ventured to write. Asking the messenger to wait, he selected a particularly
fine bit of paper from a supply he kept in a cabinet and then turned to
selecting brush and ink. All very suggestive, thought the women. Who
might the lady be?
"I had grown thoroughly weary of a one-sided correspondence, and
now--'So long it has been that you have been waiting too?'
"Deceive yourself not into thinking them autumn showers,
The tears I weep in hopeless longing to see you.
"Let our thoughts of each other drive the dismal rains from our
minds."
One may imagine that she was not the only lady who tried to move
him, but his answers to the others were polite and perfunctory.
Fujitsubo was making preparations for a solemn reading of the Lotus
Sutra, to follow memorial services on the anniversary of the old emperor's
death. There was a heavy snowfall on the anniversary, early in the Elev-
enth Month.
This poem came from Genji:
"We greet once more the day of the last farewell,
And when, in what snows, may we hope for a day of meeting?"
It was a sad day for everyone.
This was her reply:
"To live these months without him has been sorrow.
But today seems to bring a return of the days of old."
The hand was a casual one, and yet--perhaps he wished it so--he
thought it uniquely graceful and dignified. Though he could not expect
from her the bright, Modern sort of elegance, he thought that there were
few who could be called her rivals. But today, with its snow and its
memories, he could not think of her. He lost himself in prayer.
The reading took place toward the middle of the Twelfth Month. All
the details were perfection, the scrolls to be dedicated on each of the
several days, the jade spindles, the mountings of delicate silk, the brocade
covers. No one was surprised, for she was a lady who on far less important
<P 205>
occasions thought no detail too trivial for her attention. The wreaths and
flowers, the cloths for the gracefully carved lecterns--they could not have
been outdone in paradise itself. The reading on the first day was dedicated
to her father, the late emperor, on the second to her mother, the empress,
and on the third to her husband. The third day brought the reading of the
climactic fifth scroll. High courtiers gathered in large numbers, though
aware that the dominant faction at court would not approve. The reader
had been chosen with particular care, and though the words themselves,
about firewood and the like, were familiar, they seemed grander and more
awesome than ever before. The princes made offerings and Genji seemed
far handsomer than any of his brothers. It may be that I remark too
frequently upon the fact, but what am I to do when it strikes me afresh
each time I see him?
On the last day, Fujitsubo offered prayers and vows of her own. In
the course of them she announced her intention of becoming a nun. The
assembly was incredulous. Prince Hyo~bu and Genji were visibly shaken.
The prince went into his sister's room even before the services were over.
<P 206>
She made it very clear, however, that her decision was final. In the quiet
at the end of the reading she summoned the grand abbot of Hiei and asked
that he administer the vows. As her uncle, the bishop of Yokawa, ap-
proached to trim her hair, a stir spread through the hall, and there were
unpropitious sounds of weeping. It is strangely sad even when old and
unremarkable people leave the world, and how much sadder the sudden
departure of a lady so young and beautiful. Her brother was sobbing
openly. Saddened and awed by what had just taken place, the assembly
dispersed. The old emperor's sons, remembering what Fujitsubo had been
to their father, offered words of sympathy as they left. For Genji it was
as if darkness had settled over the land. Still in his place, he could think
of nothing to say. He struggled to control himself, for an excess of sorrow
was certain to arouse curiosity. When Prince Hyo~bu had left he went in
to speak to Fujitsubo. The turmoil was subsiding and the women, in little
clusters, were sniffling and dabbing at their eyes. The light from a cloudless
moon flooded in, silver from the snow in the garden.
Genji somehow managed to fight back the tears that welled up at the
memories the scene brought back. "What are you thinking of, taking us
so by surprise?"
She replied, as always, through Omyo~bu: "It is something on which
I deliberated for a very long time. I did not want to attract attention. It
might have weakened my resolve."
From her retreat came poignant evidence of sorrow. There was a soft
rustling of silk as her women moved diffidently about. The wind had risen.
The mysterious scent of "dark incense" drifted through the blinds, to
mingle with the fainter incense from the altars and Genji's own perfume
and bring thoughts of the Western Paradise.
A messenger came from the crown prince. At the memory of their last
interview her carefully maintained composure quite left her, and she was
unable to answer. Genji set down an answer in her place. It was a difficult
time, and he was afraid that he did not express himself well.
"My heart is with her in the moonlight above the clouds,
And yet it stays with you in this darker world.
" I am making excuses. Such resolve leaves me infinitely dissatisfied
with myself. "
That was all. There were people about, and he could not even begin
to describe his turbulent thoughts.
Fujitsubo sent out a note:
"Though I leave behind a world I cannot endure,
My heart remains with him, still of that world.
And will be muddied by it."
<P 207>
It would seem to have been largely the work of her sensitive women.
Numb with sorrow, Genji made his way out.
Back at Nijo~ he withdrew to his own rooms, where he spent a sleepless
night. In a world that had become in every way distasteful, he too still
thought of the crown prince. The old emperor had hoped that at least the
boy's mother would stay with him, and now, driven away, she would
probably feel constrained to relinquish her title as well. What if Genji were
to abandon the boy? All night the question chased itself through his mind.
He turned to the work of fitting out the nunnery and hurried to have
everything ready by the end of the year. Omyo~bu had followed her lady
in taking vows. To her too, most feelingly, he sent gifts and assurances of
his continuing esteem.
A complete description of such an event has a way of seeming over-
done, and much has no doubt been left out; which is a pity, since many
fine poems are sure to be exchanged at such times.
He felt more at liberty now to call on her, and sometimes she would
come out and receive him herself. The old passions were not dead, but
there was little that could be done to satisfy them now.
The New Year came. The court was busy with festive observances, the
emperor's poetry banquet and the caro1s. Fujitsubo devoted herself to her
beads and prayers and tried to ignore the echoes that reached her.
Thoughts of the life to come were her strength. She put aside all the old
comforts and sorrows. Leaving her old chapel as it was, she built a new one
some distance to the south of the west wing, and there she took up
residence, and lost herself in prayer and meditation.
Genji came calling and saw little sign that the New Year had brought
new life. Her palace was silent and almost deserted. Only her nearest
confidantes were still with her, and even they (or perhaps it was his
imagination) seemed downcast and subdued. The white horses, which her
entire household came out to see, brought a brief flurry of the old excite-
ment. High courtiers had once gathered in such numbers that there had
seemed room for no more, and it was sad though understandable that
today they gathered instead at the mansion of the Minister of the Right,
across the street. Genji was as kind and attentive as ever, and to the
women, shedding unnoticed tears, he seemed worth a thousand of the
others.
Looking about him at these melancholy precincts, Genji was at first
unable to speak. They had become in every way a nunnery: the blinds and
curtains, all a drab gray-green, glimpses of gray and yellow sleeves--
melancholy and at the same time quietly, mysteriously beautiful. He
looked out into the garden. The ice was melting from the brook and pond,
and the willow on the bank, as if it alone were advancing boldly into
<P 208>
spring, had already sent out shoots. "Uncommonly elegant fisherfolk," he
whispered, himself an uncommonly handsome figure.
"Briny my sleeves at the pines of Urashima
As those of the fisherfolk who take the sea grass."
Her reply was faint and low, from very near at hand, for the chapel
was small and crowded with holy objects:
"How strange that waves yet come to Urashima,
When all the things of old have gone their way."
He tried not to weep. He would have preferred not to show his tears
to nuns who had awakened to the folly of human affairs. He said little
more.
"What a splendid gentleman he has become," sobbed one of the old
women. "Back in the days when everything was going his way, when the
whole world seemed to be his, we used to hope that something would
come along to jar him just a little from his smugness. But now look at him,
so calm and sober and collected. There is something about him when he
does the smallest little thing that tugs at a person's heart. It's all too sad." Fujitsubo too thought a great deal about the old days.
The spring promotions were announced, and they brought no happi-
ness to Fujitsubo's household. Promotions that should have come in the
natural order of things or because of her position were withheld. It was
unreasonable to argue that because she had become a nun she was no
longer entitled to the old emoluments; but that was the argument all the
same. For her people, the world was a changed place. Though there were
times when she still had regrets, not for herself but for those who de-
pended upon her, she turned ever more fervently to her prayers, telling
herself that the security of her son was the important thing. Her secret
worries sometimes approached real terror. She would pray that by way of
recompense for her own sufferings his burden of guilt be lightened, and
in the prayer she would find comfort.
Genji understood and sympathized. The spring lists had been no more
satisfying for his people than for hers. He remained in seclusion at Nijo~.
And it was a difficult time for the Minister of the Left. Everything was
changed, private and public. He handed in his resignation, but the em-
peror, remembering how his father had looked to the minister as one of
the men on whom the stability of the reign depended and how just before
his death he had asked especially that the minister's services be retained,
said that he could not dispense with such estimable services. He declined
to accept the resignation, though it was tendered more than once. Finally
<P 209>
the minister withdrew to the seclusion of his Sanjo~ mansion, and the
Minister of the Right was more powerful and prosperous every day. With
the retirement of a man who should have been a source of strength, the
emperor was helpless. People of feeling all through the court joined him
in his laments.
Genji's brothers-in-law, the sons of the Minister of the Left, were all
personable and popular young men, and life had been pleasant for them.
Now they too were in eclipse. On To~ no Chu~jo~'s rare visits to his wife, the
fourth daughter of the Minister of the Right, he was made to feel all too
clearly that she was less than delighted with him and that he was not the
minister's favorite son-in-law. As if to emphasize the point, he too was
omitted from the spring lists. But he was not one to fret over the injustice.
Genji's setbacks seemed to him evidence enough that public life was inse-
cure, and he was philosophic about his own career. He and Genji were
constant companions in their studies and in such diversions as music. Now
and then something of their madcap boyhood rivalry seemed almost to
come back.
Genji paid more attention than in other years to the semiannual read-
ings of holy scriptures and commissioned several unscheduled readings as
well. He would summon learned professors who did not have much else
to do and beguile the tedium of his days composing Chinese poetry and
joining in contests of rhyme guessing and the like. He seldom went to
court. This indolent life seems to have aroused a certain amount of criti-
cism.
On an evening of quiet summer rain when the boredom was very
great, To~ no Chu~jo~ came calling and brought with him several of the better
collections of Chinese poetry. Going into his library, Genji opened cases
he had not looked into before and chose several unusual and venerable
collections. Quietly he sent out invitations to connoisseurs of Chinese
poetry at court and in the university. Dividing them into teams of the right
and of the left, he set them to a rhyme-guessing contest. The prizes were
lavish. As the rhymes became more difficult even the erudite professors
were sometimes at a loss, and Genji would dazzle the assembly by coming
up with a solution which had eluded them. The meeting of so many talents
in one person--it was the wonder of the day, and it told of great merits
accumulated in previous lives.
Two days later To~ no Chu~jo~ gave a banquet for the victors. Though
it was a quiet, unostentatious affair, the food was beautifully arranged in
cypress boxes. There were numerous gifts and there were the usual diver-
sions, Chinese poetry and the like. Here and there below the veranda a
solitary rose was coming into bloom, more effective, in a quiet way, than
