mists have risen and come between us.
I am left to imagine the moon beyond the clouds."
She was so near that he could feel her presence. His bitterness quite
left him and he was in tears as he replied:
"The autumn moon is the autumn moon of old.
How cruel the mists that will not let me see it.
The poet has told us that mists are as unkind as people, and so I suppose
that I am not the first one so troubled."
She had numerous instructions for her son with which to delay her
farewell. He was boo young to pay a great deal of attention, however, and
she drew little comfort from this last interview. Though he usually went
to bed very early, tonight he seemed determined to stay up for her depar-
ture. He longed to go with her, but of course it was impossible.
That objectionable nephew of Kokiden's had made Genji wonder
what people really thought of him. Life at court was more and more trying.
<P 204>
Days went by and he did not get off a note to Oborozukiyo. The late-
autumn skies warned of the approach of winter rains. A note came from
her, whatever she may have meant by thus taking the initiative:
"Anxious, restless days. A gust of wind,
And yet another, bringing no word from you."
It was a melancholy season. He was touched that she should have
